Phin Clarke paused on the porch, bracing his unbound right hand against the weathered wooden rocking chair for balance and a chance to catch his breath. The sling binding his left arm in place took the worst of the strain off the bullet wound in his shoulder, and Silas had assured him it’d heal in no time. It didn’t hurt half as bad as the sheer panic twisting in his gut. In the space of an hour, his whole life had gone to hell. Again. Phin was working overtime to keep the Church off his back, away from the people he’d promised to protect. Just because Timeless was nothing more than a burned-out husk didn’t mean Phin’s responsibility ended. It never occurred to him, not once, that the Church would break all protocol, risk the political backlash, and come after the Clarkes with operatives. Those were lower city shenanigans. Something must have pushed the Holy Order to it. So they’d gotten his mother.
