“It’s about damn time.”
Everyone just looked at me.
“Sorcha,” I explained. “She’s too egotistical to walk away, to be cool about what she would have seen as a humiliating defeat. That’s not how she operates. This was inevitable. At least now we won’t have to wonder when it’s going to happen.”
I looked around at all of them, saw the flash of acknowledgment in their eyes. Even if we hadn’t talked about it, we’d felt the same. We’d believed she’d come back. And now she had.
“There’s no chemical smell,” I said.
Catcher nodded. “I noticed that. We haven’t tied the voice or the chemical smell to any known magic. But the absence suggests this is something different.”
“A different magic, or a different sorcerer?” Ethan asked.
“Either,” Catcher said. “Or both.”
“How are the humans?” Ethan asked.
“All are stable except the woman with the knife,” Catcher said. “Her name is Rosemary Parsons. She’s in critical condition, but they’re hopeful.”
“She’s sedated?” Ethan asked.
“She is,” my grandfather said. “And still at the hospital. Everyone else is at the factory.”
The supernatural prison, he meant. “Why?” I asked.
“Quarantine,” Ethan said, and my grandfather nodded.
“We don’t know why this is happening, or if it’s actually transmittable. So we have to take precautions. The CDC’s Chicago field office is doing some testing, just in case. But they don’t think this is a biological contagion, either.”
“We need to talk to them,” Ethan said. “Get more information about the delusions they’re experiencing.”
My grandfather nodded. “Winston Stiles is awake and communicating. He’d like to see you, to apologize.”
“Maybe he can give us some damned idea of what’s happening here,” Ethan said.
“It can’t hurt,” I agreed.
“And tonight’s meeting?” Ethan asked, gesturing to the elevator.
“We’ll report,” my grandfather said, “and offer ideas for resolving this thorny little problem.”
“And do you have an idea?” Ethan asked.
“No,” my grandfather said. “Here’s hoping the elevator ride is productive.”
• • •
If City Hall was built to inspire, the mayor’s office was built for business. It was a big open room of golden wood floors and paneling, curtains covering the windows. Mayor Kowalcyzk had settled her dark, curved desk beneath an enormous aerial photograph of Chicago, in case anyone forgot the realm over which she ruled.
The mayor sat behind her desk, her brown hair carefully coiffed and sprayed, makeup still polished, even though she’d probably already been on the job for twelve hours. She wore a power suit in deep crimson, hands crossed in her lap as she watched video on the flat-screen on the opposite wall, which showed footage of the fight, the image shuddering left and right as the camera was jostled.
A man I assumed was her aide—in his forties with a paunchy build and receding hairline—stood behind her against the wall, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a small tablet.
When an anchor appeared on-screen again, the mayor pressed a button on a flat remote and glanced at us, fingers now interlaced in her folded hands. She looked at each of us in turn, then settled her gaze on my grandfather. “Mr. Merit.”
“Madam Mayor.”
“You know my chief of staff, Lane Conrad.”
They exchanged nods.
“It’s snowing outside for no apparent reason and from no apparent band of moisture,” the mayor said. “That is disturbing. And that video, of course, is disturbing in its own right.”
He nodded. “Agreed on both counts, Your Honor.”
“And their cause?”
“Both phenomena are under investigation. That said, we’ve just been informed the wards have been tripped.”
Both the mayor and her aide went very still.
“She is back in my city?” the mayor asked, forcing the pronoun through a tight jaw.
Good, I thought. At least that anger was directed appropriately. That might make dealing with the problem a little bit easier.
“Not that we’re aware of, but that’s within the CPD’s jurisdiction. The wards were tripped when the snow began to fall.”
“So she created the snowfall?”
“That’s the logical conclusion. The timing suggests either she created it or she caused it to happen by some other magical manipulation. We’ll begin investigating that as soon as we leave here.”
“And the delusions?” the aide asked, without looking up from his tablet. “Early reports say they’re magical, too.”
My grandfather kept his gaze on the mayor. “We don’t have any definitive evidence one way or the other. But there are indicia of magic.”
“Which are what?” the mayor asked.
“Magic has a unique kind of energy,” my grandfather explained. “A buzz that’s detectable by other supernaturals, and occasionally carries a particular scent. The vampire that attacked Merit at Cadogan House had that scent. And so did these humans.”
The aide lowered his tablet. “The humans had magic?”
“Not precisely. More that it seemed they’d been touched by it.”
“By Sorcha?”
“We don’t have any evidence of that at this time, Your Honor. The wards weren’t tripped until the snowfall.”
“You said a delusional vampire attacked Merit?” the mayor asked. “When was this, and why wasn’t it reported to me?”
“The vampire, by all appearances, was emotionally unstable,” my grandfather said. “He attacked Merit night before last. We had no reason at that time to believe the attack was anything more than the action of a sick man.”
She gestured toward the window. “And now the snow. How are they connected?”
“We have no reason to believe they’re related at this time.”
“They’re both magic,” Lane said, crossing his arms over his tablet and exuding haughty skepticism.
“We aren’t saying they won’t ultimately prove to be related,” my grandfather said. “Just that we haven’t found the common thread yet. The humans’ identities were only released to us an hour ago, so we haven’t been able to research or interview them completely.” He gave Lane a none-too-friendly glance.
“Your office opens at dusk,” Lane said, with superior tone.
“Yours doesn’t,” my grandfather said.
“Gentlemen.” The mayor’s tone was crisp, her gaze narrowed at my grandfather. “If this is a supernatural activity, it remains under your jurisdiction. Lane, you will provide Mr. Merit with information as it is gathered.”
Lane looked prepared to mutter behind her back, but tapped something on his tablet.
“Thank you, Madam Mayor.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Merit. That means this remains your problem. Determine the cause and correct it. And if it is that woman . . .” She paused, clearly working to control her anger. “We will deal with her as is appropriate for a traitor, a murderer, a sociopath.” Her gaze lifted again. “Is that understood?”
My grandfather nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The media,” the aide prompted, gaze on his tablet, and the mayor nodded.
“Reporters will, of course, be contacting all of you for comment. For the time being, please direct those inquiries to our public relations staff. We may want you to speak to the public later. But I would prefer for these matters to be investigated and addressed before that becomes necessary. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, ma’am.”
“Then you’re dismissed,” she said. “Keep us apprised and keep the city safe.”
Easier said than done.
• • •
It was still snowing when we stepped into the street again. The temperature had dropped a little since we’d been inside, but that was probably due to the cooling night, not any magic by Sorcha—or anyone else. Still not cold enough for the snow to stick, although the sidewalk and streets gleamed with water.