Quinn finally yanked a drawer open and jerked a gun out.
The blur tore into him. Quinn screamed, an awful sound filled with pain.
Everything stopped. The tentacles, the churning floor, the blur—everything disappeared. Augustine stood by the desk, holding a stocky man in his mid-twenties in an arm lock. The man was bent over the desk, his face flat against the surface. Blood seeped through his short blond hair.
Augustine’s expensive suit was gone. He wore a black outfit somewhere at the crossroads between athletic warm-ups and tactical combat gear. The pants clung to his long legs, and the jacket had a short, stand-up collar, zipped up the front. The collar looked reinforced to protect his neck. The material was all slick, with nothing to grab, and close-fitting enough to cutthrough her alarm and fear to the part of herself that noted the swell of muscles across his biceps and chest.
The door burst open, and two more guards ran into the room, a middle-aged man and a young man barely eighteen or so. The younger blond man grabbed for his gun.
“I wouldn’t, Camden,” Augustine told him, his voice ice-cold.
Camden froze, his hand on his firearm.
“Place your guns on the floor.”
“Do as he says,” Quinn squeezed out.
The two men placed their weapons on the cheap carpet.
“Come and join your uncle.”
Camden crossed the room and stopped behind the desk. The middle-aged man followed him. Judging by their faces, all three were clearly related.
Augustine let go of Quinn, walked around the desk, and pulled out a chair, glancing at her. “Please.”
He wanted her to sit. Diana willed her legs to move, walked over, and sat. He lowered himself into the other chair and threw one long leg over the other. Fabric swirled, and his expensive suit was back in place.
The three men stared at him like he was a wolf.
“I come to visit you in good faith, and you attempt to kill me,” Augustine said.
“It was a misunderstanding,” Quinn offered.
He was at least fifteen years younger than his initial disguise. His features had lost their refined lines. His narrow face with close-set eyes and a long chin was ordinary, neither ugly nor beautiful.
“Is it?”
“What do you want?” Quinn asked, his voice wary.
“House Harrison.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Augustine sighed. “We’re wasting time.”
“We don’t know anything,” Camden said.
Augustine looked at her. “I was hoping to avoid it, but it can’t be helped.”
She saw her arms reform, her suit vanishing in an instant, replaced by short white sleeves. The three men at the other end of the desk inhaled sharply. Camden’s face contorted, his eyes turning glassy with fear.
She took her phone out and pretended to check it, hoping her expression looked sufficiently calm.
Nevada Rogan’s face looked back at her through the front camera.
Oh. Wow.
“They are all yours,” Augustine said to her.
