There is Finn, one of the angry voices was his, but I already knew that. I recognized his accent and the chest-deep rumble of his syllables from a mile off. The collar of his fine white shirt is ripped and his lip is bleeding, like he’s been in a fight. He’s arguing with three boys who look to be about our age, his hands balled into fists at his side. The boys are solidly built, with mean faces and tree-trunk-thick arms. They too look a little worse for the wear. The sneers on their mouths are slicked with recently dried blood.

One, I do recognize. I haven’t seen him since the Louvre. Pascal. It’s the first time I’ve seen him with a frown on his face, so different from the jolly boy who once stole us a bottle of wine to drink on the steps of the Sacre Cœur. Was this their plan all along?

But I cannot dwell. I have no time.

Because directly in front of the veil is Oliver.

He’s tied up, with ropes crisscrossing the front of his chest. His hands are bound behind his back, and stuffed in his mouth is a gag. But he is alive.

Next to him is another boy, flopped over and completely unconscious, tied up as well.

“I didn’t say him,” Finn yells at the boys.

“I thought you hated him. I thought you’d be happy,” Pascal says.

“I do hate him. But he’s still my friend. I don’t want him dead.”

“Well, he’s here now, let’s just kill him and move on with our lives,” the blond, stockier one replies.

Before I can process what is going on, one of the boys pulls a dagger from his breast pocket and asks the other, “You know the spell?”

“Got it, boss.”

“Let’s just do it then, we’re already here.”

“No—” Finn starts to say, but his protests are abbreviated by the flash of a dagger flying through the air, aimed directly for Oliver’s neck. A quick stab to the artery would have him bleeding out in seconds, it would be so quick.

My heart nearly stops beating in my chest. I’m running for him before I know what my feet are doing.

Finn flings himself in front of the knife right before it lands in Oliver’s pale throat.

The knife thuds dull and sickening as it hits flesh, imbedding itself in the front of his shoulder, right by the joint.

“Fuck!” Finn screams. Swiftly he pulls the knife out. Blood spills from the wound, staining his white shirt red.

“I was just recovering from a gunshot wound, you absolute asshole,” Finn spits at Pascal.

The two boys cry out in French and then in English as they see me round the corner. “You didn’t tell us you brought someone with you!”