The boy held up a finger in the “wait just a second” gesture. The man’s eyes widened, and his face went white. He’d realized who was at the door. Apparently, none of the others had recognized exactly who the boy was.
When he looked back at the waiting man, the boy smiled.
“Did you know, the latch on your second-story window . . .just there . . .”—he pointed, and the man obligingly looked—“is broken? Someone could easily pop in or pop out of it.” The boy blinked at the man, waiting for his response. When he didn’t give one, the boy raised his eyebrows. “Is Finn here?”
“You’re here to see the Smith?”
Behind the boy, a half-dozen Smiths had moved into attack position.
“Yup.”
“May I ask for what reason?”
The boy grinned. “Just to chat.”
The man at the door stared as if “chat” were a code word for “skin someone alive.”
“Would you please tell him I’m here?”
The doorman stared for a moment longer, then he stepped back into the fortress and shut the door.
The boy shrugged, shoved his hands into his pockets again, and ignored the Smiths discreetly positioning themselves around him.
Inside the fortress, the doorman sprinted down the stone hallway and reached the solange-eyed one as he rounded the corner. The doorman tripped to a halt. He’d only run half the length of the building, but his chest was heaving, and his face was red.
“The Ward,” he spat. He said the name as if it were a curse. “The Ward just knocked on the front door asking to chat.”
The solange-eyed one glanced at the man and then fell in beside him. His stride was smooth, like a great cat walking soundlessly on a branch, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim below. Ready to kill.
“Chat?” he asked in his rumbling, thundery voice.
He wore black body armor. Two swords were strapped to his back. His eyes were shadowed with purple bruises, and his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. Sometimes, the solange-eyed one looked fatigued, but it was difficult to notice because of the hurricane of power that stormed inside him.
He crackled with energy. It heated the air around him and snapped at anyone who came close. The solange-eyed one didn’t seem to notice the effect he had on others.
Fight him or follow him—that was what he inspired.
The doorman’s red face paled, and he snapped, “Sir. The Ward strolled up to the front door and told me the latch on a second-story window was broken”—at this, the solange-eyed one’s eyebrows rose—“and then said, ‘Is Finn here?’ like you were friendly with him. Like he’d been invited over for afternoon tea. Said he wanted to chat.”
They’d reached the front door.
The solange-eyed one stared at the thick wood as if he could see through it.
“Where’s Darin?”
“Still in Jersey City.”
The solange-eyed one nodded. “Call everyone off.”
The doorman’s surprise was thick in the stone entry. Then, when the solange-eyed one looked at him, his solange-soaked eye sparking with blue lightning, the man remembered himself. “Yes, sir.”
He hurried down the hall, speaking into a device.
The solange-eyed one yanked open the door. He held a hand in front of him, two fingers pressed to his thumb.
The boy smiled. “Hello.”
The solange-eyed one’s mouth tilted up at the corner. He dropped the conjurer’s pose and held the door wide. “I was wondering if you’d come.” He looked up at the sky and then gestured to the interior of the fortress. “Come in.”
