Xavier's muscles coiled like a spring under tension. The guards expected him to lunge at Haverford, to play the role of the desperate hero making one final, futile charge. Their positioning screamed it—bodies angled to intercept, weight shifted forward on the balls of their feet, ready to tackle him before he could reach their master.
Instead, Xavier dove sideways toward the stone plinth.
The journal. Torval's research. The only proof of what had been done to seven children, the only evidence that might convince someone—anyone—to help them. His fingers closed around the leather binding just as the nearest guard realized his mistake and pivoted, sword whistling through empty air where Xavier's head had been a heartbeat before.
