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But despite the disrespect he’s shown, I’m hardly concerned he’s about to do us some violence.

The last few centuries have proven both Marcus and Philippe know better than to test the bounds of the tentative truce we’ve forged, though it doesn’t entirely erase my discomfort with Ophelia being mixed up in all of this.

Ophelia, however, is unphased as she leads the way after him, settled back into the mantle of confidence and capability she wears so well. It’s enough for me to set that discomfort aside and follow, keeping my guard up and my eyes open as we pass a few side doors.

Marcus stops at the end of the hall, yanking open yet another door to reveal a service staircase. Without looking back, he ducks his tall, bulky frame through and lets it swing shut behind him.

Ophelia opens the door slowly, looking right, then left, then turning her gaze to where Marcus is already a half-flight up.

“Come on,” he calls over his shoulder. “Keep up.”

Again, the look Ophelia and I share communicates an agreement, a shared willingness to press on, and I feel the pulse of a smile tug at the corners of my lips as she starts up the stairs after Marcus. It’s been years since I did field work with a partner other than Serra, and the unexpected ease of this unlikely partnership is bemusing, to say the least.

We climb one flight, then another, back to street level as Marcus stops at another landing and throws open another door.

This hall is much like the first we walked into, somewhere in the areas of the building meant to be traversed by staff, and he looks briefly over his shoulder to make sure we’re still following.

“What did Cassandra promise you, exactly?”

“No promises,” Ophelia says lightly, “just an invitation to stop by the club and her reassurance that both you and Philippe would be willing to meet with us.”

Marcus hums. Not approval, nor disapproval, a flat, uninterested sound I can’t quite read. “Is that right? How thoughtful of her.”

He continues on for a few more yards before abruptly stopping and turning to face us.

“And you think we’d be interested in anything you have to say? When you’re working for the Bureau and clearly more invested in their best interest than ours?”

The shift in tone is instantaneous, and this time I can’t stop myself from physically intervening. Not to stand in front of Ophelia, but beside her, drawing myself up to my full height and allowing my tone to match his. Low, knife-edged, a veiled threat coating every word.

“It affects us all, Marcus, what’s been happening with these rogues. Surely you and Philippe can see the wisdom of discovering who’s behind it.”

His face remains hard, impassive, and he looks between the two of us before seeming to come to some conclusion.

He props open the door beside us. “After you.”

Beyond that door, darkness.

Under the bright fluorescents, my eyes don’t adjust before Ophelia steps through. I follow without thinking, and only pause when Marcus speaks again, tone dripping with venom.

“The coven has no interest in these rogues, and no intent to concern ourselves with the affairs of humans or with the Bureau. Stop your questioning and stay out of coven business, or you’ll be answering to Philippe next time.”

Two large, meaty hands land on my shoulders and give a hard shove. Even my superhuman reflexes don’t prevent mefrom knocking into Ophelia in the dim light of wherever it is Marcus is about to leave us.

Steadying her, I glance back and catch a brief glimpse of his arrogant smirk.

“Have a good evening.”

With that, Marcus slams the door in our faces, leaving both me and Ophelia open-mouthed and stunned into silence.

It takes a few more seconds to adjust to the light, but from the crispness of the air and the uneven cobblestones beneath our feet, it’s not hard to guess where he’s left us.

Ophelia laughs first.

A gasped, inelegant sound, it comes out in a short staccato, followed by a glittering peal as she leans forward and braces her hands on her knees.

“Well that went pretty fucking great, didn’t it?”

A bark of genuine, unexpected laughter breaks from my throat, the sound of it rusty and ill-used as I look down at her.