“And the perp left in a sedan,” Matt added. “White, maybe one of those boxy models from the 1980s.”

   “Did you get a plate?” Catcher asked.

   “No, it’s pretty dark out here. No streetlights or anything.”

   My grandfather nodded. “We’ll go in and survey the scene. I’d like to do that before the CPD arrives.” He glanced at the humans. “And we’ll also want to talk to you, get your information. Catcher, if you could take care of that?”

   Catcher nodded, led the humans away. When they were out of earshot, my grandfather turned back to us, looked at me. “Are they telling the truth?”

   “I don’t have any reason to believe they’re lying,” I replied. “They said they were here because they were at the Malone mansion, felt the magic from there.”

   “Oh, one of Chicago’s ‘haunted’ bordellos,” Jeff said with an interested smile. “I forgot that’s up the street.”

   When we all looked at him, his cheeks flushed pink, visible even in the dark. “Who doesn’t love a good ghost story?”

   I, for one, wasn’t much of a fan.

   “The Chicago Paranormal Action Network does, apparently,” I said. “They were out of breath when they found me, said they’d followed magic through the cemetery, but the summoner got away from them.”

   My grandfather nodded, taking that in, and looked at Annabelle. “Thoughts?”

   She glanced over at the humans. Roz and Robin were chatting animatedly with Catcher while Matt took readings near the fence.

   “Necromancers’ goals don’t align with ghosthunters’ goals,” she said. “My mission is to help the deceased find peace and depart from this world. Theirs is to find the deceased who remain here and draw attention to them.”

   “That was diplomatically put,” my grandfather said.

   “I don’t have any particular reason to doubt these kids. But I don’t have any particular reason to trust them, either.”

   My grandfather nodded. “We appreciate your frankness. We’ll take a look and let you know what we find.”

   “I’d be grateful,” Annabelle said. “Especially about the magic. The deceased are my people—and often my clients. I want to know who’s doing this and how. And I want it stopped.”

   “On that,” my grandfather said, “we are much agreed.”

   Ethan and I said our good-byes and headed back to the car for the return trip to Cadogan House. We drove with the windows down, the night air warm and filled with the scents and sounds of the city. I tried to let my fears fly away, but the magic I’d wandered through left a heavy weight in my mind.

3

If Cadogan House had been a woman, she’d have been a 1940s pinup. Solid and beautiful, glowing with life, curves in all the right places. Three aboveground stories of stone in the middle of Hyde Park, with lush lawns surrounding it. I loved everything about the House, including the Master who’d brought me there.

   We walked in from the basement parking area, then carried the bounty of our last errand to the first floor, where European antiques mingled with priceless art and beings of the vampire persuasion. We walked past the grand oak staircase and down the main hallway, then past Ethan’s office to the next door on the left.

   Malik sat at his desk, pale green eyes narrowed at his computer. Dark skin, shaved head, white button-down shirt open at the collar, the Cadogan medal at his throat.

   His eyes lifted, met ours when we stepped into the doorway. Hope flared in his eyes, fizzled at the obvious lack of cake, and blossomed again when he saw the Portillo’s cups in our hands.

   “No cake,” Ethan said with a smile, entering the tidy, well-appointed office. “But a consolation prize.”

   Malik accepted the shake and glanced at me, brow lifted. “Was the party so bad you needed a consolation prize?”

   “Let’s go sit and enjoy our beverages,” Ethan said. “And she can tell you all about it.”

   • • •

   We reconvened in the sitting area of Ethan’s office. It was a room I’d once been intimidated by, with its imposing desk, enormous conference table, and powerful Master. But over the last year I’d spent a lot of time in this spot, where a leather sofa and club chairs had been cozily arranged, a coffee table between them. It had become our living room, where we listened and entertained, reviewed and discussed. And occasionally drank ice cream blended with chocolate cake. As one did.

   We told Malik what we’d found at the cemetery, then moved on to the details of the party.

   “I don’t get it,” Malik said, one leg crossed comfortably over the other, the long fingers of his free hand draped on the wide arm of the leather chair. “It was beet-flavored gelatin?”

   “It didn’t taste strongly of beets,” Ethan said contemplatively. “Although there was a certain . . . earthiness.”

   Malik’s lip curled. “And why not a simple cake?”

   “Because my mother doesn’t do simple.” I gestured at the stack of folders on the coffee table, all neatly tabbed and organized. They were copies of my mother’s wedding “dossiers,” one folder for each vendor she’d hired.

   “To his her own, I suppose,” Malik said, then held up his up. “If Aaliyah asks, I didn’t drink this.”

   Ethan grinned. Aaliyah was Malik’s lovely and typically sequestered wife. She was a writer and introvert, and didn’t appear often in the halls of Cadogan House.

   “She talked to Catcher the last time he and Mallory stayed in the House,” Malik explained. “He’s on a health food kick, and he’s dragged her into the gutter with him.”

   “You poor bastard,” Ethan said, and there was nothing but pity in his eyes.