Alex confirmed with Winters’ secretary that Agnes’ reports were ignored. There was no word from Russell about Ethan’s ward, the Iverson sigil’s shadow fading, and Alex hoped it was settled. They cleared a storage room in the S.P.A. base’s basement for Ethan to use if he stayed overnight. He painted his own wards, and Alex checked them. The team intensified Ethan’s training in the base’s gym, focusing on defensive moves before offensive tactics. Alex consulted John and Mark via video, their ghostly forms crisp in the duplex’s library, about a helmet sigil to let Ethan see magic despite his resistance. The uncles devised a workaround. Ash tested Ethan with dreams. But he was never fooled. Ethan guided her, his voice steady, helping her dispel accidental dreams, though preventing their spark eluded them. “What’ve you been up to?” Hector asked during a slow morning at RJ Fashions, his voice cutting through the office’s hum. He peered around the partition, his tie askew, his eyes curious. “You haven’t been coming out with us, and you’ve started driving to work.” “Self-defense classes,” Ethan said, his headset heavy, fingers pausing on his keyboard. “After that vampire tried to follow me, I thought it would be a good idea to be able to protect myself.” Hector rolled his eyes. “And what good is self-defense against the supernatural?” His skepticism dripped; his bias against non-humans was familiar. “The instructor’s a vampire,” Ethan admitted, his voice low, knowing Hector’s disdain for them. “Isn’t that dangerous?” Hector’s brow arched, his chair creaking. “He wears a muzzle. It’s all S.P.A. approved,” Ethan assured him, Nick’s fangs flashing in his mind. Hector snorted, his voice sharp. “Now you trust them? What did they do when they came and got you?” “Heck no,” Ethan said, his lips twitching. “I don’t trust the instructor either, but it’s better than being eaten. They didn’t do anything. They just asked me some questions. They wanted to know about some of the Native American supernatural creatures and how to handle them. They’re having trouble finding people who will talk with them.” “You’re Native American?” Hector asked. “I’m half. My mom was, but her family disowned her so I don’t know anything about them. I’ve never even met them,” Ethan explained. Ethan’s phone rang, the headset’s buzz jarring. “Thank you for calling RJ Fashions. This is Isaac. How can I help you?” he said, his voice professional, the customer service script a reflex. “Isaac? Ethan, is that you?” Nick’s voice crackled through, urgency laced with amusement. “We aren’t supposed to use our real names. There are too many psychos out there,” Ethan said, his voice low. “I got stuck in surgery again,” Nick said. “There’s no way I can make it home. No one’s answering there. Can you pick me up?” “Now?” Ethan glanced at his clock. It was midmorning. “How about this evening after sunset?” Nick said. “I can sit around this sunny hospital while I wait. Do you know how few rooms here don’t get sun?” “I’m at work,” Ethan pointed out, his pen tapping the desk cluttered with sticky notes. “Is your boss around?” Nick asked. Ethan peered over the partition, the cubicle’s gray walls looming. “Yeah.” “Let me talk to him.” Ethan gestured to his boss, a wiry man in a rumpled polo, and handed over the phone, keeping his headset on, Nick’s voice faint but clear. “Hi, this is Doctor Lawson from Central Hospital. Mr. Barlow was in the other day for some tests. There was a mix-up in the lab, and we aren’t sure if he has stomach cancer or is developing an ulcer. It would be best if he came down right away so we can sort this out and arrange for treatment. Dealing with insurance companies can slow things down.” Ethan’s boss frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I’ll send him.” He hung up, staring at Ethan. “You have cancer?” “Cancer?” Hector echoed, his voice rising. “No, I hope not,” Ethan said, his stomach twisting, Nick’s lie a reckless jab. “My stomach’s been bothering me. I’ve had problems before. It’s never amounted to much. I’m probably fine.” He’d strangle Nick later. At Central Hospital, Ethan called Nick. “I should make you run across the parking lot for telling them I had cancer.” “You needed an excuse,” Nick said, his voice smug through the phone. “No, I didn’t,” Ethan snapped, his grip tightening on the wheel. “If you could have waited half an hour, I could have come on my break.” “Oh, sorry,” Nick said, unconvincing. “What door are you at?” Ethan asked, scanning the hospital’s exits. “Go around back to the loading doors and open your trunk,” Nick instructed. Ethan maneuvered to the rear, the loading bay’s concrete stained, and popped the trunk, backing close to the shadowed doors. Nick darted out, wrapped in a sheet, and dove into the trunk, slamming the lid with a thud. The stench of burned flesh seeped into the car, acrid and sharp. “You okay?” Ethan asked, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the passenger seat. “I’ll live,” Nick grunted, his voice strained in the trunk’s tight confines. Ethan smirked, easing the car forward. “I thought you were already dead.” Nick growled, a low rumble. “I’m undead. I’ll be fine once I feed.” “That wasn’t part of the deal,” Ethan said, cracking the windows, the burnt smell fading into the city’s exhaust. “There’s blood at home,” Nick said. “Just get me there. Oh, and good news. You don’t have cancer, just a mild ulcer that can be treated by changing your diet. I have a note for your boss.” “Gee, thanks,” Ethan muttered, Nick’s humor grating. “Crap,” Ethan said, spotting a traffic stop ahead, red and blue lights flashing, cones narrowing the lane. Nick chuckled, his voice echoing in the trunk. “We need to work on your cursing. You sound like a preschooler.” “Well, doodie head,” Ethan shot back, his lips twitching, “I make it a habit not to swear to help me use professional language when dealing with the morons who are so dumb it’s amazing they managed to call in to support. We’ve got a traffic stop ahead.” “Why?” Nick asked, his voice sharper. “How would I know?” Ethan ended the call, stopping at the officer’s signal, his heart quickening, the burnt flesh smell faint but lingering. The officer approached, his boots crunching gravel, his uniform crisp under the sun. “License, registration, insurance?” he asked, his eyes scanning the car. Ethan handed over the documents, his fingers steady, the officer peering into the back seat, empty save for a gym bag. “Can you open the trunk?” the officer asked, his hand on his belt. “I can’t,” Ethan said, his voice calm. “There’s a vampire in there.” That sounded good. The officer did a double-take, his brow furrowing. “A vampire?” “I have a vampire in my trunk. I’m taking him home. If I open the trunk, he’ll die,” Ethan elaborated. “You care about a vampire?” The officer asked. “No,” Ethan admitted. “But he’s an S.P.A. agent.” “Ethan, where’s the pass-through?” Nick called out, his voice muffled but clear. “I can show him my ID.” Ethan glanced at the officer, who nodded, his skepticism softening. “It has to be opened from the inside.” He told the officer how to open it. Nick slid out his S.P.A. badge, its sigils glinting through the slot. “A doctor?” The officer frowned, flipping the ID, Central Hospital’s logo visible. “That’s why I needed a ride. I was late getting off,” Nick said, his voice strained. “I was helping with a gunshot wound.” “Was that Nermit?” the officer asked, his tone curious. “I can’t tell you. Privacy laws,” Nick said, his doctor’s tone firm. “It’s been reported, as required. The victim should live. They rarely let me treat criminals.” “Let me check,” the officer said, walking to his cruiser, radio crackling. “You okay back there?” Ethan asked, his voice low, the car’s hum steady. “It’s better than sunbathing,” Nick said, his tone dry. “It’s not comfortable, but I’ve hidden in worse places.” “Should I keep a pillow back there?” Ethan teased. “Maybe a blanket,” Nick muttered. “This sheet won’t do much for me getting to the building.” “I’ll get close to the door,” Ethan promised, his eyes on the officer. The officer returned and handed back the papers, including Nick’s ID. “Checks out. Drive safe.” He waved them through, the lights fading behind. The S.P.A. base’s garage, a concrete bunker beneath the abandoned shop, held only the van and Nick’s car, its spaces tight. While Ethan could take Nick’s spot temporarily, he didn’t have a garage door opener. He drove to the back door of the abandoned shop and backed as close as he could to it. He hopped out, gravel crunching, to open the trunk for Nick. “Ready?” he called, his hand on the trunk. “Yeah,” Nick grunted. Ethan popped the trunk, and Nick leapt out, sheet smoldering, and dashed inside, the door slamming. Ethan followed, the shop’s interior dark, its boarded windows leaking faint sunlight, the air heavy with dust and oil. Nick waited in a back room, singed, his clothes smoldering, the sheet clinging to him. “Should I get a blanket?” Ethan offered, eyeing the room’s crates, the burnt smell was sharp. Nick shook his head, pulling a thick, warded blanket from a shelf, its sigils dull. “We keep some back here.” He layered it over the sheet, his face still covered. “I was just bracing myself. The sunlight leaks between the threads.” He moved toward the stairs, Ethan stepping ahead to block stray beams filtering through the shop’s windows. “Have you thought about own of those emergency aluminum blankets? They’d probably do better.” Ethan suggested. Nick cocked his head. “Where can I get one?” Ethan shrugged. “Online or maybe a camping store.” Kellen’s frantic barking erupted, sharp and urgent, echoing down the stairwell, his claws scrabbling on concrete. “Hurry,” Nick prodded, his voice tense, the blanket rustling. “What’s wrong?” Ethan asked, his shoes pounding the steps. “I don’t know,” Nick said, his voice sharp. “I don’t speak dog.”