Victor realized his error. Marcella was more like Eli than he’d guessed. Her uncanny self-assurance was an arrogance born from invincibility. Albeit a borrowed one.

Victor dropped his hold on the rest of the room, and left them gasping on the floor.

Marcella pursed her lips as the shield flickered out. “That wasn’t very sporting.”

“Forgive me,” answered Victor dryly. “I guess I got carried away.”

He looked down at the men and women on the floor. “I take it I failed your test.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Your performance was . . . illuminating.”

Marcella produced a crisp white envelope.

June took the card and delivered it to Victor.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“An invitation.”

They stood there for a second, neither willing to put their back to the other.

At last Marcella broke into a smile. “You can see yourself out,” she said. “But I do hope we meet again.”

Victor wanted nothing less, but he had a feeling they would.

* * *

“WELL,” said Marcella, watching Victor go. “That was enlightening.”

June hadn’t said a word since Marcella mentioned Sydney, hadn’t trusted herself to speak. Now she cleared her throat.

“Do you still think he might be useful?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Marcella, taking out her phone.

“Should I follow him?”

“No need.” Marcella punched in a number. “I’ve seen enough.”

Someone answered, and Marcella said, “He’s staying at the Kingsley, on Fifteenth. But right now, he’s moving west on Alexander. Happy hunting, Joseph.”

June’s stomach dropped.

How did Marcella already know where they were staying? Where Sydney was staying?

She gave June a bland look. “You didn’t think you were the only one keeping an eye on things, did you?”

June swallowed. “Do what you want with Victor, but Sydney isn’t part of this.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t have been,” said Marcella, pointedly, “if you’d told me the truth about the girl’s power instead of keeping her to yourself.” She flicked her fingers dismissively toward the door. “But go ahead. See if you can get to her before they do.”

VIII

THE LAST MORNING

IX

THE KINGSLEY

“SYDNEY!” called Mitch, flipping the grilled cheese in the pan.

She didn’t answer.

That bad feeling, the one he’d had on the way to Merit, began to crystalize from a general dread into something specific. Like the vague first signs of an illness that suddenly sharpened into the flu.

“Sydney!” he called again, shifting the pan off the stove so lunch wouldn’t burn. He started toward the bathroom, slowing when he noticed the door was open. As was the door to Syd’s room.

And the one to his own.

Mitch glimpsed a black tail swishing absently just inside the door, and found Dol sprawled on his bedroom floor, facing the window and chewing on a scrap of paper.