Eli gritted his teeth as he struggled to push himself forward, pry his body off the iron bar.

Marcella started toward him, rubbing her throat.

“You must be Eli Ever,” she said hoarsely. “The great EO

executioner. I have to admit,” she said, putting her hand against his stomach, “I’m underwhelmed.”

Marcella pushed Eli back down the bar, iron scraping his insides as his back hit the pillar.

He let out a snarl.

“You don’t seem to be healing,” said Marcella, holding up a stained palm. “Still planning to kill me?”

“Yes,” hissed Eli, blood leaking between his teeth.

Marcella clicked her tongue.

“Men.”

She dug her nails into his injured stomach. Pain flared through Eli as layers of skin and muscle peeled away, and organs shriveled, and he began to die.

* * *

ELI’S strangled scream cut through the marble hall as Victor was forced to the floor.

“Can’t hurt what you can’t see,” said the EON soldier at his back, which wasn’t strictly true. Especially when they were foolish enough to have put their arm around his throat.

The soldier cried out, as if his arm had been broken. No doubt it felt that way. As soon as the limb slackened around Victor’s throat, he swung up to his feet and turned on the soldier, felling the man with the short flick of a now-expert hand.

The soldier slumped, unconscious, to the marble, and Victor turned his attention back to Eli, pinned against a metal fixture, a few feet off

the ground.

Shots echoed through the courthouse. Stell seemed to have figured out that Jonathan’s particular ability required a line of sight, and was now emptying his own gun at the EO up on the balcony above. Blue-white light flared, but then Stell’s gun clicked, the magazine already empty, and Jonathan retaliated, unleashing a hail of his own bullets, forcing both Victor and Stell to dive behind adjacent pillars.

Victor was genuinely torn.

If he took down Jonathan, Eli might be able to kill Marcella.

If he didn’t, Marcella might actually kill Eli—a death Victor longed for.

And one he still wanted for himself.

In the end, Victor’s decision was made for him, not by Eli, or Marcella, but by June.

June—who appeared before him, once again wearing Mitch, and put a gun to the big man’s head. “I asked nicely, but you didn’t listen.”

June brought her finger to the trigger.

“Kill Marcella,” she ordered, “or lose him.”

Everything about June, from the steady hand, to the even gaze, told Victor that she would shoot Mitch, simply to make a point, let alone get what she wanted.

“When this is over,” said Victor, “you and I are going to have words.”