Unknown

I stood up. That brought a change in posture from all the agents in the room—straightening, bracing, hands moving to weapons. “Sit,” Sanders snapped. I ignored him, and he pulled his sidearm, although he didn’t aim it. “Sit down, Cassiel. I’m not playing.”

Shadows at the opening of the tent. Agent Klein . . . and Luis Rocha.

My breath went out of me, because he was being carried on a stretcher by two other men. Unconscious. The men settled the stretcher on top of one of the folding tables and, at a nod from Sanders, withdrew to wait. Klein took up his post again only a few feet away, gun drawn.

I looked from Luis’s slack, blank face to Sanders. Everything seemed to have a red tinge to it, and I was having difficulty breathing.

“He’s alive,” Sanders said, as if that was even a question. “Whoa, Cassiel. Take it down a notch. He’s going to be okay. He put up a hell of a fight. They had to go hard on him, and then they had to put him out to treat him. He’ll wake up in a couple of hours.”

I saw blood on Luis’s shirt. I lifted the hem of it and saw a bandage as large as my hand beneath it, on his right side. Beneath it I sensed a cut, a long and deep one, that had perforated organs and nicked a bowel. The human physicians had repaired the damage with stitches, cleaned out wounds, and left him to heal.

“Take these off me,” I said, and held my cuffed hands out to Sanders without looking away from Luis.

“Can’t do that.”

I wanted to issue the sort of threat I would have in Dji

“I can heal him,” I said, and put a note of pleading in my voice. It was not precisely acting. “Please. Let me help him. Otherwise it will take weeks for him to get back to full strength, and he risks infection.” I left unspoken the obvious: If Luis Rocha died of his wounds, or even complications of them, then he would be held responsible. Not just by me. By his superiors. By the Wardens. Possibly even by one or two Dji

Sanders obviously recognized the risk.

He fixed me with a long, steady look. I tried my best to convey a lack of threat, although that was hardly my strong suit.

He sighed. “Fine. But you do anything I don’t like, and Agent Klein here will shoot you a whole lot. Okay?”

He wasn’t waiting for my agreement. He unlocked the cuffs, both wrists, and removed them. They looked like regular handcuffs, which was curious; I had expected some small technological addition, but I saw nothing of interest.

Sanders stepped back and nodded toward Luis, lying silent on the table. “Clock’s ru

He had no experience with Wardens, other than Turner, that much was obvious. I shook my head and put my right hand on Luis’s forehead. It felt cool and slightly clammy. The left—the metal hand—I left at my side. I was no longer sure if I could control the flow of power through it at a fine enough level to perform this kind of task.

The damage within Luis had been surprisingly light, and repaired by skilled surgeons; he was, in fact, not in any danger at all, but merely needed rest and recovery. That, at least, was easy enough to fix, by simply replacing his lost energy with some of mine, although I had precious little to spare. Had he truly been badly injured, I doubted I would have had the reserves to repair him on my own . . . but this, I could do.

And did.

Luis opened his eyes. They were blank for a moment as his brain came aware and began processing information at a pace that was astonishing even to the Dji

Can you hear me? I performed the Earth Warden trick, murmuring the words directly into his ear by delicate vibrations of the membrane inside. Don’t move. Don’t let them see you’re awake.

He stayed perfectly still, relaxed beneath my hands.

Good to see you, he said. You’re okay?

I was not the one who was lying on a table with stitched wounds. Of course, I said. Are you strong enough to take care of half the guns?

Lady, I can take care of all the guns, Luis responded, and blinked. They’re FBI, right? Oh man.

Was he reconsidering? But you will take care of the guns.

Sure. He sounded resigned. Might as well earn the wanted poster while I’m at it.

I didn’t waste time asking what he meant; instead, I whispered Now into his ear.

He sat up in one fluid movement, and as every FBI agent in the room wondered what to do next, I whirled and advanced on Agent Sanders.

Agent Klein hadn’t been bluffing. He immediately pulled the trigger on his firearm, and his aim was perfectly steady. If his weapon had been working, I would have been down with a hole through my brain.

It didn’t work quite that way. Instead, the gun gave a dry click. Klein blinked and immediately tried again. Another click. The sound was joined by a brittle chatter of clicks, as every FBI agent in the room attempted to fire.

I batted away Sanders’s attempt to punch me and grabbed him by the throat, slamming him backward and down on one of the folding tables, which teetered dangerously and looked ready to collapse. Then it did collapse, in a sudden rush, metal legs splaying out u

I let the Dji

Luis flicked a look at the other agents, still standing near their computers, weapons in hand. They exchanged a look. “Relax,” he said. “We’re not going to hurt anybody. Chill out.”

I was fairly certain, from the look on Sanders’s face, that he didn’t altogether believe that. I couldn’t really blame him. The way I felt, I couldn’t guarantee him anything on the not-hurting-anyone front. Especially him.

I leaned closer, pale hair drifting around my face like smoke, and whispered, “If you ever try to put those handcuffs on me again, Mr. Sanders, we will have this conversation again, but it won’t end so nicely.” Then I let go, stood up, and offered him a hand. My left. The metal one.

Sanders stared at my face, then the hand, and for a long moment I wasn’t sure he’d accept the implied apology. Then he took my bronze fingers and pulled himself to his feet against my strength.

“We need to work together,” I said. Behind me, Luis stepped up alongside me. “The Wardens are few right now. The Dji