Jogging forward, I called out for whoever was in the elevator to hold it. A weathered, sturdy hand gripped the door at the last moment to wedge it open. I darted inside the otherwise empty lift, turning to the man to give him a breathless “Thanks.” But my words caught in my throat and I froze.

“Quen!” I snapped, seeing the plague-scarred elf standing in the corner. He smiled without showing his teeth, and at the hint of amusement in his eyes, it all fell into place.

“Oh, hell no,” I said, looking for the elevator panel for a button to push, but he was standing in front of it. “You’re Mr. Doemoe? Forget it. I’m not working for Trent.”

The older man hit the highest button, adjusted his weight, and clasped his hands before him. “I wanted to talk to you. This was the easiest way.”

“You mean this is the only way, ’cause you know I’d tell Trent he can shove his problem up an orifice,” I said.

“As professional as always, Ms. Morgan.”

His gravelly voice was mocking, and knowing I was trapped here until we reached the upper floors, I slumped in the corner, not caring if I looked sullen for the cameras. I was sullen. I wasn’t going to tap a line. You don’t pull a gun unless you’re going to use it—and you don’t tap a line in front of a master of ley line magic unless you want to be slammed up against the wall.

Quen’s smile faded. He appeared innocuous in his long-sleeved shirt and matching black pants, which looked vaguely like a uniform. Yeah, he was innocuous. Like black mamba innocuous. The man stood only a few inches taller than me in his flat, soft-soled shoes, but he moved with a liquid grace that put me on edge, as if he was able to see me react before I actually did. I was trapped in a tiny metal box with an elf skilled in martial arts and black ley line magic. Maybe I should be nice. At least until the doors open.

His complexion was marred by the scars a few Inderlanders had come away with from the Turn, and his roughened, dark skin only added to his presence. A vampire bite marked his neck, most of the white scar tissue hidden by his high black collar. Piscary had given the scar to him in anger, and I wondered how Quen was handling the new problem of having an unclaimed vampire bite, now that Piscary was truly dead. I had one, too, but Ivy would kill any vampire who broke my skin, and all of Cincy knew it. Quen didn’t have any such protection. Perhaps the bite was why he wanted to talk to me—if this wasn’t about a run for Trent.