Not even the towering Nox King on the corner of the aisle can ruin my mood.

“Monster!”

My feet slow to a stop. It’s a voice I don’t recognize—not Bran or Milo or any of the people I met last night. I glance behind me.

Approaching me is woman with long black hair, dressed in a lacy black evening gown with butterfly sleeves and thigh-high boots. Her nails are like cat claws, her eyes dark with thick makeup. And then those dark eyes widen. “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re someone else.”

I blink at the woman and then, remembering the warning, I look to the Nox King statue. Then back at her.

This must be one of Imogen’s mothers.

Cursing, I quickly angle my face away and fold my arms over my chest to hide my badge. “Um, it’s fine.”

When I begin to leave she adds, “Your aura is very troubled. Come to Figurine It Out and we can—”

“That’s great, goodbye!” I hastily escape the aisle, grateful that she doesn’t follow, and breathe a sigh of relief. That was much too close. Harper said that Imogen’s parents were fun, but that was just bizarre.

I shake off the encounter and grab our coffees, arriving back at Artists’ Alley right before the floodgates open and con attendees rush inside. I slip behind the table just as people emerge from the escalators, on their way to panels and signing lines and meet-and-greets. I sit with a relieved sigh and hand Harper her coffee.

“The nectar of the goddesses,” she says, and sighs happily. “You know, there’s something lovely about coffee in the morning when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”

“Four hours? You should’ve gotten at least six.”

“Well someone kept kicking me out of bed.”

“Well there was an entirely other bed that your roommates didn’t use last night.”

“It was cold in the room. We needed to sleep together for warmth,” she points out slyly.

“Save Amara!” I cry, thrusting a pin to a passing Caine Wise, who takes it and goes on his way. The convention is slowly filling again with people, browsing across the showroom floor and into Artists’ Alley. I push my glasses farther up my nose, hoping Harper will change the subject because, despite how much I truly and deeply want to flirt with her, I am walking a tightrope of time.

The thief hasn’t posted another part of the script since last night, and I’m beginning to wonder why they’ve been silent for so long. Any one of these people could be the culprit—any of the costumed heroes and antiheroes and secondary characters that pass by the booth. They might’ve even taken a Save Amara pin, for all I know.