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on the bed. “Please, make yourself comfortable. You look ready to faint.”
    Artur remained standing. Graves sighed and sidled several steps left. She sat gracefully on the deep seat of a rich red velvet armchair. The entire room was beginning to remind Artur of a bleeding heart. Perhaps his own, if he was not careful.
    Graves propped her gun hand on her knee. Her aim never wavered.
    “Normally I take the time for pleasantries and explanations—time enough to ease a man into his required role—but you are different. You, Mr. Loginov, do not require ease or sweet words. You already know the truth, that you are not alone in this world. You are accustomed to using your gift in return for money. I like this about you. It makes my task easier.”
    “I question your taste.”
    She laughed: a sharp, brittle sound. “My taste is perfect.”
    “So perfect, you assume I will take your mysterious offer, even though I know nothing about your organization, except that it must be despicable? How charmingly naive.”
    “Sticks and stones, Mr. Loginov. Besides, I call your presence here an invitation to a leap of faith. A faith born of clear advantage, power, and financial gain. Yon really cannot go wrong when you have all three of those in your pocket.”
    “And what of ethics? Can you defend an organization that hires a serial killer to kidnap a man from his own home?”
    “A moot point. The Consortium does what it has to. We believe in guarantees, which our select employees provide with their natural abilities. Our methods have worked very nicely for some time. Your profile provided no reason to diverge from that pattern.”
    “What kind of organization considers violence to be a ‘certain guarantee’?”
    “The kind you used to work for. The kind you still work for.”
    “I do not think you know what you are talking about,” Artur said.
    “Oh, I think I do. I think I have a very good understanding of your particular situation. I can assure you, Mr. Loginov, the Consortium is not all that different from your current employers. We simply don’t pretend the way your esteemed Dirk and Steele does. We don’t hide behind acceptable social constructs as a means of using our powers. We don’t justify the use of our gifts with Pollyanna hypocrisy.” Graves spit those last words, her voice hard and long and sharp. “Oh, your shock. Really. Did you truly believe yours was the only organization of its kind?”
    It took him a moment to make his voice work. It was difficult to speak in the face of his worst nightmare, the pitiless coil of a stranger’s gaze bearing down upon all his most precious secrets. “How did you find us?” he finally managed, and his voice sounded old and worn and tired.
    Graves leaned back in her chair. Her gaze was steady, unafraid. Softly she said, “It was inevitable. The world is too small for what we do, who we are. Only we found you first.” She shook her head, tapping her jaw with one pale bony finger. “It was Chinatown that did it, Mr. Loginov. Wen Zhang’s murder. Dirk and Steele should have minded its own business. You cost us a great deal of money.”
    It was Chinatown that did it. Wen Zhang’s murder. My God. It all makes sense now . Memory rolled over him; those horrible days when so many at the agency had come close to losing one of their dearest friends. Wen Zhang had been the leader of a major crime group in New York City’s Chinatown, who a year ago had attempted to murder Nancy Dirk’s granddaughter, Dela Reese. He’d come close; the young woman had almost lost her life.
    The grand matriarch of the shape-shifters—the dragon woman, Long Nü—had put the final stop to Wen’s actions, but not before he discovered Dela’s telekinetic abilities. Artur still remembered Wen’s voice, accusing Dela of belonging to a new crime syndicate encroaching on his territory, a syndicate whose members also exhibited strange powers.
    An unsettling idea. Roland had conducted an in-depth