Theo sent a very quick message, presumably to the office, then showed me the screen.
“See?” he said earnestly. “The website says Buckley lives here. I’m not sure how we’re going to deliver the goods if we’ve got the wrong address.”
Theo’s voice was perfectly plaintive—a man foiled by technology. And perfectly modulated for the demon likely listening through the door and watching through the peephole.
“Yeah, it’s very strange,” I agreed with a frown, and thumbed off the guard on my katana’s scabbard. “Those are some expensive goods. Especially the gold ones.”
The door opened again. Tracksuit moved out of the way, then swept a hand into the room.
“Please to enter,” he said grandly.
“Oh, thanks,” Theo said. “We can just get this cleared…”
He trailed off as we walked into the condo. It was a nice space with tall ceilings, good floors, and fancy wainscoting. We paused at the kitchen, which had plenty of marble and high-end appliances, but not much in way of clutter. The counters were empty—not so much as a folded dish towel on the oven handle.
We kept moving, past walls where pictures or artwork had once hung, memorialized now by the rectangular spaces of slightly darker paint.
One of the Guardians who had built Chicago’s demon wards said demons spoiled their own nests. If that were true, that wasn’t what we saw here. This place had beenunspoiled—the detritus of humanity stripped away.
We reached the main living space, which opened to expansive views of Chicago’s skyline and held the only piece of furniture in the place: a long leather sofa of buttery yellow positioned for a view of that skyline. Arms stretched across the back of that sofa, gaze on the view, sat a demon.
He looked almost human. He had suntanned skin, was wide through the chest, had a medium build. He looked to be in his late fifties. His hair was dark, with slashes of silvery gray. It reached his shoulders, but was slicked back from his well-worn face. His eyes were dark and deep set. But they had the square pupils that marked him as definitely not human.
He was dressed, it seemed, for something fancier than sitting alone on a sofa. He wore a dark suit with a patterned vest and apocket square, a button-down shirt with the top unfastened, and expensive-looking loafers with little silver buckles.
One of his legs was crossed over the other, and he shifted his gaze to watch us walk toward him. Magic scratched the air, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. It was unclear whether the seated demon, or the others who stood around the room, had put it there.
“Who do we have here?” he asked, smile wide, as if he was thrilled to have company.
Theo played it very cool. “Theo Martin and Elisa Sullivan. We’re from the Ombudsman’s office. We’re looking for Mr. Buckley, the owner of this condo.”
“I’m not Mr. Buckley,” the demon said, “but he doesn’t own this place anymore. He sold it to me”—he checked a flash old-fashioned wristwatch—“about four hours ago.”
“And you are?” Theo asked.
“Dante,” the man said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Dantalion is the full name.”
“Unusual name,” I said.
His gaze slid to mine, and it felt like the movement had scraped the air itself. I didn’t like the nerves it set on end. But I held my ground.
“Demons often have unusual names.” His gaze was too direct, and there was a dare in it.
I rested my left hand on my katana, watched him watch me, wondered what he would do. If he was concerned by the threat, he made no sign of it.
I could help,monster whispered.
Not the time,I said. I had to keep myself, Theo, and a building full of humans alive.
“Any idea why Mr. Buckley decided to sell? This looks to be a nice place,” Theo said, glancing about.
“No idea,” Dante said. “I was looking for a property and I found one. Fortunately, he was a motivated seller.”
“Odd, as we’ve had trouble reaching him,” I said.
“That is odd,” the man said. “Maybe he was concerned you were looking for him and decided liquidation was best.”
“So he sold to you,” Theo said. “Very unusual. We’d appreciate taking a look at the paperwork.”
