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“You’re not wrong, and it is.”
If there were supernaturals or anybody else currently living in the neighborhood, they weren’t showing themselves. The houses were dark, and nothing but dead weeds in the light breeze.
But there was something else, I thought, as the hair on the back of my neck lifted. There was magic.
You feel that? I asked him, switching to silent communication.
Ethan nodded, coming to a stop. Look, he said, and I followed his gaze to two images stenciled in dark paint onto the sidewalk. The alchemical symbols for the sun and moon—a circle with a dot inside, and a thin sliver of crescent moon.
I didn’t think this was supposed to be part of an equation. It didn’t feel like that, didn’t have the same number of symbols or breadth of magic, of energy. It seemed more like a calling card. The demarcation of territory.
He’s been here, Ethan said.
Yeah. He has.
Annabelle’s instincts had been right. Hellriver was the type of neighborhood for a maverick supernatural. And more specifically, for an alchemical sorcerer. It also meant Caleb Franklin lived only a few blocks away from what seemed to be the sorcerer’s territory. And wasn’t that interesting?
Be ready, Ethan said as we moved forward again.
I nodded, my fingers already on the handle of my katana.
We reached a four-way stop, reviewed our options. Belle River was built to be a self-contained neighborhood. The houses surrounded a small commercial area—shops and diners around a central square. It was supposed to simulate a New England village, like Stars Hollow come to Illinois. Houses stretched to our left, the square to our right.
Right, Ethan suggested, and I nodded my agreement, fell into step beside him.
The square was one block over, with ornate streetlamps and reaching trees around the edge, the remains of a gazebo now a tinder pile in the middle. On the other side of the gazebo was a small stream topped by a wooden bridge, the water still gurgling merrily after all these years. I wondered if it, too, had been spoiled by the chemical release.
The houses might have been empty, or seemingly so, but there was visible activity here—flickering lights in some of the narrow buildings that surrounded the square. Candles, I guessed, unless the users had brought their own generators.
We crept into the square, hiding in the penumbras of trees to stay as invisible as possible. We still hadn’t actually seen anyone, but the sense that we were being watched hadn’t yet faded.
Ethan stopped and glanced up at the building across the street.
It was a slim, three-story building. The windows had been painted black, but slivers of light shone through the glass where the color had been scraped away. LA DOULEUR was painted in gold letters across the sidewalk in front of it.
Well, well, Ethan said.
La Douleur, I said. That’s French for “pain.”
La Douleur is a supernatural bordello that caters to a very particular audience. Sex is one of the tamer things on the menu. It must have moved; it had been in Little Italy.
I slid my gaze to him. And you’re familiar with this particular supernatural bordello with “pain” in its name?
I’m Master of my House, and I’ve been in Chicago for many, many years. It behooves me to be aware of my vampires’ surroundings.
Mm-hmm, I said noncommittally, but was secretly intrigued. If Ethan was familiar with a place like La Douleur, I wondered what else he’d “mastered” before we met.
His eyebrows lifted. Are you implying something?
I smiled slyly at him. Not at all. At a more appropriate time, however, I will be questioning you about the depth of your knowledge of La Douleur. For now, we were on an op and need to stay focused. There’s magic in the neighborhood, I said. A supernatural bordello might be the type of place a sorcerer would enjoy.
Ethan narrowed his eyes at me, probably skeptical that I was really changing the focus. But I was. For now.
Yes, it does, he finally agreed, and we surveyed the building.
They’ll recognize us if we just walk in, I said. There were probably few supernaturals in Chicago who wouldn’t have recognized Ethan as the Master of Cadogan House. And my photograph in the Tribune wouldn’t have helped, either.
Likely. Although . . . , he added, and glanced at me, giving me an up-and-down appraisal. I wasn’t sure I’d like whatever he had in mind.
