An animated clip of Luc filled the screen. His animated cowboy hat bobbed back and forth as he screeched “Show me the Ops Room!” over and over again.

“Is that supposed to be a play on ‘Show me the money’?” Jeff wondered.

“God only knows,” I said, smiling with relief when the real Luc replaced the faux one.

He smiled brightly at Jeff and me. “Sentinel, I’m glad to see you’re taking advantage of the technological resources we’ve provided for you. And that you’re alive. Ethan said things got hairy. And for you, too, Jeff.”

“Being a hostage is always a bummer,” Jeff said. “But we came out all right.”

“Have you heard anything about Scott?”

“Scott?” Jeff asked with alarm.

“Kowalcyzk’s interviewing him today,” Luc explained. “Jonah said the lawyers are negotiating with the mayor’s office, the police commissioner, the feds. No other news yet.”

“At least he’s got advocates,” Jeff said.

“And loud ones. The lawyers are all over TV, the Web, talking about how poorly their client is being treated, how it’s baldly unconstitutional. They’ll get him out, or set him up for a civil suit later.”

“Sometimes you play by the rules they give you,” I said. “I assume Ethan gave you the rundown about everything here?”

“He did. He’s talking to the librarian. And good timing there; he just got back to the House an hour or two ago. What can I do you for, Sentinel?”

“We need to borrow your brain.”

• • •

Ethan had given Luc the overview, heavy on the elves and their apparent existence. We stuck to the facts of the attack, walked him through what we knew, and brainstormed about the potential cause.

Luc wasn’t convinced they were related at all. “Two different methods,” he said. “One much more violent than the other. One kills, the other—what would you say—violates? One attack during the day. The other at night.”

“On the other hand,” I said, “it’s two attacks on supernatural groups in Illinois within twenty-four hours. The methods may not have much in common, but they have to be connected.”

“We need to know if she got on that plane.”

“That’s exactly what Jeff and I were saying. I don’t suppose you know someone?”

He was quiet for a moment. “I might, you know, know someone.” His cheekbones glowed faintly pink, and there was a bashful look in his eyes.

“Former girlfriend?” I asked with a grin.

Luc hunched over a little, as if shielding the camera and his answer from the other people in the room. From the topic, I assumed Lindsey was one of those people.

“Briefly,” he said. “And I can’t stress that enough. We haven’t talked in a while, but I could maybe make a phone call. I wouldn’t, of course, want it to become a thing.”

“I’m empathic,” we heard Lindsey call out offscreen. “And you’re hardly whispering. I can hear you, Merit and Jeff.”

We waved weakly back at Luc, whose face had turned a mottled shade of crimson.

A flounce of blond hair popped into view. “’S’up?” Lindsey asked with a grin. “Jeffrey. Merit.”

“Will you please give your boyfriend permission to call his ex-girlfriend and ask if our victim-slash-perpetrator boarded her flight?”

“She hardly qualified as an ex-girlfriend,” Lindsey said. “They may have bounced around together a smidge, but that’s it. It barely counts.”

I’d have much preferred to dive into Lindsey’s scale of what did and did not “count” for purposes of “bouncing,” but this wasn’t the time.

“Excellent,” I said. “I’m going to assume that means you have no objection to Luc calling Bouncy so we can continue our supernatural investigation and get the shifters and elves off our backs.”

“Roger that,” she said, before Luc nudged his way on-screen again. He no longer looked especially amused.

“So you’ll let us know?” I asked cheerily.

He grumbled something, and the screen went blank. I scratched absently at an itch on my shoulder, glanced at Jeff.

“That was pretty awkward.”

“Vampires,” Jeff said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.

I yawned hugely, stretching back in the chair. I was still residually sore from being dragged around and bound. It was nothing that a little sleep wouldn’t fix, but I was getting achy from sitting.

“It looks like bedtime for you, Sentinel.”

I looked back, found Ethan in the doorway, hands in his pockets, lips curled in amusement. “Having any luck here?”

“Not a damn bit,” I said. “We can’t find anything that gives us a motive for Aline, or indicates she was a target of the attack. What about you? Any luck with Paige and the librarian?”

“They’re looking through the archives,” he said. “I was advised my request was substantial and it would take them some time.”

Ethan’s voice was flat, and I could easily imagine the librarian giving him a very pointed speech about the time he’d need to complete an assignment. Like most of the vampires of Cadogan House, the librarian was particular.

Another yawn racked me, and I raised the back of my hand to my mouth. I was too tired to hold it in.

“You’ve had a bit of an evening,” Ethan said. “I think it’s time to head back to the carriage house.”

I nodded and stood up, regretting that the end of the evening hadn’t been more productive.

“I’ll get this cleaned up,” Jeff said. “And check in with Damien.” He glanced at Ethan, smiled. “Merit held her own. Had those elves shaking in their boots.”

“I’m sure she did. And it probably didn’t hurt to have a tiger in her corner.”

Jeff smiled shyly. “I’m just glad we got everyone out of there okay. Hopefully, we’ll find Aline tucked away on holiday, and Niera on a jaunt, and everything can go back to normal.”

I didn’t disagree with the hope, but I was beginning to think crisis was the new normal.

• • •

We had an hour until sunrise, but my body was already shutting down. Ethan all but carried me back to the carriage house, where Mallory and Catcher had showered and were lying on the couch, a predictable Lifetime movie on the television. Some men golfed; some wrenched. Catcher Lifetime’d.

I headed straight for the bedroom, stripped down to bare skin, and blistered myself in the shower. My body ached like I was awaiting the onset of the flu. I could only assume the elves had thrown me around like a sack of potatoes in the process of getting me into the village.

When I’d risked using all the hot water, I flipped off the faucet and wrapped myself in a fluffy towel. They had their prejudices, but you couldn’t fault their taste in linens.

I pulled on a Cadogan T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, and then took care of the other necessary bit of business—sword care. I’d managed to snatch my sword back from the elves, but it hadn’t come away unscathed. The steel was filthy, dotted with mud and probably worse, little clumps of dirt clinging to the scabbard. I placed both carefully on the floor, then grabbed the small kit Catcher had given me from my duffel bag. Rice paper. Oil. A whetstone to hone the surface.

I hadn’t yet used the whetstone. The katana had been made by hands significantly more experienced and learned than mine; I’d long ago decided to leave sharpening to the experts. But I was good with oil and rice paper, which would clean the steel to a sheen and protect it from nicks during the next battle.

After removing the gunk with a soft cloth, I dotted oil onto a square of rice paper and folded the small sheet around the blade. With a smooth, swift motion, I wiped the oil from one end of the katana to the other, then repeated the process until the blade gleamed. The blade had been tempered with blood and magic, and with each pass of the paper I felt the answering shiver of satisfaction, as if the sword appreciated the care.

When I was done, I slid it back into the sheath with a zing of sound, and placed it on the top of the bureau beside Ethan’s sword, already scabbarded. They made a beautiful pair, artisanal weapons of death, handcrafted protectors of honor.

As I patted myself on the back for my mental poetry, a knock sounded at the front door.

I opened the bedroom door and peeked into the living room.

For the first time tonight, it wasn’t bad news. A teenager with pink cheeks stood in the doorway wearing a Loring Park Pizza cap, and the siren’s call of roasted meat spilled into the air from the four steaming pizza boxes he carried. The scent was nearly tangible; I could practically see the wavy lines of meat smoke rising off the box.

A victim to my hunger, I marched into the living room.

“What’s this?” Catcher asked.

“Dinner, I guess.” The kid shrugged. “Guy at the house paid for it, sent me out here with it.” He grinned. “Said you should tip me really well.”

“I’ll just bet he did,” Catcher mumbled, pulling his wallet out of his back jeans pocket. He snatched out bills, then exchanged the cash for pizza and watched the kid head back down the driveway—as if there was a threat the pizza delivery boy might change his mind and attack.

After a moment, Catcher closed the door and put the pizza on the table. “I guess the Pack felt bad about last night’s grub.”

“Or tonight’s hostage situation,” Ethan said, throwing open a box and grabbing a steaming slice. Without napkin, fork, or plate, he dove into the slice, earning openmouthed stares from Mallory, Catcher, and me.

“I’m not that pretentious,” he said over a mouthful of a pizza that looked like a butcher-shop special. I recognized pepperoni; the rest of it was a hearty, delicious mystery.

“You are,” the three of us said together, but we were smiling when we said it. We all grabbed slices and took seats on the sofas.