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“Am I?”
That had his lips twitching. “Touché. I could feel the magic but didn’t think much of it. It’s Chicago. And then one of my clients called. They felt it and didn’t care for it.”
Referring to his unnamed “clients” was generally his way of refusing to share his sources or the details of his knowledge. “Who are your clients?”
“Entitled to their privacy,” he said with a smile.
“What kind of Sups are they?”
“The kind who are entitled to their privacy,” he said again.
“You want information, you give information,” I said. “That’s the deal. It’s always the deal.”
He snorted. “What am I, a supernatural informant?”
“You called me,” I reminded him, and that had the smile falling. “You said you felt magic. What kind of magic?”
He closed his eyes as if replaying the memory. “I felt... a tremor. Like a muscle twitch but more. A kind of wave that passed through me.”
The gate was miles from Black’s house. Cadogan House was closer, and no one had mentioned feeling magic. Was it an indication of his power? Or sensitivity to it?
“What do you know about demons?”
That drained the rest of the color from his face. “That’s not what I expected you to ask.”
“Then how about this: In 1872, a demon was kicked out of Chicago, and magical protections were supposedly erected to keep it out.”
He went very still.
“You’ve heard this story before,” I surmised.
He ran a hand through this hair. “I want a drink,” he said, voice now irritable. “You want a drink?”
“No.” But I followed him into the kitchen, which gleamed with marble and glass and cabinets that stretched to the ceiling. A round iron bistro table with a glass top and two Parisian-style rattan chairs sat against the opposite wall. I took a seat, had a nearly tangible memory of time spent at French cafés. But those nights were behind me.
“You cook,” I said, noting the professional-quality gas stove as he pulled an ornate bottle and glass from a cabinet, poured a finger of something dark green.
“I find it relaxing.” Jonathan downed the liquid, poured another one.
“Is that absinthe?”
“It is,” he said. He held out the glass. “Want?” he asked again.
“No. Tell me what you know about demons and wards. Anddon’t bullshit me,” I added when I could all but read a “my clients” excuse in his eyes.
He put the empty glass on the countertop, and crystal rang against stone. Then he moved to a cabinet, opened a container of thin sesame breadsticks, offered one. I took it, crunched off the end.
He took one himself, sat at the table across from me. “I don’t know much. I’ve heard rumors the city has a certain defense system against supernaturals. But that’s all I know.”
He watched me carefully for a moment, trying to gauge if that presumption was correct. But I was Ethan Sullivan’s daughter. I’d long ago perfected the vampire poker face.
“And?” I prompted.
“And that’s it. You’re saying it was a demon.”
“I’m saying a demon supposedly tried to get into Chicago. The magic you felt was an attempt to keep it out.”
He frowned. “Is this about what happened by South Gate? TheTribunesaid the damage was due to a fight between supernaturals.”
