Marcone screwed the quartz earpiece on when we rounded the corner out of sight, ordering Gard and Hendricks to circle around and come up behind the Servitors while we approached from the front. He had a Glock clear of its holster in moments, screwing on a military-grade suppressor before holding the gun parallel to his thigh. In the dimmer light of the hall, it would be almost indistinguishable from his pant leg. I fished a wand and my trusty chain from the clutch and moved a little ahead and to Marcone's right. I knew I couldn't actually smell the servitors, but that was how their presence translated to my brain. It was like skirting a dumpster outside a seafood restaurant. Stagnant water and rotting fish, a scent you could taste.

"Up ahead," I whispered distractedly, busy fashioning a veil to cover us both. "What's ahead and to the right?"

"Bathrooms," Marcone said, voice muffled by the veil. It felt like we were stuffed together in a closet, the sound bouncing back at us from insulated walls. "Two of my men were supposed to trail any potential victims wherever they went, including the bathrooms. They must have been incapacitated."

"Or killed," I said. Though I hoped not. Walking headfirst into a murder hotspot was the last thing I needed at the moment.

"Try for a little optimism," he said.

"I'm not sure I even know how to spell that, let alone stash it in my vocabulary."

Marcone let out a dry snort and then lapsed back into silence. We both knew why we were bantering at a time like this. The enemy was here and if we failed, they'd do more than fuck with Marcone's finances. They'd outright kill him if they had the chance. I should have handcuffed Marcone to the bed and then padlocked his hotel room door just for good measure. I hadn't been lying to Pax when I implied he was the most important person in the building. Marcone's leadership and financial support were all that was keeping Chicago's supernatural scene from being dragged into the drink. We might be able to rally after a year or two, but how many would die in that time? And I was all that stood between Marcone and a bullet.

No pressure, Molly, no pressure at all.

I moved in the slow heel-to-toe walk of a professional soldier. In military situations, it helped you keep your torso steady so you could still fire on the move. It had the added benefit of making very little sound, which was absolutely essential when you faced servitors. I still wasn't sure what the Fomor had grafted onto them to make them fishy supersoldiers, but they were a bitch to defeat in close quarters. I wished I had my sword. At least I could keep them an arm's length away.

Thankfully, I did have a ranged weapon. I let the chain slide through my fingers until I was only gripping it by the tip, a bit of wood that allowed me to keep my skin away from the metal links. It made a slight rattle as it unspooled, but didn't continue to clink when it touched the floor. I felt along the hall, rather than open my sight to be sure of what I was sensing. Lord only knew what I'd see, and I couldn't afford to freeze up mid-battle.

I stopped short when I was a few feet away from the nearest servitor. He was seemingly alone, covering the door in case his buddies failed to subdue their quarry, and the victim escaped out the bathroom door. He was holding a tranquilizer gun loosely in his hands, keeping a more deadly automatic weapon tucked into a sling around his chest. Marcone was right. They meant to capture not, not kill.

I whipped the chain across the space between us with a hiss of, "Rokku!"

The chain found its mark, snaking around the servitor's neck and pulling tight before he even had a chance to twitch. The links were designed to hold together like a long string of industrial-grade magnets. He tried to claw the chain away from his throat. If he could suck in enough air to cry out, his buddies would pour into the hall, automatic weapons in hand. I could shield us if I used all my strength...and it would last about a minute. Then the automatic fire would turn us into hunks of raw meat.

I didn't give him a chance to find purchase. As soon as the chain drew taut, I let out another hissing word. "Rakurai!"

The servitor's back arched in a bow of agony, mouth open in a silent scream. Here's the thing about electric shocks. It makes your muscles contract, keeping you locked in position even as the charge riots through your body. If you're lucky, you'll suffer immediate cardiac arrest. If you don't, you get the delightful sensation of every atom being razed as the current passes through. The servitor's heart didn't give out, so I had the misfortune to live the last agonizing minute of his life alongside him. By the time he passed, I'd chewed the inside of my cheek raw trying not to voice the cries he couldn't.

Marcone steadied me when I swayed. I could barely make out his face, but he looked...concerned. I wondered if he regretted not killing me in the Full Moon Garage. He was a villain, yes, but his means and goals were utilitarian. He didn't revel in the suffering of others the way Nicodemus and Deirdre did. It would have been more merciful to end me than put me through a never-ending gauntlet of physical, mental, and spiritual torture. But he hadn't killed me. He wouldn't kill me unless he had no other choice. No matter how battered I became, my status as a figurehead kept Chicago safer than any other city in North America. He wouldn't put me out of my misery until I'd outlived my usefulness.

"Are you-?"

"Fine," I gritted out. "They're in the bathroom. We need to jump them. If we give them a chance to assume a firing position, a lot of people are going to die. Bullets don't really care about drywall."

"One moment, please," he said. "Gard and Hendricks are on their way."

I didn't argue. If the servitors were here to assassinate someone, I'd have taken my chances without backup. A single second could be the difference between life and death for a victim in these scenarios, but the Fomor needed this man alive. They'd get him to a secondary location before they started in on the torture. It could take days until they were satisfied, and only then would they kill him.

The minutes it took Gard and Hendricks to arrive felt like an eternity. I wanted to be in motion, not standing still, my body throbbing in sympathetic pain with the last moments of the fallen servitor's existence. It wasn't fair. I didn't want to feel for him, but I did. I couldn't help it.

I breached the door first, Gard on my heels. Hendricks would be bringing up the rear, protecting Marcone's back in case someone tried to stick a knife in it. I had just a moment to spy a handful of servitors stuffing a gag into the mouth of a middle-aged man. There was blood on his dress shirt, where it had dribbled from his broken nose. One of the servitors sported a busted lip, which meant the mild-looking man had gotten in one good punch before being subdued. Good for him.

The servitors turned to regard me. Or more accurately, they glanced at my face, and then up at the door frame. I glanced up in time to see something purple-gray, slimy, and slithering descending toward my face.