This speech surprised Chevie greatly, as she had shot Garrick three times between the first and third syllables of the word adventure. His cloak had twirled to the ground, and the magician keeled over stiffly, yet he continued to speak. And though she had been forewarned that there would be trickery, Chevie left herself exposed for a fraction of a second, which gave the real Garrick the chance to step calmly into the doorway and shoot Chevie square in the chest while still projecting his voice into the wheeled mannequin on the floor.

“...constant interference from a juvenile agent who is completely out of her depth.”

Garrick allowed the thought to flash through his mind that perhaps this FBI-style body shot was the most satisfying he had ever fired, in spite of Felix Sharp’s attempts to interfere with his conscience, or perhaps because of that.

I am in control of myself once more.

Chevie was knocked backward by the impact, lifted onto the tips of her toes, and almost somersaulted into a pile of blankets behind her.

Garrick, ever the professional, decided that he would savor the moment fully later, once he was safe in the Orient Theatre. Now was the moment to put the final nail in this coffin.

“Riley, boy,” he said, his voice honeyed and sonorous, as seductive a tone as was ever heard on the West End stage. “Stop running, son. Let me end your pain.”

Riley was facedown on the bed, his body heaving with sobs.

At the end he was just a child. Perhaps better to die in innocence.

Garrick pocketed his weapon, for it was important that this killing be more personal.

Two quick steps brought him to the bed.

I shall choke off the air from his windpipe, watch his eyes glaze, but out of respect for our shared past, perhaps I shall speak kindly as he goes.

Garrick reached for Riley’s neck.

My fingers are so slender, yet strong, he thought. I could just as easily have been a pianist.

Riley was too beaten to attempt escape and simply lay on the bed, waiting for Garrick’s fingers to close around his neck.

“No fight left in you, son?” whispered Garrick. “Perhaps it is time to sleep.”

Garrick sprang catlike onto the mattress, but his fingertips did not land on Riley’s soft neck, as expected. Instead they somehow clinked against cold glass, and the assassin’s head followed, smashing into a pane of unseen mirror with a dull crunch, sending cracks racing across the glass.

“But...” he said, baffled, blood pouring into one eye. “But... I see.”

Riley turned over and looked through the cracks in Garrick’s direction, but not at him. “What do you see, mighty illusionist?”