The gunman checked Bianca’s pulse. No chaos vibes emanated from him. With nothing to keep the vision going, it continued to fade.

The door swung open. The gunman strode into the hall and, for a second, I couldn’t move. Then the man wheeled, gaze going to mine, eyes widening in shock and I realized, with an oddly calm clarity, that I was standing twenty feet from the man who’d just shot Bianca. Chaos still buzzed through my head, numbing my reflexes. If he had lifted his gun and fired, I don’t know if there’d have been anything I could have done about it.

But he just stared at me, as if in shock himself. I felt the weight of my gun in my hand, but before I could unthinkingly lift it, I realized he had the advantage. My gun hung at my side, fingers grasping it awkwardly, my readiness thrown off by the chaos blast.

I wheeled and ran.

The door was only a few steps away, but I zagged to it rather than taking a straight path, recalling my defense lessons against spellcasts. My brain tripped ahead, laying out a memory map of the club and showing me places to hide.

Hide was what I had to do. All the exits were at least fifty feet away, and no amount of zigging and zagging would get me that far without a bullet through my back.

Escape wasn’t on my mind anyway. I had a gun, and I wasn’t letting Bianca’s killer walk away.

I slammed the door behind me. Then I ducked and ran around the bar. A flash of light told me the gunman had opened the hall door. I dropped to the floor and gripped the gun. When I closed my eyes, I could feel his vibes, not anger but anxiety, his thoughts a mental loop of “Shit, where’d she go?”

My target was in place. All I had to do was peek over the bar, raise the gun and shoot him. At the thought, my heart tripped faster, but not from excitement.

I’d never killed anyone.

I could have laughed at the thought, almost a guilty admission, like saying I’d never driven a car. In the normal world, not having killed people is a perfectly acceptable “missed life experience.” Desirable, in fact. But in the supernatural world, at least in the type of work I did, it’s a given that at some point it will come down to kill or be killed.

Karl told me once that he couldn’t remember the faces of every man he’d killed. It wasn’t that there were scores of them, but enough that they no longer stood clear in his mind. He hadn’t said it with regret, but nor had he been bragging. He was simply making a thoughtful statement during a discussion of risk and death in the supernatural world.

I could look on this the same way: kill or be killed. But was I in danger? The gunman hadn’t fired at me in the hall. Now he wasn’t putting out any vibes of anger or threat.

Could I justify leaping from behind the bar, gun blazing, taking down a stranger who hadn’t made a move on me?

Still crouching, I retreated into the shadowy corner between the bar and the wall, my back protected, gun raised. I wasn’t letting him walk out of here. He had answers, and Karl could get them from him.

While it would be nice to take the gunman down alone, I stood a better chance of success if Karl helped. I reached for my panic button, then stopped. Push it and Karl would come running—into a room with an armed killer.

I flipped open my phone and began a text message. I got as far as “bar gunman” when a rubber sole squeaked on the floor. I glanced at the glowing cell phone, shut it quickly, then scrunched back against the wall.

I was too exposed. I saw that now. I was relying on dim lighting, a shadowy corner and dark clothing, which was fine for a casual glance, but if he walked around that bar, searching, he’d see me. To get to either exit, he had to walk around the bar.

He slid into view. Less than twenty feet from me, gun up, gaze sweeping the room with every step.

Heart hammering, I readied myself. If he saw me, I’d have to—

His gaze swung my way…and kept going. I exhaled a long, shuddering breath. If he was giving off any chaos vibes, I couldn’t detect them—they were too low to penetrate my own anxiety.

The gunman kept moving away, heading toward the back hall.

The back hall…where Karl was…

I fumbled for my phone. How could I open it without turning on the backlight? Damn it, I should know this!

The gunman walked along the wall. Ten feet above his head was the second tier, a wide ledge lined with the dark shapes of tables. I decided he was far enough that I’d risk the phone’s backlight, and was opening it when one dark shape on that second tier moved. A man’s figure swung over the low railing.

Karl landed square on the gunman’s back, his drop so soundless the man let out a startled yelp. The two men went down. I ran to cover Karl. As I passed the bar, I caught another motion, out of the corner of my eye. A figure on the top tier across the room, dressed in black, with something on his shoulder, long and—

“Karl! Partner!”

As the words left my mouth, I wished I could suck them back, say something clearer and I was about to yell

“gun” when that gun swung my way. I dove, and Karl did the same, flinging the man off him and going for cover.

I scrambled under the nearest pool table, then scampered around the centerpiece, putting it between myself and the second gunman. I flattened out on my stomach, gun raised.

Something thumped against the table beside me. A soft sound, barely enough to carry. I swung my gun toward it.

“Stay,” Karl hissed.

While I could have slugged him for not “staying” himself, for taking the risk getting to me, I couldn’t deny a dart of relief when his dark figure dropped beside me.

“Shhh,” he said.

Again, I wasn’t the one who needed the warning, but I turned my attention to the path I’d been watching.

Karl slid closer, lips moving to my ear.

“They’re retreating. Heading for the side door. Two sets of footsteps.” He hung there, breath warm against my ear. “Still going. Still…The door. Open. Closed. Silence. Footsteps down the back hall. Receding. We’ll wait.

Be sure.”

He stayed where he was, pressed up against me. After a minute, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“You okay?” I whispered. “That drop—”

“—was nothing. But I think I wrenched my neck when you yelled.”

“Better than catching a bullet.”

“True. And you? I don’t smell blood, so I presume you’re okay?”