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froze midscoop. Twelve black gazes, including her beloved’s, darted to her.
    Cam squeezed her thigh under the table.
    She tried some soup—got a cold, buttery mouthful of leek and potato—better than the French restaurant’s, but she still had to work hard to swallow over her bravado.
    A sharp ding —metal against china—brought her attention down the table, to a mage who sat directly to the left of Gunnar, obviously someone important.
    The mage’s upper body was more relaxed than the others’, his left forearm resting on the edge of his seat, and his expression had a strange derisive kind of amusement. “I know Slight.”
    Only three words, but Ellie picked up a subtext she couldn’t translate. It made the superplucked eyebrow of one of the mage women lift, however.
    Her shadow hissed within her, sensing danger. Who was this guy?
    Gunnar’s gaze roamed, but he made no comment and applied himself to his soup.
    “We’re here to kill Slight,” Ellie stated matter-of-factly. To see if that would get a rise.
    The mage man stretched his face into a smile. “You don’t say.” The subtext was becoming clearer, something along the lines of “Ah, someone to play with.”
    Mathilde, at the other end, sipped from her glass to cover her amusement as well. “Zander, you are too much.”
    “Does this House protect him?” Cam asked. He kept his hand on Ellie’s leg—always with her.
    Zander, his smile steady when Ellie looked back, replied, “Slight is not of Martin House. No one here has either the obligation or desire to protect him. He’s a stray. Like a mongrel dog—good for kicking.”
    “I thought he worked for Martin.” Ellie tried her own subtext buried in tone: I know he works for Martin.
    “No, of course not.” Zander glanced at Mathilde. “Imagine using a stray .” The black gaze found Ellie again, and he lowered himself enough to explain, though it was clearly tedious to him. “He might work to gain Martin’s favor in some desperate hope to become House, but that is different.”
    Different only in that Martin didn’t have to take responsibility for Slight’s actions. Otherwise, the same.
    “Didn’t he attend your Seminary?” Ellie skated her vision right-left to keep an eye on both Zander and Mathilde. What Slight could do required training, and he’d very likely found it here.
    Mathilde lifted her chin as if she’d just gotten an idea. “Perhaps you’d consider trying your shadow against some of the Seminary’s novitiates.”
    “I might,” Ellie said lightly, but she wasn’t about to leave the topic. “Especially against Slight.”
    “Of course, I cannot command his presence.” Mathilde took up her spoon again. “He’s not House.”
    “You can’t command”—Ellie looked at Zander to ask—“What was it you called Slight?” She looked back at Mathilde without waiting for an answer. “A mongrel dog? ”
    The amusement dropped from Mathilde’s face.
    Zander barked a laugh.
    Ellie picked up her spoon as well and mumbled at her soup. “And she hopes to command humans? Huh.” The huh wasn’t supposed to be voiced, and it kind of came out like a ha .
    Cam’s hand was warm on her thigh under the table. From that one spot she drew reassurance and strength.
    “Be careful,” Gunnar Martin finally said, this time silky smooth in warning.
    “Back atcha,” Cam said, not as smooth.
    Ellie had no doubt her sweet man was ready to surge up from his seat. She’d kiss him later.
    But her shadow, always driven by instinct, urged Ellie’s head up, her eyeballs away from Gunnar’s end and down the table about forty-five degrees. Ellie sharpened her gaze on a mage woman, maybe in her forties, who’d let her carefully composed expression slip—eyes lit, a corner of her mouth tugging upward—to reveal that she enjoyed Mathilde’s momentary discomfort, enjoyed it a lot.
    Her, the shadow said from within. The shadow was never wrong. Most people dampened or ignored their instincts,