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awkwardness of having to reply by a knock on the door. “Looks like our ride’s here,” I said.
    The man outside my door was not Mayena Strain. For one thing, he was a man. He was tall, a good six inches taller than me, which put him about six-six. He was skinny as a rail, though, so I figured that even with his extra height I outweighed him by a good twenty pounds. His black hair was combed back so tight that it seemed to smooth the wrinkles in his forehead. His finely tailored black suit, silk shirt, and tie each looked like they’d cost more than my apartment. His hands were in his pockets and he surveyed me with sea-green eyes. Evidently, he was displeased by what he saw.
    I knew the man. At least, I’d seen him a couple of times at the Table’s headquarters in London. He was some higher-up, some officer, but I couldn’t remember his name.
    “Hey,” I said, affecting a whiny, nasal voice, “you’re not the pizza guy.”
    Krissy giggled.
    “Mister Carver, I presume.” The man had a slow, deliberate, and posh English accent. He was looking from me to Krissy and back with the same kind of disdain you might gaze at something disgusting you found under a rock. Finally, he continued: “My name is Gerard Avalon. I am the Knights of the Round Table’s Commander of North American Operations.”
    Now I noticed the little medallion on his lapel. It was shaped like a medieval shield, with the letters C.O. embossed over a painted image of the North American continent. The man’s title sounded impressive, I know, but I didn’t have much regard for the Table’s Commanders Council. Mostly, I thought, all they did was sit on their asses in London and give orders to the rest of us out in the field. His whole job consisted of filling in the space between the knights on the ground and the Pendragon. Gerard Avalon may have looked like a British gangster, but he was little more than a puffed up bureaucrat. Yeah, we have those in the paranormal world, too.
    “Nice to meet you, sir,” I said. “Nice to see you out of the office.”
    Screw respect. You don’t get to treat me like a piece of dog crap and not get called on it.
    Avalon’s eyes twitched slightly, and he looked at Krissy. “Who is this?”
    “Krissy Thomas,” she said. Despite the darkness of the surroundings, she managed to sound bright and chirpy.
    Avalon ignored her. To me, he said, “This is the thrall?”
    “Not anymore,” I said. “I did the silver test. She’s clean, and she’s coming with us.”
    Avalon shook his head. “Time is of the essence, Mister Carver. We can not afford to bring this amateur along.”
    “She shook off an enthrallment,” I said. “That makes her a victim of a supernatural attack. Remind me, Commander, what’s the Table’s job again?” I folded my arms and held eye contact. “She’s coming with us.”
    Avalon scowled, but I had him there. Table protocol dictated that any survivor of a supe attack had the option of joining the Table. Mostly we don’t have to recruit—new blood comes to us. The commander’s eyes cooled as he looked at me.
    “Captain Strain is waiting on the street,” he said. “Let us go.”
    He led the way down the hallway from my apartment to the staircase. I waved to Krissy in an after you gesture and moved aside to let her out. Before I followed them I took one last look around. The safe house was small and cramped and usually dirty, but it was mine, dammit. I was going to kinda-maybe-sorta-almost miss it. You’re making a mistake, the dark part of my brain whispered.
    “Yeah, maybe,” I whispered.
    “Dave, you okay?” Krissy was standing at the top of the staircase.
    I nodded. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
    May was leaning against the hood of a big van when I got outside. It was one of those windowless, Silence of the Lambs numbers with a cab in front and a sliding panel door. The kind they always tell kids not to get in with strangers.
    May smiled when she saw me. Her smile evaporated when