Chevie saw a chance and twisted in her chair, grabbing the back of it and swinging the entire thing at Garrick’s head with all the aggression and force she had learned working out in federal gyms.

Garrick managed to get a forearm up, but the chair smashed across his arm and head, driving him to the ground. The assassin went down, blood smearing the floor as he slid on his forehead.

Chevie did not relax for one second. Garrick might be down but he was far from out, and there was his side-swapping, murdering sidekick Riley to worry about.

“Stay out of this, kid!” she warned Riley, who was moving in her direction.

“No, Chevie,” said Riley. “You don’t understand.”

There was no time for understanding now. This situation was all about Garrick and how to neutralize him. There would be plenty of time for understanding stuff later.

Garrick himself reinforced her decision when he rolled over and glanced up at her, through a sheet of blood and gasped, in Smart’s voice: “Chevie. The Timekey.”

“Felix? Is that you?”

He held out the key. “Take it.”

Chevie reached out, grabbing the lanyard. She slung it around her neck, but before she could retreat entirely, Smart became Garrick once more.

“No. That is mine,” he growled, grabbing the key and yanking it toward him. For a thin man he had a lot of strength, and Chevie was off balance and powerless to stop her tumble.

Riley saved her, tipping the entire table over on his master. The boy, too, was stronger than he seemed. The table’s edge landed squarely on Garrick’s shin, splintering the bone.

“What?” said Chevie. “You’re on my side now?”

Riley held up his left hand and Chevie saw blood congealed on the thumb.

“Always,” he said, and Chevie understood. The boy was a magician’s apprentice. He had pierced his own flesh, not Duff’s, risking Garrick’s wrath to save the agent’s life.

“We should go, Agent,” said Riley urgently.

“Yeah,” said Chevie, then rubbed her throat and coughed. “Yep. Going would be good.”

She tucked the Timekey inside her blouse and ushered Riley toward the door.

Shots punched through the table and into the ceiling. Garrick was still fighting, in spite of the terrible agony he must be feeling.

“We should have killed him,” said Riley. “Killing the devil cannot be a sin.”

Until quite recently, Chevie would have scoffed at this statement for its superstition and dubious morality, but now she was coming around to the idea.

“Later,” she said. “Later.”

They were close to the stairway when half a dozen shots ripped into the bannisters, showering them with wood chips. Chevie grabbed Riley’s collar and shunted him behind the sofa.

Riley fell and saw between the sofa legs that the lady was recovering her senses and had rolled onto her elbows. “Victoria is alive.”