Bluestocking’s group piled into the cars or started on their walk back. Prancer went with them, while Moose stayed. We took a moment to recoup, our people getting sorted out.

“You look like someone drowned a cat,” Swansong told Damsel.

“Cats can slash your throat.”

“Your makeup’s running. And you were mocking me?”

“Look down on me and I’ll fucking evisc—”

The remaining word was drowned out by a blast of power, a swipe of claw.

Swansong took a single step back. Her costume had been damaged at the shoulder, but the skin hadn’t been touched by the power.

The bladed claw-tips, however—a line of blood marked Swansong’s shoulder from collarbone to the rightmost edge of her right shoulder. There were spots where it looked like it had cut deeper than just the skin.

“Eviscerate me?” Swansong asked, and even though her voice was calm, I could see the animation in her eyes—if it weren’t for Kenzie’s special contact lenses with their holographic smoke effect, I might not have seen how her eyes moved. As it was, I could see the starting point for the black smoke as a faint ring at the edges of her eyes. “You’re making us look bad, and that’s worse.”

“Shut up before I shut you up.”

“Let’s patch you up,” my dad said, intervening. “I have a kit.”

“How useful,” Swansong said, smiling. Calm, poised, with eyes that moved in an agitated way, checking people’s expressions, body language. Checking on her sister.

“Instead of every member of the team having utility belts, they get a big guy like me, marry me into the family, and have me carry everything.”

“I’m sure you have other merits, Mr. Dallon,” Swansong said.

“He does,” my mother said.

I was very sure that every bit of calm and charm was like a poke with a sharp stick to Damsel.

“Can the dogs track?”

“Give me a minute,” Rachel said, brusque, annoyed. Chastity went straight to her. A helping hand, a familiar face.

My mom assisted my dad in getting things out, holding the kit in her hands while he picked through the sub-compartments and drew a bent suturing needle out of a kit.

“This will sting.”

“My foot was cut off. It hurts every second. I lost my hands once. That hurt. I can deal with a scratch.”

“Sure,” my dad said.

Foil was with Capricorn, and they were talking about Paris. I could hear the emotions in Byron’s voice—emotions I didn’t tend to associate with him. He named teammates, Moonsong, Furcate, Reconciliation, and my ears latched onto the names, but I wasn’t trying to listen, and I stepped away to avoid overhearing things that were being shared in private.

Too close to home, for Byron. Paris’s involvement.

No.