VII

February 21, 1882

For a great deal of my life, I have been deeply disappointed in the miracle of waking up. Disappointed that the touch of a blanket, the smell of breakfast, the kiss of sunshine against my eyelids had a way of rousing my consciousness, when being brought about to live another day that no nightmare could compare to was the very last thing I’d prayed for the night before. Disappointed that I didn’t pass in my sleep, where there’d be no fear or pain in the process and I’d finally be free of not only the physical hurts, but those in my heart and mind as well. Sleep would be the only way I could obtain death, though, because I was a coward who couldn’t pull the trigger, and any attempt to allow someone else to do the same only prompted a deep, primal necessity to fight.

To survive.

So I kept waking up.

And I hated it.

My eyes snapped open and I sat up in a rush, the straw mattress crinkling and shifting underneath. Someone had draped a crocheted blanket over me after I’d passed out from exhaustion. The sod home was full of watery morning light coming from a far window I’d not noticed the night before. The sunshine highlighted dust motes in the air and steam rising from a coffeepot on the stovetop. Gunner sat at the table in the middle of the room, dressed to his waistcoat, sleeves rolled back to display the cords of muscles in his forearms, with both hands wrapped around a mug. He raised his head and met my gaze.

I hated waking up… until now.

In that low and husky voice that never failed to bring gooseflesh to my skin, Gunner said, “Good morning.”

I shoved the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed, noting that someone had also taken care to remove my shoes during the night. I got to my feet, took a few steps to reach the table, grabbed Gunner by the upper arms, and stated the obvious, as only to confirm this idyllic consciousness to be real. “You’re awake.”

He nodded.

I took a breath, but it sounded more like a gasp. “How do you feel? Your arm—is there any pain? Maybe I should look—”

Gunner reached a hand up between my arms and cupped the side of my face with such care, it was as if he thought I was made from dandelion fluff.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and then I began crying.

Distantly, I was aware of having lost my composure so suddenly and profoundly, but seeing Gunner’s face made me feel human again, and I was greedy and self-centered and wanted to wake to his blue eyes and crow’s feet and the way his mouth hooked to one side when he was amused for the rest of my life.

That… sounded like happiness.

I dropped to the floor before Gunner and gripped his thighs with both hands. “I had no time to explain to you,” I said between sobs. “I wanted to keep you safe. I know that I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I don’t expect you to be willing to pick up where we left off, but I’ve lied so much… nothing would be different if I didn’t admit that I hope to God you’ll reconsider me nonetheless.” I was still crying as I said, “My reputation is in tatters. I’m a wanted criminal. I have nothing to offer you—no home, no money, no name—”

At that, Gunner’s callused hand moved to my chin and tilted it up. All he said was “A man is not chained to one name. Be who offers you self-respect.”

I’d never trusted someone the way I did Gunner. It was funny, in a sense, that the most honest, understanding, and tender man I’d ever known was, on paper, the worst class of criminal there was. Because make no mistake, Gunner the Deadly was responsible for dozens of killings. He stole thousands of dollars that weren’t his. He openly defied law enforcement with that Waterbury slung around his hips. And yet, I had confided in him my tendencies, my virginity, my magic, and my real name. I had shared with Gunner some of the blackest, ugliest, scariest parts of myself, because I saw in him a man who lived to the fullest by the same code of ethics he preached: to be certain that the choices made today allow you to breathe tomorrow.

Gunner had provided me the tools to save me from myself. He had shown me how to use them and hadn’t given up when my footing faltered—and God knows there were some days I could barely stand. Even now, with my world broken into too many pieces to reassemble, he didn’t hesitate. Gunner was right here, reminding me to breathe, telling me it was never too late to begin anew.

I raised my gaze to meet his. “In ’62, the Union incorporated magic into their war strategies, and they weren’t particular with how they came about fulfilling their need for casters. My parents sold me to the Army for ten dollars and a pound of sugar.” My eyes burned and my throat began seizing up. “I turned ten at Fort Donelson, Tennessee. After the battle, I jumped into the Cumberland River to drown myself. Only, it didn’t work because I knew how to swim.”

Gunner’s mask of passivity slipped and I caught the entire range of negative human emotions reflecting back at me from the deep blue of his eyes. Rage… horror… heartbreak. He grabbed my face in both hands and drew me up onto my knees.

“I was in Maryland by September. At Antietam—when… it was so loud. The shells overhead… and the horses were screaming. Canister shot hit everyone. Bones broke like glass in a hailstorm. A man’s head exploded and….” I struggled to catch my breath as I turned my hands palms up to rest on his thighs. They were the scarred hands of a man, not a boy. I knew this, I could see it, and yet it was as if I were looking at little broken fingers caked in dirt and…. “There was so much blood and I wanted to wash my hands—”

“My dear,” Gunner interjected with an edge of desperation.

“—A soldier dragged me back to the field.” I looked up at Gunner. “And th-they told me… t-to cast….”

“Please stop,” Gunner begged.

“I killed so many people!” I cried, and the sunlight at the window waned as dark clouds rolled across the plains. “I was so scared, and it just happened—I couldn’t control it! The men from the Sixty-Ninth called me a monster. The embalmers called me a butcher. I ran. I ran until I had to drag myself, and I kept going. Because I couldn’t—I couldn’t go back. Oh God… I’m a murderer!”

Gunner got to his feet in one smooth motion, yanking me to stand as he did so. He gripped my shoulders with such force that the discomfort brought me back to my senses. “Listen to me,” he said with quiet intensity, his eyes burning like an ocean on fire. “You were a child—” He stopped abruptly and seemed to struggle before getting out, “War is man’s doing, and yet the burden will always fall onto the most innocent.” Gunner held my face in his hands again. “You were brutalized and dehumanized, but you’re no monster, no butcher, and no murderer. Do you know how I know? Because twenty years later, I see how easily you hurt from an unkind word. I see you long for respect but refuse to abuse your incredible powers in order to obtain it. And I see the way your face glows when I tell you that I love you. I’m not saying you don’t have wounds that run deep. I’m saying that in spite of it all, you survived. I’ve met my fair share of monsters and butchers and murderers.” Gunner wiped my cheeks with his thumbs. “Not one of them would have stood in the face of federal arrest warrants in order to allow me time to slip out.”

I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my shirt. “You still love me?”

“My dear, I never stopped.” Gunner leaned down and pressed his mouth to mine.

This was the first moment since New Year’s Day, when I’d kissed Gunner in the FBMS field office, in front of both agents and God alike, that I’d felt the vise loosen around my chest and allow me to take a full breath. I wrapped my arms around Gunner’s neck and returned the kiss with such vigor and commitment that we were both left winded when our lips parted. And after, I still wanted more. All of it. Everything.

“I love you, Constantine,” I said.

His eyes softened, and a small smile lingered.

“And I’m so sorry that I couldn’t explain the gravity of the situation we were in when the D.C. agents showed up—and that I hurt you because of it.”

He nodded and stroked the short hairs on the side of my head.

“I’m not sure I can even begin to explain the last month and a half to you without….” I wiped my nose a final time and shook my head. “I suppose it’s rather tame in the grand scheme of what I’ve—what Simon went through.” I considered that thought for a moment before looking up at Gunner. “I don’t want to be Simon Fitzgerald anymore. I feel like Simon died in 1862, and I’d been nobody until ’68, when I found Gillian Hamilton stabbed to death on the Bowery. He had immigration paperwork and an address written in pencil on a scrap of paper…. I pretended to be him for a roof over my head, and then… I kept perpetuating the lie.” I moved my thumb up and down the line of buttons on Gunner’s waistcoat. “And yet, Simon’s guilt and fear still lingers. I’m just so tired of it.”

Gunner asked, “Did you mourn Simon?”

“What?”

Gunner shrugged. “It seems, no matter how hard you try to be Gillian Hamilton, Simon follows. Perhaps it’s because you haven’t allowed yourself time to properly say goodbye.”

“You speak like Simon and Gillian are two different people entirely.”

“In a sense, they are.” Gunner took a step back. He took my hand, raised it, and kissed the pale underside of my wrist. “Gillian.”

I shivered from the contact but asked, “It’s okay? Even though it’s not my name?”

“It’s yours if you want it to be.”

I turned, pulled out the second chair at the table, and sat with Gunner on my left. “I want it to be,” I whispered, all at once feeling utterly exhausted.

Gunner stroked the side of my head again, like he couldn’t help himself. “There’s nothing more you need to say on the matter, Special Agent Hamilton.”

I laughed bitterly and faced the window when I felt more tears begin to well in my eyes. I hastily dabbed them away as Gunner walked to the stove behind me and poured coffee into a second mug. “I’m no longer employed with the Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam.”

Gunner put the mug in front of me, returned to his seat, and said, “We’ll see about that.”

I stared at him, my eyebrows raised.

“Drink your coffee. Ms. Vogel might want to be your mother, but I’m certain Ms. Brown won’t hesitate to use her rifle if you waste her supply of Folgers.”

I grunted and took a sip of the black, too-strong coffee. “Where are our hosts, anyway?”

“Seeing to morning chores,” Gunner answered. He pulled his pocket watch free, checked the face, then tucked it back into his waistcoat.

“Gunner.”

He looked at me.

“How the hell did you find me?”

Gunner didn’t respond right away, and I got the impression that the answer wasn’t going to be straightforward. He was already deciding which details would be disclosed and which he’d keep to himself. Because Gunner never lied. He just had a way of being honest without divulging… much of anything. The entire time he considered my question, Gunner never broke eye contact. I’d nearly forgotten how his stare could strip me down to nothing.

“How far back does my file in the rogues’ gallery go?”

“Pardon?”

Gunner only looked expectant.

“Uhm… ’72, I believe, for a handful of minor offenses that were linked to you after the fact. The allegations really began in ’73, when you took to robbing Wells Fargo airships.” I leaned across the table. “Were you intending for an ego stroke?”

Gunner’s mouth quirked, but he asked seriously, “The FBMS has no record of my movements prior to that?”

I shook my head. “No police department does.”

Gunner leaned an elbow on the tabletop and raised two fingers, as if he were holding a cigarette. It seemed like a sort of self-soothing gesture, perhaps a way to combat an old craving. I’d have gotten up to fetch the chewing gum I knew I’d find in his suit coat pocket, but something told me if I did, whatever Gunner was going to say would be lost like a single grain of sand in an hourglass.

Eventually, he said, “I worked as a scout for a time. Those skills don’t atrophy.”

“But… did you know where I was?”

Gunner’s expression darkened. “Blackwell’s,” he gritted out.

“Did you know the entire time?” I asked, quieter.

“No.” He abruptly stood and moved to the bed.

I turned in my seat to watch Gunner pick up his belt and holster from the foot of the bed. He buckled it around his slender hips, adjusted how the Waterbury rested, then looked at me. “I got as far as Dodge City before turning around. The situation didn’t feel right, and I felt sick having left you scared and alone. I didn’t want to be another person in your history who’d abandoned you.”

I felt blood rush into my cheeks. Gunner hadn’t been aware of my childhood traumas in January, and even now, God save me, he hardly knew enough to fill a help-wanted advert in the Daily Cog. And yet, somehow, he’d understood that my solitude went far beyond that of a man with certain attractions, living one step removed from society for the sake of safety. Mine was a loneliness that was all-encompassing, that touched upon every sort of human relationship.

Gunner had understood that because he’d apparently been a scout—a professional observer—in his past life.

“I spoke to your doorman when I’d returned to the city,” Gunner continued. “Dawson said you’d moved and he’d been given no forwarding address.”

“You knew it wasn’t true?”

“When I reconsidered your attitude the day the D.C. agents showed up, yes. I decided they hadn’t come for an interview. Ergo, you hadn’t moved—you were being made to disappear.”

“Did you know why?” My voice sounded brittle, almost detached, as I spoke.

Gunner didn’t reply, but an uncomfortable expression I couldn’t quite put a name to flitted across his features. And then in an odd, distended second of silence, I knew that he knew, and Gunner realized I’d read his silence correctly.

“Where were you?” I asked, getting to my feet.

“I went to California,” Gunner said, walking past the table and across the room to look out the lone window.

“That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean.”

“I had no practical evidence as to your whereabouts in January,” he continued without missing a beat. “But there was the name, Luther Jones, the caster working with Weaver, according to the Grace Gallery manager. And I had a thought that if I could draw enough attention to the underground associated with Henry Bligh, the FBMS would be forced to reevaluate the circumstances of New Year’s Day and you’d be brought out of wherever—”

“Constantine Gunner, where were you during the war?” I demanded, speaking over him.

Gunner turned sharply and said, “Is it not clear to you I don’t wish to speak on the subject?”

“After everything I just told you—”

“Where I was twenty years ago isn’t relevant, Gillian.” He walked back toward me, the heels of his boots nearly shaking the planks underfoot when he was typically as quiet as a cat on the prowl. “My dear,” he said, gruffer than was normal, a sort of forced patience about his person. He set his hands on my shoulders.

I pushed him off and took a step back. “Tell me you knew.”

“This is not the time.”

“Tell me right now that you knew who I was, or we stop here.”

Gunner’s expression distorted, like ripples across a water’s smooth surface. He said, his voice like gravel, “I knew.” I’d never seen that raw emotion in his face, heard it in his voice, but as quick as it was there, it was gone as Gunner reined himself in—squaring his shoulders, smoothing the front of his waistcoat—the mask of polite indifference slipped back into place, all as if he had said nothing.

Except he had.

He knew.

Gunner had known.

“Since the beginning?” I asked.

“No,” Gunner said in his usual, husky monotone. “I don’t lie, Gillian.”

“But you sure omit a hell of a lot,” I concluded.

He moved toward me again, like we were the opposite ends of two magnets who always found their way back to each other. Gunner set his hands on my shoulders a second time, more gently, I noted. “What does it matter if I knew?”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No,” he repeated, this time with resounding absolution. Gunner drew his touch down, and I swear the hairs on my arms stood straight up where he touched through the material of my shirt.

I watched as he slid his strong, blunt fingers in between mine, interlocking us like cogs in a mechanical automaton. I didn’t look up as I said, “I can’t believe you’ve… all along….”

“It was not my place to out your secret.”

I shook my head. “Gunner, I need to understand—”

With our hands still joined, Gunner raised them and gave my chin a nudge. “You have my word. But not now. Not here. We don’t have the time.”

“At least tell me this—” I took a breath, steeled myself, and asked, “You didn’t pursue me because of who I am, did you?”

Gunner tugged one hand free from mine, wrapped it around my waist, and pulled me up against him, igniting an immediate fire between us. “I was taken by you from the moment you pulled your badge on me in the middle of a shootout. I engaged because I find you exceptionally handsome. But I pursued you, Gillian Hamilton, because I am hopelessly in love with you and will do anything you ask of me.” His grip on my hand tightened, and his other moved to the small of my back, then lower. “It’s you I’m after, not your magic.”

“And Gunner the Deadly doesn’t lie.”

“Only if you ask me to.”

A surge of relief welled up from deep inside, whipping through me like the night air, strong enough to tear me apart, so I held on to Gunner tighter, and when we kissed again, it was like I was incandescent—the brightest star in the sky.

I felt clean.

I felt whole.

I felt like I was standing on my own two feet again.

I raised myself onto my toes, tugged Gunner forward by his hips, and between hot, hard kisses to his mouth, I prompted, “Luther Jones.”

“Found him,” Gunner murmured. “Says he corresponded with a doctor out of Tucson while working with Weaver.” He leaned down and clamped his mouth around my throat.

My vision doubled and my gasp sounded too loud for the tiny sod home. “And Weaver?”

Gunner let up and kissed my mouth again. “No luck.”

“Where’s Luther now?”

“He was not a good man,” Gunner concluded, letting the suggestion of Luther’s fate hang between us before backing me against the table and lifting me to sit atop.

I grabbed for the half-empty mug of forgotten coffee before it had a chance to spill. Gunner took it from me and set it on the stovetop, and when he returned to the table, I reached for his tie and pulled Gunner to stand between my legs. His pupils were blown wide and he had a faint flush across his cheeks. I drew him close enough to kiss but didn’t, and instead whispered, “What did you do next?”

Gunner looked at my mouth and then met my gaze. “Returned to Arizona—the address on one of the letters Luther so kindly parted with.”

“St. Margaret?” I asked.

Gunner nodded.

I kissed him that time and shivered as his hands returned to my body—ribs, thighs—and then he pressed a possessive touch between my legs. “Jesus… fuck….”

“Nurses informed me Dr. Barrie had been on a lecture tour since December. They supplied me his schedule.” Gunner kept rubbing me through my trousers while he returned to kissing and biting my neck. “I sent telegrams to the hosting hospitals.”

I grabbed a fistful of Gunner’s black hair as I thrust my hips forward to meet his touch. “A-and?”

Gunner let up on my neck, and cool air ghosted across my spit-slick skin. “None except Bellevue confirmed his visit. If I had known he was the resident physician when I brought you to St. Margaret…. And then to learn he’s been lurking around magic patients in the city, even after Bligh’s death… watch the door.”

I’d followed Gunner’s story until that last comment, which caused me to let up on my grip of his hair. “What’s that?”

“Watch the door,” he repeated before unbuttoning the front of my trousers.

“Gunner!” I yelped, grabbing at his hands. “We can’t—”

“We most certainly can, if you watch the door, my dear,” Gunner explained calmly, despite looking like a man about to come undone himself. The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a subtle smile before he added, “Hands back in my hair, please.”

I swallowed audibly and grabbed the back of Gunner’s head as he freed my prick from the fly of my trousers, leaned down, and wrapped his mouth around me. After the last month and a half of being in such a state that I hadn’t the energy nor desire to use even my own hand for a bit of comfort, sex felt like a novel experience all over again. But even with the immediate flush across my skin, the sweat at my hairline, the prickling sensation at the base of my spine suggesting I’d spend in mere seconds, my body remembered Gunner’s. Remembered his callused hands, the grit of stubble on his chin, the warm, wet heat of his mouth. I wasn’t just reacting to having a man touch me—it was Gunner.

“Hurry,” I whispered, sparing the front door a glance over my shoulder. I hadn’t actually expected Gunner to change his method at my request, so as to not be caught with my trousers around my ankles, metaphorically speaking, but he immediately took more of me, sucked harder, kneaded what he could reach of my backside. I swore and tightened my hold on his head until Gunner grunted. When my balls drew up, I gave Gunner’s shoulder a firm push until he came off with an indecent slurp and gave me an inquisitive stare. “I’m about—to—”

“That’s the idea,” he answered before returning his mouth to my prick and giving the length a long, sensual suck that pushed me over the brink I’d been teetering on.

I managed to check the door a final time before choking out, “Oh my God!” as I came down Gunner’s throat. I slumped forward, shaking and shivering from the release of so much pent-up emotion and the unrelenting desire I had for the man in front of me. I watched as Gunner eased off, straightened his posture, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You, ah, swallowed….” In response to my stammering, Gunner kissed me hard, and I could taste the sharp salt of myself on his tongue.

Gunner pulled away, glanced to the window at my back, then said in a voice a touch huskier than usual, “Right yourself, my dear.”

I got off the table and said, while tucking myself into my trousers and buttoning them, “That was entirely inappropriate.”

“You didn’t protest.”

“I did!”

“Not once I had you down my throat.”

I was blushing fiercely as I reached to correct Gunner’s askew tie. “You’re a gentleman. Watch your mouth.” I finished and moved my touch to Gunner’s bicep. “Luther and Weaver taught Barrie the casting for quintessence when he’d been hired to build the mechanical men.”

Gunner considered this, then nodded in understanding.

“He’s figured out how to infuse it into other items, similar to aether. The morphine was laced with quintessence.”

“He meant for that to be used on you.”

“I’d have been completely at his mercy,” I agreed.

“But to what end?”

The front door opened suddenly, and Lucy bounded inside as I jerked my head in her direction. She clutched the handle of a basket close to her chest, as if to ward off the cold. Inside there looked to be a few loose eggs and a small earthen crock container. She took one look at us as I dropped my hand from Gunner’s arm, and she called over her shoulder, “Told you.”

Winona followed Lucy inside, and she said, while shutting the door, “It was hardly a secret, Lucy.”

“Pardon me?” I interjected.

Winona shrugged out of her heavy coat. “Mr. Gaylord here’s been up half the night, watching you sleep.”

Lucy put her basket on the table. “I told Winona you’d overexerted yourself last night. Aether does that to most casters,” she explained, but I didn’t think she fully understood I hadn’t merely cast aether, but reverse engineered it to save Gunner’s life. “When Mr. Gaylord woke, I told him as much too, but he said he preferred to keep an eye on you.”

Winona tossed her jacket over the back of the chair nearest her before pointing over my shoulder. “Never known a man to care enough to see to his friend’s shoes.”

I looked in the direction she pointed, to the small table beside the bed. The kerosene lamp still sat there, along with my folded suit coat, flat cap atop it, and shirt collar and goggles perfectly aligned beside them in that idiosyncratic way that marked Gunner’s presence. My shoes had been safely tucked underneath.

“Besides,” Winona added when I turned to her again, “you’ve got a love bite.”

I slapped a hand against my neck, covering the spot Gunner had been working earlier. I swore under my breath as I collected my collar and hastily buttoned it in place.

“I think it’s awfully sweet,” Lucy told me, both hands planted on the tabletop as she leaned forward. “I haven’t met men like us before.”

“Lucy,” Winona grumbled.

“What?” she protested innocently before saying again, “I haven’t!” She smiled, and it lit up her entire face. She rocked her hips side-to-side, and the heavy winter skirts swished about her ankles. “Mr. Gaylord said he hadn’t seen you for some time and missed you something terrible.”

I pulled my suit coat on, looking at Gunner. “Is that so?”

“I do believe my exact words were ‘I have missed the pleasure of his company.’”

“Good lord, that’s even more obvious,” I replied.

Gunner merely smiled that there-and-gone smile of his.

“You gentlemen like fried cornmeal?” Lucy piped up. “Even got some molasses to sweeten them a bit. Oh!” She picked up the eggs and displayed them. “I’ll boil these too. Mr. Gaylord might need more than just cornmeal.”

“Lucy,” Winona muttered a second time.

“Well, he’s as tall as a giant, Winona,” she hissed.

I patted the front of my coat before reaching inside as Gunner was thanking Lucy. I retrieved the Bartholomew Industries receipt I’d religiously transferred from suit to suit since October, and that had, by God’s good graces, survived in my carpet bag while I was kept on Blackwell’s. The corners were weathered, and the crease across the middle had become brittle from the hundreds of times I’d unfolded it to read, in Gunner’s own hand: Yours, Constantine G. I held the paper for an extra heartbeat, and as I tucked it into my pocket, a sudden thought crossed my mind.

I looked up and wasn’t surprised to see that Gunner had been watching me the entire time, his beautiful blue eyes shining like a polished gemstone. “You said Luther had been exchanging letters with Dr. Barrie?”

Gunner’s gaze cut to the women, but Winona was pretending not to listen and Lucy was already busying herself at the stovetop and humming some tune under her breath. He took a few steps toward me, rested his hands on his low-slung belt, and said quietly, “That’s correct.”

“Weaver wasn’t involved in the correspondence?”

“According to Luther Jones, he was tasked with finding an architect, at the behest of Tick Tock. This affiliation, of course, was due to Henry Bligh’s future mother-in-law being a repeat customer of Carl Higgins’s aether elixir, which was concocted by Luther and shipped from California to Higgins’s warehouse in Manhattan for labeling and distribution.”

“I concur.”

“But as far as Luther was willing to admit—”

“Which I’m sure was a great deal,” I said over Gunner as I reached out to pat his holstered weapon.

The crow’s feet around Gunner’s eyes were the only hint that my comment amused him. “Weaver built the artificial ammunition spells and Luther was the first to utilize them, but it led to those backfiring prototypes Ferguson mysteriously got his hands on in October. It appears Luther contacted Dr. Barrie afterward.”

“Which must have been around the time Weaver devised and constructed quintessence. He taught it to Luther, who taught it to Barrie in order for him to construct the mechanical men that used the artificial ammunition,” I concluded.

“I suspect that’s the timeline, yes. Once an architect has built a spell, do all casters learn it from each other?”

I nodded and added, “Or scholars, if one were to follow the traditional and legal method.” I glanced to my right—Lucy was boiling water and mixing a bowl of cornmeal while Winona set the table, watching us with one eye and listening with one ear. Feeling rather defiant in that minute, I took Gunner’s hand from his belt and held it in mine.

His eyebrows rose but he said nothing, merely drew his thumb back and forth across my knuckles.

“If Barrie was never in contact with Weaver—and I suppose he had no reason to be—and was in New York by December under the guise of a lecture tour but was, in fact, working for Tick Tock… the question now is, not only what were his plans with me, but where?”

“It wasn’t his intention to bring you to California?”

“No. It was my idea. I thought to search out Weaver.”

Gunner shook his head once. “I’ve already done that search. Weaver’s a dead end.”

“You know, Mr. Ackerman,” Winona interrupted, “you speak like a lawman.”

“Do I? Fancy that,” I answered without looking away from Gunner. Quieter, I said to him, “If you say Waver’s a dead end, then perhaps we should focus on Barrie for the moment. We have a better handle on his location, and he is actively causing damage with quintessence. He told me he’s been researching how to properly infuse medication with aether, of course at the detriment of a caster besides himself. He’s clearly incorporating quintessence into these experiments.”

A thought seemed to cross Gunner’s face at this comment, but all he said, in a tone like it was a textbook fact, was, “He’s unhinged.”

“The real danger is how charismatic and trustworthy he is.”

Gunner frowned, just a little, as he appeared to steel himself for more unpleasant news.

“The quintessence reinforced the reaction you had to morphine. In this case, the dosage of the drug was too high and you nearly overdosed. But if the measure had been accurate, the high would have been indefinite—I think until the quintessence is either removed from the body, or death befalls the host. I don’t know what Barrie plans to do with this knowledge, but I can’t begin to fathom how many people he could hurt with it.”

Gunner squared his shoulders and said in agreement, “We have to find Barrie.”