After a moment I drag myself up, collect my battered umbrella, and begin slogging through the rain toward Chester’s.

After drying myself off thoroughly in one of the restrooms, I make every effort to stride purposefully across the crowded dance floors of Chester’s, but were I visible, someone watching would see an erratic zig followed by a stumbling zag that vaguely resembles a drunken bumblebee. It’s impossible to avoid people who have no idea I’m there.

I take two pops to my rib cage from flailing elbows, a backhand to my jaw (they call this dancing?), and a fist to my thigh (really, who gyrates like that?) before I even clear the first subclub.

I pause in an unoccupied space between clubs, assessing my surroundings, seeking the clearest path.

It’s easy to find. Behind a tall dark mountain of a man for whom the crowd parts with the same mystical obedience as the Red Sea opening for Moses.

“Barrons,” I growl.

Thanks to the challenges of my recent transformation, coupled with the Sinsar Dubh’s endless harangue about why I should leave Earth this very second, quadrupled by how pissed I am the king didn’t even seriously consider my request—perhaps the king’s parts are all different, some more sane and logical than others, and I should start hunting McCabe—I’ve not had time to brood about what Barrons did to me.

Bristling with righteous indignation, I stalk off into his Red Sea wake. With only a few minor mishaps, I move in close behind him. I may be invisible but my body still responds to him and it makes me even madder. I’m tense at first, worried he’ll sense or smell me, but whatever the Book is doing that keeps my stalkers from locating me seems to work on Barrons, too. I wonder why he’s here. I wonder what he thinks happened to me. I’m itching to know what transpired after I left the abbey.

As we pass the guards (Fade and a massive white-haired man with burning eyes) and ascend the sleek chrome stairs to the upper level of the club, I breathe more easily and focus on watching his every move so if he suddenly stops I don’t crash into his backside. Despite disliking him intensely at the moment, I have to admit it’s a damn fine backside. He strides with the purpose I was aiming for, directly to Ryodan’s office, slaps a palm to the wall and steps inside, oblivious to one Ms. Lane, superspy, hot on his heels.

I realize, as the door hisses closed behind us, that I’m about to eavesdrop on an unguarded conversation between Barrons and Ryodan. Fascinating. To say I’m all ears is the understatement of the century. I glance down to make sure I’m not dripping, grateful the floor is glass and I’m not leaving indents in carpet that might give me away.

Ryodan is sitting behind his desk toying with a blackhandled, curved black blade that looks ancient. With the exception of the dark knife, the desk is empty. I imagine he had it cleaned more than a few times after Lor’s unexpected tryst last week. The ebony blade is highly polished and reflects the low light as he rolls it between his hands.

He’s dressed as impeccably as ever in tailored dark pants and a crisp pinstriped shirt rolled back at the cuffs, revealing thick, scarred forearms and a silver cuff that matches the one Barrons wears. It reminds me of the one I saw on Jada’s wrist last night, and I wonder absently where she got it. I didn’t get a clear look since it was half covered by her sleeve.

I move forward, taking care to not bump into anything, which is trickier than you think when you can’t see yourself, and inspect him curiously. Though I’d never let him know I think it, Ryodan is hot as hell. If I were visible, I’d never stare this hard. Something about him discourages it. His chiseled features are stonier than usual, his jaw shadowed with stubble. Rather than his urbane businessman self, he seems more a savage mercenary forced to wear a suit. His thick short hair, nearly shaved at the sides, is standing up as if he’s been running his hands through it. Repeatedly. From those small details, I know Ryodan is deeply disturbed.

“No longer pretending to do paperwork,” Barrons mocks.

Ryodan doesn’t bother to glance up. “She sent me a message this morning. Said if I don’t give her Mac, she’s going to demolish Chester’s. You believe that shit. Threatening me. Few weeks ago she was a kid. Now she’s a fucking woman. A grown-up, self-possessed woman with a mind like my blade, cold as ice and on fire at the same time. Dangerous as hell. She was dangerous when she was a kid.”

“I sent a message to the abbey,” Barrons says. “Said if they don’t give me Mac, we’re going to raze the fucking place.”

Ah, so both sides think the other whisked me off somehow. The night must have ended in a hostile standoff. I’m surprised Ryodan didn’t head straight back to the abbey this morning with the Nine, abduct Jada, and lock her in his dungeon.