Last night I’d realized I wasn’t the only one with trust issues. None of the players on Dublin’s board trusted anyone else. I’d made the mistake of assuming—since Barrons had chosen Ryodan to be my backup support—that when I went to see him he would be, well, supportive. Not only wasn’t he, he’d impugned my motives at the deepest level, questioning my fundamental character. He’d made it out like the Book might be after me, drawn by something kindred. I was about as far from evil as the North Pole was from the South. “Throwing stones, my ass,” I muttered. There he’d stood in his glass house,
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