“Are either of you practitioners?” Mr. Mustache asked.

“No.” Ash responded immediately.

I shook my head and focused on pulling my sleeve down over my bandaged arm.

“Good. Then you won’t mind wearing these.” He dangled two thin metal rings from his fingers.

I swallowed and reminded myself that practitioner magic wasn’t the only magic at my disposal. If push came to shove, I could still call on my fae magic. Right?

Then again, I didn’t actually know how magic-dampening collars worked . . .

The heavy smell of ginger and garlic that permeated the kitchen made my nose itch as I forced myself to breathe steadily while Mr. Mustache circled around behind me. My nerves crackled, but I held still. Sweat prickled my scalp. My hair was lifted aside, the sensation making me shiver. Smooth steel touched the back of my neck, the sides. The ring completed, latching into place just over my collarbone with a magnetic snap.

Mr. Mustache moved to Ash.

My hands drifted up to the collar. The ring was less than an inch wide and about the thickness of a quarter. A five-knuckle hinge rested against the back of my neck, directly opposite a small box with rounded corners. That would be the locking mechanism.

I was tempted to call up my fae magic right then, to verify I could still access it . . . but as I understood it, practitioners who tried to cast magic while wearing a collar ended up causing themselves immense pain as the magical energy completed a circuit that delivered an electric shock to the caster. The stronger the magic, the stronger the shock. Probably just touching my fae magic wouldn’t shock me, but my magics tended to mix together. I might not be able to channel one without brushing up against the other, and I couldn’t risk alerting Mr. Mustache that I had magic if I was wrong. So I lowered my hands to my sides and tried to act relaxed as Ash’s collar was secured.

“Are we good to go now?” I asked.

“Almost,” said Mr. Mustache. “I just need to verify the merchandise.”

I gestured to Chase’s cage. “See for yourself. He’s in there.”

Mr. Mustache peered through the front grate and whistled softly. “Shifter fae are hard to track. How’d you catch one?”

“Trade secret, I’m afraid,” said Ash.

Mr. Mustache nodded, then he reached in his bag and pulled out a thin metal rod that telescoped to about two feet long.

I inched closer. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. Verifying.” Mr. Mustache jammed the metal rod through the grate.

Chase let out a pained yowl and smacked against the back of the cage, trying to get away, but Mr. Mustache pinned him in place.

Ash’s hands clamped around my upper arms, holding me fast. I hadn’t even realized I’d moved, but every muscle in my body strained against their grip.

“Be calm,” Ash whispered in my ear.

Mr. Mustache withdrew the iron rod.

Chase’s scream tapered to a pitiful whimper. Seared meat might not have been out of place in the kitchen, but the smell of burnt fur made my stomach turn.

Ash gave my arms one last warning squeeze, then released me. When Mr. Mustache turned around, I had myself under control.

“He’s the real deal.” Mr. Mustache grinned at us, clearly impressed by our cargo.

I met his gaze as calmly as I could and forced myself to smile back, thinking, You’re going to pay for that.

Mr. Mustache collapsed his rod and tucked it back in the bag, then he withdrew a handheld radio. Depressing a button on the side, he said, “Good to go.”

A back door to the kitchen that blended almost perfectly with the white walls opened, and a second man stepped through. This one was shorter than Mr. Mustache—shorter than any of us, coming barely to my chin. He was stocky, with a bushy beard and frizzy brown hair that reached his shoulders. He reminded me of a dwarf from Lord of the Rings.

I frowned. Could he actually be a dwarf? Human lore about elves were based on a variety of fae species, including the sidhe. Stories about dwarfs probably had a similar background. I wonder which fae inspired them?

The probably-not-a-real-dwarf held out a small tray that looked like a safety deposit box with a locking lid. “Cell phones and weapons.” His voice was gruff but not unpleasant.

Ash dropped a phone and folding knife into the tray. These were both for show, since Ivan had warned us about the procedure. He’d supplied us each with burner phones and simple weapons, as would be expected. I placed my set of disposable possessions in the box as well. My actual phone was tucked alongside my gun and knife in my backpack at the safe house.

The new guy stepped back, and Mr. Mustache brought out a security wand. “Spread your arms and legs.” He did a quick sweep with the wand to verify we didn’t have any transmitting devices and gave us each a physical pat down to ensure we hadn’t stashed any additional weapons. “Clear.”

The second man closed and locked the metal box that held our props. He handed Ash a small silver key. “Don’t lose this if you want your stuff back.”

Ash nodded and tucked the key into their pocket.

“Follow me,” said Mr. Mustache.

He slung his pack over one shoulder and led us out the back, into an alley that smelled of stale food and mildew. A silver SUV with tinted windows blocked most of the alley. He opened the back door and motioned us to climb inside. I slid through to the far seat and latched my seatbelt. We were almost there. This was going to work.

The second man carried Chase’s cage to the back of the SUV and secured it in the trunk with bungee cords. When he was done, he circled the car and opened my door.

I looked at him curiously. “Forget something?”

“Last step,” he said. He pointed, and I followed his finger to find Ash looking back at me. Behind him, Mr. Mustache stood beside the other open door. A hypodermic needle glinted in his hand, moving toward Ash. Something sharp pierced the side of my neck.

I twisted, shoving the dwarf-like man away, but the cold pressure surging through my veins told me the damage was done. He closed my door, and the distant echo of a thud told me Ash’s door had been closed as well. I turned to look, but the colors in the car streaked and ran together like paints in the rain.

What the hell was going on? Ivan hadn’t mentioned anything about drugs.

I reached for the latch on my seatbelt, but my muscles turned to jelly. My fingers fumbled against the button. I couldn’t depress it. Whatever he’d given me was very fast acting.

We passed all their stupid tests! But we must have done something to give ourselves away. Had Mr. Mustache noticed my reaction when he hurt Chase despite his back being turned? Had Ash’s illusion wavered when their blood was wiped away?

I slumped in my seat. My shoulder bumped against Ash. My eyes closed. It doesn’t matter what tipped them off. We’re screwed.