“Appeal?” Carlos said. “For who?”

“Everett Weber, of course.”

Carlos laughed. “Hell, little brother, I didn’t know you’d taken up necromancy.”

Lucas’s eyes cut to his father. Benicio rubbed his hand across his mouth.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” William said, lips twitching in a smug smile.

“Know what?” Lucas said, gaze never leaving Benicio’s.

“That execution sentence?” Carlos said. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

I blinked. “You mean…?”

“Everett Weber is dead,” William said. “If justice was done, it would be done swiftly. Father and the other CEOs agreed on that before the trial began.”

Lucas turned to Benicio. “Before the trial began…?”

“Of course,” William said. “Do you think he’d let you embarrass us by trying to set a child murderer free? Can’t ever leave well enough alone, can you, Lucas? Saving the innocent, saving the guilty, it doesn’t really matter, as long as you stick it to the Cabals. Thank God Father didn’t tell them you wanted an audience before the trial or who knows what kind of hornet’s nest you’d have stirred up.”

Lucas stared at his father, waiting for him to deny any of this. Benicio only dropped his gaze. I stood. Lucas looked at Benicio one last time, then followed me into the aisle.

We weaved around clusters of sorcerers and headed into the parking lot. More Cabal clusters out here, having a smoke or getting a dose of Miami sun before jetting home. As we passed one group, a young man caught my gaze. I glanced into a pair of big blue eyes and felt a jolt of recognition. I paused, but Lucas didn’t, his attention elsewhere, and I hurried to keep up.

We continued through the packed parking lot in silence. As we walked, I tried to push past my shock and think clearly. Weber was very likely guilty, so his execution, while unnecessarily swift, was probably not unjustified. It might still be possible to speak to him, through a necromancer, and reassure ourselves that he was indeed the killer. As I was wondering whether I should mention this to Lucas yet, a voice hailed us.

“Lucas? Hold up a sec.”

I tensed and turned to see a young man striding toward us. Tall and lanky, a year or two younger than me, blond hair tied back in a ponytail, gorgeous big blue eyes. As I saw those eyes my heart skipped. He was a sorcerer, of course, but it was more than that. This was the same young man whose gaze I’d met just a moment ago, whom I now realized I didn’t recognize, but felt like I should. Then I noticed the black armband and the recognition clicked. He reminded me of Kristof Nast. Kristof’s eyes. Savannah’s eyes.

A few paces behind him was another young man, late teens, also wearing an armband. He met my glance with a scowl, then looked away.

“Hey,Lucas.” The first young man stopped and extended his hand. “Good to see you.”

“Sean, hello,” Lucas said, distractedly, his gaze wandering.

“Good work you did, catching that freak. Course, no one’s going to send you a thank-you card, but most of us do appreciate it.”

“Yes, well…”

Lucas turned toward the road, clearly eager to go, but the young man didn’t move. His eyes flicked to me, then dipped back to Lucas. Lucas followed the path of his gaze, then blinked.

“Oh, yes, of course. Paige, this is Sean Nast. Kristof’s son.”

“And that’s—” Sean turned to his reluctant companion and waved him over, but the younger man scowled and scuffed his shoe against the pavement. “That’s my brother, Bryce.”

These were Savannah’s half-brothers. I quickly extended my hand. Sean shook it.

“This isn’t a good place,” he said. “And I know you guys are busy, but we’re staying in town for a few more days, and we thought maybe—”

“Sean?”

Sean shot a glare in his brother’s direction. “Okay, okay, I thought maybe—”

“Sean!”

“What?” Sean spun on his heel, then his eyes went wide.

As I turned, I saw a suit jacket thrown on the hood of a car. Someone eager to shed his formal trappings. Then I saw pants, and shoes, and a hand protruding from the jacket sleeve. Red drops dripped from the outstretched fingers and over the car’s left headlight, leaving a glistening trail before plinking into the small pool of blood below.

Pointing Fingers

WE RAN TO THE BODY. I REMEMBER THAT FIRST VIEW AS A series of close-up snapshots, as if my brain couldn’t comprehend the whole. The hand splayed palm-up, a rivulet of blood trickling down the index finger. A black band around the biceps of his suit coat. His eyes closed, long blond eyelashes resting on a smooth cheek, a cheek still too young for shaving. Tie loosened and stained red, merging with the wet stain on his white dress shirt, the stain growing. The stain growing…blood still flowing…heart still pumping.

“He’s alive!” I said.

“Grab his other arm,” Lucas said to Sean. “Get him on the ground.”

The two lowered the boy off the car hood and onto the pavement. Lucas and I dropped to our knees on either side. Lucas checked for signs of breathing while I felt his pulse.

“He’s not breathing,” Lucas said.

Lucas started CPR. I ripped off the boy’s shirt and used it to mop up the blood, trying to see the source so I could staunch the bleeding. I cleared away enough blood to see three, four, maybe five stab wounds, at least two pumping blood. The wet shirt quickly turned sodden. I looked up at Sean and Bryce.