by Neill, Chloe
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.”
