Except—how did she know what she’d been told was true?
She let go of the doorknob. She didn’t have the slightest idea what she’d involved herself in. What was she to do?
Kitchen. Water.
She stumbled down the hall in a daze. When she handed the glass to Kincaid a half-minute later, hand shaking so much that some of the contents sloshed over the rim, he spared her a glance that suggested he knew what she’d gone through. But all he said was, “Thank you, Dr. Daggett.”
“Is he—that is, will he—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish. The injured man went into convulsions on the floor, arms flailing into the wizards trying to help. Blood leaked from his mouth now, not just his nose.
“Good heavens,” Kincaid shouted. “Jack!Jack!”
Crawford looked horror-struck. “He’s turning blue!”
With that, his convulsions stopped. Crawford dove in to try resuscitation, but her increasingly frenzied movements had no effect. Eventually, Kincaid pulled her aside and laid both hands on Jack’s chest.
“Gwendolyn,” he said as she tried to resume her ministrations. “Gwendolyn. It’s over.”
As the woman wept, Emily sat, legs giving way, everything trembling.
He was dead. Hartgrave had killed him, if unintentionally, and she had helped Hartgrave get in. She’d allowed this man—Jack, his name was Jack—to remain here, injured, while precious minutes ticked away in which he might have been helped.
Kincaid’s voice cut through her shock: “You are not to blame.” Though he had an arm around Crawford, he looked straight at her.
He pulled Crawford to her feet and got her up the stairs, Emily trailing in their wake. Then he transferred the grief-stricken wizard into the care of the house’s other occupant, the woman who’d called out to Jack and had been tricked by Hartgrave’s reply. She looked as terrified as a rabbit surrounded by wolves, and just about as dangerous. When Kincaid broke the news to her, she whimpered.
“Please help Gwendolyn,” he said. “I’ve some pressing matters that must be attended to immediately.”
“Y-yes, sir,” the woman said, tears welling.
He pressed his palms to his eyes after she closed her door. Then he gestured Emily into the next room over.
“Do sit down,” he said.
It was an office—an unremarkable place, full of filing cabinets and framed artwork. On the cherrywood desk dominating the room sat a charming old globe and a bone-china tea set. Precisely as an evil overlord’s office would not look.
Kincaid slipped with a grateful sigh into the chair on the far side of the desk. After wavering near thedoorway, she took the seat opposite his. She really was in no condition to stand.
“Tea?” he asked.
The entire situation was so exactly contrary to what it ought to be that she had to close her eyes for a moment to stave off dizziness. Perhaps he wanted to poison her. That, at least, would make some sense.
“I’m in desperate need of a cup,” he added. “The best thing for shock.”
She managed a small shake of her head. “No, thank you.”
“I didn’t think you would,” he murmured, pouring a splash of milk into his own cup before following it with dark liquid from the teapot. “But it was only polite to offer.”
He wrapped his hands around the cup and held it still for a few seconds, giving her the impression he was heating the tea with a quick shot of magic. He took a sip and set the cup down.
“I assume the two magic-users who appeared as if from thin air were colleagues of Mr. Hartgrave’s?”
She might be heartsick and disoriented, but she wasn’t about to fall into the trap of giving up information.
“Ah, but there is still the issue of my trustworthiness to resolve,” he said. “Apologies. It’s only that I feel so appallingly foolish. I believed these people to be in trouble, teleporting randomly without being able to stop—you see such wild magic occasionally—and all along it was a trick.”
She just managed to hold back a snort. Oh, yes. He wanted tohelpthem.
