But only one person was in the office: the man I’d been watching.

   Jonah McAllister, my old nemesis, lay sprawled across the floor.

2

   I stared down at Jonah, who remained absolutely motionless, his arms flung out to his sides, his legs twisted awkwardly beneath his body. Frustration filled me that Fedora had gotten to him, that she’d infiltrated his house as quickly and easily as, well, I could.

   My plan had been to stake out McAllister’s mansion and capture anyone the Circle might send to kill him, since he was the most obvious—and so far only—loose end that might lead back to them. Then I would have taken my sweet, bloody time questioning that person about her bosses. But Fedora had been faster and far more clever than I’d expected, and I was once again left with nothing. Just another in my growing string of failures when it came to the shadowy group.

   I was sick and tired of losing to those bastards, whoever they really were.

   I started to move past McAllister and leave the office to search the rest of the mansion for Fedora, even though I knew that she was already gone. But then I noticed that no blood had pooled under his body. In fact, I didn’t see any blood anywhere—not oozing across the floor, not spattered on the chairs, not even sprayed on top of the papers that had slipped off his desk and fallen around him like oversize snowflakes. So I stopped and took a closer look at him.

   Jonah McAllister was much thinner than the last time I’d seen and confronted him in this office. Black circles ringed his eyes, and his cheekbones poked out like arrows trying to punch through his face, as though he’d lost thirty pounds overnight. Even his skin, which he took such pride in and kept young, tight, and baby-smooth with a strict regimen of expensive Air elemental facials, seemed old, loose, and wrinkled, like wet paper that was barely clinging to the rest of his skull.

   His silver mane of hair was as glorious as ever, though, artfully styled and as bright and burnished as holiday tinsel even when the rest of him was littering the floor like a broken toy. I wondered how much product he’d used to keep his hair so firmly, perfectly anchored in place even as he’d been shot. Even Finn would have been impressed with his do.

   But the thing that caught my eye was the Christmas sweater that covered his chest—bright green with a grinning brown reindeer stretching across the front, complete with a red-sequined nose. Not McAllister’s usual slick suited style at all. In fact, the sweater looked handmade, although I couldn’t imagine who would take the time and trouble to knit Jonah a sweater—any sweater, much less one this hideous.

   Given how skeletal the rest of him was, the sweater seemed suspiciously thick and bulky, and I realized exactly what was underneath it. Of course. McAllister might be a weasel, but he was a smart weasel. He knew exactly how angry folks still were with him over the Briartop robbery, and he would have taken precautions against being murdered in his own mansion.

   So I crouched down, drew back my hand, and slapped him across the face. McAllister winced at the sharp, stinging blow, but he didn’t open his eyes.

   So I slapped him again, harder this time.

   McAllister let out a little squeak of pain, but he still didn’t open his eyes, determined to play possum as long as possible.

   “Wakey, wakey, Jonah,” I drawled. “You can either open your eyes, or I can keep slapping you. I’m okay with that. I still need to get my cardio in for the day.”

   McAllister’s brown eyes popped open at my threat, then narrowed to slits as he recognized me. “Blanco?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

   “Well, I was hoping to capture your would-be assassin, but she managed to escape. I can’t decide if I’m happy or disappointed that you’re still alive.” I nodded at his ugly Christmas sweater. “I didn’t realize that Rudolph came equipped with a bulletproof silverstone vest these days.”

   “It seemed like a wise precaution.” He wet his lips and glanced around the office, as if he was worried that Fedora was going to come back and finish what she’d started.

   I almost wished that she would. Even now, despite how useful McAllister might be, part of me wanted to raise my knife and just end him for all the times he’d tried to have me killed. That would have been the smart move. But I’d been anything but smart these past few weeks. Why start now?

   “Gin! Gin!” Phillip called out, his voice growing louder and louder. “Are you okay?”

   “I’m fine!” I yelled back. “I’m here! In the office!”

   I got to my feet and went over to the patio doors. Phillip ran up to me, a gun clutched in his hand. His breath steamed in the air, and his cheeks were tomato red from the cold. I looked past him at the iron gate, which was standing wide-open now, but the black SUV that had been parked outside McAllister’s mansion was gone.

   “The giants banged off a few shots at me, then got in their car and left before I could get close to them. I tried to shoot out their tires, but . . .” Phillip shrugged.

   I nodded, disappointed but not surprised. Given the way she’d so easily infiltrated the mansion, Fedora had proven that she was clever. Of course she would have told her men to skedaddle at the first sign of trouble, especially if that trouble was me. She wouldn’t have wanted to risk the giants getting captured and questioned about her and the Circle. But frustration surged through me all the same. Once again, all I’d accomplished was a big fat lot of nothing, but I forced myself to focus on what was important right now.

   “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Are you okay?”

   Phillip nodded. “Yeah. Just a little winded from trying to catch up.” His gaze flicked over to McAllister, who was slowly getting to his feet. “I see that he managed to survive after all.”

   “Seems our good friend Jonah likes to pad out his holiday sweaters by wearing a silverstone vest underneath them.”

   “How practical,” Phillip said, “given how many people want to kill him.”