Midnight Marked

  “Not quick,” she said. “There are thousands of lines of code—of symbols—that make up their equation. It’s like a cassette tape—it will take the magic time to rewind.”

  Catcher looked at his watch. “Let’s mark the time—it’s nearly midnight, right? I’m going to aim for that.”

  We checked our watches, confirmed the time. And when that was done, my grandfather nodded. “We’ll keep you safe while you do it.” He looked at Ethan. “And upstairs?”

  “You’ve got the tranqs?”

  In answer, the SWAT guy pulled out an enormous hard case, popped the latches. Inside a nest of gray foam were a dozen small silver tubes a little larger than a roll of quarters, with one end tilted ninety degrees. He popped the cap off the end, pointed to an orange button on the side. “You need skin-to-skin contact. Hold the dispensing end against skin—doesn’t matter where—and press the button to engage the tranq. You’ll get results in two or three seconds.”

  “How many doses per weapon?”

  “Only three,” he said, and handed them out. I tucked mine into the pocket of my jacket. “These are still in R and D, and it’s the best we could do on short notice.”

  “We’re happy to take them off your hands,” Ethan said. “That’s potentially thirty-six fewer fatalities.”

  God willing, it would be enough.

  “We go in,” Ethan said. “Make our way to the elevators, put down everyone that we can. We go upstairs, and we contain.”

  The SWAT guy—who I realized hadn’t bothered to introduce himself to us—nodded.

  Thunder rolled threateningly as energy spread above us, and we all looked up. The sky was clear of clouds, but tentacles of magic flowed like rivulets across the lines that made up the QE.

  “He’s screwing up the ionosphere,” Mallory muttered. “What a douche.”

  “For that and many other reasons,” Ethan said.

  Backpack in one hand, Mallory turned to me, wrapped her free arm around my neck, squeezed. “Be careful up there,” she whispered.

  “Be careful down here,” I said, squeezing her back.

  I released her to Catcher. Linking hands, they walked to the curb, and the division between concrete and granite. They blew out a breath and did the thing all heroes must do—they took that terrifying first step.

  Mallory walked in front of Catcher, and she seemed impossibly delicate walking into the empty square, Towerline rising like the body of a dark and long-forgotten cryptid in front of her.

  A cadre of cops stepped behind them, watched while Catcher and Mallory looked up at the building, then the square, gauging the best location. When Catcher nodded to them, pointed, they moved to form a line between the sorcerers and the building.

  She looked at them for a moment, as if adjusting to the possibility their bodies were her shield, then pulled out a thick crayon from her pocket and began to drew a white line, then another, until she’d sketched onto the granite a kind of Bizarro World QE, with the symbols in a different order.

  When she was done, she nodded at Catcher, who joined her at the boundary. Together, they stepped carefully inside the middle square. While he held her backpack, she unzipped and unloaded what I’d recognized as an Alchemy Starter Pack—glass bottle, her crucible, a box of matches, a notebook, and an assortment of herbs.

  For five minutes they worked, combining materials and pressing them into the crucible, drawing small symbols in the square, and reading words from the notebook. Occasionally, one or both of them looked up at the tentacular magic that flowed above us. The air buzzed with it, so even the steady-looking uniformed cops glanced around, shifted on their feet.

  Catcher pulled a match from the box, looked at Mallory, waiting for her nod. When he got it, he flicked it against the box and dropped it into the crucible. Lightning or magic or some combination of both cracked down the building like an explosion, shattering the new columns of windows and sending glass shooting down over us. We ducked as glass rained down.

  All hell broke loose.

  There was no time to wonder whether their magic was working. The tower’s doors burst open, and supernaturals ran forward.

  “Fallon, Jeff,” Ethan called out, and we unsheathed our katanas. “Stay with Mallory and Catcher! Keep them safe!”

  And we rushed forward.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A SOUL INSPIRED

  Reed had anticipated an attack, and he’d been prepared for it. Maybe by using the individual magic the sorcerer had worked on Kyle Farr, Reed had collected the supernaturals who came out to meet us. There were dozens of them. Shifters, vampires, River trolls, the similar-looking mercenary fairies who’d once guarded our door, River nymphs, and a very tall, willowy creature I’d never seen before.

  A dryad, Ethan said silently, as if sensing my confusion. That was a kind of tree nymph, if I remembered my Canon. She had the look—skin that was nearly gray beneath her pale green, Grecian-style dress, hair that was silvery green, and long arms that ended in reedy, pointed fingers.

  As if the opening of the doors had unleashed power as well as creatures, magic seemed to pour out of the building. It was intrusive magic, biting and terrible magic that felt like alien fingers pinching, grasping, looking for literal and metaphorical access into our psyches. The bracelet kept the magic out of my head—and I was ridiculously grateful for that—but it didn’t mute the disturbing sensation of it.

  The dryad reached me first, swinging her long arms as fluidly as waving branches but as sharp as whips. I dropped and rolled to avoid being snapped by one, came up on the other side, and swept my katana back. I’d slicked a cut across her arm. It seeped green and put the scent of crushed leaves into the air. She made a horrible, windy sound of pain, lashed her arm out again. I’d prepared to drop again, but she adjusted her trajectory at the last minute and caught my ankle.

  I hit the ground on my back but shifted my weight and hopped back to my feet just as she moved closer, tried to swipe again. This time, I grabbed her arm; her skin was rough, but it moved in my hand like an eel, which was weirdly disconcerting. I grabbed the dispenser from my belt, pressed it to her arm.

  With a scream, she ripped her arm away, leaving ropelike burns on my palm. She stumbled back once, and then her silvery green eyes rolled up and she fell to the ground like a felled tree.

  That tranq was damn effective. The fact that the CPD had made it just for sups was probably worth some thought, but not tonight. Tonight was for magic.

  “One down,” I said, glancing over the plaza. “A dozen to go.”

  Ethan was a few yards away, battling two vampires with slashing katana moves that had him nearly blurring with movement. His opponents were fast, too, at least Strong Phys in the scale of vampire power rankings. But being controlled made them clumsier than they would have been if they’d been fighting on their own.

  I don’t see why you get to have all the fun, I said silently, and ran toward him, stepping to one of his opponents as he executed a gorgeous butterfly kick that had the vampire flipping backward.

  They fought in silence, I realized. No cursing, no groans of pain, not even grunts of effort—like the ones tennis players made when returning hard plays. There were still sounds—the sharp ping of metal against metal, the shush of fabric, the crunch of glass underfoot. But they didn’t speak at all.

  The second vampire lunged for me. I used a side kick to shift his weight. He stumbled to the side but regained his balance and came back at me with silvered eyes and descended fangs. He thrust the katana downward; I used the spine of my sword to deflect, push it away.

  Got him, Ethan said, moving forward and slapping the plunger onto the vampire’s back. A pause, and then he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  Spoilsport, I said, but my cheeky smile was interrupted by an avalanche of screams.

  “Every
body take cover!”

  I instinctively looked back at the sound of Catcher’s voice, found him running toward us, eyes on the balustrade that separated the plaza from the canal that contained Chicago River.

  I followed his gaze. One of the River nymphs stood in front of the wall, her hands lifted toward the river—and the wall of water she’d raised over the river, and apparently planned to drop over the plaza.

  “Oh, shit.” Ethan’s voice was a horrible whisper.

  “I got it!” Catcher said, and moved toward it, raising two hands, palms out, to face the wall of water that was still growing, towering over the petite nymph who’d lifted it dozens of feet over her head. The wind blew fiercely, sending a mist across the plaza, which glittered with glass, and threatening to drown us all with the surge.

  Power crackled around Catcher as he gathered up magic, building a transparent wall that sparked with energy. Slowly, as sweat crossed his brow, he began to push it forward, a sea wall against the tsunami the nymph was threatening.

  Their gazes locked on each other, their expressions fierce with determination. They moved toward each other, the wall of water shivering above the nymph as if with anticipation of falling, of covering the earth again. But she was so focused on Catcher that she didn’t see Morgan move around behind her. He watched her and Catcher, gauged the right moment, and moved forward, tagging her with the tranq.

  She dropped, and the water—now forty feet high—hovered above the plaza.

  Sweat popping across his brow, Catcher took one step forward, then another, blue sparks flying around his hands as the water shivered, lifted. He sucked in a breath, as if gathering up his resources, then gave the water a final shove.

  Loud as a train, the water flew back toward the river, but unevenly, rushing across the Michigan Avenue Bridge—pushing CPD cruisers into one another with another mighty crash—before falling back to the river again.

  Catcher fell to his knees, body limp with exhaustion. That was the downside of being a sorcerer; you had to recharge.

  “Hey,” I said, running toward him and crouching in front of him. “You all right?”

  “Took a lot out of me.”

  “Yeah, saving a few thousand people can do that. That was a pretty good Moses routine—you know, parting the waters and all.”

  He looked up at me, a half smile on his face. “Are you making a joke at a time like this?”

  “Catcher Bell,” I said, offering a hand and helping him climb to his feet, “if you can’t make a joke at a time like this, what’s the point of living?”

  “I guess.”

  “Are you going to be able to help Mallory? I could call Paige, get her out here.”

  “I can manage it,” he said, testy as ever. “Paige has to stay on the House ward.”

  “In that case,” I said, and pulled the slightly squashed PowerBar from my pocket, handed it to him, “you’ll need this more than me.”

  Catcher accepted it, looked at me with a warm smile. “Did you bring a battle snack?”

  Since he’d already ripped open the package and bit in, I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to respond.

  Ethan ran toward us as a different magical pas de deux occurred behind him—the QE and the countermagic battled for control, the green tendrils in the sky waving erratically as power fought power.

  “We’ve got a path toward the building,” Ethan said.

  “Then use it,” Catcher said with a nod, stuffing the wrapper in his jeans as he ran back toward Mallory. “And thanks for the battle snack!”

  “Which are a brilliant idea!” I yelled back as Ethan rounded up the troops to head inside.

  “Get to the elevators!” he called out, waiting until the rest of the team had acknowledged the order. Stairs would have been cooler, but that was the tricky part about having to battle on the top floor of a would-be high-rise.

  We made it into the building—Gabriel bringing up the rear in his wolf form—just as another bolt of magic flashed outside the building. It hit the pavement like Thor’s hammer, putting a crater in the plaza as big as a car, and sending shrapnel into the air.

  Down! Ethan said, covering me as shards of granite crashed against the glass, burst through to litter the lobby floor.

  As if sensing us, the supernaturals who remained outside began to run toward the lobby. Magic flashed again as Gabriel shifted from gray wolf to naked and sun-kissed human. Eli tossed him a backpack, probably filled with clothes.

  “Get to the elevators!” Gabriel said, pointing to the bank of them. “Reed’s sorcerer is fighting the countermagic. You don’t do this now, he’ll take down the goddamn building and everyone in it!”

  “We got this,” Eli said, a curl falling over a gash on his forehead.

  “Let’s go while we can,” Morgan said, and with a nod from Ethan, we ran for the construction elevators and slipped into a car.

  • • •

  We’d decided to take the elevator to the floor beneath Reed and the others.

  There was only red steel mesh between us and the sky as the crude digital display ticked off one floor after another. The wind blew ferociously through the car, which made the ride bumpy and my knees a little shaky.

  Ethan pushed a hand through hair dampened by exertion and magic. He glanced at me. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said as I stood in an elevator between two Master vampires who’d both been affected negatively by Adrien Reed.

  As we rose into the air, anticipation began to build again. Logan Hill would be on the roof; he had to be. He was part of the alchemy, part of the magic, part of the Circle.

  I would have my time with Logan Hill. I would have my reckoning.

  I also would have to keep a better check on my emotions, because both men turned their heads to look at me. I kept my gaze on the elevator doors.

  “Sentinel?” Ethan asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said again. And I was; I had my game face on.

  The elevator slowed, then came to a gentle stop as it reached our destination. We took battle positions once again, just in case they were waiting for us.

  “Ready,” Ethan murmured as the elevator buzzed its warning and the mesh door slid open.

  The floor was empty—an expanse of concrete bounded by steel pillars—except for the broken body on the floor. I went cold as ice and rushed forward, fell to my knees beside my brother.

  “Robert! Oh, damn, Robert!” It took all the bravery I had to reach out and touch him, to gauge whether the man who’d chased me as a child was still alive. His skin was cold and clammy, and vibrated with power. Something magical, maybe. Something the sorcerer had done to him.

  Morgan moved beside me, checked Robert’s pupils. They were tiny black pinpricks.

  “Magic,” he diagnosed. “Probably to drop him, keep him out of the way. But not kill him,” he added, checking Robert’s pulse, “because he’s a tool, too, just like the rest of us.”

  Magic cracked again, flashing brilliantly across the hallway and sending a green sheen across the tall bank of windows opposite the elevator. The concrete beneath our feet shook as if a hurricane raged outside, then stilled just as silently. It hadn’t broken, but the sound of glass tinkling to the stone plaza below filled the air like music.

  “I can get him out of here,” Morgan said. “But you’ll have to go forward alone.”

  I looked back at Ethan, found his gaze on mine, green and intent. Neither of us was masochistic enough to want war, but we wanted the men who stood on the other side of that door, and we wanted them badly. And when push came to shove, there was no one else I’d rather go through the door with.

  “Take care of him,” I said to Morgan, then pressed a kiss to my brother’s cheek and climbed to my feet again, looked at the ladder beside the construction elevator that led to the building’s top floor. r />
  “Ready?” Ethan asked.

  “Always.” Anticipation began to drain away, replaced by pure adrenaline and luminous anger. I felt as if I glowed with it—although that could have been the magical battle taking place around us.

  I took the ladder first, climbed silently upward, one rung at a time, until I was high enough to just peek through the hole. The action was taking place on the other side of the floor. There was a man watching on the elevator—he’d have heard it moving upward—but he hadn’t realized we’d stopped on the floor below.

  There was an enormous utility box to my left. Probably some kind of HVAC unit.

  Silently, I climbed forward into powerfully swirling winds and the scent of bitter magic and slipped behind the unit.

  Come up and to the left, I told Ethan. Behind the utility box.

  This isn’t the time for a romantic tryst, Sentinel.

  You’re hilarious. And there’s a man to your right, so be quiet.

  Ethan’s head popped up. He watched the man for a moment, and when he was certain of the man’s inattention, he joined me in a crouch.

  You’re ready? he asked, and I nodded. In that case, we go out on three. One—two—three!

  We jumped forward and were greeted by a shifter, a man in a Cubs jersey who looked exhausted and unkempt, and who came at us with raised fists and blank eyes.

  “Kyle Farr!” I guessed, and drew his attention to me.

  He growled, leaped forward. But he was obviously tired, had probably been under Reed’s control since he’d disappeared. He missed me, and when I threw out a foot to trip him, he hit the roof on his knees. Ethan took his chance, moved forward, and depressed the tranq to Farr’s arm. His eyes closed, and he drooped.

  I climbed over his body, moved to stand next to Ethan. Ready? he said.

  Ready, I agreed, and we moved cautiously forward.

  There, in the middle of the roof, was an enormous metal sculpture. It was probably ten feet across, at least as tall. It was built like a tree—if the tree had been built from metal scraped from the bowels of the earth and blackened by fire, every branch sharpened and honed to a point. It was hollow in the middle, and green smoke and magic poured out of what I guessed was a crucible. That smoke rose and twisted and seemed to take form above us.