Henry was giving Max trouble about his sword. He couldn't blame her. Even in the sparsely populated coffee shop, it was a wonder nobody had called the police. At least most of the others tried to keep some semblance of a low profile. Concealed firearms, big coats—Finnegan himself had done away with dusty tomes and digitized his own collection of spell books. Add to that the combined knowledge of the Internet, and there was no need to drag books around. A phone and a gun did much these days.

Of course, Finnegan suspected Max was just bloody vain. The sword, his eagerness to ride shotgun, it was right obvious that the lad liked being the leader and acting the part. Maybe a wee bit too much.

Cassandra looked slightly out of it. He gave her arm a light squeeze. "Don't take it personally, love," he murmured to her. "Henry doesn't like anybody much. Hides it behind 'er tough feminist façade. Her bite's not quite as bad as her bark. If you're human, that is."