The fire burned on the warehouse roof as the last of the night gave way to early morning grey.
Victor stood beside it with his arms crossed, watching the smoke rise and waiting for what he knew was coming. The city below was quiet at this hour, not the comfortable quiet of safety but the particular stillness of a place that had learned to hold its breath.
They arrived within twenty minutes.
Four figures dropped onto the warehouse roof from the surrounding buildings with the practised efficiency of people who had done this many times before.
The necromancer came last, stepping out of the shadows at the roof's edge with the same pleasant expression he'd worn at Central Station, dark green eyes catching the firelight as he surveyed the rooftop.
He looked at Victor, then at the fire, then back at Victor with the expression of someone who had expected this and found it mildly interesting nonetheless.
