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“You resisted, so that’s good.”
She frowned, arranged herself in a cross-legged position on the wide leather seat. “Yeah.” She held out a hand, flexed her fingers, made a fist. “And it wasn’t easy not to reach out and grab a handful of magic. The memory is so vivid. How it felt running beneath my skin, so much energy, so much potential. That’s the hard part of any addiction, I guess. Remembering how good it felt, and saying no anyway. But even if I was going to indulge, which I’m not, this is not the magic to indulge in. Too old. Too different. Too powerful.”
“Unless we all want to end up on a direct flight to the green land,” I said.
“Seriously. Merit,” she said after a moment.
I glanced at her.
“Thanks for asking. For, I guess, engaging me about it. Addiction isn’t easy. But it’s a little easier when you can be honest about it. When you can acknowledge it, instead of pretending it doesn’t exist.”
“You’re welcome, Mallory.” I reached out and squeezed her hand. “That’s what friends are for.”
“And sharing girl crushes.”
“And sharing girl crushes.”
“Seriously, that dress, though.”
I decided to leave it at that.
• • •
Catcher found an on-street spot a block from Michigan, and we climbed out of the car, katanas belted beneath our coats. We also carried supplies for the magic Mallory intended to work downtown, and blankets to spread on the ground beneath her accouterments.
I’d wondered whether we’d see more people outside or fewer: Had they stayed inside to avoid the building danger, or come outside to gape at the gathering snow?
The former, mostly. Even in the chill, people milled about on sidewalks, tourists rubbing their arms in the short-sleeved T-shirts they figured were enough for a late summer, or donning new Bears and Blackhawks sweatshirts they’d grabbed at souvenir shops. Most stared nervously at the sky, cast glances toward the river. Others stared out from hotel lobbies, from restaurants along the sidewalk, watching the city like Chicago might have been a pacing tiger—a danger that hadn’t yet struck.
We crossed Michigan into the park, past the few tourists who stared at their reflections in the Cloud Gate, snapped selfies with friends. Danger may have kept many Chicagoans indoors. But it didn’t dampen the selfie spirit.
We walked into the stretch of grass in front of the bandstand, its silver plates gathered and arched like armor. Steel beams rose over us, crisscrossing to hold speakers for concerts in the park. Icicles hung down from them, their pointed ends making it appear that we were trapped in an armored cage.
And beneath the spiky beams, a stretch of snow that had clearly been the site of joy and happiness today. There were paw prints, snow angels, and plenty of footprints marring what might have been a perfect blanket of white.
“Any particular place?” Ethan asked.
“Any will do,” Mallory said, walking into the middle of the lawn. She put down her bag, pulled a blanket out of it, spread it on the ground.
Catcher followed her. Ethan glanced at me.
“Is this a good idea?”
I looked back at Mallory. “I’m not altogether sure. But what choice do we have?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHISKEY TANGO FOXTROT
