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I assumed Ethan meant he wasn't willing to involve the CPD in the rave investigation. I didn't disagree with him, especially since Catcher was here on behalf of the Ombud's office. On the other hand, if Ethan was really that comfortable suppressing information, he probably wouldn't have bothered justifying it to me.
"I guess that makes sense," I said.
"The locus," Ethan suddenly said, and I frowned in confusion, thinking I'd missed something. But he hadn't been talking to me - Catcher and Mallory stood in the doorway behind us. They both looked fine, neither showing any signs of having been accosted by a loitering raver. Catcher's expression was back to his normal one - slightly bored.
Mallory cast uncomfortable glances at the mattresses on the floor.
"Yeah," Catcher agreed, "it looks like the action went down here." He surveyed the room, then walked a loop around it, arms crossed over his chest, face pinched in concentration.
"Three humans?" he finally asked.
"That's what it looks like," Ethan confirmed. "Possibly six vampires, and who knows if there were observers. We found no evidence of Houses."
"Even if House vamps were involved," Catcher said, meeting Ethan in front of the center mattress, "it's unlikely they'd leave any noticeable evidence behind, especially since the Houses don't sanction this kind of conduct. Much less drinking, for most of them."
Ethan made a sound of agreement.
Silence fell as the men reviewed the dirty beds before them. They consulted quietly as they walked around, crouched before, and pointed over the mattresses. I looked back at Mallory, who shrugged in response, neither of us privy to their conversations.
Catcher finally stood again, then glanced back at Mallory. "Are you ready?" His voice was soft, careful.
She swallowed, then nodded.
I wasn't sure what she was going to do, but I felt for her, assuming Mal was about to dive headfirst into the supernatural pool. Having taken that dive as well, I knew the first step off the board was a little daunting.
She held out her right hand, palm up, and stared down at it.
"Look through it," Catcher whispered, but Mallory didn't waver.
The air in the room seemed to warm, to become thicker, an aftereffect of the magic that Mallory was funneling, of the magic that was beginning to warp the air above her hand.
"Breathe through it," Catcher said. I lifted my gaze from Mallory's hand to his eyes, and saw the sensuality there. Vampires could feel magic; we could sense its presence. But sorcerers' relationships with magic were something altogether different. Something altogether lustier, if the look in his eyes was any indication.
Mal's tongue darted out to wet her lips, but her blue eyes stayed focused on the shimmer above her hand.
"Blood red," she suddenly said, her voice barely audible, ee rily gravelly, "in the rise of the moon. And like the moon, they will rise and they will fall, these White City kings, and she will triumph. She will triumph, until he comes. Until he comes."
Silence. It was a prophecy of some kind, the same skill I'd seen Catcher perform in Cadogan House once before.
Ethan glanced over at Catcher. "Does that mean anything to you?"
Catcher shook his head ruefully. "I suppose we shouldn't deride the gift, but Nostradamus was easier to understand."
I glanced back at Mallory. Her eyes were still closed, sweat dampening her brow, her outstretched arm shaking with exertion.
"Guys," I said, "I think she's about had it."
They glanced back.
"Mallory," Catcher softly said.
She didn't respond.
"Mallory."
Her eyes snapped up, her biceps shaking.
"Let it go," he said.
She nodded, wet her lips, glanced down at her hand, and spread her fingers. The shimmer of air disappeared. After a second, Mal wiped at her forehead with the back of her wrist.
"Are you okay?"
She looked at me, nodded matter-of-factly. "Just hard work. Did I say anything helpful?"
I shrugged. "Not so much helpful as super-creepy."
"I think we've gotten everything we can get," Ethan said, "unless you've any other ideas?"
"Not much," Catcher answered. "Vague sense of fear, the suggestion of an animal." He looked between us. "I assume you got that?"
We both nodded.
"Nothing at all beyond that. Nothing else recognizable in the current, and I'm not sure the shifter was here when this happened. Maybe afterward. Either way, no sense that the media has discovered this place, at least not yet." Catcher looked around the room, hands on his hips. "Speaking of, should I call in a crew? Have the place stripped, cleaned?"
It hadn't occurred to me that the Ombud's office had the authority or manpower to erase the evidence. They referred to themselves as liaisons, go-betweens. I guess they were a little more proactive than that.
"You can do that?" I asked.
Catcher gave me a sardonic look. "You really don't talk to your grandfather very often."
"I talk to my grandfather plenty."
Catcher snorted and turned, led us from the room. "Not about the good stuff. The city of Chicago has been keeping the sups' existence under wraps since before the fire, Merit.
And that's not because incidents don't happen. It's because the incidents are taken care of."
"And the city is none the wiser?"
He nodded. "That's the way it works. People weren't prepared to know. Still aren't, for some of the shenanigans vamps get into."
We headed to the stairs in the same order we'd entered the house.
"If they were prepared now," Mallory said, "we wouldn't be here. I mean, I know you guys have pennants and bumper stickers and whatnot, but drinking in the dark in a dilapidated house doesn't exactly scream assimilation. And now there's that business with Tate."
That stopped both Ethan and me in the middle of the staircase.
"What business with Tate?" he asked.
Mallory gave Catcher a pointed look. "You didn't tell them?"
"Other business to attend to," Catcher responded, hitching a thumb at the second floor behind us. "One crisis at a time."
Catcher continued down the stairs. With no other choice, we followed, the silence thick enough to cut through. Ethan practically trotted down the staircase. When we reached the front door, then the porch, then the sidewalk, Ethan stopped, hands on his hips.
Mallory made a low whistle of warning. I prepared for Ethan's outburst, predicting quietly, "And the shit will hit the fan in four... three... two..."
