I slipped the chain over my head, and when the amulet didn’t try to burn a hole through my jerkin, I slipped it and the chain inside my shirt. The metal was warm against my skin. I told myself the heat was left over from Quentin’s body. Perhaps if I kept telling myself that, I’d begin to believe it.

The front entrance to Simon Stocken’s warehouse was usually guarded by at least two men. Things usually went better if they knew you. I recognized the first guard, but not the other on duty with him. Both acknowledged Quentin, and the one I didn’t know opened the door for him. Stocken’s guards were reliable men as long as he kept their purses full; and with business as good as it was, there was ample coin to pay for good help. Quentin went inside. We stayed outside and out of sight.

A minute or so passed. Quentin must have been halfway through the warehouse by now. Simon Stocken’s office was in the far corner. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, and adjusted my baldric on my shoulder. Then I shifted my weight back. I was suddenly uncomfortable in my own skin. I looked down at my hands. One of them actually twitched. I looked back to the warehouse. The guards were no longer by the door.

“Phaelan?”

His dark eyes were staring intently at the door. “I see it. They just went inside.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.”

That wasn’t the only thing that was less than ideal. It wasn’t the guards’ absence that was making my skin crawl. It was something big and ugly and waiting inside that warehouse—magic, and not the good kind. Quentin was walking into trouble for the second time tonight. I knew it as sure as if it were me walking into that trap. Curious. I had a knack for sensing certain things, but big bad magical traps had never been one of them.

“Does Stocken’s warehouse have a back door?” I asked.

“Of course. And two side doors and a trap door over the water.” Phaelan said before dashing across the street. I was right behind him.