“You know you miss me,” said June. “Has Merit built a statue in your honor yet?”

Marcella only laughed. “Not yet,” she said, “but they will.”

And June honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking.

* * *

AS June followed Victor home, she toyed with the idea of killing him then and there.

She knew she shouldn’t, but the idea was tempting. It would certainly make things simpler. And she was pretty sure she could manage the kill—the pain wasn’t an issue, but that physical control of his would likely make things difficult. Still, June did love a challenge.

She turned the idea over like a butterfly knife as she walked. After all, Marcella planned to hand Victor over to EON. Wouldn’t it be a mercy, to cut him down instead? It was a boon, of course, that in killing Victor, Sydney would be free—free of her guilt and her attachment.

June was still mulling it over when, halfway down the block, Victor stumbled.

His step changed, lost its smooth stride. She saw him lurch to a stop, and then start again, his steps faster, more urgent.

June quickened her pace, but as Victor reached the intersection, the light changed, and there was a jostle of bodies, a taxi pulled too far forward, honking horns and hurrying shapes, and in that second, June lost him.

She swore, doubling back.

She hadn’t been that far behind.

Where could he have gone?

He wasn’t on the main road, which meant he’d slipped down a side street. June checked one, and then another, and she was at the mouth of the third when she caught sight of him, his back to her, doubled over and clutching at the wall. She started toward him, shifting into a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair, innocuous, forgettable, and was just about to call out, ask if he was all right, when Victor collapsed.

As he did, the air around him rippled, and a second later, something slammed into June with all the force of a truck. If a truck were made of current instead of steel.

June was thrown backward, her latest shape sloughing away by the time she hit the pavement. Had she been anyone else, the force would have killed her.

As it was, she felt it. Not the blast itself, but the back of her head where it hit the ground. Pain cut a shallow line across her scalp, and June sat up, rubbing her head. Her fingers came away dotted with red, and her breath caught, not at the sight of the blood, but the arm, familiar pale skin dotted with freckles.

She was herself. Vulnerable. Exposed.

“Fuck.” June staggered to her feet, swapping out the body— her body

—for another, shuddering with relief as the pain was erased along with every other trace of her true form.

And then she remembered Victor.