“Reporters,” Ethan said. “Undoubtedly calling to discuss Balthasar’s antics. We likely were not the only ones on the street with cameras, and I’m sure a dozen people have already spread it around the Internet.”
“Sixteen,” Luc said, scanning the screen on his phone. “As of right now.”
“Just so,” Ethan said, tapping fingers against the arm of the couch. “So a conversation with reporters is not likely to make me feel any better about our current situation.”
“No,” Malik agreed, “but that doesn’t mean you should ignore them. We’ll need to get ahead of this. If we don’t, public opinion will begin the pendulum swing again. And where they go, Kowalcyzk will follow. Talk to Nick if you prefer, but talk to someone.”
Nick was Nicholas Breckenridge, an award-winning reporter in a family of shape-shifters and members of the same pack as Jeff, the NAC. They were very wealthy and friends of my father’s, and lived on an estate outside Chicago.
“What you need,” Luc said, “is a plan to deal with this asshole.”
“That is accurate,” Ethan said, crossing one leg over the other. “And back to my earlier request: I’m entertaining options for getting rid of him.” He checked his watch. “It’s two hours until dawn. I want ideas at sunset tomorrow. Specific ideas from each of you about how, precisely, we should do that.”
Catcher lifted a hand. “I’m not your employee.”
“Much to my ever-present relief,” Ethan said. “You’re excused from the exercise.”
Luc looked at me. “I’m guessing you’re going to be busy with Navarre House tomorrow, but do remember us, withering away in the basement of Cadogan House.”
I hitched a thumb at Ethan. “I go where he tells me to go.”
“You need the training.”
I’d known that was coming and had a response in the chamber. “I bested the captain of the Navarre House guards with a dagger, while wearing stilettos and a gown, in front of an audience. I have all the training.”
“I’m taking credit for this one,” Catcher said to the room, hand in the air. “Just FYI.”
“I like to think it was a group effort,” Ethan said. “All of us working together to shape our lump of girl into a Sentinel.”
“I like to think I’m more than the sum of my training.”
“You are,” Luc said. “There’s at least some hot beef or deep dish in there.”
“I am also more than Chicago foodstuffs.”
Ethan grinned at Luc. “Pumas? Diet Coke? Smart-assery?”
Luc snapped his fingers, pointed at Ethan. “Yes. And, like, three percent medieval literature.”
“You’re both hilarious. Really and truly. Comedy geniuses.”
Mallory appeared in the doorway, stopped short when she saw the group of us. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just going to say hi.”
“No problem here,” Luc said. “I was just about to head downstairs.” He looked back at me. “Tomorrow, before Navarre House.”
I gave him a jaunty salute, and he disappeared.
“I’d like to go ahead and call Jeff,” Malik said, “get some tips about digging online into the Circle. If they have a strong cyberpresence, it seems likely they’ve pulled Navarre House into some of that. Might give us a head start on the forensic accounting work.”
“It’s a good idea,” Ethan said, and Malik waved, bowed out of the room, leaving the four of us.
“I hear you’ve had a night,” Mallory said, moving toward us. “But you both look to be in one piece.”
“We’re fine,” I said. “I assume Catcher filled you in?”
“He did, but not on the important thing—how did your father react to watching you fight? Was he utterly impressed?”
I hadn’t actually noticed, but his reaction after the fact had been telling enough. “I wouldn’t say impressed. At least for a moment, he thought we had set it up somehow.” I glanced at Ethan. “He’ll probably have things to say to both of us, separately, about how disappointed he is, about how the slate isn’t clean.”