***LUCA***

The room rumbles like we're having a small earthquake. Clenching his fist, Paul says, "I remember you. You're the one who attacked us at Grad Nite!"

"Regrettable, yeah," Jasmine says, backing away slightly, "but I had to do it to maintain my cover."

"Which, if it exists, you're freely breaking now," Kensi says.

"What's your game?" Mattia asks, narrowing her eyes.

Jasmine gives no response. Eventually, I step up and show her my flaming fist. "What she said," I say, tilting my head in Mattia's direction.

"The only 'game' of mine," Jasmine says, holding her own fist up and nearly blinding me with her light, "is me putting the kibosh on my father's plans."

"What the hell is a 'kibosh?'" Gideon asks. "No, don't tell me," he adds when Jasmine opens her mouth again. "I don't wanna know."

"Give us one good reason to believe you," I say, screwing my eyes shut to try and block out the worst of her light. I must look like James Franco right now.

"If Russell were here," Jasmine says, "that wouldn't be such a problem."

"Well," I say. "Howsabout you help us bust him out of jail, then? Maybe that way you'll prove your loyalty."

Checking an imaginary watch, Jasmine says, "Hold on, let me clear my schedule..." After an extended pantomime of reading through a ledger and making notes with a pen, she says, "Okay, I might just be able to squeeze in a jailbreak."

I lower my hand and let my flames die down. "You know I was kidding, right?"

"Of course," Jasmine says, "but I'm not when I say that we need all hands on deck. Including Russell's." She sighs, then kicks a dusty barstool. "I should've realized something was wrong when he didn't retweet my 'Fire Code' post."

"Social media spycraft," Paul chuckles. "Welcome to the twenty-first century."

Jasmine sighs again, then reaches around the side of the espresso machine and cuts something with a pair of shears. "Finally," she says. "No more bomb."

"You can defuse a bomb with barely a glance?" I ask, flabbergasted.

"I've worked with these things long enough," Jasmine says. "In fact, I promised myself if this was all over and my dad was defeated, I would get myself hired by the bomb squad."

"A noble goal," Mattia says.

"Too bad you're far from noble yourself," Paul scoffs.

Our words visibly hurt Jasmine, but she presses on anyway. "I don't have time to prove myself to you," she says. "You'll just have to trust me." She pushes past us, stalking over to the stairs. "I know what I'm doing. I promise."

"You better," I say, following her up the marble steps in spite of myself.

Mattia's quick to follow me, but Paul, Gideon, and Kensi, likely because of their past experience with Jasmine, hang back. "Are you sure about this?" Gideon asks.

Stopping for a second, I say, "I don't like it either, but come on. What else can we do? Russell's our mastermind, and without him, this one's the best we've got."

"Russell may be your mastermind," Jasmine chimes in, "but I'm his." She rounds the corner, then calls down to us, "Come on! We don't have all day!"

Up the stairs, through the lobby, out the door...and that's when an unmarked black car pulls up to the curb. I almost want to think it might belong to the cops, or perhaps the FBI. However, that's not the case. Emerging from the passenger seat of the Chrysler 300 is a guy we saw earlier - Mayor Frank Garza himself. And in the backseat is Russell.

"Already found your way to my people, sweetheart?" Russell asks, pouting at Jasmine.

"Other way around, I'm afraid."

"Is there any way to explain this new development in less than five minutes?" Garza asks. "Not that I have anywhere to be really, but-"

"Trust me," Russell says, "there isn't."

"How'd you convince the mayor to get you out?" Gideon asks.

"He, uh, talked me into it," Garza says, cracking a very brief smile.

We might have just left the library, but now we're disappearing back into the building, the better to avoid being exposed. Once we're downstairs in the empty café, introductions are passed around. Garza does a double take upon hearing Jasmine's name - clearly, Russell told him all about Preston Holly and his evil plans. He also does a double take for Mattia, but for a different reason. "I thought that was a man's name," he says.

"Long story," she says, blinking in surprise. Most of the time, only other Italians recognize how unusual it is for her to be named Mattia - the English equivalent of which is "Matthew." Similarly, I often get funny looks from non-Italians who first hear my name and wonder why it sounds so "girly," just because it ends with an "a."

"Well," Russell says, clapping his hands. "Now that the gang's all here...Jasmine, what's next?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"You're the one who knows all about what Holly's got in mind, so you know where and when to stop it," Garza says. "Right?"

"Please tell me you didn't lie to him and make me look smarter than I really am," Jasmine says to Russell, her face turning pale.

"I swear to God, no," Russell says, grinning at her. "If anything, I made him underestimate you. As far as Mr. Mayor here is concerned, your dad sees you as a dumb flunky and has no problem openly sharing his designs with you 'cause he doesn't think you can do jack shit to stop them."

"I'm confused," says Kensi.

"Yeah, so am I," I mutter. "'Who is the lamb and who is the knife?'"

My quote doesn't go unnoticed - Russell clicks his tongue and says, "Who says you can't be both?"

"I thought it was the lamb and the tiger," Garza says.

"Only if your preferred poet is William Blake instead of Florence Welch," Russell says.

"I don't even know who...oh, that Florence Welch." Garza does an "over my head" gesture. "Never mind."

"The point," Russell says, "is that we need to all work together if we stand any chance of defeating Holly." He points at Jasmine, saying, "She's our double agent, but she's just one of many sent here by her dad. If we don't stop them, they could unleash a wave of chaotic attacks that could turn this city, among others, into real-life Gothams under siege."

"Which I'm guessing is not recommended," I say. "Even for those of us who believe in the Batman?"

"Especially if you believe in the Batman," Russell says, "'cause if you do, prepare to have your faith destroyed when he doesn't save the day." He gestures around to everyone, in every seat. "That's gonna be our job. And the job of our friends working in the Second 'Verse as we speak." Folding his hands, he turns to Jasmine once again. "But before we do anything else, I think some of us could do with a bit of background info. You know Holly and his motivations better than anyone else in here, so give us the condensed version."

Burying her head in her hands for a second, Jasmine mutters, "Where to begin..." Then she looks up and casts her eyes around to everyone in a slow, repetitive pattern. Clockwise, from me to Mattia to Russell to Gideon to Paul to Kensi to Garza, then counterclockwise in the exact opposite of that order. Rinse and repeat. "Right, by now I'm sure you're all aware of the way the two 'verses work, and the different native sentient species of each one."

"Could someone please run the difference between the two types of scrivs by me again?" asks Garza.

"You mean light vs. dark," asks Russell, "or born vs. made?"

"Mostly the 'born vs. made,' part," Connors says.

Out of nowhere, Paul stands up and leaves. "Where are you going?" I ask.

"There's no food in this part of the building, is there?" Paul says.

Checking under the counter where the espresso machine sits, Jasmine looks up and shakes her head.

"I'll go with you," I say. "I'm kinda feeling hungry too. Anyone else want anything?" A chorus of "No, thanks" rings throughout the room. "Okay then," I say, following Paul out the door.

The lobby remains largely empty as we return to ground level. However, as Paul and I approach a vending machine, I hear the door open. I turn around and see a homeless guy wander in, probably tracking dirt across the marble floor, and immediately make a beeline for the bathroom. It reminds me of something my parents used to say a lot when my siblings and I were younger - that the library was the only place where a homeless guy could go to the bathroom in peace.

Returning my attention to the vending machine, I see a large array of snacks. Most of these are dry and/or salty, like baked Lays or Wheat Thins. My guess is that crackers are deemed less messy than candy because of their less sticky nature. The only sweet food I see is a slot full of Gummi Bear packs. The one in front contains nothing but yellow ones, which amuses me for a second. For some reason, in this dimension (though not in Hell, as I once found out when asking Gabe), there's a persistent urban legend that yellow Gummi Bears are made with weed. When I first heard this (from Mattia, who was a Balthazar freshman at the time), my first reaction was disbelief. Not because I thought it would be boneheaded for candy makers to slip drugs into stuff that's targeted at kids, but because, in my words, "Why wouldn't they put the pot in the green ones? It's the same color!" I learned a lot of stuff I shouldn't have from Mattia - including the fact that marijuana existed, and what it looked like, and what it was supposed to do to you. So bear that in mind, knowing I made that comment at the tender age of ten.

"What are you gonna get?" Paul asks, unfolding a one-dollar bill from his wallet. He tries to enter it into the machine, but with its one bent corner, the bill keeps getting rejected.

"I dunno," I say. I lean against the front of the machine while Paul steps aside, pinching the corner of his dollar to unwrinkle it. Then I pound the Plexiglas lightly with both fists, groaning in frustration. "God, why can't we just be doing normal shit like everyone else in the world?"

"What do you mean?" Paul finally gets the machine to accept his first bill, and it takes another one without complaint.

"Playing sports with our brothers, going on movie dates with girlfriends, that sort of thing."

Paul shrugs. "I know, life's being a bitch to us. But hey, maybe this adventure...it'll be something cool I could tell people in boot camp."

"Yeah. Wait..." I scratch my head. "Did you just say-"

"Boot camp," Paul repeats. "Yeah, I wasn't planning on telling anyone until the last minute, in case you guys all tried to stop me. God knows Aron's done enough of that already."

This is all news to me. Especially since, in the final days of the school year, Balthazar puts up a list of all the seniors' names on the cafeteria wall, grouped by which college or branch of the armed forces they plan on going to. They get that information from a survey issued to all the seniors in January, during the first week back after Christmas break.

"You can check a box on your survey asking them to keep your results confidential," Paul says - he must be listening to my thoughts. "That's what I did, 'cause only my mom and dad knew, and I wanted to keep it that way."

"Why hide it, though?" I ask. "I mean, honestly, I'd have been surprised if you didn't. Go into the military, I mean."

"Really?" Paul presses two buttons on the machine's keypad, summoning a pack of peanut-butter crackers.

"Yeah," I say. "You got that 'man-in-uniform' vibe. You could make a good, uh...no, wait, don't tell me..." I put two fingers to my temple and screw my eyes shut, in the stereotypical gesture used by humans to simulate psychic powers. I don't really need to resort to these theatrics, though, to sense the image Paul's thinking of - a red bumper sticker emblazoned with words written in gold. "Semper Fi." "You're gonna be a Marine, huh?"

"Going to San Diego next month to start training," he says. He takes his crackers, then hands me fifty cents in change.

"Thanks," I say, returning the freshly-regurgitated quarters to the machine's innards. "Wow, that's...that's awesome." I look down at the selection of snacks, add another dollar, then buy a pack of Wheat Thins. "But isn't it kind of a bad time for business?"

"What do you mean?" Paul asks before popping a cracker in his mouth.

"Aren't we supposed to be pulling out of Afghanistan by the end of this year or something?"

"We were supposed to have pulled out, like, ten years ago," Paul says, "and if the Republicans take the White House in the next election, we'll probably still be there this time next decade."

"So I guess you're gonna start voting Republican as soon as you get the chance, huh?"

"God, no," Paul laughs. "Don't you know if you're a Republican before thirty, you've got no soul?"

"Did you got that from SVU?" I ask. I think the first half of that joke goes something along the lines of "If you're a Democrat after thirty, you've got no brain." Or is it "heart?" I'm not exactly 100% sure.

"Yeah," Paul says. "The only way I'd vote Republican is if they have a candidate who's religious, but doesn't use it as an excuse to justify racism, homophobia, etc." He laughs again. "Something I learned in Blanco's AP Gov class, though - typically, the major parties try to pick a presidential candidate who's more moderate, and have a more extreme voice for VP. It's supposed to help appeal to the voters."

"Preston Holly must've lied through his teeth when he was elected president of the Second 'Verse," I say.

"If he was elected at all," Paul says, "instead of declaring himself 'president for life' like some two-bit tin-pot dictator."

We head back to the café stairs. Along the way, I glance over to the door, where there's a pair of men standing like some kind of Secret Service agents. They've got their backs to the door, and their arms folded in front of them. I think they even have earpieces, the kind with squiggly cords running down their necks.

Speaking of necks, one of them suddenly appears to have a lot of sunlight around his, despite the overcast skies. He staggers back as this light appears, then starts clawing at his neck. His partner turns, then is startled by what he sees.

"Something wrong?" Paul asks, his mouth full.

"What the hell is that?" I ask, my voice getting high as I point at the door.

"I dunno what you're - oh my God!"

Whatever's happened to the first guard is now afflicting the second - and this time, we're getting a much better view of it. The light appears again, seemingly spilling from a hole in his neck that wasn't there two seconds ago. Also spilling out of his neck - blood. Lots of it, pouring like a thick red waterfall from a long slit. The guard falls against the window next to the door, then sinks to the ground, leaving a dark stain on the glass.

Five long seconds pass - and then the door opens all by itself.

When the Aqua Killer came to Coldfire Creek, and Alex had helped his victims, he later told me that, after dying, they all had the power of invisibility.

Now, it occurs to me that said ability may not be limited to second-body mortals - scrivs must have it too.

I exchange glances with Paul, then we make a break for it. Instead of running downstairs, however, we go up, into the heart of the library. Hopefully, we can distract our invisible intruder this way.

As we run up the stairs and hear loud footsteps on the lobby floor behind us, I grab my phone and dial Russell's number. "Stay downstairs!" I hiss as soon as he answers. "One of Holly's guys just came into the building!"

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am!"

"What does he look like?"

A goth woman (she bears more than a passing resemblance to Abby Sciuto) lets out a piercing cry as Paul and I nearly run her down on the second-floor landing. He stops to help her up, while I look down in the vain hope of spotting the scriv. "Hell if I know," I whisper. "He's fucking invisible!"

"Find a safe place to hide," Russell says. "I'll take care of this mofo." He hangs up, and two seconds later, he flies into the lobby and catches my eye. "I said hide, goddammit!" he yells at me.

Click. Clack. The killer's trying to be as silent as possible, but I'm pretty sure there's no sneaking up marble steps if you're wearing any kind of shoes. Heat travels down my arm to my hand, and I aim my fire in the direction of that noise. The Abby look-alike gasps, then yells a very un-Abby-like "What the fuck?" as the killer catches fire.

Taking a page from Russell's book, Paul tells the girl to find cover, then runs to my side just as the killer takes wing. His invisibility has worn off, revealing a skintight full-body suit underneath. Black, like Spider-Man after he got infected by the Venom symbiote. (Or something. I still have trouble making sense of Spider-Man 3 sometimes.) His wings, however, are white, confirming my suspicion that he's a light scriv.

He flies past Russell before he can react, then lands in front of the door. The flames have gone out during his short flight - mostly. I still see a few flickers of orange on his shoulders.

"We can't let him get away!" Russell yells, imitating the other scriv and flying down to the door. Paul and I follow him, gliding down to ground level and tearing out the door.

Outside, the scriv has made his way to the grassy plaza across the street, and is busy stopping, dropping, and rolling on the lawn.

"Let's get his name and address so the city can send him the cleanup bill," I say.

As we fly across the street (so we don't have to wait for the traffic to die down), I hear the library doors open again behind us. Jasmine's following us as well.

We all land next to the killer at roughly the same time. He tries to escape, but Paul's too quick for him. A chunk of land, about a foot in diameter, sinks around the killer's feet, then a short column of tightly-packed soil and rock punches out of that hole like a jack-in-the-box, catapulting him three feet off the ground. He lands on his back, wheezing as the wind is knocked out of him.

Russell's the first one to reach his side again. "What were you here for?" he asks.

The killer gasps a couple of times, then says in an accent similar to Jasmine's, "Her."

"What did you want with me?" Jasmine asks, narrowing her eyes.

With a madman's giggle, the killer says, "Daddy's girl pissed him off, and she's gotta face the consequences! But it won't be me bringing you to justice. You'll just have to watch your back." He spreads all the fingers (excluding his thumb) on his right hand as wide as he can, and little blades of light appear at their tips. "By the way," he adds, "we always thought you were a spoiled rotten bitch. Getting a taste of dark meat does that to a girl, I guess. Well, as the humans say, 'Bye, Felicia!'"

He lowers his hand, but Russell grabs his wrist before he can use his signature weapon on his own throat for once. Then, using his own power, he extinguishes the killer's light blades. "Not so fast, Lincoln," he says. "We might have use for you. Alive."

"You know this guy?" I ask, unsure if I should really be surprised.

"He's my brother," Jasmine says, glowering at Lincoln as Russell forces him to his feet. "And he's never quite forgiven me for being Russell's girlfriend. Even if it was in a past life."