Seth lifted his brows. “Technically, everything in the world is a chemical.”
“Industrial, then,” Ethan said.
Seth frowned, linked his hands in front of him. “Not offhand. Each kind of magic, each methodology, has its own characteristics. An industrial smell,” he said, looking down again as he considered. “What else does it do?”
“The affected hear a voice screaming at them, over and over again,” I said.
“What does it scream?”
“Simple phrases,” I said. “‘Hello. Help. I’m here.’”
His brows lifted. “They’re hearing something, or someone, that needs help? Something that’s attempting to contact them?”
“Are those questions or theories?” Ethan asked.
“Yes,” Seth said. He turned, walked to one end of the cell, then turned back. “If you believed it was Sorcha, you wouldn’t be here, asking.”
“Correct,” Ethan said. “The city’s warded, and the wards weren’t breached until the snow.”
Seth nodded. “Do the affected have anything in common?”
“At least two of them, and possibly more than that, were near Towerline when Sorcha made her magic the first time. The delusions didn’t cause the wards to sound, although the snow did.”
“Some sort of latent effect?”
“That’s what we’re thinking,” I said. “What is this, Seth? Who is it?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps your first step should be to find out who, or what, needs the help they’re asking for.”
“I don’t suppose you know how I could go about doing that?” I asked with a half smile.
“I don’t,” he said. “And listening isn’t always the easiest thing to do.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked back to the table and took a seat, then ran a hand through his hair. Maybe he needed help . . . or at least someone to listen.
“Ethan, could you give us a minute?”
Ethan didn’t look thrilled by the idea. But even if he didn’t entirely trust Tate, he trusted me.
I’ll be at the door. Be careful.
I will.
I watched him walk back to where the guard waited, then looked back at Seth. “Are you okay?” I quietly asked.
It took a moment for him to answer. “A conscience is a heavy thing to bear.” He smiled, brushed away a spot of lint from his right knee. “I’m neither saint nor priest, and I know the scales can never really be balanced. But I do believe everyone is redeemable.”
“And how is Regan?” I asked.
“She’s still so angry. It’s like a fire in her core, even here, where the magic is dampened. I’m not sure if she can lose that anger completely.”
“She may not,” I said. I knew something of anger and resentment, as I’d been angry at Ethan for a very long time, however unjustified that turned out to be. “But can she learn to manage it? To channel it?”
“I don’t know.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, a signal of frustration. “She doesn’t like to talk to me about it. I would be more to her—a father to her—if I could. But she does not want that.”
Seth had been a playboy in his pre-Dominic days. Power was alluring to many, especially in a city like Chicago, which had been built on handshakes, backroom deals, and graft. I’d never known him to be a family man, but I guess given the opportunity, he’d discovered he wanted it. And then had been denied.
Seth rose and walked to me, hands gathered in front of him. “I appreciate your asking and listening. But you don’t need to bear the weight of my fears, too. You can’t save everyone.” A sad smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Much as you might try.”