“What happened?” Tristan asked them, setting Libby back on her feet. She looked a little woozy, but nodded to him for release, disentangling herself from his grip.
“I’m fine,” she said, though she remained braced for another attack, shoulders still tense.
“Just ran into another medeian downstairs,” Callum said. “Some spy organization from Beijing. A combat specialist.”
Tristan blinked with recognition. “Did the medeian have a partner?”
“Yes, an ill-”
“An illusionist,” Tristan confirmed, exchanging a knowing glance with Libby. “We got him. How did you know they were spies?”
“Aside from the obvious? She told me,” said Callum. “It was just her and the partner who were magical, everyone else was mortal.”
A distraction, probably, while only one of the medeians broke in.
Libby was testing her joints, still glancing around in paranoia. “She told you there was no one else? She could have easily been lying.”
“She wasn’t,” Callum said.
“How do you know?” Libby pressed, suspicious. “She could’ve just—”
“Because I asked nicely,” Callum said.
Parisa would have known—or could have, assuming the medeian hadn’t been using any mental defensive shields—but she, Tristan noticed, hadn’t said a word on the subject.
“You okay?” Tristan asked her, and she shuddered to cognizance, glancing up at him with a look of temporary displacement.
“Yeah. Fine.” She cleared her throat. “As far as I can tell, the house is empty now.”
“Was it just one group?”
Parisa shook her head. “Whoever Nico and Reina took out, they were a group, then the partners we took out, and someone else who was working alone.”
“Not alone,” came a voice, as the four of them looked up, instantly assuming various positions of defense. “Not to worry,” chuckled Atlas, who had Dalton trailing at his heels. “It’s only me.”
“Is it actually?” Libby whispered to Tristan, who was mildly impressed. Paranoia clearly suited her, or perfectionism, or whatever this was. She no longer trusted her own two eyes, and long-term, that was probably for the best.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
She nodded gravely, but didn’t say anything.
“The agent taken out by Miss Kamali was sent by your former employer, Mr. Caine,” Atlas said, glancing at Tristan. “We always expect to see someone from Wessex Corp, mind you, so that was unsurprising.”
Tristan frowned. “You… expect to see them?”
At precisely that moment, Nico bounded euphorically up the stairs, Reina following like the slip of a shadow behind him.
“Hey,” Nico said, gorily disfigured. His thin white t-shirt was caked in blood from his shoulder and his nose was broken, though he appeared not to have noticed. He thrummed with adrenaline, acknowledging Atlas with an overeager nod. “What’s going on?”
“Well, Mr. de Varona, I was just informing the others about the operatives you faced this evening,” Atlas replied, opting not to comment discourteously on Nico’s appearance. “You and Miss Mori took out a military task force.”
“MI6?” Nico guessed.
“Yes, and CIA,” confirmed Atlas. “Led by a medeian who specialized in—”
“Waves, yeah,” Nico supplied, still buzzing as he glanced at Libby. “How’d you come out, Rhodes?”
Beside Tristan, Libby stiffened.