Ivy was decidedly polished in black slacks, white shirt with a collar, and a suit coat that was tailored to both show off her curves and scream “desk clerk” all at the same time. She’d even put on makeup. Nina looked even more professional, with bangles and a belt that I thought could be used as handcuffs in a pinch. They were going in first, coming out last, and keeping our way clean and open at all times.

But the snick-snick of a weapon being checked jerked my head back up. Nina had slipped into a seat, and Trent stiffened at the little pistol she was sighting down. “I said no weapons,” he said, leaning from the backseat with his hand outstretched.

“Rachel has one!” Nina complained as she held it close to her chest like a favorite doll. “How are we supposed to take the front desk if we can’t have guns?”

She knew darn well mine was just a splat gun, not considered lethal by the FIB or the I.S. thanks to some clever judicial loopholes. Jenks darted to her, his wings loud in the small space. “David’s got the front desk already,” he said, red dust slipping over her threateningly. “Ivy, you said she was ready for this. I don’t have the manpower to babysit her.”

Ivy sucked on her teeth, and with that as an almost silent rebuke, the zealous woman glumly handed the gun to Trent. “Can I keep my knife?” she asked sarcastically, and Trent nodded.

“Be careful how you use it.”

I exhaled as Trent put the gun in the van’s illegal “safe hole” and shut it. My eyes returned to the one-way back door of the hotel, waiting for a Were to signal us that the sixth floor was cleared; the staff in the break room for an emergency OSHA meeting; and the hotel ready to assume new, albeit temporary management. No guns. That was rule number one, four, and sixteen. This operation had an excellent chance of crashing down before we reached the end, and I didn’t want guns cluttering the issue. It was going to be hard enough to survive this.

“At least it’s not in the tunnels,” Trent said as he checked that his laces were tied.

A quiver, quickly quashed, lit through me. I liked the mix of thief, commando, and lover he had going for him. “You don’t like the tunnels?”

Coming up from his soft-soled boots, Trent lined his utilitarian hat with his spelling cap and settled it onto his head. “No. They’re damp and make me sneeze.”

“And cold,” Jenks added, looking just as good in his thief-black tights.

And cold, I echoed in my thoughts, hoping this stayed within the hotel. September was iffy for pixies, even those skilled in staying alive through a street chase as the sun went down, taking the temperature with it.