We were walking at a fast pace in the shadows of Belacant Way, one block over from Stocken’s warehouse. While the fast pace was healthy at this time of night under normal circumstances, tonight hardly qualified as normal. Normal waterfront hazards included cutpurses and garden-variety murderers, not Khrynsani temple guards and jewelry that made my stomach do flips.

I didn’t sense anyone following us. That was the first good thing to happen all night. It also made it a perfect time to start that talk I wanted to have with Quentin.

“Wait,” I told Quentin and my cousin.

Phaelan stopped. Quentin clearly didn’t want to.

“I need to deliver this to Stocken,” he objected.

“A few more minutes isn’t going to make any difference,” I told him. “And I’m not convinced you should give that thing to Simon Stocken. Phaelan and I are in this, whether we want to be or not—”

“And we don’t,” Phaelan said.

“So I think we deserve to know what’s going on.”

Quentin made no move to enlighten us.

I crossed my arms. “Now would be nice.”

Quentin’s blue eyes darted to the warehouse behind us like he expected goblins to leap out of the walls. I had never seen him this nervous, and we had been in plenty of situations where he’d had ample opportunity. This wasn’t like Quentin at all, and I didn’t like it. His mystery employer just earned a top spot on my list of least-liked people.

“About a week ago, Simon contacted me about a job,” Quentin said, talking fast. “I meet with him, he tells me what the client wants, and how much he’s willing to pay to get it. It was good money. Real good. Then Simon tells me whose house I’d be breaking into. I tell him to forget it, no deal. That’s when he hands me the letter. Tells me the man looking to hire me said to give me the letter if I refuse the job. So I read it.” Quentin paused for air, and his jaw tightened. “Let’s just say the letter changed my mind.”