“Go!” Killian roared over the noise. “Service hall, now!”

Aries hauled me to my feet with surprising strength.

My knees buckled, but his hand gripped my upper arm, keeping me upright.

I realized I was still clutching the poisoned shirt, the damp silk crumpled in my fist.

“Keep moving,” Aries said, his eyes narrowed against the smoke.

He looked pale, his jaw clenched tight as he fought the sensory overload of the gunshots.

Another burst of gunfire chipped the plaster of the wall next to my head.

Dust and white powder rained down on my hair.

Aries pulled me toward the back of the living area, where a line of mahogany bookshelves lined the wall.

He reached behind a brass sconce and pulled it downward.

A section of the heavy shelving swung backward with a dull click.

It revealed a narrow, dimly lit concrete corridor.

“Inside,” Aries commanded, pushing me ahead of him.

I stumbled into the dark passage, the smell of damp concrete replacing the scent of gunpowder.

Behind us, Killian fired three rapid shots, then backed into the doorway.