He pictured Martin’s leering face on the dragon’s body.

It had already begun.

“Oh,” he said, feeling very much like a scared, insecure younger brother.

“Right,” Len said. “Oh. So we need to get back to the office.”

“That’s a poorly conceived plan.”

“It’s the only place that’s equipped to handle the aftermath of a Level Seven. Come on, Ambrose, you know that.”

“It just seems…” Like a trick, he thought. Like something Martin would do to get him to walk right back through the door of UniCorp HQ with minimal hassle. “Where’s Mistletoe?” he asked Ivor.

“Your charming counterpart took off. Behold, her parting gift.” The old man lifted up his robe to display an ugly bruise on his shin.

“I have to find her,” Ambrose said. The thought of losing her forever made him feel deeply alone. She was the only other person who could understand what it felt like to find out you weren’t quite human.

“First we have to get you calibrated,” Len said. “The new ID Ivor hardcoded into you should work topside, so as long as we take my private entrance to the lab instead of walking in the front door—”

“I never knew there was a private entrance.”

“There is. It’s mine.”

Ambrose still wanted to run. He wanted to find Mistletoe and escape Eastern Seaboard City together. But Len was right about the urgency of the calibration. He imagined a world filled with grinning Martin-dragons and shuddered.

“Fine,” he said to Len. The security team stood at grim-faced attention. Where do they find these guys? Ambrose imagined a silent waiting room packed with beefy goons. “Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

They emerged from the subway tunnels into the streets of Little Saigon and jogged toward a long, black, cylindrical transport across the street. The security team lowered flaps on their windbreakers to cover the UniCorp insignias. The side of the transport said, in bright red letters, ENJOY RED SQUIRREL TEA. Beneath the letters was a picture of the green, black, and orange pellets available from Red Squirrel.

“Tea delivery?” Ambrose asked as they piled in. He noted a ninth member of the security team, who had been waiting in the control seat.

“I’m sorry for not getting your approval for the cover vehicle,” Len said. “Short notice.”

Len’s voice could be like fingernails scraping plasteel. Ambrose winced. “Just making sure I wasn’t seeing things.”

“There’s no one I can trust at UniCorp. I can’t exactly requisition manpower and luxury transports to chauffeur you to HQ.”

Ambrose glanced warily at the security team.

“They’re my guys,” Len said. “Report directly to me. Dad has no oversight.”

“You think.”

“I know. So what did you find out when you were logged in?”

The transport pulled out into traffic and promptly sat still. Then the lifts engaged and they glided over the tops of the stalled scoots and carts.

“I’m sure that won’t draw attention to us,” Ambrose said, mimicking Len’s voice.