Julien had gotten in a shot and didn’t intend to lose the momentum. He spun into a kick that would have connected with Ethan’s kidney. Ethan blocked it with a hand strike, offered his own side kick. It connected, and Julien grunted, stumbled. He righted himself, tried a front strike that Ethan neatly blocked. And then it was one strike after another, both of them moving quickly, the pace quickening with each blow.

Ethan moved forward with an uppercut that connected with Julien’s jaw and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Julien shook his head, slowly climbed to his feet again.

“You should have stayed down,” Ethan said, hands on his hips.

“Because you’re getting tired?” Julien said, spitting blood.

“No.” Ethan smiled, with fangs. “Because Merit gets the final shot. And she’s a better fighter than I am.”

While Julien looked on, Ethan walked toward me, pressing the back of his hand to his bleeding lip.

I still goggled at the compliment. “I’m a better fighter than you?”

“Well, in fairness, I did train you. I’ve tried to soften him up a bit,” he said, his eyes brighter than I’d seen them in weeks, the monkey nearly off his back.

I grinned back. “I appreciate that. But I’ll probably ruin my dress.”

“I’d expect nothing less, Sentinel. We’ve started insuring them.” He winked at me, then gestured grandly toward Julien, let me step past him.

I put a hand on my hip, faced my opponent, who looked back at me with obvious derision. He thought Ethan was making a strategic mistake.

“Does he let you finish all his battles?”

“Only the easy ones,” I said, and didn’t delay the inevitable. I hitched up my skirt—this one being a little more flexible than the last—and kicked up and out. He was fast enough to block it, to grab my leg and twist, trying to send me off-balance.

But I’d already played that game once this week and wasn’t about to lose points to that technique a second time. I shifted my weight to the leg he held, used his grip for balance, and spun around, executing an airborne parallel kick with my free leg. He’d lifted an arm to block, but missed, and I connected with his left side. He stumbled forward, leered back at me when he’d righted himself.

“One lucky shot,” he said, and sped toward me. He jabbed, and I dodged the shot, his fist glancing off my shoulder, but with enough force to still make it sing. He’d left his torso open, and I punched him in the stomach. He grunted, staggered, came back again.

I’d give him strong and tenacious. But any asshole could be strong. His next shot was a right cross. His speed hadn’t diminished, but he favored the side I’d kicked, and he telegraphed the move. I grabbed his wrist, swung it down, using the leverage to force him to the ground.

I stepped over him, planted a foot on his neck. “When a woman says no, she means it, you raging sack of crap.”

“Fuck you.”

“I already declined that very unattractive offer,” I said, and pressed a little harder. Jacobs and his men had already moved into the crowd, so my time was nearly up. Might as well use it for something good. “Where’s Balthasar?”

When he didn’t immediately answer, I pushed harder on his windpipe. “Where. Is. Balthasar?”

“Dead. He’s dead. He died at the Geneva safe house.” That was the one Luc hadn’t been able to reach.

Ethan’s relief peppered the air.

I lifted my foot. Julien’s hand rushed to his throat, massaged.

“Elaborate,” I ordered.

“They thought he’d been rehabilitated.” He coughed, and his voice was hoarse. “They were wrong. He killed a human girl who’d delivered supplies to the house. The safe house couldn’t protect him; he was staked. There’s a marker for him at Plainpalais Cemetery.”

That was verifiable information. So I took a step back and swept dirt from my dress as Julien coughed.

I looked up, nodded at Jacobs. “It appears Mr. Burrows has fallen, Detective. I believe you can handle him from here?”

“You’d be right about that,” Jacobs said, stepping forward. “And given his psychic propensities, we’ll make sure he’s in a magically appropriate space. Julien Burrows,” he said as the uniforms hauled him to his feet, “you’re under arrest for three counts of sexual assault, one count of attempted sexual assault, trespassing . . .”

“You son of a bitch!” Julien screamed. “Deceiver! Deceiver!”

The screaming and recitation of charges faded away as the cops and suspect moved around the House toward their waiting transportation.

I walked toward Ethan, took in the torn shirt spotted with blood, the bruise under his cheek, the blood on his face. “You kind of look like a disaster.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Ethan burst into laughter.

“Are you all right?”

“At the moment, Sentinel, I’m not. But I’ve got you and my House, and I will be.”

Chapter Twenty-five

AVOWAL

It was done. With three more phone calls to Switzerland and Ethan’s excellent French, we verified Balthasar’s ignoble end. He’d used “Bernard” as his alias in order to distance himself from activities in London and any lingering members of the Memento Mori. Julien had stuck to the truth about much of Balthasar’s history, which Ethan verified with the safe house’s archivist.