Sapphire Flames

Chapter 6

I woke up because my alarm went off and it was my turn to cook breakfast.

Cooking was basically my and Mom’s job. When Nevada lived with us, she was too busy keeping us afloat financially. Bern and Leon had kitchen duty once a week and usually made meat, preferably steak, and they served it charred on top and raw in the middle. Grandma Frida came from the generation when things weren’t cooked unless they were mushy or slightly burned, and my younger sister, who was actually a decent cook when she had to be, couldn’t be trusted to stay in the kitchen for the duration of the cooking process. She’d start frying and then end up outside texting to her friends or in the media room laughing at some show, until the smoke detectors went off and we had to race to save the food and put out the fire.

I set about making things. Since it was a weekday, I decided on a simple menu. I put two packs of bacon into two baking pans and popped them in the oven. Then I mixed the batter for the blueberry pancakes.

The best part about cooking, besides making delicious things, was that it gave you time to think while your hands were busy.

I had spent a few more hours last night going through Sigourney’s case files. Most of the people she testified against were still incarcerated. Two had died and one was released and had moved out of the country. The revenge angle was looking unlikely.

Every minute we wasted chasing down dead ends made recovering Halle that much less probable. The first seventy-two hours in a missing person case were crucial. The fire happened early Monday morning. Today was Thursday. The seventy-two hours had come and gone, and we hadn’t even realized she was missing for most of it.

I imagined Runa finding her sister’s body after thinking Halle was alive, and shuddered. How much loss could Runa and her brother take? To have that hope and then have it crushed was almost worse than not having it at all. And where was Halle? If I was right, someone dragged her out of her house in the middle of the night while her mother burned to death. It made me angry. Violently angry.

We had to make some progress today. Bug hadn’t reported in, so right now Diatheke was the most obvious choice. They opened their doors at nine and I would be there exactly one minute after that. I had the legal backing and my magic. They would tell me what I wanted to know whether they liked it or not.

I called Nevada while chopping mushrooms for the egg, mushroom, and cheese scramble.

My sister answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“How’s Spain?”

“Sunny and beautiful. How’s Houston?”

“Cold. My toes are cold. Anyway, do you remember Runa Etterson?”

“Yes.”

“Her family was murdered.” I summarized things for her.

“In the heart, huh?”

“Yes. It was smooth, Nevada. Practiced.”

“Well, that’s a hell of a thing. Do you need me?”

“No. If we do, I’ll call you, I promise. I don’t want you to worry.”

Nevada snorted. “You sound like Mom. Speaking of Mom, how are things with Abarca?”

Yep, she’d heard about Augustine waltzing into our house at two o’clock in the morning. I knew Rogan left someone to watch us. The man couldn’t help himself. Served us right for not spotting the observer. If our security was better, they wouldn’t have gotten so close. If I told Abarca about it, he wouldn’t believe me. According to our valiant security chief, there was “no way” for anyone to penetrate our perimeter, climb an oak, and then wave at me. His exact words were “not even a squirrel.” In fact, he heavily implied that I hallucinated the entire thing.

“We may have to let him go,” I said. “Mom is beating herself up over the whole thing.”

“They were friends and Abarca looked good on paper.”

“That’s what I told her.”

“Catalina, if you really get in trouble, call Heart. I’ll text you the number. He’s in the States and between wars right now.”

He headed Rogan’s elite unit, fighting in conflicts all over the world for astronomical prices. We couldn’t afford Heart, even with Rogan’s discount.

“I will,” I told her. “Does he take installment payments?”

“Seriously,” Nevada said. “Call him. I don’t want to come back home to burned bodies.”

“You worry too much,” I told her.

“I worry just enough. I would worry less if you promise to call Heart.”

“If things get bad, I promise I’ll call Heart. Love you.”

“Love you too.” There was a pause as my sister hesitated. “Catalina, kidnapping cases rip your soul right out. Especially if you know the client. Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

I hung up. My stack of pancakes was almost finished, and the mushrooms had browned nicely.

Someone cried out. It was a very short, startled sound, cut off in mid-note. Now what?

I turned off the gas burners, wiped my hands on a kitchen towel, hung it over my shoulder, and went to investigate.

The door to the spare bedroom stood ajar. A deep rumbling sound came from within, a soft kind of snarl born deep in a huge throat. It sounded demonic. I pushed the door open with my fingertips.

Ragnar sat on the bed, his back pressed against the headboard, his face pale, his eyes opened as wide as they could go. An indigo-blue beast sprawled on the floor by the bed. Six feet long, not counting the tail, with a tiger’s thickness and a muzzle with four nostrils, the creature watched Ragnar with electric-blue eyes. His paws were as big as my head.

Ah. Cornelius and Matilda were back. I would have to put more eggs into the scramble.

The otherworldly feline saw me. A fringe of tendrils rose around his neck. Sickle claws shot out of his velvet paws and vanished.

“Zeus, what did I tell you about scratching the rug?”

Zeus made a short noise somewhere between a bull and a sea lion.

“Don’t sass me.”

The beast resumed his throaty snarling.

“Hi,” I said to Ragnar. “Remember me?”

Ragnar shook his head, his gaze fixed on Zeus. “No.”

“That’s good,” I told him.

“What is he?” Ragnar asked.

“He’s a summoning. A few years ago, a summoner pulled him out of the arcane realm. He made friends with an animal mage here. Nobody has ever seen anything quite like him before, but he stays with us now. Come on, Zeus. Out.”

Zeus refused to move. That meant one thing: someone higher than me in his pack told him to stay here.

I raised my voice. “Matilda!”

A moment later Matilda walked into the room. Prince Henry, a ball of white fluff made of cuteness with blue eyes and an absurdly fluffy tail, trailed her. Matilda and Cornelius claimed he was a Himalayan cat, but I had my doubts.

Slight for her age, with long dark hair and big chocolate-brown eyes, Matilda looked a lot like Nari, her Korean mother. Nari was murdered three and a half years ago, which was how Cornelius came to work for us. Matilda split her time between school, her aunt’s house, and our warehouse, and when Cornelius was in the office, she was usually here.

“Is your dad here?”

“He dropped me off.”

“Could you tell me why you asked Zeus to stay here?” I asked.

Matilda looked at Ragnar. “He slept too long, and it was time for him to wake up.”

I had sent Cornelius an email last night catching him up on the case. Clearly, Matilda read it. “Yes, but why Zeus?”

“Medical studies indicate that hearing a cat purring lowers human blood pressure and promotes calm,” Matilda recited.

“Matilda,” I said gently, “most people find Zeus scary. The article probably meant house cats, not enormous blue tigers from the arcane realm.”

She shook her head. “There is no difference in purr quality between Zeus and Prince Henry. If he doesn’t understand that, it’s up to him to educate himself.”

Sometimes dealing with her was like talking to a fussy forty-year-old. “Please ask Zeus to exit.”

Matilda rolled her eyes. “Fine. Come, Zeus, you are wasted on this stupidhead.”

I had no idea if she meant me or Ragnar.

She left the room, and Zeus trotted out, following Matilda deeper into the house.

I turned to Ragnar. “My name is Catalina. You and Runa are staying with us for now. Runa helped our family a few years ago and now we’re investigating what happened to your mother and your sister.”

Some color came back into his face. “They died in a fire.”

I really needed Runa for this conversation. “We confirmed that your mother is dead. However, the other body the firefighters recovered doesn’t match Halle. There is a small chance that Halle might be alive.”

He nodded at me, his expression serious and calm. “Okay.”

Magic drain was a hell of a thing.

“When you’re ready, there will be breakfast in the kitchen. Follow the smell of pancakes and bacon.”

“Okay,” he said again, “Thank you.”

I turned to leave.

“Excuse me,” Ragnar said. “Where is my sister?”

Shit.

Five minutes later, I watched the security footage of Runa exiting the warehouse. She got into her Nissan Rogue and drove off.

Damn it. There was no telling where she went.

She wasn’t a prisoner. She was a guest and a client. She could leave as she wished. Even if it was dangerous and stupid.

On the recording, Bern slipped out the door. I whipped out my phone and texted him.

Where are you?

Watching Runa.

What is she doing?

She’s sitting in the remains of her house and crying. I’m going to let her cry it out and then follow her to make sure she gets home.

Ragnar is awake.

I’ll tell her.

I exhaled. Today would be a long day.

When people thought of Houston downtown, they imagined modern towers made of steel and glass. Which was true. But Houston had another downtown, older, more ornate, born during the 1920s and 1930s, when Art Deco skyscrapers set new height records and the recent invention of air-conditioning made the oppressive heat and humidity of the Houston swamps bearable.

The Great Southwest Building, which now housed Diatheke, was built in a single year during that boom. The blocky limestone and brick tower rose above Texas Avenue, rectangular for most of its twenty-two floors, except near the top, where the upper floors were stepped back to mirror the Mayan pyramids that inspired its design. Carved reliefs adorned the walls. Mesoamerican dragons and warriors stared down at passersby from above the ornate arches.

I walked through its doors wearing my work clothes. Dark pants, white turtleneck, and my favorite Burberry coat with my knife in it. I carried a folder containing the legal equivalent of a loaded Howitzer, everything from our license to the limited power of attorney and urgent request for information, which I had Runa sign last night.

The lobby was just as grand as the outside. The polished parquet floor gleamed like a mirror, reflecting red marble walls. To the left, a small marble counter, decorated with an elegant white orchid, sheltered a lone receptionist. Past her, two elevators interrupted the marble wall. Directly across from the receptionist, to the right, a small sitting area offered two plush loveseats and a low coffee table with a glass vase filled with bright Christmas ornaments.

Typically, a lobby would have more than one exit, but the only other door, in the far wall, wasn’t marked as such. It probably led to the stairs. The door looked remarkably solid, steel and modern, with a keycard lock.

I approached the counter. A middle-aged black woman wearing a charcoal suit and a pair of black framed glasses looked up from her computer screen and smiled at me. She had short hair, minimal makeup, and a string of pearls around her neck.

“How may I help you?”

“Catalina Baylor, of House Baylor. I’m here to speak with someone regarding the House Etterson account.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. However, the principal account holder is dead, and the matter is urgent.”

“Oh my goodness. That’s not good. Please have a seat and someone will be right with you.”

I walked over to the loveseats and sat in the corner, so I could watch both doors. The elevators had a keycard access box, meaning nobody without a card could even call the elevator to the floor. There had to be surveillance cameras, although I couldn’t see any. For an older building, they sure had a lot of high-tech security.

Bug still hadn’t reported in, which meant Alessandro had given him the slip twice. Bug had to be livid. On the other hand, Alessandro was now a challenge and would get his complete attention. No texts from Leon or Bern, which hopefully meant that Runa was still alive and hadn’t murdered anyone. The last I’d seen of Arabella, she’d armed herself with a doughnut and a ridiculously large Starbucks latte and was shoulder-deep in Halle’s online social life.

I looked up from my phone. The receptionist sipped something from a white mug with golden letters spelling out “Baby, it’s cold outside.” If she locked the front door, I would be trapped. The elevators were inoperable without a keycard. Same for the door leading to the stairs. There were no windows at this level except for the front door glass panels, and I had caught a glimpse of a metal grate that could be lowered, blocking the exit.

It was all rather dungeonlike.

The left elevator doors opened with a whisper. None of the numbers above it had lit up. Nothing indicated from which floor it had descended or that it was even on the way. Curiouser and curiouser. Unlike Alice, I couldn’t grow to giant size in case of trouble. That was okay, I had other tricks up my sleeve.

A white woman in her late forties or early fifties stepped out of the elevator. Short and petite, she wore a pale pink Chanel suit with black piping, beige stockings, and black kitten heels. She’d chosen a chunky rose-gold necklace and a matching bracelet as her accessories. Her glasses matched her jewelry. Her dark hair, pulled back into a conservative bun, completed the look. She hurried toward me, her heels clicking on the polished wood floor.

I got up.

“Celia Scott.” She offered me her small hand with rose-gold acrylic nails.

“Catalina Baylor.”

She squeezed my hand, trying to reassure. “I’m so sorry about Sigourney. What a horrible tragedy. Let’s talk in my office.”

I followed her to the elevator. She pulled a slim plastic card out of her jacket pocket, waved it in front of the dark window above the call button, and the elevator doors opened. We stepped inside, and she waved the card again, this time above the floor numbers, and pushed the button for the fifteenth floor.

“How is Runa?”

“Shaken up.”

“Perfectly understandable given the circumstances.”

The doors opened, revealing a surprisingly modern hallway with a tasteful modern rug with splashes of red and turquoise, and eggshell white walls. Wow, fast elevator.

Celia took off down the hallway to the left, and I had to speed up to keep pace.

“What a beautiful building,” I said.

“Isn’t it? So much history here. If only these walls could talk.”

Celia waved her keycard in front of a door on our right. The electronic lock clicked, and she swung the door open. I walked inside into a comfortable but decidedly modern office with an ergonomic desk and black leather designer chairs.

“Sit, sit.” Celia waved at the chairs.

I sat. Three pictures in rose-gold frames sat on a corner of her desk; one showing Celia holding a baby, one with her and a middle-aged man in ski outfits, standing on a snowy slope, and one of a ridiculously groomed white poodle about the size of a cat. I was kind of surprised the poodle didn’t sport a rose-gold collar.

Celia sat in her chair and smiled at me. Her mouth stretched, but no emotion reached her eyes. “So what can I do for you?”

I opened my folder and unleashed my bona fides. It took her about three minutes to get through it.

“A private investigator. How exciting. How did you get into that? You don’t look the type.”

“What is the type?”

She rolled her eyes. “Uh, burly, older, male?”

“We’re not those kinds of detectives.” I smiled back at her. “Strictly white-collar investigations here. We deal with insurance companies rather than distraught dames.”

Celia laughed. “A pity.”

“I’m here in a friend-of-the-family capacity. Runa is too upset to sort through her mother’s affairs and we’re trying to prep everything for her takeover.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Ms. Etterson kept meticulous records and they show a withdrawal of two-point-two million dollars from her Diatheke account. Can you confirm that a withdrawal took place, the status of the account, and the account to which the funds were deposited?”

Celia frowned. “I’m so sorry, but it is our policy to process such requests in writing. If you submit a written request, I should be able to get back to you in a couple of weeks. By Friday after next, at the latest.”

Two weeks.

We didn’t have two weeks. More importantly, she was lying.

Online resources and crime dramas stressed the importance of microexpressions or signs of nervousness when trying to judge when someone was telling the truth. Shifting eyes, looking up in the direction opposite of your dominant hand, sweating, pursed mouth, and so on. Accomplished liars exhibited none of those. However, I had grown up with a human lie detector of a sister, and Nevada had clued me in on an indicator that proved right most of the time.

Frequent liars maintained eye contact.

When I was little, my mother would sit me and Arabella down and ask who started the fight. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t do it.” We both quickly figured out that as long as we looked her in the eye while we lied, she was much more likely to trust us. I had no idea why parents believed in the supernatural truth-serum power of their gaze, but most of them did. And they taught their children that shifty-eyed liars didn’t meet one’s stare under tough questioning.

Celia had maintained eye contact like a champ. So much so, it was slightly unsettling. Most people looked away when they were embarrassed, or uncomfortable, or when they tried to process things. Denying help to someone whose family had just died in a fire was about as uncomfortable as it could get, but Celia had stared straight at me, emitting trustworthiness.

I concentrated.

Nearly all mages had an active and a passive field. Active magical abilities required effort on the mage’s part, while passive powers were always present: automatic, involuntary, and continuous, like breathing. Cornelius always scanned his surroundings for animals. His subconscious did it on autopilot. However, if he wanted to make friends with a particular animal, he had to apply his magic. In my case, I spent most of my time actively suppressing my passive field around strangers. Relaxing control now felt like letting out a breath I had been holding.

“Such a long time,” I said, sinking some of my magic into my words. It stretched to Celia, winding around her. Her smile grew slightly, suffused with genuine warmth. I let her see a hint of my feathers, just a shimmer for half a second. “Runa has already been through so much. She lost her mother.”

Another strand of magic.

“She lost her sister.”

Another strand.

“She lost her house. And now she’s missing two million dollars. Are you sure nothing can be done?”

Celia sat very still for a moment, then waved her arms. “Okay, okay. Just this once. And you have to keep it between us. Sigourney came in and closed out her account. Cash, of course.”

Two million in cash?

“If you can’t find it, it’s probably in her pro account.” Celia leaned forward. “Between you and me, I was surprised by the whole thing. Sigourney was a professional, with a long tenure. She knew how the game was played . . .”

The office door opened and a tall Asian man in a slick silver suit stepped inside.

Celia clamped her mouth shut.

“Ms. Baylor,” the man said. “Mr. De Lacy requests the pleasure of your company. He asked me to invite you to his office.”

“You better go, dear,” Celia said. “Mr. De Lacy is our VP of operations. Very big deal.”

The man fixed Celia with a cold stare. “Thank you, Ms. Scott, that will be all.”

We walked to the elevator in silence, got in, and my escort swiped his card and pushed the button for the top floor. The elevator sped upward, coming to a smooth stop. The doors opened, and the man gestured me forward. “Please.”

I stepped out. The doors shut behind me, and a faint whisper announced the elevator carrying my guide down.

No good-bye hug. How disappointing.

I was standing in a small hallway, framed by mahogany walls on both ends, each offering a door. The door on the right bore a heavy metal sign reading “Randall Baker.” The door on my left said “Benedict De Lacy.”

Benedict had Celia watched and pulled the plug on my interview the second she went off script. Sigourney was important to him and I couldn’t wait to find out why.

I turned to the left. The door swung open under the pressure of my hand, opening with a soft chime. A huge office spread in front of me. You could fit a four-bedroom apartment in here and then some.

Persian rugs lined a floor of white Italian marble. A life-size bronze statue of a running horse guarded the entrance. To the left, a sitting area offered antique French furniture that would have wiped out our entire annual budget. I had seen some luxurious accommodations, but this space was opulent, even by House standards.

Nobody came out to greet me.

I walked deeper into the “office.” The next room offered an antique hand-knotted Turkish rug, delicate inlaid wooden tables, and a magnificent Syrian-style sofa, adorned with mother of pearl. Weapons decorated the walls between ornate shields: a Turkish yatagan, a shamshir, blades of Damascus steel, and French hand-and-a-half knight swords. Marble statuettes rested in wall niches vying for attention along with framed art. This wasn’t the collection of a poser trying to impress. Too eclectic. No, Mr. De Lacy was a connoisseur.

And he was nowhere to be found. This was simply annoying.

The room ended in a long hallway. To the left was a wall with a door. To the right, another interior wall sectioned off a generous portion of the floor space. I turned right and walked into a study. Shelves filled with books and small busts lined the walls, interrupted by tall windows. A heavy oak desk dominated the space. Carved knights in full armor jousted across its front and sides. Behind it, in a thoroughly modern ergonomic chair, a blond man sat in front of a computer, holding a phone to his ear.

He looked up and raised his index finger at me.

Fine. I would wait. I sat in a plush chair upholstered with a kilim rug.

De Lacy listened to his phone. He was in his early thirties, tall, lean, with a powerful frame shown off by a tailored vest he wore over a pale-blue shirt. A suit jacket hung over his chair. He looked like he’d been up for a while. His hair was tousled, and stubble sheathed his jaw.

His face was handsome in that traditional way of good breeding and money: square jaw, patrician nose, good cheekbones; all the features a child could inherit from generations of very rich men marrying very beautiful women. Sometimes the offspring of those families looked softened by the luxury they were born into. There was nothing soft about Benedict. His eyes were sharp and cold, two chunks of ice radiating intelligence and menace.

A trace of magic brushed against me, the hint of a glacial mind. My instincts screamed in alarm. I let it wash over me. I had become so good at suppressing my magic, I looked inert to others. The magic drenched me and withdrew. A Prime. Some sort of mental branch. Very strong.

If this was a private equity firm, I would eat my coat.

“Authorization granted,” he said, and hung up. His voice matched him, smooth and resonant, with a practiced quality to it, as if he’d spent some time with a vocal coach. “I see you found me, Ms. Baylor.”

I had no idea what he was, but he had no idea what I was either. If I let him think he rattled me, I might not get out of this alive.

“It was touch and go for a while,” I said. “I almost made camp in the Ottoman room but decided to press on.”

Benedict smiled. The small hairs on the back of my neck rose.

“Why are you here, Ms. Baylor?”

“I’ve been retained by House Etterson. It’s my understanding Sigourney Etterson had an investment account with your firm. Her records indicate she liquidated it. I’m attempting to locate those funds.”

“An admirable pursuit.”

“My client is in severe emotional distress after the death of her mother and sister. Her family home is gone, and she’s trying to pick up the pieces. She needs every dime of her inheritance to rebuild her House. We’re unable to account for the two million dollars. We would appreciate any assistance you could provide us.”

Benedict pondered me.

The next step would be to threaten him with a lawsuit if his firm failed to cough up the information. I didn’t want to push that far, not yet. I was alone in the office of an unknown Prime, asking uncomfortable questions and skating on thin ice.

Silence stretched.

Benedict turned his monitor sideways, so I could see it. On the screen Celia leaned forward and smiled at me.

“You come into my house, Ms. Baylor, and use magic on my staff. You can see how it presents me with a dilemma.”

I waited. Silence stretched.

“I find it interesting that you feel absolutely no pressure to fill the lull in the conversation,” he said.

“What makes you think I used magic? Perhaps Celia simply felt some compassion for the two young people who are now orphaned.”

Benedict smiled at me, a quick, precise baring of perfect teeth. “You’re right. I could blame Celia for her sudden attack of kindness. Unfortunately, Celia doesn’t understand the meaning of the word. She approximates human emotions the same way a chameleon mimics his environment to survive. I’ll be blunt: you intrigue me. You don’t taste like a psionic; they give off a mental stench they can’t mask. I don’t detect the sharpness of a telepath or the particular flavor of a dominator. You’re definitely not an empath. I tend to disturb them beyond their level of comfort. You almost taste like nothing, yet there is this slight hint of spice. A beguiling aftertaste.”

And he went right into creepy. “I think you give yourself too little credit, Mr. De Lacy. Empaths aren’t the only people you disturb beyond their comfort level.”

Benedict chuckled, got up, and strolled over to the window, where a blue crystal elephant stood on a small table next to a collection of matching heavy tumblers. The beast wore a delicate harness of gold that looked spun rather than forged and carried a decanter on its back, half full of what looked like whiskey. Baccarat crystal, antique, midnight shade of blue . . . a hundred thousand, maybe more.

He poured two fingers of amber liquor into a tumbler. “Whiskey?”

“Nine-thirty in the morning is a bit early for me.”

Benedict raised his glass to his lips. “I’ve been up for twenty-two hours. You and this whiskey are a pleasant diversion at the end of a very long day.”

The way he said it set my teeth on edge. Every woman had an instinct that warned her when things were about to spin out of control, and that instinct took in the way he looked at me and started screaming. I had to get out of this office.

I reached deep down and pulled Victoria Tremaine’s granddaughter out. Surprisingly, it was easier than I remembered.

“Since we agreed on being blunt, I hope you don’t mind if I indulge.”

“Please.” He invited me with a sweep of his hand.

“I came here with a simple request for information, and instead I’ve been kept waiting, given the runaround, and now we’re here in your multimillion-dollar man cave, while you are going out of your way to be gauche and vaguely threatening. Why, I can’t imagine.”

He laughed.

Right. I rose. “Mr. De Lacy, thank you for this incredibly frustrating and fruitless visit. Your time is valuable but so is mine. I’m done. I’ll see you in court.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave, Ms. Baylor.” He stared at me. A shockwave of alarm punched through my spine. “I simply must know what you are. Fortunately for me, there is an easy way to find out.”

Power splayed out of him, piercing my senses. I saw it through the prism of my magic, a dark, churning cloud, erupting from him like a nest of dark serpents. It hung around him, streaked with flashes of purple and red. Phantom mouths snapped the air with ghostly fangs, melting and re-forming, each cluster of darkness a living, malevolent thing wanting to bite and tear with those awful teeth.

Fear slammed into me. Every fiber of my being wanted to flee.

Benedict smiled at me from within that seething cloud. The mouths snapped, reaching for me.

The elephant decanter next to Benedict exploded. Glittering shards of blue crystal rained down on the rug and the table. Behind it, a hole gaped in the window panel. A sniper shot, most likely from the top of the high-rise apartment under construction across the street.

The serpent nest folded in on itself, sucked back into Benedict. He chuckled. “You have interesting friends, Ms. Baylor.”

I had no idea who’d shot the decanter. Right now it didn’t matter. I had to get the hell out of here, before De Lacy decided it wasn’t funny anymore. The sniper had saved my life.

“Perhaps you simply have incompetent enemies. My friends wouldn’t have missed. Good day, Mr. De Lacy. I’ll show myself out. Please have one of your minions meet me at the elevator.”

He raised his glass in a kind of salute. “Say hello to Montgomery for me.”

He thought I worked for Augustine. I had no idea why, but I’d sort it out later.

I turned and made the long trek to the door. My knees shook. If nobody met me at that elevator, I would have to go back in there. I reached into my pocket. My fingers closed about a reassuring length of chalk.

If I did get trapped, I would make my stand by the elevator. No matter what kind of hell he fermented inside him, I could draw an arcane circle faster than he could, and once I had that boost, my chances shot up. He liked surprises? Well, I would give him one he would never forget.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The elevator stood open, the same Asian man waiting inside with the same serious expression.

A few moments later, the elevator released me into the lobby. No sign of the receptionist.

I crossed the floor. My heart was beating too fast. I reached the doors.

Please be open.

The door swung open under the pressure of my hand and I walked back into the sunshine.