I ran a finger along the smooth, glinting edge.
“It’s for the door of your apartments,” Luc said. “We thought it would be a nice touch—reminding everyone that it’s a shared space now.”
There might have been chaos outside the House. Magic we didn’t understand, and enemies we couldn’t yet identify. But here, inside our halls, there was family.
“That is a wonderful thought,” I said. “Thank you and Lindsey so much.”
“You’re welcome, Sentinel. I’ll ask Helen to have it installed for you so you can be on your way.”
“Thank you,” Ethan said, and offered his hand. “It is appreciated.”
They clasped hands, the moment full of friendship and feels. And being alphas in every sense of the word, they shook it off quickly enough.
“Get out of here, you crazy kids. And be careful around the criminals.”
That was a good life lesson.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NIMBY
Chicago kept its supernatural prisoners away from the human population. The factory comprised a dozen buildings, in the same red brick, of course, in a circle around the largest one, where the prisoners were kept.
Brody parked the SUV at the end of the gravel road near the newly installed double fence. If it hadn’t been for that fence, and the towers being erected along the perimeter, you wouldn’t have known this was a prison. But those towers would probably house guards soon enough. Guards with guns and aspen stakes.
The snow was still coming down, had thrown a pretty white blanket across the factory grounds, which made everything look a little bit cleaner, a little less prisony. It also dampened sound, so we could hardly hear the city’s noise from here.
My grandfather pulled his big, boxy sedan next to ours, climbed out of the car. He’d donned knitted gloves and a matching hat against the cold, probably something Robert’s wife, Elizabeth, had made for him. She was a knitter. Not that she deigned to talk to me these days, but that was a matter for another day . . .
“That was a good thought,” my grandfather said, stepping toward me at the prison gate. “Seeing if the change in temperature coincided with Sorcha’s web.”
“Any idea why they match?” I asked.
My grandfather shook his head. “Plenty of hypotheses, but nothing concrete. We may not have anything until she makes her next move.” He cast a glance at the sky, which was obscured by the falling snow. “And there’s no telling what that might be.” He glanced back at me. “You’ll be all right?”
He was thinking of Logan, the vampire who’d made me. I wasn’t, or hadn’t been. That was part of the deal I’d made with myself—I’d let him live, but put him out of my mind. He wouldn’t control my life.
My eyes went cold. “If he’s smart, he’ll stay far away from me.”
“He’s in a different sector of the ward,” my grandfather said. “And the humans are in a different building altogether.”
“Then we’ll be fine,” I said, and Ethan put a hand at my back.
That’s my girl.
A guard in a golf cart pulled up inside the gate, climbed out to open it.
“Mr. Merit,” he said, then nodded at us.
“I believe this is your ride,” my grandfather said.
I looked back at him. “You aren’t going with us?”
“I think you’ll have better luck if you talk to him alone. He wants to apologize to you”—he looked at Ethan—“and he came to you for help. He might be more open without me there.” He smiled. “But ask good questions.”
I nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
• • •
I wasn’t sure what this building had been used for—kilns, maybe? Storage? It was large and open, with brick walls and a concrete floor dotted by cubes, the pods in which the supernaturals were held. Winston was in a back corner of the room.
The guard escorted us silently to the pod, pointed to the yellow stripe around the box. “Stay on this side of the box,” he said, then looked at his watch. “You have fifteen minutes.”
He started a timer with a beep, then moved to a station along the wall with a computer and security camera.
Winston Stiles sat on the edge of a metal bed fitted into the wall, a short mattress on top of it. His elbows were on his knees, his hands linked together, his eyes closed. His brow was heavy, his mouth moving in silent speech, as if he was saying a prayer.
He seemed smaller in the pale blue jumpsuit. He looked cleaner, his hair brushed and face shaved. He also looked more alert, and a little less delusional. But his skin was still pale, his eyes hollow, his cheeks sunken.
“Mr. Stiles,” Ethan said.
He blinked, turned his head toward us. And his eyes widened, horror blooming there. “It’s you.” He jumped up, ran to the bars so quickly I stepped in front of Ethan, pushing him back. From the sound, that didn’t make Ethan happy, and it unnerved Mr. Stiles.
He wrapped his fingers around the bars that lined the front of his cube, looked at me with pleading eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry about what happened.” He looked at Ethan. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do—I was overcome. I wanted help, and I couldn’t figure out how to make it stop, and I just . . . I just lost it.” His face fell, guilt heavy around his eyes as he looked back at me. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mr. Stiles,” I said, offering him what comfort I could from behind the yellow line. “We know it isn’t your fault.”
“You do?”
“You didn’t cause the trouble, Mr. Stiles,” Ethan said. “You were a victim of it. And we’re trying to identify the perpetrator.”