Wild Things

Chapter Sixteen THIS MAGIC MOMENT

The sun set again, and I awoke on the floor beside the fire, curled into a ball with the crook of my elbow as a pillow, the fireplace still crackling, the empty bottle beside me. I sat up and stretched, working out the kinks of spending ten hours asleep on a hardwood floor, then flipped off the fire and put the bottle on the tray the kitchen staff would eventually collect.

“Another night in paradise,” I mused, and turned to the shower.

As part of the miracle that was Cadogan House, I found my leathers clean and shiny and ready to wear again. I dressed for war, belting on my katana, my hair in a ponytail, and the new Cadogan pendant around my neck. It felt differently than the last one had, the medal colder and thicker. But no less meaningful, and I was glad the tradition was under way again.

Now that I was back in Chicago and back on the clock, I grabbed my phone, texted Jonah. ALL WELL AT GREY HOUSE?

SO FAR, SO GOOD. MORGAN ON A TEAR ABOUT NAVARRE RAID.

That thought actually made me smile. Although Navarre was the origin of most of our troubles, the House rarely had to deal with the unpleasant consequences. Maybe now Morgan would appreciate the spot Celina had put us in all those months ago by announcing our existence to the world.

WORD ON ETHAN? he asked.

NOT YET. I’M ABOUT TO HEAD DOWNSTAIRS. ALSO GOING TO VISIT GRANDFATHER. MAY NEED YOU ON MISSING SUP CASE.

ROGER, Jonah responded. KEEP ME POSTED.

Taking Luc’s advice, I called the hospital, confirmed visiting hours, and prepared to head out. But I had two quick stops to make before I left.

The first was to the Ops Room. It seemed only fair that I’d check in with Luc before leaving campus, even though he’d given me permission the night before.

I made my way downstairs, and Helen stopped me on the first floor, a scrap of paper in hand. She extended it with perfectly manicured fingers, a silver charm bracelet dangling from her wrist.

“What’s this?” I wondered.

“Your garage code,” she said, smiling mirthlessly. I guessed she wasn’t thrilled that a peon so far down the chain of command had won access to the garage. Helen was adept and capable at her job. But she was the growly sort, and she had very specific opinions about who deserved the spoils of Cadogan House . . . and who did not.

But I wasn’t going to look a gift Helen in the mouth. I glanced at the code, memorized the numbers, and tucked the paper into my pocket.

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

She grumbled something about “waiting list” but headed down the hallway at a brisk clip.

I walked downstairs to the Ops Room, found Lindsey, Luc, and Kelley, another permanent House guard, at the conference table. Juliet, the last of the permanent guard crew, was gone, still taking it easy after her run-in with McKetrick.

The television wasn’t on, but the mood was as grim as it had been in the parlor last night.

My stomach flipped. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing in particular, Sentinel. Just the usual bullshit. City’s on our case. Shifters are on our case. GP’s on our case. I’m knee-deep in complaints and I’m running out of fucks to give.”

I glanced at Lindsey.

“That’s not from Die Hard,” she said. “He’s just improvising.”

I smiled, took a seat at the table.

“Why are you so chipper this morning?” Luc asked.

“Oh, I’m not. But I had my first day of sleep in three days without sups pounding on my door or alarms ringing me awake. It made a nice change. Did you see Ethan’s bruise last night?”

“On his cheek? Yeah,” Luc said. “Wasn’t thrilled with it, but he’s in Andrew’s hands now.” He smiled. “I’ve seen him in action. And trust me—Law & Order has nothing on this guy. I will guarantee you he’s making a note of every time Kowalcyzk’s people so much as look at Ethan the wrong way. And he’ll nail them for it.”

“He might have a long list by the time Ethan gets released. Did he give you an update on when that might be?”

“He did not. Said they put him in the dark room during the day, but they kept him up after sunrise and roused him before the sun set again. Rendition tactics—they’re trying to make him slip up, change his story, give them some doubt to pin an arraignment on.”

Grim as that sounded, it made me smile. As Luc had noted yesterday, there were few as stubborn as Ethan Sullivan. And while he did his unenviable job as Master, I had to do mine.

“Do we have anything on the carnival?”

“Nothing else so far.” He took in my zipped-up jacket, my belted sword. “You going to the hospital?”

“I am. I have my phone if you need me. And I checked in with Jonah—he said things are calm at Grey and Navarre, all things considered.”

Luc nodded. “So we have a momentary lull, at least until we come up with something.”

I took that as a dismissal. “Do me a solid,” I said, heading for the door. “Find me a carnival.”

• • •

The amount of grinning I did at the basement door as I typed in my code, heard the hearty click of the tumblers shifting, was probably inappropriate. But I was from Chicago, and I had not only an off-street parking spot, but a heated, indoor parking spot. It was a luxury few of us even bothered to imagine. Like Moneypenny, it was another silver lining from the rioters’ beating of my poor, departed Volvo.

Moneypenny sat, sleek and silver, in her appointed spot. The “Visitor” designation had been painted over, and “Sentinel” stenciled over the white rectangle in vibrant blue.

“This does not suck,” I murmured, and pulled Moneypenny into the cold Chicago night.

The Ops Room had been my first stop en route to visit my grandfather, but I had one more errand before heading south. My grandfather had a sweet tooth and a favorite cookie, and I could only imagine that the food he was served by the hospital didn’t offer much in the way of sugary treats. I grabbed a bag of Oreos from a quick shop along the way and drove to the south side hospital where he was being treated.

I was half surprised my father hadn’t yet transferred my grandfather to their home in Oak Park, the neighborhood where my parents lived. That’s where he’d recuperate when he was discharged. But they hadn’t moved him yet, so I pulled into a visitor’s spot in the garage and followed the stream of families with balloons and flowers into the hospital.

The hospital smelled the same as it had when he’d been admitted a few days ago: like disinfectants and flowers.

My grandfather was muttering when I stepped into the doorway, a remote control in his hand, his eyes on the small television that hung on the opposite wall. He looked like I expected many grandfathers did—caterpillar eyebrows and a halo of hair that didn’t quite cover the bald spot on the top of his head. He usually preferred plaid shirts and thickly soled shoes, but tonight he wore a blue hospital gown.

At the sound of my knock, he glanced up and smiled, then held out his arms. “Come on over, rover.”

I did, offering him a gentle hug. “I’m glad to see you’re up and awake.”

“Awake, anyways,” he said. “Up’s going to take a little longer. My gams aren’t going to be the same.”

I nodded. “Probably no stilettos for you for a while. But you’ll manage.”

“I will,” he agreed.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, atop white sheets, and put a hand over his. His skin was thin and bruised, although I wasn’t sure if that was from his injuries or the tubes and wires that still ran from his body to machines at his sides.

“I brought a present.” I presented the bag of Oreos and loved the sudden, wide pitch of his eyes.

He slid open the drawer on the nightstand beside the bed. “Hide ’em,” he said at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. “Nurse’ll be in here to check in, in a few minutes.”

Sure enough, a nurse peeked in—ponytailed, fresh faced, and wearing blue scrubs.

“You all right, Chuck?”

“Good, Stella. Thanks,” he said, with a little wave.

She smiled and wandered off, and my grandfather sighed.

“She seems nice,” I offered.

“They’re all nice. But they’re nice constantly. Every hour when they check in, every time they open the door in the middle of the night and let the light in. And I’m a cop. Former, maybe, but still a cop. I don’t need to be checked on like a child.” His tone was growly and irritable, and it made me feel infinitely better. Growly and irritable seemed like a stop on the journey toward healing.

“I’m looking forward to a night’s sleep in a dark and quiet room.”

Noise erupted from the television set, drawing our gazes.

“News,” he said. “I was hoping to catch the Blackhawks score.”

I didn’t know much about hockey; the only time I’d been to a game was when Grandpa had gotten tickets from the family of a grateful citizen. He’d been a fan ever since.

“Did they win?” I asked.

He used the bedside remote to turn the volume down. “Not even close. Three to one.”

That seemed close enough for me, but hockey was its own weird world, and I didn’t feel qualified to point out the difference.

“How are you feeling?”

“Today, a little achy.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you need something for the pain? I could call Stella.”

He gestured to the electronic drip at the side of the bed. “Got it,” he said. “But I don’t like to use it. Dulls the mind.”

And a cop, former or otherwise, would not want a dulled mind.

“How long are you going to have to stay here?”

“Doc thinks forty-eight more hours. They want to make sure everything’s in the right place—and going to stay there—before they send me to Oak Park. Your father has hired a slew of nurses and doctors.”

“You sound resigned,” I said with a smile.

“They’re being very generous,” my grandfather said, very diplomatically. He might not have agreed with the decisions my father had made, but he wasn’t much for criticizing.

“Have you thought about where you’ll live when you’re up and running again? Will you stay on the south side?”

Chicago wasn’t a city without problems or violence, and the south side bore much of the weight of those issues. As a cop, Grandpa decided the south side needed him more than the north, so that’s where he and my grandmother had made their home. That was undoubtedly part of the reason for my father’s lifetime quest for money and power.

“I haven’t quite gotten that far,” he said. “Although I’m thinking I’m done with stairs for a bit.” He put a hand on mine. “Catcher told me about Ethan. How are you?”

“I’ve been better.”

He nodded. “You’ve been dealing with a lot lately. The riots, now the mayor. I didn’t think she’d actually resort to violence. If I didn’t think another demonically possessed mayor was seriously unlikely, I’d say she was under the control of darker forces.”

“Yeah. It was odd enough when the first mayor split into two. I’m not sure she’s got enough brains to make two.”

“I wish there was something I could do. A call I can make. But she’s pulled this one away from the police department, probably because she knows they have sense and pay attention to rules of evidence. But these terrorism folks?” He shook his head. “They have to justify their existence. Vampires are a new threat? Great. They now have a basis to request a budget for next year.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of pieces to play in this one. We can’t use magic against her. She’ll just call us enemies of the state, and we’ll never see the light of day again. Figuratively,” I added. We already were biologically barred.

“You could always ask your father,” my grandfather carefully said, which earned him a look.

I certainly could ask my father to put in a word, to use his significant capital to convince Kowalcyzk to back off. I was sure it wouldn’t be the first time a bribe was offered or taken in Chicago. But I didn’t trust my father’s motives, and I certainly wouldn’t want to owe him a debt.

But my father was still my grandfather’s son, and I actually respected him. So I answered politely. “I don’t think that’s the best option.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” my grandfather said. “I don’t really care to be in here when this city is falling down around us.”

Unfortunately, being out there wasn’t proving all that helpful, either.

“Is it time for you to think about slowing down?” I asked the question out of obligation, even though I knew the answer—and predicted the flatness of his expression.

“Caroline Merit. You know better than that. I’m a cop. Always was, always will be.” He looked down at his blanket-covered legs. “And it’s going to take more than a bump to make daytime television look good by comparison. Especially when you’re out there. You’re still mine to protect, baby girl.”

I leaned over, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I love you, Grandpa.”

“I love you, too, Merit. And now that you’ve cleared your conscience,” he said with a grin, “what did you really want to talk about?”

I smiled. He read me better than nearly anyone. “Aline and Niera,” I said, and he nodded.

The librarian and Paige had given him the details. So when he nodded, I gave him an update, telling him about Regan’s involvement, the other disappearances, and the magical attacks.

“We haven’t been able to find her or the carnival.”

“You think there’s a link between her and Dominic Tate?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t really fit what we know about the Messengers and the breakup of the Maleficium.”

He looked at me for a moment. “You’re thinking about finding Tate.”

I blushed. I hadn’t actually considered it as a tactic—why invite trouble?—but I was running out of options. Chicago’s vampires were potential targets, and the longer it took to find Niera, the higher the risk the elves would consider the truce breached. And that was unacceptable to me.

“It’s an idea,” I admitted. “He’d know better than anyone what she is—and how to stop her. What do you think?”

He whistled. “His history was, as you know, inconsistent. I know he’s fashioned himself as a different man after the Maleficium. Do you believe him?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know Seth Tate, and I knew Dominic Tate. Seth was a different man after the split. Not just personality-wise. He’s still a politician,” I said with a smile. “But magically. Psychically, I guess. You could tell he was different. And he’s the key to this. I’m just not sure how.”

“Sometimes you have to follow your gut.” He smiled a little. “And in this particular case, I’d check with chain of command. Follow your gut, but cover your ass.”

Advice didn’t get any better than that.

• • •

I didn’t want to end on such a dark note, so I turned the conversation to something lighter and we chatted a little while longer, sneaking Oreos from the drawer after ensuring the coast—and hallway—was clear. We apparently hadn’t been in Loring Park long enough to miss any important family events. My brother’s wife was still very pregnant, and my father still had money coming out of his ears.

Supernatural events were slightly more interesting. Four of the city’s petite and busty River nymphs had visited my grandfather, bringing jars of “healing” River water that were confiscated and emptied by my grandfather’s nurses—and bringing a fight over which segment of the River had the most beautiful architecture. Apparently there wasn’t much to do during the frozen winter months.

When my grandfather yawned and barely managed to hide it, I decided it was time to go. I gave him a kiss, left the rest of the embargoed cookies in the drawer, and promised to keep him updated if anything interesting happened.

• • •

Traffic was an ugly snarl, and Moneypenny and I practically crawled our way north again. The House was quiet when I walked in, the energy tense and subdued. I’d have expected to get a call if Ethan had been released, but the tension in the air was sign enough.

I found Luc, Lindsey, Brody, and Kelley around the table in the Ops Room. Kelley twirled a lock of her straight black hair while staring at the overhead screen, which was once again tuned to an all-news channel.

What would it have been like, I wondered, to have been a vampire in an age before the Internet, twenty-four-hour news channels, social media, text messages? Before technology provided a constant assault of drama, bad news, and Things You Should Be Worrying About.

Tonight, the news showed Diane Kowalcyzk posing in front of a poster propped on an easel. Shots of Ethan, Scott, Morgan, the Masters of the three Chicago Houses, were pictured beneath a headline that read ENEMIES OF CHICAGO?

The question mark, probably the brainchild of some lawyer who thought it would protect the city against a libel charge, was laughable. Who’d see the photographs, read the headline, and think she was posing a question?

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Luc said, pushing back from the table with enough force to rattle the entire twelve feet of it.

“She’s made a Wanted poster,” Lindsey said, eyes wide as she stared at the screen. “People will want his blood. All of their blood.”

“Kelley, get in touch with Jonah and Will,” Luc ordered, eyes still on the screen. “Make sure they’re seeing this.” Kelley nodded, plucked up her phone from the table, started dialing.

“We have to do something,” Lindsey said, looking back at Luc with obvious fear in her eyes. “We can’t just let this go on.”

“We are doing something,” Luc said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “We’ve hired lawyers, and we’ve connected with reporters. That’s what we can do right now.”

“The lawyers and reporters aren’t helping,” I said. “We can’t leave him in there. He’s an enemy of the state and he’s surrounded by law enforcement officers and felons.”

“And what, exactly, would you like me to do, Merit? Beg the mayor to release your boyfriend because you’re afraid for him?”

I flinched from the heat of his words; Luc wiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Unfortunately, you’re right. They think he’s an enemy of the state; there’s no begging we can do that will release him.”

“What about your father?” Brody asked me, drawing groans from the rest of the room.

“Not an option,” Luc said. “So don’t even consider it.” He blew out a breath, ran his hands through his hair. “We have to let Andrew do his job.” But he sounded just as frustrated as I felt.

I put my head on my folded arms. “Why does my father have to be such an asshole?”

“Because we all have our burdens to bear. And if you’re even thinking about making that call,” Luc said, pointing a warning finger at me, “put that thought out of your head immediately. Ethan would lose his shit if he thought you asked your father for help.”

“I know,” I said, lifting my head. “And I know I can’t run in there with a sword or two. But I sure would like to.” I thought of what my grandfather had said about magic, about the darker forces that had affected the last mayor. “Maybe she’s got her own Dominic. A little evil twin who lives in her helmet hair and makes her do evil, dirty things.”

Luc laughed. “That is both perfectly absurd and perfectly appropriate.”

Speaking of evil twins, it was time to offer up the plan I’d been considering.

“I’d like to find Seth Tate.”

He just stared at me. “Sentinel, have you lost your damn mind?”

“No,” I said, and since the tone didn’t sound convincing, I said it again with feeling. “No. I have not lost my mind, damned or otherwise. Look—Regan’s either a Messenger or she’s got a connection to Dominic Tate. Either way, Seth’s the only person we can ask about it. He can help us identify her—and tell us how to take her down.

“And, while I’m there, maybe I can talk to him about the mayor. Maybe he has an idea about how we can bring her around.”

That, he looked interested in.

“I don’t think he’s dangerous,” I offered. “Before he left, he told us he was looking for contrition. He sounded earnest and Ethan trusted him.”

“Respectfully, Sentinel, Ethan isn’t here, and I’m not one to invite trouble while he’s gone. Tate’s demonic half was stripped from his body, so sure, he shouldn’t be evil. But he’s still powerful. And we can’t exactly account for that.”

“Actually, I think she’d be okay,” Lindsey said. “Seth Tate has the hots for her.”

“He does not,” I protested, but I could feel the burn skimming up my cheeks. We had a history, yes, but it wasn’t romantic. At least not from my end.

“All right,” I said. “So you all think this is a bad idea.”

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. It’s at least one or two up from the very bottom.” He scratched his head. “But I’m not thrilled about sending you to play with Seth Tate while Ethan’s incarcerated.”

“Ethan will live.”

“Easy for you to say. If you’re hurt, he’ll come after me.”

“Seth is our best option to figure out what Regan is—how she exists.”

Luc’s jaw worked. “Even if I said yes, you still have to find him.”

“Actually,” I said, “I have an idea about that.”

“He may not want to come back.”

“He probably won’t want to. It’s my job to convince him.”

Luc’s phone began to ring, and he glanced at the screen. “It’s Jonah. Grey’s seen the ad.” He lifted it to his ear, glanced at me. “Find him first. Then we’ll talk.”

• • •

I called Mallory first to confirm her location. She was still in Wicker Park, didn’t plan to head back to Little Red until Gabe returned to the city.

I didn’t show up empty-handed. Just as Mallory had brought me raspberry donuts, I showed up with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, which had been legal tender for much of our relationship.

Catcher opened the door, looked down at the goods and then up at me again. “I suppose you’re friends again?”

Normally, he’d have accompanied that statement with a solid dose of sarcasm. But this time, there was a kind of softness. Hope, instead of derision.

“I think we’re trying,” I said. “She said she was here?”

“In the basement.”

That made me cringe a bit, and then immediately regret it. The basement was where she’d “studied” for her magical exams—and where she’d prepared the magic that led her to Nebraska.

Once again, Catcher’s smile was understanding. Maybe he was evolving, too. “Checks and balances,” he said. “I’ve warded the basement, and alarms go off if the magic she works reaches a certain threshold. I’ve also put a baby monitor down there.”

He must have seen the shock on my face, as he snorted gleefully. “She’s not pregnant. It helps me keep track when I’m busy.”

I peeked into the living room, saw a half-empty bowl of cashews and a bottle of 312 on the coffee table, and a Lifetime movie on the television.

“Busy?” I asked.

He smiled lazily. “We all have our hobbies. Now, come in or not. You’re letting in the cold air.”

Catcher Bell. Twenty-nine going on sixty-five.

I walked inside, and Catcher closed the door behind me and immediately went for the couch. I moved through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, where the basement door was located. I stuck the ice cream in the freezer and headed downstairs.

And then I goggled.

What before could have been the setting for a horror movie—all dark corners, cobwebs, jars of questionable substances, and magical miscellany—had become Martha Stewart’s own bright and shiny craft studio. The walls has been painted cheery white, and the floor had been covered in long planks of honey-gold wood. The ceiling had been finished, and recessed lighting installed. The space was now lined with white cabinets and bookshelves, and the bookshelves were lined with matching glass jars with hanging labels. Foxglove, wolfsbane, St.-John’s-wort, and hundreds of others.

In the middle of the room there was a giant white island, the countertop balanced on shelves covered in old-fashioned books. Mal, wearing a T-shirt and long, feathered earrings, her hair in a messy blue bun, sat on a stool behind the island, crushing something green and fragrant with a marble mortar and pestle that rested beside the baby monitor Catcher mentioned. Mal smiled and whistled as she worked, earbuds in her ears, occasionally glancing at a sleek tablet while she mixed ingredients. It was very suburban, which wasn’t a term I associated with Mallory. And yet, somehow, it seemed to suit her perfectly.

Finally realizing she wasn’t alone, she glanced up and pulled the earbuds from her ears, dusting her hands on a gingham apron tied around her waist.

“Hey,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to the new abode.”

I twirled a hand in the air to indicate the space. “What the hell happened down here?”

“Catcher happened,” she said conspiratorially. “He didn’t feel like he’d done a very good job mentoring me during, you know, the unfortunate period. So he did this. Isn’t it phenomenal?”

“It’s astounding. It looks like a completely different place.”

“I think that was the point. Clean beginnings and all that. But that’s not even the best part.” She rose and leaned over the table, picking up a clipboard that had been decoupaged with magazine clippings. A piece of paper was stuck beneath the aluminum clip. “Good deeds,” read the title, with bullet points for a list not yet filled in.

“Good deeds?” I asked.

“It’s my to-do list,” she said. “It was Tanya’s suggestion, actually. That I learn to use magic—this time for real—with a charitable aim.”

I had a momentary stab of jealousy that Mallory and Tanya had become friends. Not that I begrudged her friendships, or the empathy that undoubtedly came with her exposing herself to other supernaturals in the world. I guess I was, as Ethan often accused, more human than most.

“What kind of good deeds?”

She put the clipboard back on the table. “That’s what we’re currently trying to figure out. I’m thinking I’m going to offer my services up to Chuck when he’s one hundred percent. Maybe the nymphs could use help? Or the River trolls? I don’t know. This is all very early in the planning stage. The point is, though, if I have this power, I should be doing something with it. Something good.” She shrugged. “We just have to work out the mechanics.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” I said. “Let me know how I can help.”

She smiled. “I had this sudden memory of that yard sale you offered to help with a few years ago.”

“What you call a ‘yard sale’ was two ponchos and a pair of worn Birkenstocks from your hippie phase.”

“And a Bob Marley rug.”

“And a Bob Marley rug,” I allowed with a grin. “You didn’t need my help. Besides, you had your crusty boyfriend. What was his name?”

“Akron.”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “Right! Akron, named because he considered Akron the jewel of American cities.”

“Fun as this walk down memory lane is, it’s not why you’re here,” she said, smiling curiously. “You said something about a favor?”

“I did. I need to find someone. Magically.”

She frowned. “We talked about that. Decided it wouldn’t work for Regan or Aline.”

“I know. But I think the—what did you call it? magical signature?—will be different here. I have something you can use. Something good, I think.”

I pulled the velvet pouch from my pocket and emptied it onto the table. The gold glinted in the light, and Mallory’s smile slowly faded.

Silently, she looked at the medal for a moment, as if she could sense its magic and it scared her. I immediately regretted that I’d brought it. I reached out a hand to snatch it up again, but she shook her head.

“I just need to get Catcher.”

The baby monitor crackled. “I’m on my way,” he said. Seconds later, he trotted down the basement stairs. He really was paying attention.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking back and forth at us in search of the trouble he expected had brought him downstairs.

Mallory pointed to the medal. Catcher looked momentarily confused, but the magical signature must have been enough for him, too, to understand the gist. He looked at Mallory, then at me.

“Why is Tate’s magic all over this?”

“When he was imprisoned, I gave him my medal—used it to pay for information. He didn’t give it back until he left. By then, I’d already gotten a new House medal. And when we left the GP and turned our medals in, I kept this one. I just had a feeling about it.” I looked at both of them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would have that much magic left in it.”

“It doesn’t have much,” Catcher said. “Just memories, yes?” he asked, turning to Mallory.

She blew out a breath, clearly trying to compose herself, then nodded. “Memories. Very clear ones. Very”—she rubbed her hands over her arms, where goose bumps had lifted—“tangible memories.”

“And why is it here?” he asked me.

“Merit wants to find him,” Mallory said. “Although we hadn’t gotten to the why of it.”

“He’s our best bet to learn about Regan—to figure out what she is and what to do with her. And I was also hoping he might be able to talk some sense into Mayor Kowalcyzk.”

“You think he’ll play along?” Catcher asked.

I shrugged. “He was contrite when he left. Wanted to redeem himself. I’m hoping he still does and that he’ll consider this a favor to the city of Chicago. And me.”

“Do you really think he’d be able to change her mind?” Catcher asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But Ethan’s not exactly accessible. And even if we wanted to owe my father, I don’t think Kowalcyzk would roll over for a bribe. Not when she thinks she’s making political hay. I can’t fight him out, or the city will destroy us. As long as she calls him an enemy of the state, the evidence is irrelevant. And God knows she isn’t going to listen to me. I was hoping she’d listen to Tate.”

Catcher looked back at the medal, blinked. “It’s not a horrible idea.”

For the first time, I felt a sliver of hope. “I can take ‘not horrible.’ But not if it will hurt either one of you or endanger Mal’s recovery. He’s alive.” I looked at her. “I won’t trade his life for yours. If you can’t safely do this, then you don’t do it. The risk isn’t worth it.”

She looked at me for a long time, then Catcher.

“Your call,” he said. “These decisions have to be yours.”

She nodded, then put her hands flat on the table on either side of the medal and looked down, her eyes scanning back and forth as if she was reading a magical text. And maybe she was.

“Both of them are in there. A bit of Seth, a bit of Dominic.” She looked at me. “He sees you as his, in a way.”

I started. “He—what?”

She looked up. “Seth, not Dominic. He’s been part of your life for a very long time, and that’s meaningful to him.”

“Like, romantically?”

“No, Mary Sue. Not romantically. You’re just . . . there. Like an achievement, maybe because he was searching for something. Fame. Power. Popularity. In reality, of course, he probably wanted to rid himself of the parasitic demon that he didn’t know was attached to his soul. But, you know, details.”

“You got all that from my medal?”

She gestured offhandedly toward it. “It’s a piece of jewelry, not a memoir. But I can get a little. The issue will be the mechanism. We’ll have to link the medal to a map if we want to get anywhere with this.”

She spun on the stool and looked at Catcher, arms crossed. “What do you think? Compass in water? Map on a dart board? Google Maps?”

Catcher’s eyes shined. “Damn, I love it when you talk shop.”

“Especially when destroying the world isn’t the side dish,” Mallory murmured.

“That helps,” Catcher admitted.

• • •

They decided on their tools, and Catcher cleaned off the table while Mallory prepared the magic and the spell.

It was both more and less complex than I’d imagined it would be.

Less, because it involved such mundane materials. A map of the U.S. torn from a road atlas, the front cover of which bore a smiling insurance agent with perfectly coiffed brown hair. A large glass baking dish of water, which held a sliver of cork, the House medal stuck to the top with a thin sewing needle. The map was submerged in the water, the make-do magical compass bobbing above it.

Humble materials, but the magic was profound.

When her station was prepared, Mallory stretched and shook out her wrists and arms, rolled her shoulders like a swimmer preparing for a sprint. She was surprisingly calm, her movements reverential. Instead of making her anxious or manic, the preparations seemed to soothe her. Her hands, once chapped from the aftereffects of black magic, looked healthy again, although they were still marked by faint, crisscrossing lines from the damage she’d already done.

She looked up at me, smiled. “It’s different now. I mean, not the magic per se. But the preparations. They remind me why I’m doing what I’m doing, force me to calm myself, to approach it logically.”

I smiled a little. “Kind of like doing dishes?”

She chuckled. “Exactly like doing dishes. The North American Central Pack isn’t perfect, any more than the Keenes are perfect. But they know magic. A healthy kind of magic. A useful kind of magic. I couldn’t have gotten better without him. Not really.”

“This will be kind of like dousing,” Mallory said. “Water witching. Except we aren’t looking for water. We’re looking through it.”

She pulled her legs up, sitting cross-legged on a stool too small for it, which made her look a little like she was floating like a meditating yogi. She put her hands flat on the table and looked down at the water and the cork that bobbed inside it.

“And away we go,” she quietly said.

The buildup was so slow, so smooth, that I didn’t realize she’d begun spooling magic until the other objects on the table began to vibrate. The room had warmed, just a bit, not uncomfortably, but like I’d just moved a little closer to a roaring fire on a chilly day. I didn’t know I’d be able to tell the difference, but this was obviously good magic. There was no uncomfortable edge, no angry itch. It was calmer. Smoother, rippling the air in smooth waves that rolled across us instead of crashing into us like Mallory’s magic had once done.

By the expression on Catcher’s face, he was feeling it, too. He generally had three moods—bleak, pissed, and sardonic. (He might have been three of Snow White’s rejected dwarves.) But here, in this rehabbed basement with his rehabbed girlfriend, he actually looked . . . content. Proud and thoughtful, a little bit smitten, and generally satisfied with his lot.

Good for him. And her. They could use a little smitten and content.

Mallory drew the magic to a crescendo and pointed her index finger at my House medal. A blue spark sizzled from her finger to the cork. The medal heated, the edges glowing orange at first, then heating to white-hot, the metal warm enough to boil the water around it. The cork shivered and began to spin, whirling like a top in the middle of the water, then zigging across the surface like a bug, back and forth as it tried to find its target.

“Go on,” Mallory whispered encouragingly. As if in answer, like a child itching to please its mother, it dove and disappeared.

As fast as it had begun, the magic dissipated again.

“That’s a good girl,” Mallory said, standing to peer over the water.

“Did it work?” I asked, stepping carefully closer.

“It picked a spot,” Mallory said, wincing as she dipped her fingers into the edges of the dish.

“Hot, hot, hot,” she murmured, almost to herself, carefully lifting the map from the bottom of the dish.

The cork, still quivering, was neatly pinned to the near center of the map. Mallory let the rest of the water drain, then placed the map on the table.

Catcher stepped forward, peered over Mallory’s shoulder. “Portville, Indiana,” he said. “I guess that’s where you’ll find your man.”