Hands of Flame (2008)
“She’d never thought of herself as a good scream queen, but that opinion was fast formulating. “Grace. God. How’d you get here so fast? How’d you know I was here?”
“Grace has her ways.” The blond woman came out of the darkness, bleached hair all but glowing in contrast to the black leather she wore. “Looking for Korund, are you?”
“I—What?” Margrit straightened, hope searing hot enough to take her breath. “Do you know where he is? Is he all right?”
“Depends on how you define ‘all right.’ I know where he is, sure enough.” Grace’s accent swam across the Atlantic, burrowing into what sounded like North London to Margrit’s ear, but she’d never been able to pin the vigilante woman’s origin. Transatlantic, but beyond that, her rash mix of dropped letters and sentence structures came from all over the British Isles. Margrit doubted she’d answer if asked directly. “But he says you were there this morning.”
“Biali chained him.” Strain made Margrit’s answer rough.
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