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got it now,’ Ward said. ‘We’ll book her.’
    ‘I’m coming with you. I need to keep her under Suppression.’ Harlequin bent to help Ward lift the woman.
    ‘She’s out cold, Lieutenant,’ Ward said. ‘Help me get her a few more feet to the ambulance, and I’ll make sure they sedate her so she doesn’t wake up.’
    Harlequin shook his head. ‘If she comes to for any reason, it’s going to be my ass. I’m coming with you.’
    ‘You’ve got a Suppressor at the liaison office. We’ll take her straight there!’ Ward argued.
    NYPD had the command for this op, and Ward radioed in the results as they got her closer to the line of ambulances clustered among the fire trucks in the parking lot, their spinning lights adding to the glow from the police cruisers, making Harlequin squint. The seeds of a ferocious headache began to blossom behind his eyes. His chest burned as the Bound electricity did its slow work, the stink of his own flesh making him angrier.
    The big woman sagged between them, limp hair covering her face, burned dress smoking. Her mouth hung open, blood drooling from one corner. The EMTs were busy, and Ward had to shout to get the attention of two of them. They raced over with a wheeled gurney, then stopped short, eyes fixed on Harlequin. For a moment, he saw himself as they must see him: streaked with grime and gore, his uniform covered in soot and blood. Small runnels of lightning still danced across the cut on his chest, as if they needed a reminder of who he was and what he did.
    They stared, refusing to come forward.
    ‘Come on!’ Ward said, then cursed, dragging the woman closer to them. ‘She needs help.’
    The first of the press were arriving. Harlequin could see them over the EMTs’ shoulders, setting up tripods, turning on lights, readying boom microphones. He knew he looked like a monster. The Selfer didn’t look much better, but he was the one both Latent and conscious enough to be interviewed.
    Harlequin looked at the EMTs, then at the line of firemen who’d stopped their work to stare at him.
    He could feel their fear, their revulsion, as clearly as a magical current.
    Sheep, seeing the sheepdog, but smelling the wolf. The press would be no different.
    Maybe his instructor was right.
    He fought down his anger and turned back to Ward. ‘Sedate her. Get her to the Suppressor stat.’
    Ward looked up at him, surprised, and nodded gratefully.
    He kicked off and flew north. SOC policy was not to engage in overt displays of magic unless absolutely necessary. It frightened people, reminded them that powers beyond their control were present in their midst. But right now, Harlequin didn’t care. He needed to be away from the burning building, from the accusation in the stare of the people struggling to haul order out of that chaos. Maybe a few hours from now, they’d remember that he’d been the man who’d gone around that corner, who’d risked himself to take the Selfer down. Maybe they’d remember and be grateful that there were people like him out there to do it.
    But probably not.
    He let the wind rush over him, chilling his skin and washing the stink of smoke and blood away. He set down in Fort Tryon Park, silent and dark at this late hour. The high ground overlooked the city, giving him the silent remove he needed to master his anger. He’d let Ward take the woman. He’d displayed magic openly. He’d gone airborne without filing a flight plan. He was breaking regs left and right. It’s getting to you, the isolation, the pariah status. Get it together.
    Harlequin pulled out his cell phone. It rang twice before picking up on the other end. ‘SOC. Crucible.’ Crucible was the call sign of Harlequin’s supervisor, Major Rick Allen. The two were old friends and didn’t stand on formality.
    ‘It’s Jan.’
    ‘It’s also late. What’s up?’
    ‘I just got a takedown and had to leave her under sedation with the NYPD. They’re taking her straight to the liaison office,