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I glanced down at it. “I’m not sure. Helen said a CPD officer left it for me.”
Ethan took the final drink of blood, put the bottle and book on the coffee table. “From your grandfather?”
“I don’t know. It’s a little weird,” I admitted, and sat down in the chair beside him, put the package on the table in front of us. It was tied with twine horizontally and vertically, as a Christmas gift might have been wrapped with ribbon. I untied it, slipped the tape around the paper with a fingernail, and drew open the edges.
Ethan’s magic spiked beside me.
Six leather-bound books, the same size as the one I’d seen in “Balthasar’s” room the night he’d attacked me. These had covers of taupe leather with burgundy spines, well-worn with age. A grinning skull was embossed in the cover above the letters “M.M.”
“The Memento Mori’s ledgers,” I said, opening the cover of the top book delicately with a fingertip, and a piece of thick cardstock fell to the floor.
THE GAME IS AFOOT, it read. MAY THE BEST WIN. AND IN THE MEANTIME, A TOKEN OF APPRECIATION FOR OUR FIRST ROUND. I BELIEVE YOU’LL FIND THESE INTERESTING READING.
The card was signed, in bold slashes, “AR.”
So Adrien Reed had come full circle. A few weeks ago, he’d drawn us into his world with a note from one of his players. And now he reminded us that he held the trump card—a card he’d gotten a member of the Chicago Police Department to deliver to our House. But he hadn’t just held the card; he’d stacked the entire deck.
“Ethan,” I said quietly after a moment, not sure what else to say.
But Ethan Sullivan was rarely at a loss for words. “Every move he makes,” he said, quietly and carefully, “is another bit of evidence against him, and it brings us one step closer to his downfall.”
He pulled me into his arms, his breath warm against my cheek. “Let us be still, Sentinel. And let us help him toward defeat.”
