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Prompted, Aristide asked, “Yes, we’ve theorized about it, but do we have any proof he’s connected with them?”
“Solid proof? No. But there is logic to the theory. Why else would he return to Magiford—a city in which he’s already been foiled, that only grows more and more dangerous for criminals as the Regional Committee of Magic continues to unify—if it’s not for some larger purpose?” I approached the private elevator—it wasn’t open to the public as it stopped at the various floors the gates were on, and could also go up to the walkway outside the clock faces, as Chloe and I had once done.
“But maybe you’re overestimating the fae’s intelligence,” Aristide said. “Supernaturals do stupid things all the time—good and bad.”
“True,” I said. “Which is why more surveillance is necessary.”
Charon’s phone beeped, announcing an incoming message.
I ignored the sound and pressed the call button for the elevator.
“Another cat picture, Charon?” Aristide asked.
“What?” I turned back to my friends, my eyebrows furrowing.
Charon gave Aristide a rare side eye—something I witnessed possibly once a decade. “Your Majesty,” he said. “It’s…” He trailed off, and I could see he was mentally warring with himself by the way he imperceptibly flattened his lips.
“Your people keep sending him pictures of black cats,” Aristide said. “As in:everyblack cat they see in Magiford, wondering if it’s Chloe.”
“I see,” I said.
“They’re very enthusiastic.” Charon paused, and his lips flattened so much it was almost noticeable.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
Charon recovered enough to bow to me. “No, Your Majesty. It’s merely Galla—Prydwen’s wife—and their daughter. They went to some animal rescue and found an injured black cat. Of course, it’s not Chloe—”
I held out my hand before realizing what I was doing.
This is stupid. She’s gone. We can’t have anything to do with each other, and she’s not so poorly trained that she’d get herself hurt unless the tracker—
I glanced at the picture—a snapshot of a cat with luxurious black fur lying on a lumpy cat bed, her eyes closed in obvious pain.
Chloe.
I knew it with every beat of my heart—I knew it better than I knew my own magic. That sick, injured cat was Chloe.
“Where is this?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Charon said.
“Find out,” I said. “We’re going there.Now.”
“What is it?” Aristide asked. “It’s not really her, is it?”
“It is,” I grimly said. “She’s injured.”
Charon, his thumbs raised over the screen of his cellphone, glanced at me. “I requested the location, shall I fetch the car?”
“Yes.”
Charon bowed, then sprinted off, going so fast the employees only door groaned when he slammed into it.
Aristide’s forehead wrinkled with worry. “Did she look bad?”
“Yes,” I admitted, the word tasting like blood.
“How do you know it’s her?” Aristide asked. “Her magic should make her hard to recognize.”
