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“Which are what?” the mayor asked.
“Magic has a unique kind of energy,” my grandfather explained. “A buzz that’s detectable by other supernaturals, and occasionally carries a particular scent. The vampire that attacked Merit at Cadogan House had that scent. And so did these humans.”
The aide lowered his tablet. “The humans had magic?”
“Not precisely. More that it seemed they’d been touched by it.”
“By Sorcha?”
“We don’t have any evidence of that at this time, Your Honor. The wards weren’t tripped until the snowfall.”
“You said a delusional vampire attacked Merit?” the mayor asked. “When was this, and why wasn’t it reported to me?”
“The vampire, by all appearances, was emotionally unstable,” my grandfather said. “He attacked Merit night before last. We had no reason at that time to believe the attack was anything more than the action of a sick man.”
She gestured toward the window. “And now the snow. How are they connected?”
“We have no reason to believe they’re related at this time.”
“They’re both magic,” Lane said, crossing his arms over his tablet and exuding haughty skepticism.
“We aren’t saying they won’t ultimately prove to be related,” my grandfather said. “Just that we haven’t found the common thread yet. The humans’ identities were only released to us an hour ago, so we haven’t been able to research or interview them completely.” He gave Lane a none-too-friendly glance.
“Your office opens at dusk,” Lane said, with superior tone.
“Yours doesn’t,” my grandfather said.
“Gentlemen.” The mayor’s tone was crisp, her gaze narrowed at my grandfather. “If this is a supernatural activity, it remains under your jurisdiction. Lane, you will provide Mr. Merit with information as it is gathered.”
Lane looked prepared to mutter behind her back, but tapped something on his tablet.
“Thank you, Madam Mayor.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Merit. That means this remains your problem. Determine the cause and correct it. And if it is that woman . . .” She paused, clearly working to control her anger. “We will deal with her as is appropriate for a traitor, a murderer, a sociopath.” Her gaze lifted again. “Is that understood?”
My grandfather nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The media,” the aide prompted, gaze on his tablet, and the mayor nodded.
“Reporters will, of course, be contacting all of you for comment. For the time being, please direct those inquiries to our public relations staff. We may want you to speak to the public later. But I would prefer for these matters to be investigated and addressed before that becomes necessary. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, ma’am.”
; “And do you have an idea?” Ethan asked.
“No,” my grandfather said. “Here’s hoping the elevator ride is productive.”
• • •
If City Hall was built to inspire, the mayor’s office was built for business. It was a big open room of golden wood floors and paneling, curtains covering the windows. Mayor Kowalcyzk had settled her dark, curved desk beneath an enormous aerial photograph of Chicago, in case anyone forgot the realm over which she ruled.
The mayor sat behind her desk, her brown hair carefully coiffed and sprayed, makeup still polished, even though she’d probably already been on the job for twelve hours. She wore a power suit in deep crimson, hands crossed in her lap as she watched video on the flat-screen on the opposite wall, which showed footage of the fight, the image shuddering left and right as the camera was jostled.
A man I assumed was her aide—in his forties with a paunchy build and receding hairline—stood behind her against the wall, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a small tablet.
When an anchor appeared on-screen again, the mayor pressed a button on a flat remote and glanced at us, fingers now interlaced in her folded hands. She looked at each of us in turn, then settled her gaze on my grandfather. “Mr. Merit.”
“Madam Mayor.”
