“We’re dead. We’re dead we’re dead we’re—”

“Stop that,” hissed Charles, sticking out a foot to put an end to Jemison’s pacing. It had begun halfway through Beatrice’s recounting of the inquisitor’s fate, and continued resolutely on regardless of the Silver’s reproach.

“If we do not remain calm we shall be dead,” said Charles, speaking just above a whisper. But his eyes were wide and wild and his hand ran again and again through his hair.

“What can we do? What chance do we have? What do we tell Darcy?” Jemison’s voice rose higher and higher as he spoke, until they were all gesturing frantically for him to quiet himself. He paused, scowled, and went on in a hush. “And what could have possibly happened to Gray?”

Turning his back on the pacing Tiger shifter, Charles dragged his fingers through his locks again and frowned.

“How many knights are left? Six?” He looked to Arron, who nodded.

“A Hyena, a Coyote, a Tiger, two Wolves and another Jaguar.”

“With my mother and her retinue on our side, we can handle them. I’d guess we have about another hour before they begin to suspect anything’s amiss. We can take them by surprise.”

Jemison stopped his pacing at last to turn and stare at the back of the Silver’s head.

“And then what, Charles? We kill them? Stick them in the dungeon?”

Beatrice gasped.

“We have a dungeon?”

But Jemison ignored her.

“What do we do when the League sends even more knights after them? And again I must ask, what about Darcy? What about Gray? And don’t you dare say he fled. He wouldn’t even if he could.”

Beatrice cleared her throat.

“My lords, I think I…”

“Spirits, what about Victoria? We cannot have a battle with our child in the house. We must—”

“Wait, brujhir,” said Arron, deep voice cutting through Jemison’s panicked outpouring as he placed a hand to the slighter man’s shoulder. “The Lady Fox has something to say.”

Beatrice swallowed back her surprise as Jemison, Charles, Arron and D’artanien all turned their attention upon her.

“I…I think I might know where Gray went. And I have an idea of how we might explain what happened to Darcy without revealing the whole truth.”

And she told them then of the key and the message she’d found, the stories Victoria had told her, the memories Gray had shared and the conclusions she’d drawn. And by the time she finished, she was met only by various shades of shocked silence.

It was Jemison who finally replied, his tone dripping disbelief.

“So…your theory is that Gray went through a mirror portal into an infinite labyrinth world in search of our vanished wife?”

“Or perhaps that he was taken through such a portal,” hedged Beatrice, wishing she could shrink in upon herself and disappear. “It may have been against his will. In…in any case, we can tell Darcy that someone else is manifesting portals in this house, and lay the blame for the inquisitor’s disappearance and the knight’s death on him.”

Charles massaged his forehead with thumb and index finger, drawing a long breath through his nose.

“My lady, Darcy’s spirits would be alerted if there were ever an intruder, and so then would she. And you must know the inquisitorial party will never believe that story even should she vouch for it.”

“Perhaps he summons the portals over existing mirrors, so that they’re not noticed except by those looking and paying close attention. Or perhaps…perhaps the spirits don’t see him as an intruder.”

Jemison tossed his auburn hair over his shoulder, now tapping one foot in place of pacing. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“I…I don’t quite know,” admitted Beatrice. She had an idea, but it was too far-fetched, too unlikely to broach.

The Tiger shifter scoffed. But when Beatrice looked to Charles, his brow was furrowed in thought. After a moment, he met her gaze.

“Stay here. Do not leave and do not let any inquisitors in,” he said. “We must all pretend that you are still under questioning. Arron, you can stay too. When the fighting starts, help D’artanien keep Lady Beatrice safe. Jemison, go get Victoria. Act like you’re taking her up the hill to play. Get her to the Coyote crew and have them fly her to your parent’s estate. Give them no details, no explanation. Tell them not to return until we summon them and to take a route that keeps them out of sight of the house. After that, hide until the fighting’s over.”

“Excuse me sir, hide? You’re ma—”

“If you so much as think of joining the fray, I shall burn every last painting in this house to ash, so help me all the spirits.”

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Jemison growled as Charles turned from him and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To speak with my mother.”

Marching out with Jemison close at his heels, Charles slammed the door shut behind them. At once, Arron went over to the Lion mage’s corpse and wrenched his dented sword from the carnage. Then he strode back to the door to lock and stand guard before it, his bulk blocking much of its frame. Shaking so hard with nerves she could barely stand, Beatrice curled herself upon one of the couches to wait, shifting every time the metal bands began to bite into her skin. Nearly half an hour dragged by with barely a word passing between them. Their silence was interrupted only when, from somewhere off near the central foyer, there issued a muffled shout.

And then a very loud crash.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall, and then someone was beating at the door.

“Lord High Inquisitor! My lord! They’ve attacked Hessmor and Klein, I think—“

The man’s words devolved into a shout and then a roar as more footsteps thumped down the hall. There was a sound as of rushing wind or water, a muffled grunt, and then a very heavy thud. There were more footsteps, this time fading with distance.

“I want to get you out of this house,” said Arron, looking from Beatrice to D’artanien, who gave a curt nod. “Arhaj Charles’ room is just down the hall, with a balcony at the back. From there we can—”

“Climb the trellis down,” finished Beatrice, though the thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. It felt shameful, to flee—though she knew she was of little more use than a thorn in the paw to her pack.

“Yes,” said the Wolf shifter, and he almost smiled.

Arron readied himself at the door while Beatrice changed form. As a fox, after all, she was lighter of foot and smaller of target. But the Wolf shifter remained as he was, needing use of his thumbs.

As he counted near-silently down from three, hand gripped around the door latch, they listened. But the chaos of the house remained as distant as they could hope.

Arron mouthed the word “one” and then opened the door.

Beatrice dashed through at his side, heart pounding hard, and immediately stopped short. At their feet laid the prone form of an inquisitorial knight, face-down, his head frozen to the floor under a thick layer of ice.

And at the end of the hall, in shifted form, stood a Wolf. Slight of frame and inky black of fur, her eyes rose-pink and her maw dripping with blood.

There was a sort of pulse, not truly a physical sensation, but certainly more than an imagined one.

And all at once the world became a nightmare.

The shadows deepened, and the lantern lights seemed to flicker out—though in some distant part of herself Beatrice knew that they had not. Everything twisted and warped around her, the walls seeming suddenly to grow a hundred horrible faces, their mouths stretching in silent screams. And when she turned to Arron for comfort, she yipped as she saw that his flesh was melting from his bones, insects crawling from his eyes. And D’artanien, as he sidled past them to face the wolf with sword upraised, looked as though he were melting and crumbling all at once, deteriorating and pulling together again in a wretched cycle.

With a scrambling surge of effort Beatrice attempted to run past Arron and back into the greenhouse. But Arron caught hold of her with rotting arms, held firm as she struggled frantically against him, even biting into his flesh in her panic and fear. But though he grunted in pain, he didn’t let her go…only kept on towards the door down the hall.

Just a few paces ahead of them, D’artanien swung for the Wolf, forcing her back just as the creature emitted another surge of influence. In her terror Beatrice’s own power flared forth, the air crackling with colorful energy. She knew she must disperse it, lest a portal form. But she couldn’t control herself, couldn’t tamp down her fear.

Then Arron began to sing, and everything changed.

The words were in a northern tongue, and indecipherable. But every few syllables was a deep low note that came forth more forcefully than the others, as though in time with the beat of her heart—the flow between beats like the surging of her blood. And as the song wove into sync with the rhythms of her body—adjusting them, evening them—she realized for the first time that the power in his voice was more than just the effects of the Call, more than just heartrending beauty.

He’s a mage.

Beatrice’s gathering power dissipated and was gone. The faces in the wall began to fade, the terrible dread draining from her veins. The black Wolf growled and yipped, dodging another blow as she emitted a third pulse. But the resulting dread that clenched around Beatrice’s stomach lasted a mere heartbeat before the sound of Arron’s voice dashed it away.

In the next instant they were through the door. In a burst of color Beatrice returned to human form, hitching up her skirts in preparation for the climb. There was a pained yelp out in the hall, a shout, more rapid footsteps—and then the door banged wide as D’artanien hurtled through it to crash against the wall opposite with such force that his armor crumpled inward.

The doorframe darkened as a figure stepped into view. A tall one, and shapely…dressed very like the other inquisitors in a dark suit and sleek, piecemeal bits of armor. But she wore rather more of it than the others, and it was sharper. She entered the room slowly, almost leisurely.

Her eyes skirted from D’artanien to Arron before fixing upon Beatrice. And then they narrowed. She brought up one hand, and Arron’s sword yanked itself from his grip and curled thrice around his arms before flinging him into the wall. His head cracked against the plaster and he slumped to the floor, unconscious. The knight brought up her other hand, and Beatrice was yanked upwards—painfully—by the metal about her wrists and neck.

The woman stalked toward her. No longer forced to feign compliance, Beatrice shifted form immediately. The metal vanished—along with everything else she was wearing—and she dropped to the floor. But no sooner had she regained her footing than two more bands of metal had detached themselves from the approaching knight and whipped forth to lock about her neck and ribcage. The inquisitor stopped about a pace away from her, a sneer curling the fullness of her lips. Her long tail of chestnut brown hair fell over her shoulder, and she whipped it back into place as she raised Beatrice to eye level.

“What have you done to the Lord High Inquisitor?” she demanded.

When Beatrice didn’t shift form, the knight snarled, a few strands of her hair falling forward over her face. With a flick of her hand the balcony door banged open, and the next thing she knew, Beatrice was flying through it. Off and over the railing and up into the air until they were near level with the roof. Not high enough to kill her should she drop, perhaps…but certainly high enough to mangle.

Standing upon her own detached breastplate, the Jaguar mage levitated alongside her.

“Return to human form and I’ll catch you, keep you up,” she said. “And when you tell me what you’ve done with him, I shall let you down slowly. Choose silence or lies, and I shall let you down very quickly indeed.”

Beatrice transformed. Her new bindings fell away as her particles flew apart. And for one terrifying heartbeat after, she began to drop. But in the next instant the Jaguar had her by her shackles again.

“Tell me,” she said.

“I d-don’t know where he is!” choked out Beatrice. It was almost true—he could be anywhere in that labyrinth.

The knight’s eyes went wide as her entire face contorted in fury.

“Wrong answer,” she said.

And then the ground flew upward.