She looked back at us. “I asked you to come up here because I wanted you to get a good look at it, to see what she’s done. The lengths she is willing to go to get what she wants.”
It wasn’t hard to guess that we were being set up for something.
“We drove in from Hyde Park,” my grandfather said. “We saw much of the city along the way.”
“A portion of it,” she agreed. “But not the whole. Not the reach of what she’s done. The sheer enormity of the problem she has created, and the suffering she has caused by it.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Ethan asked.
“Because I have a request. And you’re not going to like it.”
• • •
The mood wasn’t any less somber in her office. Worse, since Ethan and Catcher were nearly vibrating with anger, and Mallory didn’t look much better. I wasn’t sure how I’d become the calm one of the four of us, but I’d have to use that to our advantage, if I could. That depended very much on what the mayor had to say.
Lane was back in the office, and when we came in he glanced up at us from the tablet that seemed to absorb most of his attention.
“Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan,” he said by way of greeting, gaze still on the screen.
“‘Merit’ is fine,” I said.
He slid me a glance, looking me over with distaste, like the fact that I’d declined the name made me suspect.
The office door opened. Jim Wilcox and Mikaela Pierce walked in, the man and woman from the SWAT and FBI units who’d been behind the barricade at Towerline. Pierce wore a suit again; Wilcox wore dark fatigues. They nodded at the mayor, at Lane, at us, before moving to the other side of the room to stand alone and apart. If anything, it said we weren’t on the same team.
; “Are you nervous?” Mallory asked as we walked through the foyer to the front door and the SUV that waited outside. Catcher would drive us to the mayor’s office. Everyone in the House would stay here, gates shut, with the House on high alert. My grandfather would drive separately, meet us there. In the meantime, Jeff would work with Luc to apprise the other Houses, our supernatural allies, about the situation.
“Nothing to be nervous about,” I said. That was mostly a lie, because I didn’t trust human politicians—with the possible exception of Seth Tate. But she looked nervous. That wasn’t a common emotion for Mallory, but this particular debacle mixed powerful sorcery, old magic, and extortion, and she hadn’t gotten much sleep. I could be strong for her. “This is just a strategy session.”
“A strategy session,” Mallory said, dipping her chin inside her thick scarf. “Right. Just going to talk a few things over with the mayor.”
“That’s precisely what we’re going to do,” Ethan said, putting a supportive hand on her shoulder and giving me a look behind her back, a nod that said we were in this together.
Good. Because that knot of worry was back. I didn’t like being worried. I’d come far enough as a vampire and Sentinel that I preferred a good old-fashioned fight to magic wrangling.
A few hardy and wrong-minded souls still sat on the strip of snow across the street, clearly convinced of their rightness, the rationality of Sorcha’s two-for-three-million calculation. Would it be the same, I wondered, if she’d asked for one of their wives or husbands or children? I seriously doubted it.
Once we were in the SUV, the going was slow, and Catcher took his time driving through the alternating mix of crusty slush and snow-covered ice. Beyond Hyde Park, the world was mostly quiet. The El wasn’t running; icicles hung from the elevated platforms, as sharp as sharks’ teeth. Few vehicles braved the roads, and then only snowplows, Guard vehicles, and cars headed out of Chicago, hoping to get clear before things got worse.
There were no people downtown. Those who were still in the city had stayed indoors, because of either the chill in the air or the fear that hung with it.
We parked in front of the building and headed inside.
The mayor asked that we meet her not in her office, but on the roof of City Hall. We went through security, then were escorted up an elevator and into a long hallway.
Lane stood at the end, gaze on a phone, fingers skimming and sliding along the screen. He looked up, nodded. “She’s waiting for you,” he said, then opened a heavy door beside him, sending a gust of cold air down the hallway.
We stepped outside and onto the building’s roof—and into a frozen world. The city spread out around us, most of it gleaming with the ice and snow that Sorcha had managed to dump in less than twenty-four hours. The cold had a boundary; we’d seen it on the map last night. But the parts of the world that remained green weren’t visible from up here.
To the northeast, clouds still swirled over the Towerline building. They didn’t look any bigger or fiercer than they had the night before, but until we figured out exactly what Sorcha was doing, I wasn’t sure that mattered much. How much colder could Chicago get?
Apparently, very cold. The wind on the roof was a thousand ice picks, harsh enough to make breathing feel like fire. Snow was bundled over what looked like planter boxes, with rows between for walking.
The mayor, bundled in a long, baffled down coat, was crouching near one of the piles of snow, sweeping the crust of it back from the plants beneath. Three guards in black suits stood around her, each of them gazing in a different direction, as if waiting for a threat to descend from the air. We walked toward her.
“There was a garden here last week,” she said without glancing up at us, rising and wiping the snow from her gloved hands. “Tomatoes, corn, beans. They were thriving in the heat, the rain we’ve gotten.” She looked around. “Part of the effort to ‘green’ the city and cut our heating and cooling costs. And it was working, until now.”
I didn’t know much about gardening, but I doubted much would survive the snow and the cold.