Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

She clapped her hands together, condescension in her expression and her movements. “Bravo, Caroline Evelyn Merit.” Her gaze skipped to Ethan. “I see you’ve adopted a similar plan.”

o;Magic,” he diagnosed. “Probably to drop him, keep him out of the way. But not kill him,” he added, checking Robert’s pulse, “because he’s a tool, too, just like the rest of us.”

Magic cracked again, flashing brilliantly across the hallway and sending a green sheen across the tall bank of windows opposite the elevator. The concrete beneath our feet shook as if a hurricane raged outside, then stilled just as silently. It hadn’t broken, but the sound of glass tinkling to the stone plaza below filled the air like music.

“I can get him out of here,” Morgan said. “But you’ll have to go forward alone.”

I looked back at Ethan, found his gaze on mine, green and intent. Neither of us was masochistic enough to want war, but we wanted the men who stood on the other side of that door, and we wanted them badly. And when push came to shove, there was no one else I’d rather go through the door with.

“Take care of him,” I said to Morgan, then pressed a kiss to my brother’s cheek and climbed to my feet again, looked at the ladder beside the construction elevator that led to the building’s top floor.

“Ready?” Ethan asked.

“Always.” Anticipation began to drain away, replaced by pure adrenaline and luminous anger. I felt as if I glowed with it—although that could have been the magical battle taking place around us.

I took the ladder first, climbed silently upward, one rung at a time, until I was high enough to just peek through the hole. The action was taking place on the other side of the floor. There was a man watching on the elevator—he’d have heard it moving upward—but he hadn’t realized we’d stopped on the floor below.

There was an enormous utility box to my left. Probably some kind of HVAC unit.

Silently, I climbed forward into powerfully swirling winds and the scent of bitter magic and slipped behind the unit.

Come up and to the left, I told Ethan. Behind the utility box.

This isn’t the time for a romantic tryst, Sentinel.

You’re hilarious. And there’s a man to your right, so be quiet.

Ethan’s head popped up. He watched the man for a moment, and when he was certain of the man’s inattention, he joined me in a crouch.

You’re ready? he asked, and I nodded. In that case, we go out on three. One—two—three!

We jumped forward and were greeted by a shifter, a man in a Cubs jersey who looked exhausted and unkempt, and who came at us with raised fists and blank eyes.

“Kyle Farr!” I guessed, and drew his attention to me.

He growled, leaped forward. But he was obviously tired, had probably been under Reed’s control since he’d disappeared. He missed me, and when I threw out a foot to trip him, he hit the roof on his knees. Ethan took his chance, moved forward, and depressed the tranq to Farr’s arm. His eyes closed, and he drooped.

I climbed over his body, moved to stand next to Ethan. Ready? he said.

Ready, I agreed, and we moved cautiously forward.

There, in the middle of the roof, was an enormous metal sculpture. It was probably ten feet across, at least as tall. It was built like a tree—if the tree had been built from metal scraped from the bowels of the earth and blackened by fire, every branch sharpened and honed to a point. It was hollow in the middle, and green smoke and magic poured out of what I guessed was a crucible. That smoke rose and twisted and seemed to take form above us.

And there in front of the crucible stood Sorcha and Adrien Reed.

He wore a black suit that would have befit a presidential candidate.

Sorcha stood beside him in her signature color, an emerald green sleeveless jumpsuit with a formed and fitted bodice in bias-cut emerald silk, with an enormous, structural ruffle over one shoulder. On her left biceps was a four-inch-long gold scarab atop a gold cuff. And atop her head was a cannily perched fedora in matching green, a satin ribbon around the brim. Magic swirled around her in pale green tendrils that matched those in the sky. Three of them danced together in her cupped palm.

“Son of a bitch,” Ethan and I muttered simultaneously.

Our sorcerer was a sorceress. And a damn stylish one.

Sorcha Reed had been the “man” at La Douleur, the “man” Annabelle had seen at the cemetery. The sup we’d seen at La Douleur—the one I believed had ratted us out—had been relatively small of stature. But because of the suit, the fedora, I’d assumed the sup had been a man. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she—or any other woman—had been Reed’s sorcerer. And in retrospect, I couldn’t have been more stupid. Who else would Reed have trusted so completely with his master plan, with the magic he figured would give him control of the city? Who else would he have allowed into the inner circle?

This wasn’t the vacuous Sorcha I’d seen at Reed’s side. This was the woman I’d seen peeking through—working busily on her phone, surprised that we’d shown up at the Botanic Garden but seemingly excited by the fact that we’d been arrested.

Tonight, she showed poise and power, and her eyes shone as coldly as Reed’s.