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He nods.

“Time?”

“Fifty-two until sunrise.”

“Meet you around back. I’m going in.”

Kieran darts off, and I summon the deathly cold to my fingertips. I fold into it until every part of me shifts into a dark mist. Up through the air, past the windows, I rise, slipping between the metal grates of the air shaft beneath the dormers. I hold still as the world comes back in focus. The attic is warm compared to the lingering chill from my cloak.

I hurry down the attic stairs and ease the door to the second floor open. The hallway is silent. As I move down it, counting the rooms, faint snores slow my steps. There are three bedrooms and two bathrooms. I creep down the stairs to the first floor. But when I reach the living room, I freeze. It’s filled with coordinated furniture and framed family portraits. I study the smiling faces, and my pulse picks up. In the kitchen there’s a full sink of dishes. The pantry is sparsely filled, not stocked full. I peek in a few closets and it’s full of storage bins. No grab bags. The hair on my neck rises.

People in safe houses don’t live like this. Unless…it’s a new cover?

I signal for Kieran. He slips through the seams of the back door.

“Are you absolutely sure this is the right place?”

“I saw him in that park, just down the road, with my own eyes. This is the only suspected safe house for hundreds of miles. Why else would he have been near here?”

I quiet him, listening for any indication that we’ve been too loud.

Safe houses are like a crime scene without fingerprints. They are shells of a home, easily wiped clean. And never personalized. I think of Knox, what she said about people in safe houses losing their ability to touch dark magic because they don’t use it. How that fact technically opens the argument that they’re no longer a threat. It unsteadies me.

“Sir, are you alright?”

“I’m fine. We need hard evidence that they are Marked.”

Kieran follows me up the stairs; the glow of night-lights dot down the hall. I summon the cold, ready with thrashing shadows in one hand, just in case. Kieran does the same. We approach one of the bedroom doors, and I cup the knob gently.

Behind me, a child’s shrill cry scratches my ears.

I turn. Kieran’s as pale as a ghost, a child, who is no taller than my waist, standing in the middle of the hall gaping at the darkness in our fists. They stare up at us with red-rimmed eyes and a sleep-tousled head of hair, their little features scrunching in curiosity. They point at the shadows before shoving a thumb in their mouth. Realizing we’ve been seen by a child feels like a knife sticking me in the ribs. Voices stir beyond the door nearest me.

“Back away slowly,” I say.

But the moment Kieran moves, the child wails again. The knob in my hand twists, but it is not my own doing. I shove Kieran forward, swing open the door to a nearby closet, and conceal ourselves inside.

“Baby boy, oh, it’s okay,” a sweet voice hums in the hall. I watch through the slightly parted door. The child’s eyes are fixated on the closet door that we disappeared behind.

He points in our direction.

My heart stops.

“Back to bed, sweet one.” The mother walks away, toward the room at the far end of the hall.

“The notes don’t mention any kids!”

“I watched the house for days!” Kieran drains of color. “Never saw one.”

“Are you sure these are Marked people?” I shake him by the collar.

“I saw a woman who…” His brows smoosh. “Come to think of it, she doesn’t look anything like her. But I saw a woman use toushana to get through a locked gate at the park. I followed her home, here. Maybe they moved?”

I rest my head back on the wall for a moment to stifle the urge to strangle him. Perhaps I took his tip about Audubon in haste, trusting he’d done his damned job. If he had, he’d have casually talked to neighbors. Asked questions. Visited their friends. Created a rock-solid information loop so this does not happen. We are not reckless killers.

“I’m not convinced these people are magical,” I say. “And if they aren’t, you just condemned them to die.”

His eyes widen with something heavier than regret: fear.