In front of me, Leona swayed side to side, shifting her body weight as she prepared to move. She looked tired, and I’d managed to get in a couple of deeper cuts. They’d heal, but use precious resources in the meantime.
Nearly done, I said, and glanced left, as if accidentally signaling my next move.
She took the bait, dodging left. I spun into a low kick and this time nailed my target. I kicked her legs out from under her. She hit the floor hard enough to make the building shake, her head bouncing once against concrete, her eyes rolling back.
I snatched up her katana, pointed both swords at her. Her chest rose and fell slowly. She was out cold.
My enemy vanquished, I glanced back at Ethan, found him standing over Cyrius. This time, Ethan had both the gun and the dagger. Cyrius sat on the floor, legs splayed in front of him, holding his arm at an awkward angle. Ethan looked healthy enough.
I walked to Cyrius’s desk, pulled open a drawer, found exactly what I’d expected to find: a pair of silver handcuffs.
It seemed likely I’d find some in a place dedicated to kink. But I decided not to think too carefully about how they’d been used before.
I walked back to Leona, pulled her hands in front of her, and cuffed her. She was too heavy to flip over; besides, I planned to be long gone before she woke.
“He answer your questions?” I asked, when I’d blown the bangs out of my eyes and walked back to Ethan.
“He did not.”
I grinned predatorily at Cyrius. “Can I have him?”
“No!” Cyrius said, which made Ethan grin.
“Not yet, Sentinel. Let’s see, first, if he’ll identify our murderer. Cyrius?”
When the man didn’t answer, I knelt in front of him, rested my elbows on my knees. “He asked you a question. Answer him, or he’ll give you to me. And you don’t want that.”
“That good-cop, bad-cop shit don’t work on me,” Cyrius said. But beads of sweat had popped across his forehead, and the words seemed to stick in his throat.
Ethan kept his expression mild. “You don’t get it, Cyrius. We’re both bad cops.” He held up the weapons he’d confiscated from Cyrius, gestured toward my swords. “Tell me about Reed.”
“He’ll kill me.”
“No, he might kill you,” Ethan said with a terrifying smile. “We definitely will.”
We wouldn’t, of course. Not a man unarmed, who’d been no real threat to us even when he’d been pretending otherwise. But he didn’t need to know that.
Cyrius wet his lips.
“You only get one chance to answer,” I warned him, patting his knee collegially before I rose again. “So choose that answer carefully.”
“He’s right,” Cyrius muttered, wiping his face with the forearm of his uninjured hand. “You’re monsters. No better than anyone else. He’ll fix it. He’ll fix all this. Bring some goddamn order to the world. Make things right again.”
Ethan’s brows lifted. “Is that the story Reed’s been telling you? That if he was dictator, if he ruled Chicago, life would be better for you?”
“He’ll clean up the streets.”
“He’ll continue to pollute the streets,” Ethan said. “He’s a crime lord, for God’s sake. He doesn’t belong in charge any more than Capone did.”
But Cyrius just shook his head. Whatever nonsense Reed had been spouting about his new world order, Lore seemed to earnestly believe it.
I stepped forward again and lifted the point of Leona’s katana to his neck.
“Who killed Caleb Franklin?” I asked him.
“I don’t know!” Spit accompanied the frantic words. “I don’t know.”
I pressed incrementally forward, until a droplet of crimson rolled down the blade.