“Since I don’t have a closet stocked with chocolate, that is literally incorrect,” I said. “But good about this Sorcha thing.”
“While you’re committing crimes, we’ll stay here, work on the magic,” Catcher said. “And maybe, if you’re cool with it, we’ll stay the night at the House.”
It wasn’t the first time they’d done so. When Mallory had been plugged into the House’s ward, she’d stayed here to keep it running. She’d since figured out a way to power it with good old electricity; she just had to check the magic to make sure everything was working the way it should have.
“No objection,” Ethan said. “I’m fairly certain your manners are better than Sorcha’s.”
It wasn’t a difficult threshold to meet.
• • •
We were dressed in black, which wasn’t especially unusual for vampires, and had swords belted at our waists. I’d brought along a small, sleek backpack, just in case I found anything worth larceny.
Luc insisted Brody take the wheel of the SUV, giving us at least one more guard in case we got into trouble. But we didn’t plan to get into trouble. The steady expression on Ethan’s face said that much.
The temperature had grown even colder. Only five degrees above zero, according to the current weather report. The snow had stopped; maybe the heat sink had sucked all the available moisture from the sky.
The Reed house was in a historic neighborhood northeast of Hyde Park, where several Gilded Age mansions had been kept historically pristine. It took up a large chunk of the block; not as large a chunk as Cadogan House did in Hyde Park, but with significantly more attitude. This was old money. Old Chicago money.
The living quarters were shaped like a U, one unified center and separate wings on each end, a private courtyard in the middle. Catcher had been right about the guards. There were two in the front, an additional guard stationed on each side of the house. Possibly more roaming around inside. The heirs to Reed’s fortune, whoever they might be, were taking no chances on their inheritance.
“We can’t walk in,” I said, and narrowed my gaze at an enormous oak that abutted one corner of the house. “So we go up.”
• • •
We left Brody at the curb, crept in darkness through the old and elegant trees that shaded the block, then slipped to the side of the building. We watched the guard in silence, waited for him to pass, then darted to the tree that stood at one corner of the property. There was snow on the ground, but, since it was August, still leaves on the trees. That would give us some cover, at least until we made our way into the house. But we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.
It’s been a while since I’ve climbed a tree, Ethan said, but he grabbed a branch, hauled himself up easily. Vampire strength was a very handy thing.
A while for me, too, although not the centuries you’ve probably got on me. I followed him up, and we took one large branch at a time.
Hold, Ethan said, and I stilled, watched the guard pass beneath us, the green light on his communicator blinking in the darkness. I held my breath, like that would keep us hidden in the dappled moonlight, but couldn’t stop the chunk of snow that fell beneath my foot and landed with an audible splat on the ground fifteen feet below.
I willed my heart to slow, because it pounded loudly enough that I was sure the guard could hear it. But he kept walking, making his slow procession down the block, watching for the sorceress who might steal her way back into her home.
This is the tricky bit, Ethan said, and climbed into a standing position, then edged his way across a limb to the stone parapet that edged the house’s second floor. It was only about three feet wide, and would be a very tricky walk. But that was the way in, so no point in bellyaching about it.
Ethan held out a hand, helped me jump across.
Being in the tree hadn’t bothered me, but standing on a ledge two stories aboveground did nothing for my appetite. We moved to a dark window, peered inside. It looked like a bedroom, dark and mostly empty. I tried to lift the sash, but it was locked.
Watch for cars, Ethan said, and let me know when you see one.
While I nodded, Ethan unsheathed his katana, turned it so the heavy pommel faced the window. And waited.
It took two long minutes for headlights to play down the street. On its way, I told him. Five seconds.
When the car passed in front of the house, he slammed the katana against the glass. Glass tinkled inside, but the noise was at least partially muffled by the sound of the passing car. We waited in silence for an alarm, for the heavy thump of guards’ feet, but heard nothing.
Eyes narrowed in concentration, Ethan reached inside the opening of jagged glass, flipped the lock, lifted the shutter.
He climbed in first, pushed away glass, then offered a hand to help me inside. We left the window open, cold air spilling into the room behind us, and crept to the closed door that probably led to the interior hallway.
I got there first, turned the knob with slow and careful concentration, pulled open the door just a sliver.
The light in the hallway was pale and golden, and there was nothing but silence on the other side.
We’re clear, I told him, and we stepped into the hallway.
It was big. Cavernous, as far as houses went. A lot of open space, a lot of marble, and a lot of décor. A museum’s worth of portraits and paintings and tables and credenzas.
We crept down the hallway to the junction that led to the long gallery of art, and the main staircase between. The hallway was like a museum of doors—one after another in two long rows.
I guess we start here, I said, and Ethan nodded.
You take this one, Ethan said. I’ll take the other.
Roger, I said, and we walked to our respective doors.
I got a closet. He got the master bedroom. We scoped it out, found nothing interesting. We followed with another bedroom, a bathroom, and a small home theater.
I hit pay dirt, personally if not professionally, on my third door.
The room was small, little more than a nook with a window at the end. But the longest wall was filled with books, with a couple of chairs and a small table in front of them.
Curious, I walked to the shelves, scanned the spines. I’d expected grimoires, celebrity biographies, or true crime stories. I couldn’t imagine Sorcha reading anything else.
But they were fairy tales. Volume after volume of them, from countries and cultures around the world. Reference books, books for children, picture books. But all about magical creatures and the worlds they inhabited.
“Fairy Tales of the Round, Round World,” I murmured, and pulled the book from the shelf. It had been one of my favorite books as a child, and I’d pored over the stories of Camelot and Rose Red, fairies and djinns, dozens of times. As a child, this book had been my companion. I’d lost my dog-eared copy somewhere along the way, and hadn’t thought about it in years.
I opened the book, the pages thick and stiff with age, but absolutely pristine. There were no crayon marks here, no drawings or scribbles in the margins. If Sorcha had read this book, she’d read it carefully and left no trace behind.
Something about that made me terribly sad. And, looking back at the rest of her books—the hundreds of volumes of stories in this lush room—absolutely furious.
• • •
She had everything, and she’d still demanded more. More power. More fame. Just . . . more.
Ethan must have felt the burst of magic. Sentinel? he asked, stepping into the room.
She had every opportunity, I told him. Privilege, wealth, status. She could have done anything with that kind of power. And she chose to destroy.
He walked toward me, brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. You are angry because you were not so different, once upon a time. But your paths diverged.
He knew me so well. In very different directions, I agreed.
We’d both been pulled into the world of supernaturals. Me, by an attack. She, presumably, when she learned about her power. And, just like I said, she’d chosen to destroy.
What did you find? I asked him.
Another bedroom, he said. So nothing. Since Catcher’s been through the center wing, let’s check the others.
We walked back into the hallway, made it four feet before the digital pop of a communication device engaging broke the monasterial silence.