That night, Spencer dreamed of faces he didn't know.

Golden hair and the smell of jasmine and graphite; large, warm hands gripping bottles of orange soda, stretching out to grasp his palm, pulling him close until their shoulders bumped together. A soft voice, speaking in a lilting accent that soothed his anxieties, made him smile. Sharp blue eyes watching him, seeing him, and not looking away.

It was comfortable, at first. Familiar in a way that made him ache with loneliness, but left him feeling content. But then the dreams shifted, filling his mouth with the taste of blood and sweat and fear, and he laid still on his bed/bunk/ledge/grave—the location kept changing—and tried to breathe as silently as possible while feverish shivers wracked his body. He wanted to get up, to cry out, to go back to his undeserved home, but he couldn't move.

And then the images pulled together, refocusing on the memory of the woman with golden hair. A photograph. She was looking over her shoulder, frozen, walking toward—toward something, toward... a plan, something he knew, something he had to stop. She was in danger. God, she was in danger, and he was just lying there—

He thrashed awake, throwing himself upright as his legs tangled in his sheets, panting, sweating, desperately trying to hold the image of her face in his mind.

But it was gone. For a long moment, he sat leaning over his bent knees, breathing through the pain in his head and his back and his hands, his eyes squeezed shut against the unfamiliar room. Training took over, and he worked his way through each part of his body, relaxing tense muscles and slowing his frantic heartbeat until he could open his eyes with the certainty that they would be dry.

Concussions cause heightened emotions, said a clinical voice in his head. Less control. Greater risk.

To himself, or the woman?

He threw off his blankets, pulled on pair of jeans from the dresser, and eased down the stairs on silent feet. The clock on the stove read 4:12 AM, but that was fine. It was better to do this early, while everyone was still asleep.

He had to go back to the building. It was his only clue, and if she was the one he'd left behind... It didn't matter if the men after him were still there, if they were waiting for him to return—none of it mattered. If anything happened to her, it would be his fault.

She deserved better. But if he was all she had, he had to try.

He retraced his journey from the night before with little difficulty; he'd checked their back trail frequently, compulsively, and the route was easy to recognize. He went at a jog despite his pounding head and throbbing ankle, his senses trained on the shadow of the burned-out building ahead. Reflective police tape threw the street light back at him, winking and taunting as he drew closer. Everything was still.

He forced himself to slow then, creeping through the shadows as he circled the building, searching for any sign of the men who'd tried to kill him. The firefighters and police had already gone, leaving the block in eerie silence that did nothing to soothe the anxiety churning his stomach. It appeared to be empty. He moved toward a collapsed wall, searching out a path through the debris.

He didn't know what he was looking for. A room, maybe, something that had survived the fire—some clue that she'd been there. Some clue that she'd made it out. He cleared the ground level and moved toward the stairs, patting the soot from his clothes. He would have to replace them when this was over; there was no way they'd come clean.

A hand touched his shoulder. Faster than he could think, Spencer grabbed it and heaved, dropping his center of gravity to lift and throw the body connected to the hand. There was a grunt as the body landed at Spencer's feet, and he crouched to put pressure on his assailant's shoulder to hold him down.

His grip faltered when he took in the man's face. "J.B.?"

"You've got some impressive reflexes," J.B. coughed.

"You followed me?"

J.B. rubbed his wrist, wincing as Spencer held out a hand to help him up. "Heard you leave, and I thought you shouldn't be out on your own. Head injuries don't always make for the best decisions."

"I'm fine," Spencer said. "You can go back."

"This place doesn't exactly scream fine," J.B. said, lifting his eyebrows.

Spencer turned back to the stairs. "I just have to check something."

"Maybe I can help," J.B. said. "There was a report on the fire last night. I saw it on the news."

Hope and fear clenched in Spencer's stomach. "Were there any—was anyone—" He took a breath, swallowed hard. "Did they find anybody inside?"

J.B. hesitated, and the hope splintered into dread. "They said there were three people inside… they didn't make it out in time."

The floor slanted beneath his feet. He staggered, straightened, stepped toward the stairs—and then his knees were on the ground, and his breath was coming in sharp, shallow pants, and his head felt like it was splitting in two. J.B. crouched at his side, his hands on his shoulders, but his words sounded distant.

"Breathe, Spencer. We don't know for sure—"

"I left her." The words dragged themselves out of the hollow in his chest, up his raw throat, over and over again as the realization sank into his bones. "I left her. I ran away and left her."

"Who?" J.B. asked.

Spencer raked his hands through his hair. "I don't know. I can't remember—I can't—" He fought through the jumble of emotions battering his brain, dug for memories of her, of her name, anything—and she smiled at him beneath a headband of reindeer antlers, and put a santa hat on his head—she took a bite of the donut he wanted, and he let her have it—she jumped out of a window, and he caught her.

She'd trusted him to protect her and he left her to burn alone. Had she cried? Had she damned him? He wouldn't have blamed her—he damned himself.

Her phantom screams echoed in his ears, and he folded in on himself, pressed his forehead against his knees, and wept.

J.B stayed with him until his body stopped shaking. He didn't know how long it was, and he didn't remember getting up, but when he came back to himself, J.B. had his arm draped over his shoulders and was guiding him out of the building. They managed that way, Spencer leaning more and more heavily as they walked, until they finally stumbled up the stairs to Sunny's place. Somehow, they went further, all the way up to Spencer's borrowed room, where J.B. laid him gently on his borrowed bed and told him to get some rest.

He didn't.

Hours passed, and no one disturbed him. He laid where he'd been put, staring up at the ceiling and trying to hold on to the memory of her face. He couldn't see her anymore, and that hurt, but at least her screams had faded.

The rest of the house was waking up. He heard their footsteps downstairs, the echoes of their voices, Sunny's loud laugh. He wanted to stay where he was, but Sunny had opened her home to him, and he would earn his keep. His clothes were blackened, so he changed again and shoved his cash into his pocket. He would buy new clothes to replace the ones he'd ruined, and the rest would go to Sunny.

It was still early—before 8, some instinct told him—but he smelled coffee as he came down the stairs, and the sounds of something frying filled him with a pleasant feeling he didn't deserve. Sunny looked up from the stove when he came into the kitchen and nodded to the counter. "Coffee's ready. Help yourself."

J.B. was at the tiny table with another man, who Spencer assumed to be Miguel. They both had their own mugs already, and J.B. nodded when Spencer looked their way, but Miguel scowled. "¿Este es el chico nuevo?" he said, his voice thick with disapproval. "Duerme hasta tarde."

"Spencer, Miguel," J.B. said, shooting a reproachful look at the other man. "Don't mind Miguel. He takes a while to warm up to newcomers."

Spencer took an empty cup from the counter and poured himself some coffee. "No es un problema," he murmured. "Pero no duermo mucho. 90 minutos al día es todo."

"There you go, Miguel," J.B. laughed. "No more complaining that no one speaks Spanish."

Huh. Apparently he spoke Spanish, too. He took a drink to give his hands something to do and studied Miguel over the rim of his mug. He was a small man, compact, built like a wrestler, and he glared at Spencer like he wanted to do more than talk.

"Settle down," Sunny said, waving a wooden spatula at them. "Spencer, don't get smart with him, he doesn't know how to take it. J.B., quit stirring up trouble. And Miguel, I expect you to be civil, d'you understand? Now get your plates and get some eggs, and go eat them in the other room where you won't be in my way. I got work to do."

Miguel held Spencer's gaze as far as the stove, where he turned to whisper up into Sunny's ear. She swatted him with spatula. "You don't make that decision, Miguel," she snapped. "I say who stays. Now get, or I won't feed you."

He accepted a plate full of scrambled eggs, took some toast from a plate beside the coffee pot, and elbowed past Spencer on his way out of the room. J.B. followed, smiling an apology as he accepted his own food, but Spencer hesitated at the counter. "I'd like to help out," he said awkwardly. "If you have anything that needs cleaning or fixing, I can—"

"Eat first," Sunny said. She piled eggs on a plate and held it out to him, her eyes dark and sympathetic. "J.B. told me you went out this morning. Said you got some bad news."

Spencer looked away, his gaze following Miguel out of the room. "You've been very kind to me. I don't want there to be any trouble."

"Like I told Miguel." Sunny took his left hand and pushed the plate into it. "I make the decisions in this house."

He took the plate, but before he could say anything else, a thump in the other room made him turn. J.B. leaned into the kitchen, a frown creasing the skin on his forehead. "Sunny," he said, his voice grave. "They're back."

Sunny turned off the stove, letting out an impressive string of curses as she grabbed the baseball bat from beside the door. Spencer set his plate and mug on the counter and hurried after her, adrenaline spiking through him. "Who is it?"

"Stay inside," Sunny said. "Eat your breakfast. This won't take long."

J.B. flattened himself against the wall to let her pass and shot a concerned look at Spencer. "Do as she says," he muttered. "Maybe get the first aid kit ready." He ducked through the door after Sunny, trusting Spencer to do the sensible thing and stay out of trouble.

Spencer followed them out.

Miguel was on the top step outside the door, standing with his arms folded and his feet planted wide before a half dozen men in suits. They were tall, their muscles bulging inside their jackets, and they wore boots instead of dress shoes.

Enforcers, said a voice in Spencer's head. Thugs for hire.

Sunny came up behind Miguel and glared down at the men. "I've told you before—I'm not selling. Now get off my property before I call the police."

"I'm afraid we're past the point of negotiation," the man in the middle said. He took a step forward, cracking his knuckles. "I'm going to have to ask you to send your boys inside, ma'am. This is between us."

Sunny lifted her bat, but Spencer set a hand on her shoulder. "Don't call her 'ma'am'," he said quietly, guiding her back a step so he could slip between her and Miguel. Miguel's hands were clenched at his sides, and he glanced at Spencer as he moved beside him.

The man in the middle opened his mouth, and something like fear flickered across his face.

"Janish," the man next to him hissed. "Is that Spencer?"

They looked at him—all of them—but it was Sunny's shocked expression that filled his vision. Spencer cleared his throat and looked back at the man in the middle. "Walk away."

"You know I can't do that," the man—Janish—said.

Behind him, J.B. moved to stand at Spencer's back. "We're outnumbered," he whispered.

"Not a problem," Spencer said.

"You're not in the best condition to make that call," J.B. added.

Miguel shifted his weight, and Spencer glanced at him. "¿Puedes pelear?"

"Yeah," Miguel snorted. "I can fight. Can you?"

Spencer looked at the men again, analyzing their stances, their positions, their strengths and weaknesses.

And for the first time since waking up in that burning building, he knew exactly what he was capable of.

They came at once, surging forward and rushing up the stairs. Bottlenecking themselves—they were the muscle, not the brains—Spencer moved unhurriedly down a step and dodged the first flying fist. With a jerk, he grabbed the man's arm and pulled him in, propelling him up a step and leaving him for Miguel. He met the next attack with a block and a cross, knocking his opponent backwards and off balance, pushing him back into his companions. He had the high ground, and they hesitated.

That was all he needed.

He threw one over the railing and knocked the second down with a jab to the throat, and then J.B. was flashing past him to take the third. That left only Janish, who had stayed back to watch the fight unfold.

Spencer stalked down the last few steps, circling to put the other man's back to the house. "Do I know you?"

"Serbia, '06," Janish growled. "You beat me to the Mestrovic collection and cost me my finder's fee. I owe you for that."

He lunged, but Spencer side stepped and caught him in the jaw with a right hook. When he staggered, Spencer followed up with another blow before he could recover. "Walk away," he said again, his voice a growl.

Janish flew at him. A punch, a dodge, another—block—counter—Spencer moved without thinking, letting his reflexes do the work. He recognized the technique Janish was using, even if he couldn't remember the name, and it meant something—something in the back of his mind, something he would have used if he could. If he could only—

A jab got through his guard, catching him on the right cheek and snapping his head back—

And he was in the room again. He'd gotten inside the new LanCast building, and there were three men, not one, not Janish—he'd expected Janish to be there, but he wasn't, and he didn't have time to worry about that because he had to find her, but there was no furniture, nothing he could use to put between him and the other men, and he didn't have time to deal with them. He hit one, pushed him away, turned to face the second, stepped back to avoid a clawing hook that caught his chest instead. The man tried to grab his shirt but got only his necklace, and he felt the chain snap as he pulled away. He'd get it later; she was more important. He took a punch to the face—where had that come from?—and swung at the third, but he missed, so he went back to the first for another block, block, counter, another jab, a hit to the stomach—he tried to come back with a low punch, but hands grabbed his arms and held them behind his back, and then there was the sound of a rumble and a crash, and a blast of heat that knocked him into the window, through the window, and he was falling—

"Stand down," a voice barked in his ear. "Stand down, soldier!"

Spencer's body went rigid. His spine snapped straight, his breath coming in ragged gasps that he fought to get under control without moving his shoulders. J.B. had both hands on his upper arms, his face so close their foreheads almost touched. His hands were wrenched behind his back, but the pressure on them eased when he stopped moving, and Miguel stepped into view with a wary frown.

"How did you know that would work?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows at J.B. "How did you know he was a soldier?"

"Maybe not a soldier," J.B. said. He was studying Spencer's face, his brows furrowed, his eyes sharp and clinical. "But ex-military for sure. You get a feel for that. Spencer? Are you with me?"

"What happened?" Spencer rasped.

J.B. gave a half-hearted smile. "You got into a fight with a concussion, and it didn't go well. I tried to warn you."

Moving hurt, but he turned his head to survey the empty yard. "Where are they?"

"They left. After seeing what you did to Janish—"

Spencer paled. "I—I killed…?"

"No." J.B.'s grip on his arms tightened. "You scared him away. You made Ben Janish hesitate, and that was enough for the others."

"It was enough for me," Miguel grumbled, rubbing his jaw. "You went into a trance or something, man. You wouldn't stop hitting Janish, and when I got close, you hit me, too."

A wave of nausea hit him like a train, and he pulled free of J.B.'s grasp so he wouldn't get sick on him. "Sorry," he choked out, but his vision dimmed, and he had to reach out for J.B. again to keep upright.

"Come on," J.B. said. "Let's get you inside before you keel over on the lawn."

To his surprise, Miguel moved to his other side and slipped Spencer's arm over his shoulders, and the three of them hobbled back up to the house without speaking. Sunny was still standing on the top step, her face set in a frown, but she moved aside when they approached.

"Get him up to bed," Sunny said. "We'll talk when he's had some rest."

Spencer passed out before he could argue.