“Thank you for your help tonight. But maybe next time you could just knock on the door instead of breaking in?”

One corner of his lip curled. “The door was unlocked.”

“So you say.”

“I do say.” He crossed his arms, his muscles cording with the movement.

I nodded. Silence fell, and it fell awkwardly. I had no idea what to say or do.

“Well,” I said, breaking through the quiet when I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Good night, Liam Quinn.”

He looked at me, blinked those long lashes. “Good night, Claire Connolly.”

One last look, one last sweep of coal over cobalt, and as dawn broke over New Orleans he turned and began the walk back down Royal, back toward the prison at the other end of the street.

It had been an important night. A night that I knew would change everything.

I was no longer on the outside of magic—pretending to be just the same as everyone else. I’d stepped across the line. I wasn’t yet sure how far I’d stepped, but I was certain I’d find out soon enough.

I thought of Liam’s steel-eyed stare, the straight jaw and broad shoulders, the relaxed smile he’d shared only with Eleanor, and wondered what he thought about as he walked through the breaking dawn. I wondered if the night had been important to him, too.

I turned back to the door, unlocked it, and pushed it slowly open. Just in case, I stood quietly in the threshold darkness for a moment, ears straining for Containment agents in wait, or wraiths looking for their next battle.

But the store was wonderfully, gloriously silent.

I locked the door, grabbed the go bag, and trudged up the steps to the second floor, where I tucked it back into the armoire.

I made it to the third floor just as a rectangle of sunlight began to creep across the floor. Today was Sunday, so the store wouldn’t open until noon. Unfortunately, Sundays were also convoy days, so I’d have to sign and unpack boxes earlier than that.

I’d probably end up looking like I hadn’t slept a wink. But since War Night meant most of the people left in New Orleans wouldn’t have slept much, at least I wouldn’t have to explain anything.

The third-floor apartment was a studio, with old oak floors and brick walls, the bathroom in the middle, floor-to-ceiling windows on both ends. The front windows opened to a balcony that faced Royal; the back opened to the courtyard behind the building.

I’d kept the furniture simple: a tufted daybed with tall wooden ends, an armoire, a chest of drawers, an oak table and chairs. I’d put candles and hurricane lamps on the window ledge near my bed, stood a ten-foot-tall antique mirror along one wall in front of an antique rug that had been worn as soft as silk.

In times like these, I was living in luxury.

The apartment was stuffy. Night hadn’t managed to burn off the heat of the day before, but I was too tired to care. I pulled off my clothes, slid into a nightgown, and fell face-first onto the bed.

I was asleep in an instant.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My wake-up call came too quickly, and with a slap of sound. The War Night cleanup crew was brushing paper flowers and Drink cups off the streets by ten a.m.

Thankfully, that was two hours later than usual. But they were singing, and not very well, and the sound rumbled through the old windows.

I wasn’t a morning person on the best of days, and today I was exhausted all the way around.

“Damn it,” I murmured, and pulled the quilt over my head. I was just drifting back to sleep when Gunnar’s voice echoed up the stairs.

“Claire? Are you up there?”

I damned myself for giving him an emergency key. “Go away. I need my beauty sleep.”