Theron had survived the Siege of the Black Ridges. He had stood ground against a rogue coven of necromancers in the subterranean tunnels of the East District. He had once spent three days tracking a shadow-shifter through a blizzard without so much as a heavy coat. He was the Shield of the Mighty Dragon, a man built of iron, instinct, and an almost pathological level of discipline.
But he could not survive his own living room.
He stood in the hallway of his penthouse, his hand hovering over the biometric scanner, trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer, vibrating exhaustion of a man who had reached his limit. From behind the reinforced steel door, he could hear the distinct sound of a 1920s jazz band playing at full volume, despite the fact that he didn't own a record player. Even worse was the smell. A magical cocktail of burning sage, expensive French perfume, and what smelled suspiciously like wet dog.
He took a deep breath, centered his gravity, and swiped his thumb.
