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It looked like the city had been dipped into liquid nitrogen—or dropped into an ice age. There was a foot of snow on the ground, and every surface above the ground—trees, fence, the houses beyond it—was covered in gleaming, blue-white ice or hanging with icicles as sharp as stilettos.
The street outside, usually busy into the early hours of the night, was empty of cars. The vehicles that had been parked on the side of the road were coated in snow and ice so thick it looked like rubber. If the entire city was like this, she’d have brought the city to a standstill.
Dread settled low in my gut.
“I hadn’t checked my phone yet,” Ethan said. “I was giving myself—us—a chance to talk first.”
I looked back at him, saw the same worry in his eyes. “There will be messages galore. My grandfather, the other Houses. The mayor.” I looked back at the window. Hell, if the rest of the city was like this, the Illinois National Guard would probably be beating down our door.
“Everyone,” he agreed. “This is not the type of thing we can push aside or ignore. This will require a response.”
There was a pounding on the door.
“And I guess we won’t have the luxury of that talk,” he said, and looked at me for a moment before turning for the door.
He opened it, found Luc with fist raised, ready to knock again. Luc wore a Cadogan House Track T-shirt with jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, his hair more tousled than usual.
“Sorry for the interruption, Sire, but I’m guessing you hadn’t checked your messages.” He met my gaze, nodded. “Mrs. Sire.”
“I hadn’t clocked in yet,” Ethan said. “What’s wrong?”
“If you’d come downstairs? Mallory and Catcher are already down there.”
Ethan nodded, glanced back at me, saw that I still wore pajamas. “We’ll be down in a moment. As soon as Merit’s dressed.”
Luc nodded. “We’re in your office.”
Snow or not, I wasn’t going for a run.
• • •
We were downstairs in three and a half minutes, and walked into Ethan’s office to find Catcher, Mallory, Malik, Lindsey, and Luc already assembled. All of them were standing, and all had their gazes on the television built into one of the shelves on the far wall.
Catcher and Mallory were still in pajamas—Cadogan House T-shirts and plaid bottoms they’d probably borrowed from Helen for the night. They looked like they hadn’t slept much.
The television was tuned to a news station, where a male reporter stood in front of the Towerline barricade. He wore a coat, scarf, gloves, and hat, and he still looked cold. Behind him, the street was empty and slicked like an ice rink.
“I’m here in front of the Towerline building,” he said as we moved into the crowd, closer to the television, “where moments ago, the sorceress Sorcha Reed appeared to deliver a chilling ultimatum to the city of Chicago. Let’s watch that footage again.”
Cold fear snaked down my spine.
The shot switched to the previously recorded footage—Sorcha, with the golden light of dusk around her—standing in the snow that covered Towerline square. Either she was ignoring the cold, or she’d magicked it so it didn’t affect her. Weather be damned, she wore an emerald ball gown. It was long-sleeved and fitted on the top, a voluminous skirt on the bottom, all of it covered in geometric lace over mesh in the same deep green. Her hair, thick and blond, curled prettily over her shoulders.
; I flung a hand toward the window. “From out there. From in here. From every night we have to fight to stay alive. From wondering if that will ever end.”
“It’s not like you to be afraid.”
“It isn’t every night that I’m facing down a city that is somehow possessed with magic. Only an idiot wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Merit, it’s been a long night punctuated with fear and anger and magic. You just need sleep.” His voice was soft and kind, and that nearly brought me to tears again. I didn’t want pity or consolation; this sadness, this near grief, demanded my full attention.
“I don’t need sleep.” My voice sounded petulant even to me. And that only made me feel worse.
“Then perhaps I might have said that it’s not like you to back down in the face of fear.”
“Is that what we’d be doing? Backing down? Or just being logical?”
This time, his tone was firmer. “Nothing you’ve said is logical.”
