“Don’t talk,” Becker hissed. “He doesn’t need the clutter—”

“It’s all right.” Zeppler’s voice was soft, his accent mostly English, with little German left. “After all, I’ve wanted to meet Lieutenant Kenzie for a long time.”

Becker dipped his head, and the magic binding Arthur’s lips relaxed.

Arthur didn’t speak. His eyes were still locked on Zeppler, and he couldn’t look away.

Becker looked questioningly at Zeppler.

“He has another paranormal’s magic in his aura,” Zeppler said, as if answering something unspoken. “Theodore Giovacchini’s, in fact.” His mouth curved in an unnerving smile. “Lucky for our lieutenant.”

He slowly turned his head toward Becker. “And speaking of the psychometric...”

Arthur went cold. “We’re not speaking of him.”

Zeppler’s lip curled. “You don’t need to speak,” he said. “I’m hearing it clear as day. Disgusting, to have those feelings for another man. But useful.”

Arthur’s stomach sank.

“Your guilt is very loud,” Zeppler said to him, then turned to Becker. “The siphon is still in the car. Set it on the front steps before you leave, please.”

Becker nodded, then gestured at Arthur, eyebrows up.

“Leave him here,” Zeppler said, again as if in answer to something Becker had said. “He’s big, he’ll make a decent guard when we’re done tonight.” He spoke carelessly, as if Arthur was nothing more than a piece of furniture to be moved where Zeppler wanted.

Arthur’s hands set themselves behind his back into parade rest. He bit back the curses he wanted to fling.

Zeppler smiled, as if he were amused by Arthur’s unvoiced rage. He looked over at Becker. “And deal with Chance.”

Becker nodded again. He gestured, and Chance came forward out of the guards. His eyes were too wide as he marched past Arthur, past the car, into the darkness beyond. Becker and another guard followed just behind.

Arthur couldn’t move his body, or even his head, to see where Chance had gone. “Deal with him how?”

Zeppler calmly studied Arthur, ignoring the question. “Becker talks to me telepathically.” His eyes never met Arthur’s, focused instead on his forehead. “You should do it too. I dislike voices; thoughts are already so loud.”

But as he spoke, a gunshot cracked, the echo reverberating over the grounds.

Every nerve in Arthur jumped, like sparks trapped in a straitjacket, unable to move his body but only to fizzle in shock inside him. “Did Becker just shoot Chance?”

“Of course not,” Zeppler said, like he was bored. “Becker made him shoot himself.”

Oh, Christ. Arthur swallowed thickly.

“He did, actually, deserve it,” Zeppler said, as if Arthur had spoken aloud. “Why tolerate failure when Becker can just make more soldiers?”

“Soldiers are not disposable,” Arthur bit out.

“To the general, they are.”