Alessandro reached over and touched my right hand. I jerked my hand off the wheel, the Nissan veered right, and I caught it just before it jumped the curb. I glared at him. I must have seemed a bit freaked out, because he rolled his eyes.

“The coffee shop offer is still on the table.”

“What the hell was that?”

“You were gripping the wheel so tight, I thought your fingers would break.”

“I wasn’t.” Yes, I was. My hands hurt.

“I’m good at this. I won’t let you get hurt. We’ll get what we need, get home, and I’ll sample that mythical pithivier I’ve been promised. We’ll have dessert, we’ll have coffee, everything will be fine. You won’t die there.”

“That’s not what I was afraid of.”

“You’re not scared of dying?”

“I am. And I’m scared of getting hurt. But I’m more afraid of what I’ll have to do to walk out of there.”

For a long moment we were both silent.

“You can always stay in the car,” he offered, his voice seductive, as if he were trying to tempt me with expensive chocolate. “Or you can come inside and watch me work and tell me how good I am. I’m very susceptible to flattery.”

“Not susceptible, Alessandro. More like dependent on, addicted to, live only for.”

I pulled into the nearly deserted parking lot overshadowed by trees. The twelve-floor office building towered over the lot, its big black windows dark. Only the lobby was lit, a haven of warm electric light trying to push back the night.

“So judgmental,” Alessandro said. His tone was light, his mouth was smirking, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. They were hard and sharp. “First you tell your family that I’m a bad person, now you’re accusing me of vanity.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t I go in and you can sit here in the car and look pretty?”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “But what would I do alone for hours with no one to admire me?”

“Take selfies, kill random people, take selfies of you killing random people?”

“Is that why you think I’m not a good person?”

“No, lots of people take selfies. You just do it more than most.”

I stared at the building looming in front of us. I had to get out of the car.

Alessandro turned, leaned over, and looked me in the eyes. “Catalina.”

I really hated the way he said my name. It cut through the constant busy hum of my thoughts like a knife. I could never let him learn about it, because then he’d purr my name in the middle of random conversations just to mess with me.

“You don’t have to go in there. Once I’m out of the car, drive away. Don’t park anywhere, keep moving. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

I opened my door and got out of the car. The cold night air bit at me. I shivered, retrieved my sword sheath, buckled it on, and put on my trench coat. The weight of the weapons inside was comforting and familiar, like hugging an old friend. I started toward the building.

He caught up with me. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“I’m here because a girl is missing. Someone killed her mother in a horrific way and took her from her bed in the middle of the night. It’s wrong and I’m going to fix it. As much as it can be fixed. It’s my job, Alessandro.”

“Good,” he said.

The doors slid open at our approach. The cavernous lobby lay empty, the grey and cream modern walls rising two stories high. A polished concrete floor, a matching shade of grey, reflected the cluster of white oval lights floating like glass jellyfish suspended from the ceiling by thin wires. At the opposite wall, a bank of elevators offered access to the top floors.

After the gloom of the parking lot, walking into a brightly lit, huge space, with its polished floor and shiny light fixtures, was like striding out of a dark passage into a sun-drenched arena. The sound of our steps sent echoes scurrying up the tall walls. In my imagination, they morphed into the beating of a drum counting heartbeats until the start of a fight. The space between my shoulders itched, expecting a bullet. I couldn’t see the other fighters, but I knew they were waiting.

We passed the empty reception counter and walked to the wall opposite the entrance, to a bank of elevators. On our right a small waiting area offered ultramodern grey loveseats and a coffee table with a selection of magazines, their bright covers fanned across the wood. On the left a narrow hallway led to two doors, one marked as an exit and the other as stairs.

I checked the directory posted next to the elevators. Moody’s office was on the second floor. The elevator would be a trap. All they had to do was stop it between floors and we would be sitting ducks.

“Stairs,” Alessandro said.

I nodded.

We turned left, into the hallway. As we reached the end, Alessandro leaned on the metal bar of the exit door. It didn’t budge. Locked. One way in, one way out. Better and better.

I tried the door to the stairs. It swung open, revealing a concrete staircase. I held the door open and listened.

Silence.

Alessandro glided past me and went up the first flight of stairs, completely silent, like a ghost. I followed him, carefully, quietly, moving at a measured pace. A few tense breaths, and we emerged into a simple hallway, lined with a charcoal rug. A row of doors, each an identical wooden frame with frosted glass, punctuated the right wall, with small signs identifying the individual offices. We started down the hallway, Alessandro stalking next to me on quiet feet. The signs slid by.

L.M. Markham, CPA

Eunice C. Roberts, Affinity Insurance

Dennis George Moody, Moody Investments

The rapid staccato of someone typing filtered through the frosted glass. Alessandro reached for the door handle, swung the door open, and held it for me. I walked into a cozy office with a desk on the right and a couple of chairs on the left. A woman sat behind the desk, typing at the computer. She was Hispanic, in her sixties, and as I walked in, she raised her head and gave me a smile.

“Runa Etterson?”

“Yes,” I lied.

She opened her mouth, saw Alessandro, and stopped for a befuddled second. “And who are you?”

“My personal assistant,” I said.

My personal assistant dazzled the receptionist with one of his armada-launching smiles.

The woman finally recovered. “Mr. Moody is waiting for you. You go on right ahead, it’s the second door on your right.”

We walked deeper into the office suite. The short reception area terminated in a hallway. We turned right and found the second door. It stood wide open, and we went through it.

Moody looked just like the headshot on his website: broad-shouldered, not exactly fat, but thick through the chest and middle, the way football players sometimes got thick in the offseason. He was probably strong, but he wouldn’t be fast, and if he had to chase me, he would be slow to build up speed. His desk matched him, massive and solid. The pinewood had been cut against the grain and stained with waxed tobacco to imitate a rustic Old West look. The rest of the decor in the office went along with the desk; a Texas star on the wall, a huge map of Texas, cowhide rug on the floor, the client chairs upholstered in dark leather. Good Old Texas, reliable and trustworthy. The desktop was the only modern touch.

“You’re not Runa Etterson,” Moody observed.

“Clearly, I’m not,” Alessandro said.

“Not you. Her.” Moody pointed at me.

I let him see a glimpse of my feathers. “That’s okay.” My magic surged through my words, stretching for him. “Runa is a very good friend of mine. You can tell me whatever you wanted to tell her.”

My power wrapped around him, twisting like a magical grapevine spiraling over his body. I could apply it delicately, light as gossamer. I could do it so subtly that after I was done asking my questions, Moody wouldn’t even remember the conversation. But Moody didn’t seem like a man who had a gun to his head. His posture showed no tension or nervousness, his eyes didn’t betray any apprehension. He sat behind his desk, completely at ease except for being annoyed that Runa hadn’t come herself. A man whose life depended on Runa’s presence would have panicked.

There was no need to be gentle with him. He was in this up to his eyeballs.

I sank more magic into my voice. “I’ll be sure to let Runa know everything you tell me.”

Moody smiled at me and sat up straighter in his chair. “Well, I guess that’s okay, then. Please have a seat.”

I sat down. Alessandro remained standing right behind me.

“Why did you call Runa?” I asked.

“I have these papers.”

My magic was all around him now. He was breathing it in, it seeped through his pores, and I shook my feathers at him one more time.

“Are these papers important?”

Moody’s smile widened. “Nah, they’re some bullshit I cooked up. You’re a really nice girl, you know that?”

“Thank you, Mr. Moody. Why did you cook up bullshit papers?”

“I got a call from Diatheke and they asked me to do it. I mean, it’s a small thing, and they pay me enough, by God.”

And there it was. “How long have you worked for Diatheke?”

“About four years. They called me right after Sigourney hired me. What was I supposed to do, turn down easy money?”