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“She’s not so bad,” said a man at a nearby table. “Didn’t she help with the fairies?”
“She probably started the fight with the fairies in the first place.”
My drink tray was placed on the counter. I snatched it up and fought back the urge to slink through the coffeehouse so the woman wouldn’t recognize me. And realized that would let her—and her ignorance—win.
So I walked toward her, waited until she lifted her gaze to me, and watched the fear widen them.
“I’m Elisa Sullivan,” I said. “They want me because I saved a human life. If they punish me for that, you’d better hope the next life that needs saving isn’t yours.”
I turned on my heel and walked out, and left her sputtering behind me.
***
Connor was sitting at the kitchen island, gaze on his screen, when I walked inside again. He looked up at my foot-stomping stride.
“What happened?”
“Vampires,” I muttered and put the tray on the counter.
He stood up, leaving his screen behind. “They found you?”
“No. They fired back,” I said. “Sent me a message about my deadline and planted a story about how my ‘surrender’ is imminent.” I handed him my screen. “You read. I need to freebase this caffeine.”
While his gaze tracked across the screen, and angry magic began to pepper the air, I took a cup from the holder, drank deeply, and closed my eyes. “There we go,” I murmured, as warmth and the bite of coffee and caffeine settled in.
“They’re going to be sorely disappointed when you don’t surrender.”
“Oh, they absolutely are. And then they can fuck off right into daylight.”
Connor’s mouth quirked. “That’s a good one.”
“Thought of it while I was muttering on the walk back.” He handed my screen back, and I saw the two new messages fromTribuneandSun-Timesreporters wanting a statement.
“You going to respond to those?” Connor asked behind me.
“I’m going to do one better,” I decided.
In response, I told them to direct any inquiries to Roger Yuen and Theo Martin. That would keep the media off my back. If the OMB wanted to keep the investigation in-house, and to keep me out of it, it was only fair that I send reporters their way.
I put my screen away, promised myself not to look at it again for a good hour, and looked at him. “Did you pick this place because it’s a three-block walk from Leo’s?”
He gave me a very satisfied smile. “It didn’t hurt.”
“Clever boy.”
“I try,” he said, sipping his own coffee. “What else?”
“Nothing,” I said, an automatic response.
But he put his cup down, looked at me with the imperious glare I had no doubt he’d be using as Apex in the future.
“That look doesn’t work on me, due to Ethan Sullivan being my father.”
“Okay,” he said. And to my surprise, he pulled up his shirt, revealing his flat abdomen. He ran a hand across it, winged up his eyebrows in obvious invitation, magic rising in the air like heady perfume.
I swallowed down a wave of lust. “That, however, is incredibly effective.”
“Everyone has a weakness.”
