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Gabriel flew across town like a madman, cursing the bottle of whiskey sloshing around in his stomach. He made just enough of a detour to pick up his wife from the curb in front of their house, before spinning the wheel in the opposite direction and shooting like an arrow towards the hospital.
They arrived an improbable twenty minutes later, but his momentum did nothing to slow.
Once inside, it became sleeker—harder to detect, impossible to control. He sweet-talked a nurse, while his wife dug through the hospital records. He bluffed his way past security, and pretended to be a psych patient, until he gained access to a restricted floor. Once there, he was about two seconds away from just infiltrating the place properly and donning a pair of scrubs, when Natasha tugged suddenly on his sleeve—pointing to a shuttered room at the end of the hall.
They slowed their pace deliberately, pacing with sudden purpose across the tiles—like their presence was not only authorized, it was invaluable; like the number of patient visitors couldn’t possibly apply, because they had clearly already made it to the appropriate floor.
The hospital itself was a natural ally.
The employees scurried around in conveniently-duplicable costumes, and each floor was brimming with the same over-caffeinated chaos as the last. No one paid any attention as the two strangers knocked softly on the forbidden door. In the frenetic tangle, no one saw them slip inside.
But that was the moment, things inexplicably changed.
What the...?
For a split second, Gabriel found himself strangely disoriented—as though his brain had somehow glitched. The world outside was bedlam, a ceaseless scramble. But inside the tiny hospital room, things had never been so still. It was the kind of stillness that went beyond the quiet bedside he’d been expecting. The kind of stillness that spoke to a supernatural element at play.
The second passed, and he found his sister.
“Angie,” he said softly.
She stood directly at the foot of the bed, almost like she was guarding it. She had yet to remove her rain-streaked jacket, and both arms were folded tightly across her chest. At a glance, she was just as motionless as all the rest of it—a windswept statue, carved into the stillness. Only her fingers were thrumming—holding the room and everything inside it in a perfect freeze.
Her head turned slightly at his voice, but she never broke her gaze.
“They almost—” She caught herself so abruptly, it was like she’d been choked—like some internal piece had simply broken down. It was quiet a moment. “They almost lost him.”
Gabriel nodded slowly, looking past her to the bed.
The psychic was sleeping soundly, there was no way of knowing if he’d even woken up. He was propped in the slight indentation between an array of pillows. His eyes were shut, and so darkly bruised, they looked painted. His skin, despite the nurse’s best attempts at cleaning, still carried the faintest traces of blood. But he was breathing—that was what drew the assassin’s eyes first. Just the slightest rise and fall of his chest, but he was definitely breathing.
It’s why the monitors are still beeping, he suddenly realized.
The psychic was the only thing to have escaped his wife’s panicked freeze.
“I just need to stand here a moment,” Angel said haltingly, unable to release her icy grip. “I just need for things to...” She caught herself again, scarcely breathing. Her fingers were clutched so hard around her jacket, the nails had begun to piece through the sleeves. “They almost lost him.”
Gabriel came up beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder.
It was a testament to her state of mind that she briefly allowed it—leaning in to his touch for the briefest of moments, before drawing in a shuddering breath.
“He’s fine,” she declared without warning—nodding, as if to convince herself. “They got him stabilized, and he’s going to be fine.” She nodded again. “I can stop the freeze now.”
Gabriel nodded alongside her, folding his arms as well.
“You can stop the freeze,” he repeated casually, hoping beyond words that none of the countless people swarming outside would decide to open the door. “He looks better.”
Better than what?
Not only did the assassin have nothing by which to compare it, but having taken a single look at Julian, he couldn’t imagine a way the psychic might have looked worse. If he’d been dropped from a mountain, it couldn’t have done more damage. Not if they’d dropped the mountain on him.
But it was the right thing to say.
Angel relaxed her position ever so slightly, eyes drifting out of focus as she remembered the way he’d looked in those first few perilous moments. He’d eaten ice-chips since then. She’d spent an uncertain amount of time in the world’s most uncomfortable and inexplicably soothing chair.
“He does,” she murmured. “He’ll be awake again, soon.”
So he actually woke up.
The freeze wavered, then lifted. She didn’t seem to notice.
Gabriel squeezed her again.
“Where’s Devon?” he asked quietly.
The call he’d received had been an automated PC alert, delivered in the same inflectionless monotone they all delightfully impersonated whenever they’d been drinking: an agent had popped up in the St. Agnus admissions records. Possible trauma response. Please advise.
The call he’d received from Luke had been a different story—loud and panicked. “There’s been a car accident!” he’d shouted through the crackling static. Someone had rammed into Jules at an intersection. He didn’t know anything else, he was racing to get the kids in case it was intentional.
There had been no mention of the driver.
But the morgue had a PC alert as well.
“He’s down the hall somewhere,” she replied softly, “washing the blood off his face.”
The assassin froze a second, then nodded quickly. “I’m going to check on him. Are you all right in here?”
Serious question: do I need to get you an inhibitor?
She nodded slowly, never taking her eyes from the bed. “We’re just fine.”
The couple gave her another squeeze, then slipped back into the hallway.
It felt a little risky to expose themselves to the staff, especially when they weren’t exactly sure where they were going, but they didn’t need to linger long. No sooner had they stepped through the door, than the fox himself appeared at the other end of the corridor.
Gabriel took a single look, freezing where he stood.
Bloody hell.
When Aria was a few years old, both mother and daughter had been in a car accident. A drunk driver ran straight through a red light, smashing into the door by the child’s car seat. It had been over the blink of an eye—too fast for even Julian to call. One second, the two had been on their way to a Musical Munchkins playgroup. The next, they were being admitted into a hospital.
Devon had been beside himself. The others had never seen anything quite like it. He had burst through the doors like a man on fire, a breath away from razing the entire city to the ground.
He looked roughly the same way now.
His face was pale and his eyes were bleary, like he’d spent the last few hours rubbing them with his fists. There might have been blood on him before, but now all that remained were the bruises. His hair was damp and curling—he must have washed it in the bathroom sink.
Gabriel lifted a tentative hand in greeting.
The fox gave no visible reaction—not to wave, not even to blink. He just stood there and stared, like he’d forgotten how to do anything else. They crossed quickly to meet him.
“Hey, are you okay?” Natasha hugged him first, stretching onto her tiptoes and threading her arms around his neck. “We just came from Julian; he looks like a wreck.”
Gabriel glanced between them, wishing she hadn’t said that particular word. The fox had shut down even further upon hearing it, retreating with a haunted expression into himself.
“He’s a little better,” he managed, giving the assassin a slight nod. “They managed to piece him back together. Everyone keeps saying, it could have been a lot worse...”
He trailed off vacantly, like he’d forgotten they were speaking.
Gabriel placed a firm hand on his arm. “Come with me,” he said quietly.
With a kind of dazed obedience, Devon followed in silence as the assassin led him past the nurses’ station and around the corner to an adjoining hallway. Once there, Gabriel cast a quick look around before seizing his arm and pulling him suddenly into a supply closet.
Natasha followed, eyes wide with shock.
“What are we doing?” she whispered loudly.
She might have been one of the PC’s most sought-after agents, one who’d pulled the magical community back from the brink more times than was her share, but a part of her was still astounded by the slightest hint of rebellion. Her marriage to Gabriel had been a source of constant delight.
“I need you to show me what happened,” the assassin replied once the door had swung shut behind them. “I need you show Natasha the memory—she can bring me along if we hold hands.”
Devon regarded him without expression while his wife let out a quiet gasp.
“He doesn’t have to do that,” she whispered furiously, smacking his chest. At the same time, she turned to the fox—her eyes wide with apology. “You don’t have to do that.”
“You don’t have to,” Gabriel agreed softly, “but it would help.” He kept his eyes on the fox, studying the slightest shifts of his face. “I don’t want to make you relive it, Dev, but there are some questions we need answered. If I can see it for myself—I can get those answers.”
...and you can be here.
The fox stared at him in silence. A silence that stretched for so long, Gabriel was half-convinced he was about to get struck in the face. Then without warning, he nodded curtly.
He extended his hands.
“I don’t remember very well,” he murmured.
“You don’t have to,” Natasha assured him quickly, lacing their fingers together. She reached for her husband at the same time. “Just close your eyes and try to relax, okay? I’ll do the rest...”
From an outside perspective, it must have looked utterly bizarre: a trio of people gathered together in a broom closet, heads bowed in silence, hands strung loosely together.
The reality wasn’t much better.
There was a sudden swooping sensation, and Gabriel left the hospital behind—opening his eyes to a very different picture. The shelves of printer cartilages and disinfectant were gone, replaced with the stark roads of an intersection. It was early, still. Just a few hours after that morning’s dawn.
He was vaguely aware of the others beside him. They were faded, as though in a dream.
There was a distant crunch of tires, and the trio turned to see a car driving towards them. It slowed when the light turned yellow, rolling to a slow stop. Natasha’s ink was a bit more intensive than merely reliving a memory as it had been experienced. It granted distance, perspective—allowed the subject see from a wider angle, picking out details they’d probably never noticed themselves.
The streets were wide open, but blocked from view of the nearby onramp by a string of large warehouses. The traffic cams were no longer in commission. It was a good place for a hit.
Gabriel memorized every detail with a sweep of his eyes, turning back to the car.
It was clear his friends had been having a serious conversation.
There were nothing but downcast eyes, secret glances. Devon seemed to be asking a question, over and over. At last, the psychic had replied. Their eyes met with a shared smile.
Then something strange happened to the picture.
There was a kind of tearing in the air beside them, like the ripping of fabric. It almost reminded him of one of Mason’s portals, but there was none of his golden light. This was more like a hole, sudden and garish. No sooner had it registered, than a massive truck came flying through.
Gabriel winced at the impact. Devon lowered his eyes.
There was no way to prepare for such a collision, and there was no way to avoid it. There had been just enough time for the pair to lift their eyes, before it struck with the force of a meteor.
Then there was just...blood.
There was so much blood, it seemed impossible. It colored over everything, painting the streets. Even standing in the hospital storeroom, even knowing with perfect certainty that both his friends were alive, a belated shudder swept across Gabriel’s shoulders.
How are either of them still breathing?
He watched as the fox lifted his head slowly, staring in broken astonishment. He saw the precise moment it registered, and he lunged with a strangled cry across the car.
At that point, Gabriel forced his gaze to the truck.
To the man who was dying on the windshield.
His injuries were obvious, but it was taking a little while, that much was clear. When the fox had screamed, he’d raised his head just a bit—like that rescue might be for them both. Or maybe, he was just scared. Maybe he thought Devon was going to kill him before he managed to bleed out.
I’d be scared, too.
Gabriel stared a suspended moment at his face. Then he squeezed his wife’s hand.
In the blink of an eye, the intersection vanished. The friends pulled themselves out of the ether, standing in a cramped storage closet once again. There were a few moments, when nobody managed to speak. They couldn’t begin to speak. They couldn’t let go of each other’s hands.
“It happened so fast,” Gabriel finally murmured.
Devon lifted his eyes, brimming with tears. There was finally a bit of expression on his face, a slight thawing—like he’d been desperate for someone else to say it.
“Yeah, it did.”
* * *
THE FRIENDS QUICKLY vacated the broom closet, stumbling upon an unsuspecting janitor, whom they saluted, before he rolled his eyes and rattled down the hall.
So it was a coordinated attack. Someone used a portal—
“I should get back to Julian.”
The fox glanced down the fluorescent hallway, shivering a little. He’d just borne witness to his own attempted homicide, but the man’s only thought was for his friend.
Gabriel took off his jacket, sliding it over the fox’s arms.
“Ask them for a cot so you can get some rest.” He couldn’t imagine Devon would consent to leave the psychic’s bedside. “I’ll try to—” He paused when he got to the cuffs, staring in surprise at the fox’s hands. They had been shredded to ribbons, grated and raw. “That must hurt.”
Devon stood there a moment, then followed his gaze. A look of vacant bewilderment passed over his face. By the time he looked up, it was already gone from memory.
“I’ll text you if anything changes,” he replied.
Bloody hell.
There had been a handful of occasions throughout the years, when the others had felt protective of Devon. Molly had mentioned it a few times. Rae had mentioned it more often than that. Julian had once left the Serbian consulate, mid-assignment, because his partner had sent what he’d deemed to be a ‘troubling text.’ The assassin never understood it, never had any patience for it. Who were they talking about? This was Devon Wardell. The man was a legend. Legends didn’t bleed.
He understood it now.
“Let’s get you seen by someone,” he said gently.
“They aren’t letting him leave the hospital,” Devon continued as if he hadn’t spoken, his eyes fixed on something at the end of the hall. “I can’t even get Aria to heal him, it would show up on all their machines. He’s just lying there, broken, and I can’t...” He trailed into silence, lost in his thoughts. A few seconds later, his eyes returned to Gabriel. “Why did you need the memory?”
Because someone tried to kill you with a truck.
“Don’t worry about it,” the assassin replied.
Natasha stepped between them, taking the fox’s hand. “What can I do?” she asked.
“You can stay with Lily,” Devon answered without hesitation. “She’s with Molly and Luke, in case it was a targeted hit...” He paused a moment, piecing it together. “...I guess it was.”
Yes, it definitely was.
Gabriel wrapped an arm around his shoulders, steering him towards a nurse.
“This man needs some bandaging for his hands,” he demanded. “Probably some antibiotics, too. Unless you want him to contract a rare form of tetanus.”
She turned around slowly, lowering a chart.
“My hands are fine,” Devon hissed, not realizing where they were going until it was already too late. He flashed a look at the woman, and muttered in a quick aside, “That one hates me.”
The assassin pursed his lips.
I’ll bet.
“Your hands look like they’ve been barbequed,” he replied casually, “but this will stop the bleeding, and they’ll be just fine the second your wife gets home. So will Julian,” he added suddenly, catching the fox’s gaze. “I don’t know how you did it, Devon. I really don’t. But he will be just fine, thanks to you. Try to remember that the next time you go skulking around supply cupboards.”
Their eyes met briefly, and the fox nodded a little. He might have even smiled, before there was a scuffling of shoes, and he found himself being dragged away in the arms of a vengeful nurse.
“You’re coming with me now,” she commanded darkly, clenching her jaw. “I’m going to save those meddling fingers of yours, and if you give me any trouble, I’m going to call Hank from security. You remember Hank, don’t you...?”
Gabriel watched until they vanished before turning back to his wife. She had already sent off a slew of messages, and was slipping a phone back into her purse. “Molly and the kids are at the house. I’m going there now. A team’s being sent to the city. Are you coming with me?”
Gabriel tossed her the keys. “I’ll meet you there.”
Have a quick stop to make first.
* * *
“I NEED TO BORROW YOUR mortician friend.”
Aria froze with one foot out the door, dropping her keys with a shriek. She was equipped at all times with her father’s tatù, able to hear a person sneeze seven blocks away. But those things had never seemed to matter when it came to her uncle. The assassin moved like a ghost.
“Now?” she panted, trying to gather herself. “I was just going to see—”
“You can’t do anything for Julian, he needs to stay at the hospital. He’s also fine,” Gabriel added swiftly, hoping no one had sent her a picture. “They stabilized him, Alicia will do the rest. But I need to see your friend at the morgue. What’s his name? You always just call him the mortician.”
Perhaps it was because he’d startled her. Perhaps she was physically incapable of answering a simple question without adding her own touch. But she lifted her chin slightly, regarding him.
“I don’t call anyone by that name.”
There was a beat of silence.
Gabriel closed his eyes. “...the hot mortician.”
She brightened immediately. “Oh—Cassidy.”
That would be him.
Ten minutes later, they were already halfway across town.
He told her the story in broad strokes, keeping all those colorful details to himself. The girl looked pale enough already, without throwing in images of bloodshed and despair. The second time he’d been forced to explain why she couldn’t just heal the psychic, her hands had started to smoke.
To be honest, she might not have managed it.
The human body wasn’t just a machine, to be operated at the turn of a switch. Even magic had its limits. The gang had pushed them farther than most. Julian had pushed them even farther.
By the time they pulled up to the morgue, she was wound tight enough to break.
“Just don’t say anything to frighten him,” she muttered, as they pushed through the double doors, giving a cursory wave to the security officer. “It takes a long time to cultivate these kinds of assets, and there’s a delicate art to maintaining them. It requires great skill, and poise.”
She slipped on the slick tiles, and he steadied her.
“Great skill and poise,” he repeated.
The girl tended to ramble when she got nervous. It was a trait she’d inherited from her mother, and refined to a point. It was the underlying cause of most of his son’s nightmares.
“He’s jumpy now, okay? You can’t blame him for being jumpy.”
The assassin nodded silently, pacing down the hall. “I won’t blame him for being jumpy.”
Aria ignored this, scurrying nervously after him. “I’m just staying, the last time we involved the guy in our problems, he ended up inside one of his own body-lockers. So maybe just...ease into things, all right?”
The assassin flashed a sweet smile, as they came to a stop. “I’ll be on my best manners.”
He kicked open the door. “Are you Cassidy?”
A young man scrambled back from the desk, a wheeled chair flying into the cabinets behind him. A pair of glasses slid down his nose and a half-eaten sandwich was still clinging to his fingers, but it dropped to the floor when he saw Gabriel, landing with an unceremonious plop.
His face paled the exact color of the linoleum. “...it’s you.”
Always nice to get recognized.
“Sorry to interrupt your lunch,” the assassin replied bluntly, “but you have a dead-man who’s on my list. I need to look through your bodies.”
Aria shut the door behind them, muttering under her breath. “Way to ease in.”
The last time the two had crossed paths, they hadn’t actually met each other—that was part of the problem. The young man had been dangling lifelessly from the hands of a serial killer, one who’d threatened to snap his neck as leverage. Gabriel had offered to send flowers to the wake.
Of course, the children had seen him many times since then. He’d become an unofficial member of their group—one of the privileged few who’d performed such extraordinary acts for the magical community, he’d been allowed to keep his memories once it was done.
As the years went past, he’d slowly acclimated himself to their peculiarities, easing into that fantastical world one step at a time. Natasha had spent days with him at the hospital, spooning ice-chips and telling stories. The young man secretly worshipped her, hung on her every word.
But the assassin himself had been more of a spectral presence. An invisible character to be recounted in stories. One that always seemed a bit too large for the room.
“I have a dead-man who’s on your list,” Cassidy repeated breathlessly, like he was talking to a demented Santa Claus. His mind scrambled in panic and he found himself momentarily paralyzed, trapped in the assassin’s enigmatic stare. “They’re not really...they’re not really my bodies.”
Gabriel pursed his lips like he’d said something adorable.
“He’s not going to get you in trouble,” Aria promised quickly, easing in between. She caught sight of an unguarded bag of crisps and considered stealing one, but decided to abstain in a show of support. “He’s not even going to take it anywhere. I hope,” she added with a mutter, “given that we drove here in my car. He just wants to check something. We’ve done worse than this before.”
Cassidy cooled significantly, giving her a sour look.
Yes, they certainly had.
“Another favor?” he asked sarcastically.
“There should have been a man brought in this morning,” Gabriel interjected, remembering his promise for manners. “Mid-forties, Caucasian, medium build. Likely cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head.” He paused a moment. “I’m guessing there was some ink on his arm.”
He’d done well to add that last part. Cassidy nodded quickly, looking almost relieved.
“Got it,” he replied, still feeling a bit lightheaded. “So this isn’t some normal person. This is one of your guys’ little...” he trailed off, searching for the right word, “...little projects?”
Little projects?
Gabriel tilted his head. “I guess you could call it that.”
The mortician nodded soundly—it was already more than he wanted to know.
Without another word, he swept across the room to the air-conditioned storage lockers stacked against the far wall. They were a relatively new addition. Their predecessors had been blown to bits in a supernatural showdown, the same one that had landed him in the hospital for nine days.
He tried not to think about it, pointing to a specific drawer.
“We got two new arrivals this morning. One was an elderly woman—the other is in there. I haven’t gotten a chance to examine him yet, but according to the police report, he matches your description.” He took a breath, pulling out the drawer. “I guess I’ll examine him right now.”
Aria took an uncharacteristic step back as the others moved forward.
A man lay on the slab in front of them, looking exactly as he’d been that morning, minus the broken windshield embedded in his waist. His clothing had been removed, replaced with a modest sheet, and some unfortunate intern had scrubbed the copious amounts of blood from his skin.
That’s him.
Gabriel regarded him intently, looking for anything he might have missed.
He was an ex-knight, so there wasn’t going to be anything obvious. They’d been trained just like PC agents to travel with only the essentials, leaving nothing that could be used to identify them once they were gone. Nothing that could provide any hint as to where they were going next.
The wounds were obvious; he ignored them. The scars were of little interest as well. He turned the man’s arm, glimpsing a coiled snake in the crook of his elbow.
Snakes can’t make portals.
He hesitated a moment, then some instinct made him lean a bit closer, unclenching the man’s mouth. At that point, Aria retched silently in the background, slipping out the door.
“You’re not going to, like...take his teeth or something, are you?” Cassidy asked in a hush, leaning down as well. “Because I still need those for his records.”
The assassin paused, then shot him a look. “Take his teeth?” he repeated.
There was a pause.
“...or something.”
Gabriel turned back to the body with a hint of a smile, noting the faint tobacco marks on the gumline, the chronic coffee stains on his teeth. He frowned a little, peering at his molars.
“What is that?” Cassidy asked, spotting it at the same time.
He dug into his pocket for a pair of silver-tipped pliers, but the assassin had already reached with his fingers—digging out the tiny capsule with the tip of his nail.
“It’s a toxin,” he said quietly. “A lot of us have these.”
He remembered the day Cromfield had presented a pair to him and Angel, laid them like a condiment on the breakfast table. They were a last resort, he’d told them. To be ingested only upon capture, and only if it became clear they’d be more help to him dead than alive.
He was full of little treasures like that.
“A toxin?” The mortician blanched in disbelief. “...it was in his teeth.”
Gabriel stared another moment.
“You learn to chew carefully,” he said without inflection, passing it between them. “I need to know what’s inside. They’re not standard dosing. Maybe we can narrow it down to a region.”
Cassidy nodded to himself, already getting on the same page. For as terrified as he’d been of meeting the infamous assassin, it was surprisingly easy to relax in his presence. Maybe it was because he appealed so precisely to that part of every little boy and girl who dreamed of being a spy.
“I’d have to run some tests,” he murmured, glancing across the room to his machines. “It takes a little time—usually a few hours. Especially if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”
Gabriel nodded briskly, reaching out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
The young man complied without hesitation, staring with wide eyes as he bypassed the passcode in about four seconds, and started tapping on the screen.
“This is my number,” the assassin told him, fingers flying over the keys. “Do not ever call the number,” he added sternly, meeting the boy’s eyes. “But you can text. Send me the results.”
Cassidy nodded shakily, sliding it back in his pocket. “Sure, of course.”
Gabriel’s lips twitched at the corners.
Jumpy, huh?
Maybe, but it didn’t stop him. The guy’s fingers hadn’t stopped trembling since he’d stepped into the room, but he’d been nothing but efficient. According to his wife, he was just as discreet.
“Thanks for doing this, Cassidy. I appreciate it.” He clapped him on the shoulder before pacing towards the door. “And Aria’s right about you. You’re very good-looking.”
The mortician froze where he was standing, not far from his sandwich. “...thanks.”
