The taxi left them on the side of the road and puttered away as they walked down a short, grassy hill to the dock. The closest boat was about the size of a car but open, with three rows of wooden benches and no roof—and no life jackets. Nothing like the sleek and fancy thing Arthur’s brother had once taken him across the Hudson River in.

“Those are very small boats,” Rory said tightly.

“You’re not wrong,” Arthur admitted, also looking at the boats with trepidation. “We’re not actually crossing the English fucking Channel in a bit of glorified driftwood?”

“Hello, yes, this river reaches the ocean and I’m right here with an amulet that controls the tide,” Gwen said impatiently. “I’m basically a sea goddess now and you’re insulting my skiff.”

She strode down the dock without fear, the others right behind her. Rory took one step onto the dock, which shifted under his weight, and froze.

GO, he told himself. You don’t got time to be chicken around water, just GO.

Gwen, Ellis, Zhang and Jade were climbing in the boat. Arthur had walked almost all the way down the ramp, but he paused, looking back at Rory. “Come on,” he said, with urgency. “I’ll help you.”

But as Rory reluctantly stepped forward, magic burst through the air like a clap of thunder he couldn’t hear, and a blond white man appeared to block the dock in front of Rory.

“Evening,” said the blond, who had to be the teleporter, Chance. He raised his hand, and leveled a gun at Rory. “Nice to finally meet you.”

There was a whooshing sound. Chance disappeared in a blink, just as an oar sliced through the space he’d been standing.

Before Rory could move, the magic burst against his skin from behind, and this time the gun was touching his temple. “Don’t try that again.” Chance was right behind Rory. “I use lead bullets. You can’t move the gun, and you don’t want to test your telekinesis against my trigger finger.”

Rory’s gaze darted to the boat. Another oar was floating in midair, and Jade looked as furious as he felt. Arthur had stopped midstep, hand reaching for Rory.

Gwen folded her arms. “You’re bluffing,” she said coldly. “Baron Zeppler won’t let you kill a psychometric. He’d kill you three times over first.”

“Maybe I am bluffing.” Chance dug the gun into Rory’s temple. “Are you willing to bet his life on it?”

“Gwen,” Arthur said hoarsely.

Gwen’s expression turned completely unreadable at that. But she didn’t make a move.

“Back up,” Chance said, into Rory’s ear. “Nice and slow.”

“Go to hell,” Rory said through clenched teeth, trying to dig in his heels.