The metal rod met the back of his skull with the sound of a melon.

I stumbled, catching my balance. Piscary fell to his knees. Blood seeped from his scalp.

“And this,” I said, feeling my eyes grow hot and my vision blur from tears, “is for killing my dad,” I whispered.

With a cry of anguish, I swung a third time. It smacked into Piscary’s head. Spinning from the momentum, I fell to my knees. My hands stung and the rod slipped from my senseless grip. Piscary’s eyes rolled up and he dropped.

Breath sounding like sobs, I looked at him and wiped the back of my hand across my cheek. He wasn’t moving. I looked past my hair at the fake window. The sun was up, shining on the buildings. He would probably stay down until nightfall. Probably.

“Kill him,” Quen croaked.

I pulled my head up, I’d forgotten he was there.

Quen had risen, a hand against his neck. The blood seeping through his fingers made an ugly pattern on the white carpet. He threw a second wooden sword at me. “Kill him now.”

I caught it as if I had been catching swords my entire life. Trembling, I turned its point into the carpet and used it to get up. Shouts and calls were coming from the hole in the wall. The FIB had arrived. Late as usual. “I’m a runner,” I said, my throat sore and my words rough. “I don’t kill my marks. I bring them in alive.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

I lurched to an overstuffed chair before I fell down. Dropping the sword, I put my head between my knees and stared at the carpet. “You kill him, then,” I whispered, knowing he could hear me.

Quen moved unsteadily to his satchel by the ragged hole in the wall. “I can’t. I’m not here.”

The puff of air that escaped me hurt. I looked up as he crossed the room to me, his steps slow and careful. He took the sword from the floor, jamming it into in his duffle bag with a bloody hand. I thought I saw a gray square of explosive in there, too, telling me how he had blown a hole in the wall.

He looked tired, his lanky stature hunched in pain. His neck didn’t look bad, but I’d rather be in traction for six months than have one saliva-laced bite from Piscary. Quen was an Inderlander and so couldn’t be turned vampire, but by the look of fear edging his veneer of confidence, he knew he might be tied to Piscary. With a vampire that old, the bond might last a lifetime. Time would tell how much binding saliva, if any, Piscary had laced the bite with.

“Sa’han is wrong about you,” he said wearily. “If you can’t survive a vampire without help, your value is questionable. And your unpredictability makes you unreliable and therefore unsafe.” Quen gave me a nod before he turned and headed for the stairway. I watched him go, my mouth hanging open.