He’d lingered in the bar until just after midnight before checking into a nearby motel, the kind that clearly wasn’t eager to draw police attention. After a few restless hours on creaking springs, he’d gotten up again, and walked the thirty-four blocks through the waking heart of Merit to the address June had scribbled inside the battered front cover.

119 Alexander Place. 12 p.m.

It was, of all things, an art gallery. Large glass windows looked out onto the curb, revealing glimpses of the paintings inside. It was almost noon, and Victor hadn’t decided yet if he was going in.

He weighed the options in his mind, along with June’s words.

It could simply be another kind of trap. Or it could be an opportunity. But in the end, it was sheer curiosity that propelled him forward. For the EO who had managed to evade EON’s net. For the woman who had held her ground instead of running.

Victor crossed the street, climbed the three short steps, and stepped into the White Hall Gallery.

It was larger than it looked from the street—a series of broad, blank rooms, linked together by archways. Abstract paintings dotted the walls, blotches of color against the white. In his black attire, Victor felt like an ink spill. Ideal for slipping through crowds on the street, but far more conspicuous in such a stark environment. So he didn’t bother trying to blend in, didn’t pretend to admire the art, simply set off to find Marcella.

A handful of men and women stood scattered through the rooms, but none of them were real patrons. Victor glimpsed holsters beneath fitted suits, fingers resting on the open mouths of handbags. Hired guns, he thought, wondering if June was hidden among them. He didn’t spot anyone with her tells.

But he did find Marcella.

She was in the largest gallery, facing away from him, her black hair pulled up, a silk blouse dipping low between her shoulder blades. Still, he knew it was her. Not because he’d seen a photograph, but because of the way she stood, with all the casual grace of a predator. Victor was used to being the strongest person in the room, and it was both familiar and unsettling to see that confidence on someone else.

They weren’t alone in the room.

A thin man in a black suit leaned against the wall between two paintings. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The white walls made the gallery unnaturally bright, but not bright enough to merit shades—meaning they served an alternate purpose.

“I’ve never understood art,” mused Marcella, loud enough for Victor to know she was addressing him. “I’ve been to a hundred galleries, stared at a thousand paintings, waiting to feel inspired or awestruck or enamored—but the only thing I ever really felt was bored.”

As Victor watched, she reached out and pressed one gold nail to the surface of the painting. Under Marcella’s touch, the canvas rotted, and crumbled, pieces drifting to the floor.

“Don’t worry,” she said, turning on one metal heel. “I own the building, and everything in it.” She raised a brow. “Except for you, of course.” She gave him a cursory look. “Do you like art, Mr. Vale? My husband did. He always had a fondness for beautiful things.” Marcella lifted her chin. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Victor considered her—the willowy limbs, the red lips, the blue eyes framed by thick black lashes. He glanced from her, to the ruins of the painting on the gallery floor, and back. “I think you’re powerful.”

Marcella smiled, clearly pleased with the answer.

Victor sensed a ghost of movement at his back, and glanced over his shoulder to see another man enter the room, one with a goatee and a mischievous smile.

“I believe you’ve already met June,” said Marcella. “In one form or another.”

The man winked, that telltale light in his eyes.

“And this is Jonathan,” said Marcella, flicking her fingers in the direction of the thin man against the wall.

Jonathan didn’t answer, beyond the slight nod of his head.

“So,” said Victor, “instead of art, you’re collecting EOs.”

Marcella’s red lips split into a smile. “Do you know what I wanted to be when I grew up?”

“President?”

Her smile widened. “Powerful.” Her steel heels clicked against the marble as she came toward him. “When you think about it, it’s really all anyone ever wants. Once upon a time, power was determined by lineage—the age of blood. Then it was determined by money—the age of gold. But I think it’s time for a new age, Victor. The age of power itself.”

“Let me guess,” said Victor. “I’m either with you or against you.”

Marcella tsked. “Such black-and-white thinking. I swear, men are so busy looking for enemies, they rarely remember to make friends.” She shook her head. “Why can’t we work together?”

“I work alone.”

Marcella raised a knowing brow. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Marcella seemed more than happy to hold the stage.

“Money in the right hands can get all kinds of things. Knowledge. Insight. Eli Ever’s files from his time with the Merit PD, perhaps. He and Serena Clarke made quite a pair, but I think you got the better deal with her little sister, Sydney.”

Victor kept his poise, but across the room June stiffened, the color draining from her face. “Marcella—”

But the woman held up a hand, gold nails catching the light.

“I’ve heard about your own talents,” she continued. “I’d like to see them for myself.”

“You want me to audition?”

Her lips twitched. “Call it what you like. I’ve shown you mine. And Jonathan’s. And June’s, for that matter. I think it’s only fair . . .”

Victor needed no further prompting. He flexed his hand toward the thin man in the suit, expecting him to buckle immediately—and was surprised when instead, the air in front of him flashed blue and white with an almost electric crackle. And beyond that, nothing happened. Strange. Victor could feel the other man’s nerves, just as present as before he’d tried to impact them. But in that exact instant, it had been like a short-circuit, almost like lightning trying to strike something grounded.

A forcefield.

Marcella smiled. “Oh, sorry. I should have said, Jonathan’s off-limits.” She looked around. “A little help?”

She hardly raised her voice, but the room began to fill. The six men and women Victor had passed earlier came spilling in.

Marcella smiled.

“I have a reward,” she said, “for whoever brings this man to his knees.”

For a moment, no one moved.

And then, everyone did.

A brick of a man lunged toward him, and Victor took hold of nerves, and twisted violently. The man buckled, screaming, as Victor leveled the two approaching in his wake, then turned toward a woman as she drew a blade.

A conductor’s flick of Victor’s fingers, and she collapsed too.

The fifth went down on his side, curling in against the pain, while the sixth tried to reach for his gun—Victor forced his hand flat to the marble and continued turning the dials up until all six writhed and spasmed on the floor.

He held Marcella’s gaze, waiting for her to say enough, order him to stop. Waiting for any sign of her discomfort. But Marcella only watched the scene unfold, her blue eyes bright, unflinching.

Up until then, she had reminded Victor of Serena, expecting the world to bend to her will. But in that moment, she reminded him of Eli. That zealous light in her eyes, the coiled energy, the conviction.

Victor had seen enough.

He turned his power on Marcella. Not a subtle impression, either, but a sudden, blunt-force blow, strong enough to fry nerves and level a body. She should have collapsed on the spot, buckled like dead weight to the cold marble. Instead, Marcella took a single surprised breath and then Jonathan’s head flicked imperceptibly toward her. As soon as it did, the air crackled, the space around Marcella filling with the same blue-white flare that had shielded Jonathan moments before.

Victor realized his error. Marcella was more like Eli than he’d guessed. Her uncanny self-assurance was an arrogance born from invincibility. Albeit a borrowed one.

Victor dropped his hold on the rest of the room, and left them gasping on the floor.

Marcella pursed her lips as the shield flickered out. “That wasn’t very sporting.”

“Forgive me,” answered Victor dryly. “I guess I got carried away.” He looked down at the men and women on the floor. “I take it I failed your test.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Your performance was . . . illuminating.”

Marcella produced a crisp white envelope.

June took the card and delivered it to Victor.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“An invitation.”

They stood there for a second, neither willing to put their back to the other.

At last Marcella broke into a smile. “You can see yourself out,” she said. “But I do hope we meet again.”

Victor wanted nothing less, but he had a feeling they would.

* * *

“WELL,” said Marcella, watching Victor go. “That was enlightening.”