Page 129 of Shadowfox

Another street.

Another corner.

A figure stood alone at a crosswalk. He wore a suit of dark blue, not the pressed olive we dreaded.

Still, we paused and assessed, then veered to avoid him.

By the time we reached the café, I’d counted six near heart attacks, one soldier, and too many shadows that moved wrong.

Sparrow yanked the door open like it owed her money.

Egret looked up from a table near the corner and raised a brow. He spoke in Russian for the benefit of anyone listening. “Did you two take the scenic route?”

Sparrow tossed her scarf onto a chair. “You want to walk the rest of this city with a target on your back? Be my guest.”

He chuckled and slid a coffee across the table.

“I like this version of you,” he said. “Witty. Sexy as hell. Slightly murderous.”

Sparrow deadpanned, “Don’t worry. I’m saving the murder.”

I didn’t laugh. Not yet. My heart was still somewhere back on Andrássy, hiding in a shadow and waiting to see if it lived.

Sparrow downed the last of Egret’s coffee, and we lingered only long enough to not look suspicious. We were just three friends meeting for a quick mug of warmth on a cold, blustery day.

We moved fast through the final blocks, sticking to shadows and side streets, each of us watching different angles as if the city itself might pounce. The earlier tension stabbing between my shoulder blades hadn’t faded, just folded itself into silence.

Even Egret had gone quiet. That somehow made everything feel worse.

When we reached the safe house, Sparrow rapped twice, paused, then once more—the rhythm we’d agreed on. A moment later, the door cracked open. Eszter peeked through the narrow slit, then yanked it open with surprising strength.

“You took too long,” she said, her features stern and somehow adorable at the same time.

“We always do,” Sparrow muttered, sliding past her but pausing long enough to grip the girl’s shoulder appreciatively.

I followed, with Egret bringing up the rear.

Inside, the air was heavy with steam and the bite of boiled onions. Someone had tried to make soup. I was surprised to find that Thomas had moved to lie on the couch. He sat propped upright with a book he wasn’t reading through glassy eyes I doubted saw much more than fuzzy outlines and muted colors. His gaze flicked to me and magically sharpened, scanning for damage.

“Unshot,” I said, holding up both hands and spinning around like some fashion model on a runway.

“Better than me,” he said, though no grin reached his lips.

Farkas stood at the far end of the room. His arms were crossed, and he paced a line in the old rug like he’d worn it thin. He looked at the door, then at Eszter, then at us. He didn’t speak.

I dropped the shopping bags filled with makeup and wigs onto the coffee table beside Thomas.

He opened it, peered inside, then raised an eyebrow. “These are . . . alarmingly good.”

“You’re welcome,” Egret said, flopping into the armchair like he hadn’t just evaded military patrols on two sides of the river. “I had to promise to avenge a man’s honor to get them.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“It was implied.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry. He has no honor, so I owe him nothing.”

Sparrow stepped forward and pulled a folded scrap of paper from her coat. “We’ve got vestments in the works. The tailor thinks we’re staging a religious play, and I may have oversold the art direction. She wanted Eszter tomorrow evening for a fitting.”

Farkas scowled. “Out of the house?”

---