THE MOMENT GRAYSON'S EYELID FLUTTERED in that playful wink, Mailah felt a dizzying surge of affection.
Here was the man who had shielded her from a supernatural predator, the man whose head had just been resting comfortably in her lap. The heist was over, the Sigil was secure in its lead-lined pouch, and for a heartbeat, the world felt like it was finally tilting in their favor.
Then, the "battery" ran out.
The silver light that had been simmering deep in Grayson's irises didn't just fade; it flickered and died like a blown bulb.
A grey, ghostly pallor washed over his features, and his hands, which had been warm and steady against her neck, suddenly turned clammy.
Beside them on the rug, Carson groaned, his theatrical sprawl turning into a genuine collapse. "I'm seeing spots," he wheezed, clutching the edge of the coffee table. "And not the fun, disco kind. The 'I'm about to shrivel into a raisin' kind."
