I'd have much preferred to use a potion, but Weres are really resistant. Of course, they are to socks to the jaw, too, meaning that I had maybe a minute before Cyrus came around. My hands shook slightly as I fitted magical restraints around his wrists, binding them to the frame of the bed. It wouldn't hold him for long, but I needed only moments to get away.

He was going to be pissed when he woke up, but better that than dead.

The Corps had assassins who were given special training for assignments like these. But as Simons had noted, none would be impervious to a powerful illusion. Unlike Jason, they would probably recognize it and try to disperse it, but in the meantime, they would be vulnerable. And while illusions wouldn't bother or probably even register on Cyrus and his wolves, other magic certainly would.

I was the only one who had a chance of surviving both. So this was my fight. If Cyrus brought in the wolves, someone would bleed and maybe die because I'd waited for help I wasn't supposed to need. And I really thought enough innocent people had died because of me today.

I touched the door and felt a tingle at the back of my neck. It told me that the outer edges of my body's energy field had brushed up against something they didn't like. I hadn't tripped the ward yet, but it was already ruffled and it wouldn't take much more. I withdrew my hand and it calmed down, but I was left with the impression that the heavy old door was glowering at me.

Served me right for trying the front entrance. I looked around, but the building that housed Colafranceschi's loft was well-warded, with every other entrance just as impenetrable. But the place had four stories and a lot of windows, and wards like that were expensive. I was betting that the ones guarding the upper floors weren't so high-end.

The building next door was almost as tall and was close enough to make doing a Spider-Man impression at least feasible. And as a bonus, it was open to the public, containing a very loud bar on the first floor. I decided I needed a drink.

It was not a slick tourist trap. My sleeve stuck to the sticky bar top, there was a tear in the pleather cover of my stool, and the place looked like its last cleaning had been about the time Dean Martin signed the faded photo behind the bar. But Jim Beam would probably kill any germs on the glasses, so I ordered a double.

Simons was a little overconfident about my ability to shrug off illusions. Mother's blood helped, but I was half human, too, and therefore not entirely immune. Powerful illusions could still play games with me, assuming I was clearheaded enough. Luckily, alcohol seriously messes up concentration, sense perception, and memory, all of which are needed for a good illusion to work.

It's impossible for any mage to fake the thousands of bits of sensory info needed to make even a simple false impression seem real. The trick to getting someone to mistake a fantasy for reality was to plant a few powerful suggestions, then let the person's own imagination take over. It worked surprisingly well, unless said imagination was too preoccupied with its own pink elephants to notice yours.

I tossed back the whiskey about the time a shaft of angry, bloodred light stabbed into the bar. A glance toward the street showed me a couple of large guys in biker gear headed in the door and, when they moved toward a table, an equally tall woman behind them. A woman with familiar almond-shaped eyes and close-cropped silver hair.

My choking fit won me a condescending look from the bartender and a disinterested glance from the woman. Then she did a double take, her eyes widened, and she threw out a hand. A wave of disorientation hit me—so sharp, it was almost a physical pain; then the guys who had come in ahead of her drew a couple of SIG 552s out from under their table and started blasting everything in sight.

I hit the dirty floor, wondering how the hell they'd smuggled two commando subcarbines in without my seeing them, while the mirror over the bar detonated in a storm of gunfire that rained glass over everything. It took me a second to notice that the people at the other tables not only hadn't ducked for cover, but were staring at me like I'd lost my mind. I shook my head, blinked a couple of times, and looked up to find the bartender scowling at me.

"I'm cutting you off," he said while the scene in front of me shattered and re-formed—like the mirror that wasn't broken and the guns that didn't exist, except for the one in my hand.

Shit!

I scrambled to my feet and ran into the street, but she was gone. A map charm showed me seven people within a block radius, and only one of them was alone and heading away at a fast clip. I took off in pursuit, hoping I'd guessed correctly, and in less than a minute caught a glimpse of her trying to spell open the lock on a shop's door.

Why she didn't head home, where she had not only powerful wards but presumably a host of newly minted Assassins as well, I didn't know. Maybe she assumed I'd have backup, although considering how powerful that off-the-cuff illusion had been, I was really glad I didn't. Someone that good might be able to convince my allies that I was the enemy, at least long enough for me to get dead.

That kind of power warranted caution, so I hit her with a locator spell in case I lost her again. She felt it, of course, and went dark and furious, giving up on the door in favor of throwing something back at me. A disorienting sphere exploded onto the concrete as I leapt behind a mailbox, but my shields were up and absorbed the shock before it could send me into a dead faint.

I looked up in time to see her image wink out of existence. I kept my eyes on the spot where she'd disappeared, since cloaking spells don't tend to cover movement very well. I'd probably be able to pick her out as soon as she made a break for it, unless she did so very slowly.

My leg was throbbing again, but I scuttled across the street pretty fast anyway, not knowing what other nasty surprises she might be carrying. My shields weren't even close to 100 percent at the moment, and there were things that would get past them. I headed for a Dumpster near her last position, wanting to be as close as possible when I fired. She was an assassin, not a war mage, so her shields likely wouldn't hold up for long.

Assuming I could find her.

And assuming she didn't take me out first.

Another spell hit the ground when I was almost there, this time a disruptor with the punch of about twenty human grenades. It picked me up and threw me into the side of the nearest building. If I hadn't been shielded, I'd have broken every bone in my body when I landed. As it was, I bounced off bricks, slammed into concrete, and rolled back to my feet in time to see a vague ripple streak into a side street. Dammit!

I followed, gun up, and activated the tattoo on my left arm. It was a small horned owl that Father had given me when I joined the Corps. I didn't use it unless absolutely necessary, because, while it fed partially off the world's natural energy like a talisman, it also drained my own reserves somewhat. But in this case, I thought it might be worth the power loss.

Immediately, my vision grew ultrasharp and clear, better than I could see in daylight. And like the predator on my arm, I was also more prone to notice any flicker of movement now. Not that there appeared to be any.

Everything was suddenly deathly quiet, as though I was wearing sound-muffling headphones from the shooting range. An icy shimmer of fear flashed up my spine, and for a moment I thought seriously about casting a cloaking spell on myself. I was supposed to be the hunter, not the prey, but for some reason it didn't feel that way. But I had only so much energy to go around, and those spells use a lot. I decided against it.