The weekend slipped past in tangled sheets, wonderful meals, intimate chats, and excursions into town.

  Friday evening bled into Saturday morning. They ordered room service for breakfast and ate in bed. Scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and thick-cut bacon on white plates. Yvette stole half of Morthisal's toast and didn't apologize.

  Saturday afternoon, they ventured out. Yvette donned her simple disguise. The dark wig, oversized sunglasses, and a silk scarf wrapped around her head. She looked anonymous and somehow classic at the same time. Morthisal could have easily mistaken her for a Hollywood starlet on one of the many old movie posters that dotted this town. Morthisal wore his Seahawks cap pulled low and the reflective sunglasses he'd purchased at the airport.

  They walked the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Yvette pointed out names she recognized. Morthisal pretended to care about most of them. They ate tacos from a street vendor and browsed a vintage clothing store where Yvette purchased a ridiculous pair of cowboy boots she swore she'd never wear.

  At a newsstand on Hollywood Boulevard, Morthisal spotted a tabloid with a blurry photo from Levi Blackwood's party. The headline read: WHO IS VINCE LOGAN? Yvette picked up the magazine, flipped through it, and dropped it back on the rack without comment. A second tabloid featured a still from his viral performance, along with speculation about his relationship with Serena Winters.

  "You're famous," Yvette said flatly.

  "Infamous, perhaps."

  Saturday evening, they returned to the bungalow and ordered dinner. They sat on the private patio and talked until the sky turned dark. Morthisal told her about Rex Hollinday and the acting lessons. Yvette told him about a competitor in Beijing who had tried to poach three of her senior engineers.

  Sunday morning arrived too fast.

  Morthisal's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it, squinted at the screen, and sat up in bed.

  "By the shadows," he muttered.

  The message was from Joel Kelly. Short and direct: Got what you need. Call me when you're ready to settle up.

  Morthisal typed a quick message to Marty: When can I expect my next payment? I have not heard from you all week. He shamelessly added a little blackmail. Yvette is here with me and also wonders why you cannot pay the talent.

  Yvette rolled over beside him. Her platinum hair fanned across the pillow.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing is wrong. I have a small problem that I have been working to resolve. I hired a private investigator to help me locate someone."

  Yvette propped herself up on one elbow. "What kind of problem? What kind of investigator?"

  "Someone has been making threats. It is similar to your situation with Philip Brennan. Someone who wants something from me that I am unwilling to give."

  "Who?"

  "A man named David Reeves. He approached me at Levi Blackwood's party. He has been pressuring me, and I needed to find out more about him before I could address the situation."

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Yvette's expression sharpened. Her jaw tightened. "How much does the investigator cost?"

  "Fifteen hundred total. I owe the balance."

  "I'll pay it."

  Morthisal shook his head. "No."

  "Vince, that's nothing. Let me—"

  "Thank you for the offer, Yvette. However, I will handle the payment."

  She sat up fully. The sheet pooled around her waist. "Why not? You're helping me with Philip today. Let me help you."

  Morthisal set the phone down. "Because I need you to never wonder. If I take your money, there will always be a question. Did he ask because he needed it, or did he use his ability to make me offer? I will not allow that seed to exist between us."

  Yvette opened her mouth, then closed it. She studied his face for a long moment.

  "You're serious."

  "Completely. I will handle this on my own. Marty owes me for the reshoots. The money will come."

  Yvette reached over and placed her hand on his. Her fingers squeezed once.

  "Okay. But if you change your mind—"

  "I will not."

  "Stubborn."

  "Cautious," Morthisal gently corrected her. "There is a difference."

  "What does this guy want with you?"

  Morthisal did not lie. "He may have similar abilities to me, and he wants me to help him by combining our, I hesitate to say it, powers."

  "For what purpose?"

  Morthisal shook his head. "Something foolish and unattainable. I intend to inform him that I will not be participating."

  "Is this dangerous?"

  Morthisal smiled. What was dangerous compared to the life he had led? "Not very."

  "You're not going to threaten him, are you?"

  "Not directly."

  Yvette nodded. "Good."

  "I believe we will come to an agreement."

  Morthisal didn't add that Reeves was not the only current threat to him. The man in the wide-brimmed hat who had tried to kill him in Seattle was still out there. How many former enemies from Mythralon were in the world?

  Yvette leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "We have another problem to deal with first." She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "Philip Brennan will be here in two hours."

  Morthisal "I suppose we should put together a war plan."

  The hotel staff had transformed the bungalow's dining room into a meeting space. An oblong walnut table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by six leather chairs. Someone had arranged a spread across the table's surface that bordered on generous. A pitcher of ice water and a stack of plain white cups sat on a silver tray at one end. Beside it, a carafe of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a pot of coffee flanked a small plate of shortbread cookies. Farther down the table, a tiered tray held a few miniature pastries, sliced fruit, and an assortment of finger sandwiches with their crusts removed. Two bottles of sparkling water stood uncapped near the center.

  Yvette had questioned the spread when she first saw it.

  "This looks like we're hosting brunch, not a confrontation."

  Morthisal nodded. "It is better to lull your enemy into a false sense of security. A man who is eating a sandwich and sipping juice believes the room is friendly. He relaxes. He says things he would not say in a bare room with nothing but water and silence. Let him think this is a pleasant meeting. Perhaps he will assume he has the upper hand. The blade works best when the target does not see it coming."

  "Blade?"

  Morthisal chuckled, "er, only a figure of speech, of course."

  "I wouldn't mind a little stabbing. This man is a pain in my ass."

  "Perhaps he could stab himself," Morthisal gently said.

  Yvette's face was unreadable before a slow smile spread. "Don't tempt me."

  He shrugged. tempt away.

  Morthisal stood near the window. He wore a charcoal suit Yvette had picked out for him on Saturday afternoon. It fit well. He tugged at the cuffs and checked his power reserve. Full. He'd charged overnight with the TENS machine.

  Yvette sat at the head of the table. She wore a fitted white blouse and a navy blazer. No jewelry except the small diamond studs in her ears. Her hair was pulled back tight. She reviewed a folder of documents, flipping through them deliberately.

  "Is this going to work?" Yvette asked.

  "I believe it will," Morthisal stated firmly.

  A knock sounded at the door. Yvette closed the folder and nodded.

  Morthisal crossed the room and opened it.

  Philip Brennan stood in the doorway. He was shorter than Morthisal expected. Mid-fifties, with a ruddy complexion and thin lips pressed into a permanent frown. He wore a tan linen suit that bunched at the shoulders. His hair, once red, had faded to a dull copper streaked with gray.

  Behind him stood three other people.

  Morthisal's stomach dropped.