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EIGHTEEN
I found myself in an Auto after dusk, headed south. I needed to go to the office, but instead I was headed for Hyde Park. Headed for Cadogan House—or where Cadogan House had been.
I was tense when the Auto turned the last corner, gripping the edge of my seat as if I could will Cadogan House back to its location. I also hoped against hope that Rose would be there waiting, maybe searching for a Cornerstone, and my sword would be enough to bring her down, and this part of the nightmare would be over.
But there was nothing. Just... nothing. No scent of demon. No House.
I climbed out of the vehicle, walked down the sidewalk. There were no guards at the gate tonight, because what would have been the point?
I walked through the gate, stared at the empty spot, and felt nothing different than I had before. I closed my eyes and reached out, felt that faint pulse of magic again. But if my mother or Aunt Mallory had worked out how to return the House, they hadn’t achieved it yet.
I wasn’t the only one disappointed. I could feel monster straining toward the House, reaching out to it—to the sword—and feeling panicked by its absence. That didn’t make me feel any better,especially since we were running out of time. I felt helpless. Useless. And pitiful for feeling those things when I was still here, still safe. I was entitled to my feelings, I knew. And maybe they were even understandable. But I didn’t especially want them.
I gave myself a minute to settle, breathing in and out and letting that action become the focus of my awareness. After a minute, I opened my eyes again and looked around. Maybe I’d see something. Maybe I’d hear something. Maybe Rosantine, narcissist that she was, would come back to the site of her triumph.
I was an investigator. So I’d investigate.
I stepped onto the grass, began walking a perimeter around the House. I checked the ground, glanced among the trees. Not looking for anything in particular. Just... looking. I found nothing unusual on the side of the House, nothing in the back. And I was rounding the back corner toward the House’s other side when I saw a glimmer of something on the ground.
I crouched down, swiped my fingers over the grass, and found them stained with something dark, gritty, and greasy.
I lifted my fingers, sniffed. The substance smelled of sulfur.
Was this a remnant of the not-fire that had seemingly consumed the House? Or the demon spell that had managed it? I hadn’t seen any near the warehouse, but then Rose hadn’t set anything on fire there, magical or otherwise.
I stood up again, shined a flashlight on the ground, hoping I’d find more traces of it in other places. I found a few more spots within a ten-foot square area, but nothing farther than that. The rain had probably washed most of it away.
I tried to take a few photos but knew it was too dark to do much good. But I still had the handkerchief Roger had given me—I’d planned to give it back to him tonight—so I swept it over one of the marks. I confirmed I’d picked up some of the grit, then folded it up and put it in my jacket pocket. Maybe Petra would have some ideas about what it was, or why.
I walked back around the House, found nothing else of interest. Until I reached the front sidewalk and found Connor standing there.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I was worried. You weren’t at the loft, and Theo said you hadn’t come into the office yet. Lulu thought you’d be here. What are you doing?”
“Looking for information. I found some kind of greasy grit on the grass, so I got a sample for Petra. I should get to the office so she can test it.”
But Connor didn’t move. “What if she’d come back? You shouldn’t have come here alone. You can’t stand here all night, and you can’t will the House back into this world.”
“I’m capable of taking care of myself, as you’re well aware.”
“Not against a demon.”
I stepped up to him, my anger rising to replace the fear. “I held my own. Did you drive all the way out here to tell me I can’t take care of myself?”
“Of course not,” he said, the words tossed out.
I looked at him for a moment—really looked—and saw the emotions that mirrored mine riding on a wave of fatigue. And I thought of the pressure he was under, the weight he was carrying.
“If you want to fight,” I said. “We can fight.”
Connor’s eyes widened. “What? Why would I want to fight you?”
“Because you need to fight someone, and I can handle you. Because you’re scared and exhausted and furious.”
He scoffed. “I am not scared of anything.”
