“Thank you, Madam Mayor.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Merit. That means this remains your problem. Determine the cause and correct it. And if it is that woman . . .” She paused, clearly working to control her anger. “We will deal with her as is appropriate for a traitor, a murderer, a sociopath.” Her gaze lifted again. “Is that understood?”
My grandfather nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The media,” the aide prompted, gaze on his tablet, and the mayor nodded.
“Reporters will, of course, be contacting all of you for comment. For the time being, please direct those inquiries to our public relations staff. We may want you to speak to the public later. But I would prefer for these matters to be investigated and addressed before that becomes necessary. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, ma’am.”
“Then you’re dismissed,” she said. “Keep us apprised and keep the city safe.”
Easier said than done.
• • •
It was still snowing when we stepped into the street again. The temperature had dropped a little since we’d been inside, but that was probably due to the cooling night, not any magic by Sorcha—or anyone else. Still not cold enough for the snow to stick, although the sidewalk and streets gleamed with water.
My grandfather held out a hand, watched dime-sized flakes float into his palm, melt. “There are things I wouldn’t have thought I’d see in this or any other lifetime. Magical snow is definitely one of them.”
“That went better than I’d have thought,” Ethan said. “Much less blame assigning than I thought she’d do.”
“She’s learning,” my grandfather said. “And I’ll give her credit for that. But it’s hard to say how long it will last.”
“As long as the city stays mostly safe,” Catcher said, pulling out his phone. “If it gets worse, she’ll look for someone to blame.”
“The aide’s willing to hang us now for not having all the answers,” Ethan said.
“Lane is an impatient man,” my grandfather agreed. “But if our office is to be seriously considered the arbiter of magical issues, it’s fair for us to demand we resolve it. That’s chain of authority.”
“It’s politics,” Catcher muttered.
“That, too.” My grandfather glanced around, settling his gaze on a line of brightly colored food trucks lined up in the Daley Center Plaza across the street: Spotted Dogs, which served gourmet hot dogs, Pizzataco, which served a pizza-taco hybrid, and Coriander Creamery, which served supposedly “gourmet” ice cream that mostly involved chopped herbs and flowers that didn’t have any business in hot fudge sundaes or sugar cones. In my humble opinion.
“Is anyone hungry?” he asked.
“I’ve heard the hot dog truck is pretty good,” Catcher said.
“I’m starving,” I said, to absolutely no one’s surprise. “But I don’t have any cash.” I rarely carried anything other than my ID and transit card. I glanced at Ethan. “At the risk of sounding anachronistically wifely, can you pay?”
“I can spare some money for you,” Ethan said. “Probably. How hungry are you, exactly?”
“You’re hilarious,” I said, but held his hand as we dashed between cars to the other side of the street.
We all opted for the hot dog truck, joining the line of people who hadn’t been fazed by the weather. But that didn’t stop them from speculating about it.
“It’s the vampires,” said the man in front of us, his voice thick with Chicago. He talked with his companion, who wore a Blackhawks jersey that matched his own.
“They work black magic in that House of theirs. Drove past it once, saw lights blazing in the middle of the night. I know what they were doing.”
Probably taxes or something equally dull, Ethan silently said. But who are we to argue?
Ethan was becoming increasingly frustrated with willing human prejudices.
“No,” said the woman in front of him, turning around to join the conversation. “It’s the witches. This is witch magic, and I’d put good money on it.” She glanced at his jersey, nodded. “Go, Hawks.”
“Go, Hawks,” the men said. Even if they couldn’t agree on magic, they could agree on hockey.