"Right. Dash." Mark says it the way you'd say the name of someone's imaginary friend. Patronizing. Dripping. He takes another step forward and his boat shoes squeak on the stone floor. "Craig told me you'd pulled something desperate but I didn't think you'd go full freak show."
My hands ball into fists at my sides.
"Does your mom know?" Another step. He's close now. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and chemical that makes my eyes water. "Because I'm pretty sure Aunt Delphine is gonna have a stroke when you walk in with?—"
"She's not your aunt."
"She likes me better than she likes you, Maggie." He grins wider. Leans in. "Everyone does."
Something moves behind me.
Not a sound. A displacement of air. The ambient temperature in the shop spikes three degrees and the enchanted lanterns on the walls flicker in unison, their flames bending towardthe sudden gravitational shift of something massive changing posture.
Mark's grin falters.
I step sideways. Just enough to see.
Dash has dropped low. Not a crouch, not a lean. A stance. Weight distributed across both feet, center of gravity sunk, shoulders squared and angled forty-five degrees toward Mark like a siege engine locking onto a gate. His right hand hangs open at his side, fingers loose, the tendons in his forearm standing out like bridge cables.
His left hand finds the brass clothing rack next to Grimshaw's platform. Solid brass. An inch-thick pipe bolted to a weighted iron base.
His fingers close around it.
The metal screams.
Not bends. Not dents. The thick brass pipe collapses flat between his fingers like wet cardboard, crushed into a ribbon of compressed metal that curls around his fist. The sound is high and sharp, a shriek of molecular surrender, and it echoes through the shop for three full seconds.
Dash holds the ruined brass in his fist and stares into Mark's eyes.
He doesn't blink.
Mark's face pales.
CHAPTER 4
DASH
The small human male smells like chemical flowers and fear.
Mostly fear now.
His pupils have blown wide, black swallowing the pale blue, and his mouth hangs open in a wet oval that reminds me of a stunned cave fish. A bead of sweat traces a line from his temple to his jaw. His body knows what his brain hasn't caught up to yet. His body understands that he is standing six feet from something that could fold him in half like a letter and mail him to whatever gods his people pray to.
I open my hand. Let the crushed brass fall.
It hits the stone floor with a flat, dead clang.
"You— You can't just?—"
I straighten to my full height.
His mouth closes.
Smart.
"The female asked you a question. She said she is in the middle of something."
"I wasn't—" He takes one step backward. His ridiculous shoe catches on a bolt of enchanted silk that Grimshaw left coiled on the floor and his arms pinwheel. He grabs the door frame.Steadies himself. The fear-smell sharpens, turns acrid, cuts through the cologne like a blade through lard. "Listen, big guy, I don't want any trouble."
