Barnes shifted his guns, pointing one at Laurel and one at the top of the stairs. “I hear you!” he shouted. “You on the stairs; I know you’re there.”

Laurel held her breath but heard nothing.

Barnes sniffed the air. “I know you’ve got a gun!” he shouted. “I can smell it. Now I’m gonna give you to the count of three to throw your gun up here on the floor. If I say three, I will kill them all. You hear me?”

A long pause.

“One.”

David’s breathing grew ragged.

“Two.”

Chelsea began to squirm in her seat, and sobs she’d held back this whole time began to shake her shoulders. Laurel stared desperately at the gun on the floor in front of her, wondering if there was any way she could get to it.

Something clattered up the stairs.

An enormous gun slid across the floor, a ribbon of ammunition trailing from it. Barnes looked at the gun with obvious appreciation and slowly reached down, dropping one of his own firearms and switching it for the much bigger weapon.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now show yourself. Show yourself and maybe I’ll let you live.”

Nothing.

“Do I have to count again?” Barnes threatened. “’Cause I will.”

Rapid staccato footsteps ascended the stairs. Laurel turned and shock filled her already frazzled nerves when she saw Klea’s red hair appear around the corner.

Surprise registered on Barnes’s face. “You? But—”

In the split second it took Laurel to blink, she heard the rip of Velcro; when she opened her eyes a wet red circle had blossomed in the center of Barnes’s forehead and the roar of gunfire was ringing in her ears. Barnes’s face shot confusion at the room for the tiniest instant before the force from the bullet snapped his head backward and he crumpled to the floor. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air and matching screams tore from Laurel’s and Chelsea’s throats. Seconds felt like hours as Laurel took a shuddering breath and Chelsea slumped in her chair.

“Now that’s what I call cutting it close,” Klea said ruefully.

Laurel turned toward David and Klea. Klea was gripping a familiar-looking gun, and Laurel could just see the tail of David’s shirt scrunched up against the ropes to reveal his concealed holster.

“S-s-see, Laurel,” David said, his teeth chattering from cold, or shock—probably both. “I knew carrying that gun would come in handy someday.”

Laurel couldn’t even move; her body was frozen with relief, fear, disgust, and shock. Her eyes couldn’t leave the crimson pool slowly expanding under Barnes’s head, his body crumpled in the grotesquely awkward angles of sudden death. And despite knowing the world was better for Barnes’s departure from it, she hated knowing she was directly responsible.

She turned to Klea, staring at those ever-present sunglasses. Her mistrust, her refusal to call her, suddenly seemed silly, paranoid. For the second time, Klea had saved her from the brink of death. And not just her, but her two best friends in the world. It was a debt she could never hope to repay.

And yet, despite that, something still held Laurel back. Something visceral that told her this was not a woman to be trusted.

“Take this,” Klea said, her voice calm as she handed Laurel a knife. Disturbingly calm, Laurel thought, for someone who had just shot a man in the head. “Cut them free, then meet me downstairs. I have to flag my team in.”

She turned without another word and headed down the stairs.

Laurel ran to David and began hacking at the ropes. They came away easily under the razor-sharp blade. “Don’t say anything,” she whispered. “Not to Chelsea yet, and especially not to Klea. I’ll make up something.” She touched his ribs gingerly. “And as soon as we get back to the car, I’ll take care of your ribs and hand, okay? Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

He nodded, his face pale and twisted with pain.

Laurel hurried to the chair where Chelsea was tied and made short work of her ropes too. Chelsea’s wrists were red where the ropes came free and Laurel wondered just how long Barnes had made her sit there, gun pressed to her head, waiting for them. Refusing to dwell on it, Laurel pulled the blindfold away from Chelsea’s eyes.

Chelsea blinked against the light and rubbed her wrists as Laurel sliced at the ropes around her ankles.

“Can you walk?” Laurel asked gently.

“I think I’ll manage,” Chelsea said, staggering a little. She focused on David. “You don’t look too good, either.”

“You should see the other guys,” David said, smiling wanly. He pulled Chelsea to him, hugging her with more force than Laurel thought his ribs should be subjected to right now. But she didn’t blame him. “I’m just glad you’re alive,” he said to Chelsea.

Laurel wrapped her arms around both of her friends. “I’m so sorry you got dragged into this, Chelsea. I never intended…I never meant to…”

“Never meant to what?” Chelsea asked, rubbing at the red marks on her neck. “Nearly get me killed? I certainly hope not. Please tell me that’s not going to be an everyday thing now.” She let out a breath. “What happened here?”

Laurel looked helplessly at David. “Well, um, you see…the thing is…”

“Here,” Chelsea said, sitting down in the same chair they’d just untied her from and crossing her legs. “Let me just sit here while you think of a good lie.” She waved her hand at the far side of the room. “Maybe you and David should go confer over in the corner so your stories match. ’Cause that would help. Or,” she said, raising one finger in the air, “you could just tell me that every fall an enormous bluish-purple flower grows out of your back, because apparently you’re some kind of faerie. And then you could explain how these—I think he said trolls?—have been hunting you because you’re hiding a special gate from them. Because personally, I find that the truth keeps life a lot simpler.”