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manhandled you that night out on Merton Road.”
    “Wasn’t like I had a lot of options that night.”
    “Most people freeze when they face serious violence. They can’t function. You were fighting.”
    “And losing,” she pointed out dryly.
    “But you weren’t going down without a fight. That’s what counts. That’s why I agreed to take you into the Preserve that night. Figured you were owed that much after what you’d gone through.”
    “Oh,” she said. “I was scared to death that night, you know.”
    “It was the logical response to the situation.”
    There was a muffled clunk from the far side of the shop. Charlotte heard a faint, ominous buzzing noise. She realized that she could no longer see Rex.
    “Your dust bunny,” she yelped. Alarmed, she rushed out from behind the counter. “Where is he? What’s he doing?”
    “Rex is not my dust bunny. We’re buddies, that’s all.”
    “Yeah, yeah, I understand. That’s not the point. The point is that you are responsible for him while he is in this shop. Now where is he?”
    “He may have gone behind that fancy little table with the mirror.”
    The buzzing sound continued. Charlotte heard more thumps and thuds.
    “That dressing table is a genuine First Century Pre–Era of Discord piece,” she snapped. She hurried across the room to the exquisitely inlaid dressing table. “It was designed by Fenwick LeMasters, himself. The inlays are green amber and obsidian. The mirror and frame are original, for goodness’ sake.”
    “Who is Fenwick LeMasters?”
    “Just one of the finest furniture craftsman of his time. Also a very powerful talent who could work green amber. Collectors pay thousands for his pieces. Oh, never mind.”
    She peered over the top of the dressing table and saw Rex. The dust bunny had trapped a vintage action figure in the corner between a First Generation cabinet that reeked of the old-Earth para-antiquities it had once contained and a Second Generation floor lamp. Rex was batting the toy unmercifully with his paw as if tormenting a mouse or some other prey. The foot-high plastic figure wore long, flowing plastic robes marked with alchemical signs. The toy was armed with a small, fist-sized crystal.
    The unprovoked assault had activated whatever energy was left in the old, run-down amber battery inside the figure. The action doll repeatedly raised and lowered one arm as though to ward off Rex. The buzzing noise came from the odd little crystal weapon. Each time the arm shifted, the toy weapon flashed and sparked with weak, violet-hued light.
    “Stop that,” Charlotte said to Rex. “Sylvester is a very valuable collectible. Fewer than five hundred of them were made.”
    Rex ignored her. He took another swipe at the figure.
    She started to reach down to retrieve the action figure but common sense made her hesitate. Dust bunnies could be dangerous when provoked.
    She rounded on Slade, instead. “Do something about Rex. I’m serious. That figure is worth at least a thousand dollars to certain Arcane collectors.”
    Slade came to stand beside her. He looked down at Rex and the hapless Sylvester doll.
    “That’s enough, Rex,” Slade said quietly. “You don’t want to mess with Sylvester Jones. According to the legends the old bastard could take care of himself.”
    To Charlotte’s relief Rex stopped batting the figure. He sat back on his rear legs and fixed Slade with what Charlotte concluded was the dust bunny equivalent of a disgusted eye-roll. He sauntered off to investigate a pile of vintage stuffed animals.
    “Whew.” Charlotte scooped up the action figure and examined it closely. “Luckily I don’t think he did any damage.”
    Slade looked at the toy. “Never saw one of those. When were they made?”
    “About thirty years ago. The designer was Arcane, obviously. Most of the customers who bought the original Sylvester Jones action figures for their kids assumed the character was supposed to be an Old World sorcerer.