Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

“Lead on,” my grandfather said, and we walked inside.

The room was small, as most hospital rooms were. A couple of counters, small bathroom, bed.

Maguire lay in the middle of it, looking weirdly small. Some of his hair had been shaved and his face was swollen, a thick pad of gauze around his head. He wore a blue hospital gown, his body covered by a thin white blanket with a waffle texture.

Maguire looked up when we entered, smiled at the sight of me, then winced at the pain the motion had apparently caused. “What do you want?”

“Answers, preferably,” I said. “And thanks for destroying the Ferrari. Are you going to write us a check for that, or . . . ?”

“Fuck you,” he said.

“Not interested. Tell us about Reed, Tommy.”

His eyes flashed. “My name’s Jude Maguire.” He lifted his wrist, the plastic bracelet snapped there. “Says so right here.”

“We’ve seen your picture with him, O’Malley. Reed didn’t destroy them all. He missed one.”

“Bullshit.”

I smiled. “Absolute truth. It was a college photo—both of you with popped collars and keg cups. Very charming. And since we’ve got that photo, this would be a perfect opportunity for you to cover your own ass by explaining Mr. Reed’s involvement in the Circle.”

“I don’t know anything about the Circle. Everything I know about Reed, I learned by watching television.”

“You’ll go to prison,” my grandfather said.

“It won’t be the first time, won’t be the last.” Maguire turned toward the window.

I thought of what Maguire had said about Balthasar on the island, his apparent distaste, decided to use it. “Balthasar attacked a woman last night.”

“What’s new?” he mumbled.

“She says he attacked her in her mind.”

Maguire’s eyes darkened. “You think I’m bad? I’m nothing compared to him. He’s the one you should be afraid of.”

“How so?” I asked.

“He hunts women. With no regret and no remorse. You ask me, he’s just an asshole.”

So there was dissention in Reed’s ranks. “I wouldn’t disagree with you.” I took a chance, offered my unsubstantiated theory. “We know he’s not the real Balthasar.” Behind me, my grandfather and Ethan stiffened. “Who is he? What’s his real name?”

Maguire smiled crookedly. “And spoil all the fun? No.”

Ethan’s magic flared behind me at the realization, the implicit confirmation, that the man who’d wreaked havoc in our House hadn’t just been a monster—he’d also been a fraud.

But we’d have to deal with that later. First, we had to find out who he was.

I walked closer to the bed. “Then tell me how he got the details right.”

Maguire coughed, winced again with pain. “Do your own work.”

“Why? I know you don’t respect him, Jude. And I’m guessing he’s not making things easy for you—doing magic tricks on Michigan Avenue, for God’s sake. That’s not exactly helping the Circle stay underground. We bring him in because he’s being an idiot, and I’d bet Reed reduces whatever percentage of the profits he’s getting.”

His jaw worked as he considered, but there was anger in his eyes, and I didn’t think it was directed as us. “He was there.”

Ethan pressed forward. “He was where?”

“With Balthasar. He was a prisoner of the Memento Mori.”