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“And the dragon,” my grandfather said. “What do we know about it?”
“At the moment, not much,” Mallory said. “We know it’s theoretically under her command.”
“Theoretically?” my grandfather asked, and worry came into his eyes.
“It’s a monster created from the collective unconsciousnesses of lots of Chicagoans. It’s angry and ornery, and she finished the magic in a hurry. I’d say it’s unpredictable, at the least.”
“So we have a dragon in Chicago, and a rider with an attitude,” my grandfather said.
“It’s a shitty time to be a Chicagoan,” I said. “But a great time to be a medieval scholar.”
They all looked at me. “I’m just saying,” I said, and hunched my shoulders a little. “We read manuscripts about dragons—fearing them, fighting them. There are dragons painted in the margins, gilded with gold. Dragons everywhere. You work assuming they’re fictional, trying to figure out what they represent. Turns out, they may not be so fictional.”
Ethan smiled. “You’ve been fighting monsters for more than a year, and you only just thought of that?”
“I’ve had my mind on other things,” I pointed out. “Including those monsters I’ve been fighting.”
“And speaking of manuscripts and fighting,” my grandfather said, looking at Mallory, “I don’t suppose your manuscript has anything to offer?”
“If Portnoy wrote about how to deal with a rampaging Egregore,” Mallory said, frustration souring in her voice, “we haven’t found it yet. Maybe that’s because it’s not in there; maybe it’s because we haven’t arranged the damn foldout pages in the damn right positions to trigger the damn magic. Screw Portnoy.” She pointed her index finger in the air angrily, like she could stab it into his chest. “Screw him and his manuscript.”
“And Sorcha,” Jeff said.
“And screw Sorcha!” Mallory agreed, pointing again.
“Have more lawn clippings,” Catcher said, handing her the drink. “You’re getting hangry again.”
She just growled.
“Although I don’t disagree with the sentiment,” Ethan said, walking over to squeeze Mallory’s shoulder, “we’ve got the complete text now, and two of the best damn sorcerers in the country, if not the world. You can do it, and we are at your disposal.”
It was the Master in him, the leader in him, that filled his voice with confidence. And I hoped he was right.
“In the meantime,” my grandfather said, “is there any chance we can reason with it?” It was precisely the kind of tack he’d prefer. “It can think, communicate, right?”
“We can talk to it,” Catcher said. “But can we change its mind? That seems unlikely, especially if she’s got power over it.”
“And we know the fireball juju doesn’t work,” I said. “So what will?”
“The world’s largest bear trap?” Mallory asked. “Extra-large elephant gun? Freeze ray?”
“Excellent ideas, Wile E. Coyote.”
Mallory growled.
“Maybe you should switch her from kale to chocolate,” I suggested.
“Could we unmanifest him?” Jeff asked. “Turn him back into the Egregore?”
“Even if we could,” Mallory said, “we’d still be left with a very pissed-off Egregore, which puts us back to where we were yesterday—with too much magic in Chicago. We need to eradicate him completely.”
My grandfather’s phone rang, interrupting any follow-up questions.
“I really don’t want you to answer that,” I said, knowing what he’d be called about, what monster was awaiting us again.
“That’s the job,” he said, then rose and walked to a corner, spoke quietly into the phone. And when he came back, his expression was grim. “It’s back.”
• • •
