The room took a second to process the sentence.
Then Castor Helling, the fat man with the chicken, opened his mouth —
"What? What does that—"
Three of them disappeared.
Not 'died.' Not 'fell.'
Disappeared in the , immediate, non-theatrical way that Viktor's ability had been operating since the morning — the three gang leaders who controlled the mines, the forged-document trade, and the grain hoarding converting, without warning, without sound, without drama, into the fine, dispersed, crimson mist that hung in the air for one moment and then was simply gone.
The chairs they'd been sitting in were empty.
The air where they'd been was slightly warm.
Nothing else.
The two women on Dagger Lom's chains began screaming.
