Someone was sitting on his windowsill. It was practically impossible to see the gray figure in the dim light of an Anunnaki night, but then, Heizhan never needed to see anyone to know they were there.

Surreptitiously palming the small knife he’d secreted in his wrist brace, Heizhan moved noiselessly toward the window. “Who’s there?”

The shadow on the sill shifted; light from the room’s single lamp played across steel gray eyes. Heizhan’s hand tightened on his knife.

“Maboroshi.”

The gray man bowed slightly, still silent, still watching.

“What do you want? It’s three in the morning.”

“Judging by your past … activities, the time shouldn’t bother you,” Maboroshi said in his typical hoarse whisper.

Heizhan glared, feeling the old comforting fizzle of rage start deep in his gut. “What do you want?”

Maboroshi just watched him.

Minutes went by; the rage in Heizhan’s belly spread to the rest of him, burning its way out. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, and hurled the knife with all his might.

The slim blade embedded itself to the hilt in the wall a foot from Maboroshi’s head. The exiled bard never flinched; after a moment, he slid off the sill, removed the knife, and extended it hilt-first to Heizhan. His eyes never left Heizhan’s face.

Heizhan seized Maboroshi’s hand, leaning in close. Blood trickled from between Maboroshi’s fingers, but the gray man simply stood there, without reaction.

“Why did you come here?” Heizhan asked, tightening his grip. He leaned forward so they were practically nose-to-nose.

“To check on something,” Maboroshi replied, sliding his hand out of Heizhan’s grasp. He moved to the window.

“And did I pass your little test?”

Gray eyes locked with Heizhan’s green ones. “More or less.”

Maboroshi vanished into the night, but not before Heizhan noticed him tucking a sharp-edged something up his sleeve.

Absently, Heizhan stuck his knife in his mouth, and stared into the darkness until dawn.