Ophelia St. Vrain didn't understand people. She never had. It had always been a weakness of hers. They were just so confusing. Saying one thing, doing another. Not like her. She was always honest. If she told someone she'd lie for them, she'd lie for them. If she told someone she'd tell the truth, she'd tell the truth. Somehow, though, that hadn't made her many friends.

She definitely didn't understand her employer or his daughter. They both claimed to hate the other one, or to view each other as tools and obstacles. But instead of stepping away from each other—the logical, honest choice—they kept sniping at each other.

Ophelia just didn't get it.

She never had. She never would. She'd accepted that she was different from everyone else around her a long time ago. Their worldviews felt alien to her, and that was okay.

All she had to do was what she'd committed to doing for the GC rep she'd sort of kidnapped at her employer's party. Ophelia didn't understand people. But she did understand commitments. And she understood that the terms of her commitment to the Traynor Corporation were being violated.

Helping out the GC rep would go a long way toward fixing that for her.

Ophelia: We're going in. C-Rank portal.

Jessie: Understood. Thank you.

Ophelia: No, thank you.

Jessie hadn't been sure the Lonely Mage would follow through. The text on her phone proved her wrong.

It also meant that a dozen things would have to happen in the next hour, and they'd all have to happen perfectly. She kept her phone out and fired off a pair of quick texts.

Jessie: Kade, go.

Jessie: Ellen, we're going.

Then, without waiting for a response—without even shutting her computer down, Jessie headed for the apartment door and climbed into the waiting silver sports car's driver's seat. She didn't have a license. That didn't matter, though. Deimos knew where to go and how to get her there.

She clicked her seatbelt on, and the car revved. Then she was pressed into the driver's racecar-style seat as the acceleration force smashed into her.

Jessie: Kade, go.

Jessie's plan was partially illegal. It also had a ton of moving parts.

Jeff, Yasmin, and I were one of those parts. We stood outside of Bob Traynor's home, staring up at the underlit trees and garden wall that I knew hid ponds and pools—ones filled with real, Earth water, not the stuff from the Wickenberg portal. Ellen had told us he'd be home. She'd double-checked his schedule, and there was no event tonight.

"Time for a little breaking and entering," I said.

Yasmin snorted. Jeff's eyes narrowed.

"What? We're not doing it to steal anything from Bob, just to help our friend." My briefcase thudded against my thigh as I headed for the doors. "He'll be in his office."

"How do you know?" Yasmin asked as she followed, with Jeff bringing up the rear. She'd hit B-Rank yesterday, and Jeff wasn't thrilled about it, even though it was the highest she'd likely get. They weren't fighting, but they weren't speaking, either.

"Because he's always in his office. He's a workaholic."

Yasmin stared at me for a second.

"What? Those are Ellen's words, not mine." I pushed the doors open and we stepped inside. There was no point being subtle, and we weren't. Jeff was in his full armor, while Yasmin and I were both geared for battle as well. We didn't expect any delver resistance—not with the Traynor guild's team out—but there was still personal security, and the plan was to intimidate them.

It worked. The two men in suits stopped with their hands on their pistols, and I watched both guns carefully. A bullet hole wouldn't be lethal at B-Rank, and Jeff was fully armored. But it would hurt. Enough of them would be a problem. Meanwhile, the three of us could break them in half without our weapons. Stormsong crackled in my hand. The two men stood near the base of the spiraling staircase, eyes on me.

A stalemate.

"Master Noelstra," a familiar, cultured voice said. "Mr. Traynor was not expecting you."

I turned. The black suit and gray mustache were familiar—the Traynors' butler. But I couldn't remember his name for the life of me. Still, he was a familiar face, and a possible stalemate-breaker. "Hello. We don't have an appointment, but—"

"No need to apologize. Mr. Traynor is currently in his office, but he asked me to bring you up. He is also eager to meet with you. That being said, he is also occupied with coordinating a business arrangement in San Diego, so he asks for your patience." The butler—Edward? Yes, Edward—pointed to the stairs. "If you three would come with me?"

Jeff glanced at me. I raised an eyebrow back, and he nodded. The two bodyguards relaxed, hands drifting from their guns. I fell in behind Edward, the rest of the team behind me. My sword did not leave my hand, but the butler simply pretended not to notice it. "He should be finishing his business in the next ten minutes. In the meantime, please enjoy the Traynors' private art collection. It includes several pieces by Picasso, Rembrandt, and Vermeer, as well as other pre-Blitz artists."

A door opened, and a dim room with bright lights focused on specific spots appeared before us. The lights flicked on one at a time, a second or so delayed, and it took almost thirty seconds for the room's first wall to be completely illuminated. Edward cleared his throat. "This is, I should emphasize, the private art collection. Nothing here is available for sale, and it contains items that are culturally important to several now-defunct nations. Please enjoy, but do not touch."

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Then the door shut behind us, and Edward was gone, just like that.

"What just happened?" Yasmin asked.

I checked the handle. It was unlocked. We weren't trapped. But…"I don't know. I think we're getting played."

"Yeah, we're getting played," Jeff said. The question is, what do we do about it?"

"Not sure." I shrugged. "But I guarantee that if Bob isn't listening to us, someone else is, so let's play it cool, wait it out, and see what happens."

Bob Traynor hadn't pressed his panic button, but his finger was still ready to do so the moment the three kids made a move. A single monitor showed them at all times, with the others flashing information about his delving operations and the San Diego deal. It had taken almost a month to get it to this phase, and Bob couldn't let this interruption delay it any further.

So, he was thrilled that the three of them seemed to be engrossed in a Renaissance painting. Bob didn't know off-hand who the artist was, and he didn't care. Art was status, not style. He rarely visited the family's private collection. It didn't help the Traynor Corporation directly—not the way cold, hard cash did. But sometimes, a softer power was needed, and against three delvers with both of his teams occupied by the C-Rank portal and subsequent harvesting, he needed time, not money. Of course, money in the form of art could buy him time. He tried not to laugh about that.

"Do we have an agreement?" he asked the screen. "Not in principle, but something that can be signed? The Traynor Corporation is eager to get started on portal weapon manufacturing."

"I think you mean the Overholz Company is eager to get started, with Traynor support and sponsorship," the woman on the other side said after a two-second delay. The connection to San Diego was inconsistent. That had been one of the big problems with the takeover. Everything took longer than it should have.

Bob sighed and rubbed his temples. "You three must understand the situation you're in. If the Traynor Corporation doesn't receive the rights to manufacture your patent, the Overholz Company cannot be part of the Traynor family. This isn't something I'm doing because you're in a tough spot. This is the corporation's standard offer. Every other company that's part of it has agreed. Why won't you?"

"Because, Mr. Traynor, the patent we own has potential to revolutionize delving, as well as how unawakened humans interact with portal monsters. This is groundbreaking work we're doing," Rebecca Overholz said. The other two—Gustavo Villanova and Talia Smith—hadn't said a word since the end of pleasantries a minute into the call. "We can't give that up."

"Fine. I've got another meeting in five minutes. We'll talk later."

Bob hung up the call without waiting for a response. Then he took a deep breath, composed himself, and went back to watching all the delvers—both the Traynor ones and the three in his private art gallery.

It took almost twenty minutes.

I was getting tired of staring at paintings of milkmaids and little dots arranged to look like women with umbrellas. Not that the wood-floored, panel-walled room was uncomfortable. Music so soft I'd hardly noticed it at first played from hidden speakers, and it was cool without being cold and dry without being oppressive—a welcome refuge from Phoenix's typical weather. It was more that every minute that went by made it less likely for this to work the way Ellen needed it to. The timing was everything.

Jeff and Yasmin stood on opposite sides of the room, looking at completely different art. They shot looks at each other, but hadn't said a word in almost ten. It was quiet other than recorded violin music.

So, when the door opened and Edward coughed quietly, I had to work to keep myself from jumping. "Mr. Noelstra and company, Mr. Traynor is ready to see you."

I nodded and followed the butler out, with the rest of my team at my back. The upper floor of the Traynor house was familiar. I'd been here before—at least until Edward took a left where Ellen and I had taken a right. From there, it was a short walk to the office door. Edward knocked, and it opened without anyone touching it.

The last time I'd confronted Bob Traynor over a desk, it had been at his business headquarters. I'd expected something like that here. Instead, the man sat behind an ancient-looking wooden desk. Three computer monitors hung from the ceiling along one side, angled so I couldn't see what was on them. The rest of the desk was covered in papers, with the exception of a built-in shredder. I watched as he fed a document into it, then waved at the three chairs that, other than the desk, were the only furniture in the room.

"Have a seat. I'm glad you're here, Mr. Noelstra. We need to talk about your future, and about what you're doing here."

I didn't sit. Neither did Jeff or Yasmin. "Mr. Traynor, I'm here to talk about both of those things. In my future, the seven of us are going to run our own guild, and you're not going to meddle with Ellen anymore. She's going to be free from your fake debts, and you're going to have nothing to do with her. And that's why I'm here—to make that happen."

Bob looked at the sword in my hand, then at Jeff. "And I suppose you're going to, what? Move quickly and break my things until I agree? That's very delver-like of you. Somewhat like your stepfather, wouldn't you agree?"

"I wouldn't. Dad always wanted me to choose a different path than violence…when I could. I'm hoping I'll be able to tonight."

Deborah was waiting when Angelo was discharged from the hospital.

The Governing Council and Roadrunners had agreed to keep the full extent of his injuries secret and to dedicate every healer they could spare to his immediate recovery. But even so, the sheer damage that had been done to the Light of Dawn—and even more impressively, the damage he'd done to himself in the final minutes of their retreat to Phoenix—was disturbing. It took him almost seventy-two hours to recover—an eternity for an S-Ranker.

And as for Deborah, her plans were on hold. She wasn't stupid. This had been the best opportunity to get rid of the Light of Dawn and take over the Roadrunners for real. But she wasn't stupid, either. If the monsters that had chased the strike team and the last of the Carlsbad Fortress survivors across the desert could do that to Angelo, Phoenix would need every defender it had for what was no doubt coming behind them.

So, when Angelo strode out of the GC's hospital in a fresh linen suit, Deborah was waiting at her car's passenger door. He climbed in, and she shut it. Like a chauffeur. "I require a status report," Angelo said curtly.

"The guild is running at peak efficiency. We've increased recruiting in your absence, and—"

"Not the guild, Deborah. What is going on with Kade Noelstra?" Angelo relaxed as the car started moving, and pain rippled across his face.

Deborah watched him from the corner of her eye. He was so…weak. So pathetic. He shouldn't have been discharged. She sighed and focused on the road, weaving between cars. "Kade Noelstra is back to ranking up. He's B-Rank now. I don't know how he did it, but he did it."

"That is difficult to believe."

"It's true. I've been busy. I have a theory, and I was going to test it when you showed up, but that's on hold for now."

"You were going to push to S-Rank," Angelo said.

Deborah nodded. Then she changed the subject. The less Angelo knew about her plans and methods, the better. "The Governing Council wants an all-hands meeting later tonight to—"

"Seven o'clock. I have already discussed it with Councilman Anders and Councilwoman Myers. The other guild leaders will be there as well. The meeting had to be postponed until enough of us were out of the hospital, but I should be the last, correct?" Angelo shut his eyes as Deborah nodded. His stomach rumbled loudly enough for her to hear it. "Please bring me to Acme Tower. I have business to catch up on—and a light meal before the meeting."

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