I didn’t like that option—the vulnerability of being carted out of downtown Chicago unconscious during sunlight hours—but there was no help for it, so I nodded. Sorcha had probably done this on purpose, I realized. Made the deadline dawn, to create the possibility the sun would take us out without any effort on her part, and make us more nervous about the entire thing.
“And we have egress,” Ethan said, looking around. “Me, Catcher, Luc, Lindsey, and Juliet on the ground. Brody in the vehicle. Kelley at the House, in charge of security.”
“On that,” Kelley called out from her spot across the room at one of the security monitors.
Ethan looked at Jeff and my grandfather. “You want to be stationed in the van, I assume?”
“It gives us eyes, ears, and movement,” my grandfather said. “That would be my suggestion.”
“And quick access to research, information,” Jeff put in. “Just in case we need something.”
“Google Magic?” I asked with a smile.
“That’s actually a thing,” Catcher said dourly.
“But he hates it, and don’t get him started,” Mallory said. “We don’t have near enough time for that conversation right now.”
I was glad to see the smile on her face, particularly when it was directed at teasing her husband.
“Anything else?” Ethan asked.
“We’ll have to be prepared for this to go tits up,” Luc said. “Because I’d say the odds are pretty good of it. I’d suggest our goal is the absence of casualties. Anything beyond that is a blue ribbon.”
“On a pig,” Lindsey agreed.
“I’ll suggest again,” Luc said, “that you consider putting your own spin out there. We have a PR staff.”
“We do,” Ethan said. “And the House will provide a statement as it always does.”
“Sire, it’s time to do more than that. You need to be out there, out front, the face of the Chicagoland Vampires.” He cleared his throat, as if preparing himself. “Celina did it.”
Ethan’s jaw worked. “I recall what Celina did. And I appreciate the suggestion. But that’s not the focus I want for the House right now.”
“Sire,” Luc said, but his tone clearly said that he thought Ethan was making the wrong decision.
Ethan checked his watch. “We leave here at twenty after three. That gives us time to get to the rendezvous point on the island, do our own look-see before the op.”
“We’ll get the van,” my grandfather said, looking at Jeff. “Get things set up on our end. We’ll meet you there.”
Ethan nodded.
“I’ll keep working on the manuscript,” Mallory said. She glanced up at the clock, which ticked down ominously. “I don’t know if I’ll find anything in a couple of hours, but I’ll try.”
“I’ll help you,” I told her. “We don’t have much time, but maybe our luck will hold.”
“Do the best you can in the time you’ve got,” Ethan said. “I want everyone wired and downstairs, ready to go by then.” He looked at Luc. “You’ll handle the details.”
“Always,” Luc said.
Ethan rose. “In that case, I think we’re done for now.” He began to move toward the door, but turned back. “Relations with humans have improved, undeniably. But they still don’t see us as subject-matter experts on supernaturals. We will hope that is neither their downfall, nor ours. But we should be careful and vigilant. We must be on our toes, and we must take care of each other. Our lives depend on it.”
• • •
Portnoy the Ugly could have easily been called Portnoy the Inarticulate. Portnoy the Obfuscating.
“Portnoy the Jerkface,” Mallory muttered, flipping another page in the manuscript. Since we had only one copy of the document, she sat on my right, reviewing the manuscript’s right-hand pages as I reviewed those on the left.
With a groan, she rose from the chair, stretched arms and neck. We hadn’t gotten any further in the hour we’d been squinting at the pages, trying to find something that related back to the Egregore, explained how it might be used—or how it might be used against us. We’d found charms, potions, a few recipes (for “Gud Bredde,” among others), ramblings against kings, descriptions of plants and animals. And nothing else about the Egregore.
Mallory lay down in the middle of the floor, arms and legs spread. “I’m giving up.”
“You aren’t giving up. You’re just taking a break.”
I flipped another page, found another recipe, this time for a meat pie heavy on organ meats, rendered fat, and “chicken foot jelly,” which I didn’t want to think too closely about.
I blew out a breath as I pushed off with a toe and spun the chair around.
“Maybe we need to go back to the beginning.”
“Towerline?”
“Too far back,” I said, turning back to the table. “Back to the Egregore page.” I paged through the book until I reached the now-familiar globe, spark, and people, and stared at it, willing insight to come.
I started at the top of the page, working my way line by line toward the bottom. And my gaze nearly passed over what I found there—the pale, faint lines at the bottom of the page.
“Huh,” I said, and flipped to the page before, and then the page afterward. Nothing on either about the Egregore, or anything else.
“What are you seeing?”
“I’m not sure. I need a magnifying glass,” I said, and rose, went to Ethan’s desk. We might have been in a digital age, but Ethan liked his old-fashioned tools. His fountain pens and letter opener—and the large tortoiseshell magnifying glass beside them.
“Here we go,” I said, moving back and centering the circle of glass over the fuzzy lines I’d seen at the bottom of the page. “What does this look like to you?”
Mallory leaned in, frowned. “It looks like the bottom of the page was folded up.” Like I’d done, she flipped back and forth. “But I don’t see any continued pages here. Hmm,” she said, and slid over a tablet, pressed keys. She read the information on the screen, then flipped to the front of the book, checked the title page.
“Damn it,” she said, and looked up at me. “The manuscript has foldout pages—bigger sheets of illustrations that were folded up to fit into the manuscript. Like you might find for advertisements in a magazine. But they were removed from the original manuscript so they could be sold separately. They weren’t found until 1987, which is more than a hundred years after this particular copy of the Danzig was printed.”
“Which explains why they aren’t in there. Do we know what was on them?”
She looked at the screen again, shook her head. “They haven’t been digitized.” A slow smile spread across her face. “And you are not going to believe where they are.” She looked up at me. “They’re at the University of freaking Chicago.”
The U of C was my almost alma mater, the place where I’d been working on my Ph.D. in English literature the night I’d been attacked. The night I’d been made a vampire.
“Probably in the Special Collections Research Center. It’s where they keep the old stuff.”
She checked the tablet again, nodded. “You’re right. How do we get a look at it?”
“Normally,” I said, thinking back to my grad school days, “we’d make a formal request to the center to view the documents. We show up with ID, and a staff member brings it out. But even assuming the library’s still open given the evacuation, that would take time.” And require daylight.
Mallory swore. “So that’s it? We’re out of luck?”
No, I thought. Not if I was willing to go back there. Not if I was willing to open the door I’d closed more than a year ago, and hadn’t reopened since then. But what choice did I have?
“No,” I said, and pushed back my chair. “We’re not out of luck. Not yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
TRIPLICATE
I told Mallory where I was going, asked her to let the others know. I needed to do this, and I was afraid I’d lose my nerve if I talked to Ethan first. If I acknowledged the fear I’d have to face down.