“And who will be protecting Merit and Mallory?” Ethan asked.

   Lane made a sarcastic noise. “You’re saying they can’t protect themselves?”

   “I’m saying they should not be thrown to the wolves with no regard for their safety.”

   “We’re a little more worried about the safety of every other citizen in this city, Mr. Sullivan. All three million of them.”

   “And what’s two lives in exchange for so many?” Ethan asked. “I wonder if your math would change if she’d demanded someone you loved.”

   “But she didn’t, did she?” He glanced at Mallory and me. “This is a supernatural problem with a supernatural solution.”

   Ethan took a step forward, teeth bared, and Lane flinched back instinctively. Probably his first smart move of the night.

   “Say that again to me,” Ethan said. “Tell me again this is a supernatural problem. Show that ignorance one more time, and I will . . . educate you.”

   There was little doubt his education would be fierce and physical. Sensing the same thing, the mayor held up a hand. “I understand your concerns, Mr. Sullivan. And I don’t take with negotiating with terrorists.”

   “All evidence to the contrary,” Ethan muttered.

   The mayor’s brows lifted. “While I am willing to give your people some leeway considering the circumstances, do consider in whose office you are currently standing.”

   Ethan didn’t respond, but only a human could have missed the angry energy he pumped out like heat shimmering on asphalt.

   Evidently satisfied with his silence, she looked at me. “We need a solution to this problem. You and Ms. Bell are that solution. We cannot allow her to destroy Chicago if a solution exists.”

   “She won’t stop,” I said. “This won’t appease her.”

   “Of course she will.” Lane stepped forward, arms crossed. “She’s been silent for four months. She heard about the wedding, became enraged, and used her magic accordingly. Or do you think it’s a coincidence the river froze the day after your wedding?”

   That thought hadn’t even occurred to me, because Sorcha simply wouldn’t care. I thought she might have interrupted the wedding for the purpose of causing us pain—not because she cared whether we were married. We were irritants to her. Tools to be used. Nothing more, nothing less.

   “She wasn’t silent because she was happy or growing a conscience,” Mallory said. “And she didn’t suddenly snap because Merit made it into the Tribune. Again. She’s been working on her magic.” She pointed to the window. “Case in point. This isn’t a card trick, and it’s not something you just whip up with a few pretty words. Sorcha’s an alchemist. That takes times, preparation, and practice.”

   “And you are absolutely certain what type of magic she’s using? What she intends to do with it?”

   Mallory had no response.

   “Precisely,” the mayor said. “You can presume she’s planning something magical, but until you have something concrete, it remains supposition. For now, we cross the bridge in front of us—a very concrete deadline—using the tools at our disposal.” She settled her gaze on us. “I realize, ladies, that we are asking a lot of you. But you’re both longtime residents of Chicago. You were born here, raised here. Your friends and families are here. Consider what you love about this city, and whether the risk is worth saving it.”

   When all else failed, go for the guilt.

   She glanced at me, at Mallory, surmising we were the deciding votes here. We looked at each other, nodded.

   The mayor was visibly relieved, which meant she really thought this plan had a chance of working. She sat back in her chair, which creaked beneath her. “Good,” she said. “Good.”

   “We’ll prep for the op at the planetarium,” Wilcox said. “Oh four hundred hours. We’ll tell her the delivery will take place at oh four thirty hours. That gives us time to grab her, and you time to get somewhere dark before the sun rises again.”

   “We’ll be there,” I said.

   That gave us four hours to come up with a plan that didn’t suck.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

GIRLS ON DEADLINES

Catcher and Ethan were both furious. They managed to hold in their anger in the elevator down to the ground floor, until we walked into the dark street, empty of cars.

   “I believe we all have things to say,” my grandfather said. “Perhaps we could find someplace warm to say them?”

   Ethan gestured to the small hotel across the street, its front entrance squeezed between a chain doughnut shop and a shoe store, the windows dark in both of them. “They’ll be open despite the weather,” he said, “since they’ll already have guests in the rooms.”

   We nodded silently, trudged through unplowed snow—thicker here than in Hyde Park, probably because we were closer to Towerline—and into the lobby.

   The reception desk was empty, but light and sound blared from a small room beside it. Canned laughter echoed out from a late-night sitcom.

   We dusted off as much snow as we could, walked to a seating area on the other side of the room. The hotel was small, the lobby prettily decorated but showing signs of wear—chipped baseboards, threadbare furniture, worn floors.

   My grandfather took a seat first, gestured to us. “Why don’t you four talk through what you need to talk through, and then we’ll discuss the details?” Nonplussed by the possibility, he pulled out his phone, began scanning the screen. “I’ll just do a little reconnaissance.”

   We left Mallory and Catcher to their own conversation. I was going to have a hard enough time dealing with Ethan; I certainly didn’t need two alpha males in a single argument.