Twist was huddled in the shelter of a massive shipping crate. At first, Glover thought that the American runner had been wounded, but he realized that Twist was concentrating. His breathing was deep, almost trancelike. When he had first seen the odd knots in the fringes of Twist’s jacket, Glover had thought them merely superstitious claptrap, the sort of charms to ward off evil that so many mundanes thought were effective. Perhaps they signified something more. Twist’s shooting had been quite accurate. Was he some sort of warrior adept? Glover hadn’t thought that such adepts could focus their energies to improve their ability with projectile weapons, but he didn’t know everything about magic. Who could?