“The south garden at the Art Institute.” That was downtown, in the middle of Chicago’s business sector and the area known as the Loop.

“All right. I’ll meet you there. Forty minutes or so, depending on traffic.”

“We’ll see you,” my grandfather said, and the line went dead.

“Could I have one night without calamity?” I asked, putting the phone back on the nightstand and pulling a pillow over my face.

The bed shifted, and Ethan lifted the pillow away. “Not for a Sentinel sworn to uphold justice.”

“I don’t think I swore to that. Although I did swear to protect the House against all creatures living or dead. What’s up with that?”

Ethan rose, pushed his hair back. “Ghosts, poltergeists, your greater and lesser banshees.”

“Those things don’t exist.”

His look was flat. “You know better, Sentinel. Another tarot death?”

“Mitzy Burrows.”

Ethan grimaced. “Wasn’t she your prime suspect?”

“She was. And if the killer’s still using the tarot, she’d be the Four of Wands or Four of Cups. She’s at the Art Institute—with my grandfather.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I glanced up at him. “Don’t you want to stay here, wait to hear about the vote?”

He stretched his arms over his head, bent slightly at the waist as if loosening up for another run. “The message will come to me. If it’s bad news, I’d just as soon hear about it outside the House. I need to go. I need a distraction, and I haven’t been much help in this investigation so far.”

“Okay,” I said. “But I’m driving.”

* * *

Ethan drove.

Apparently, a man who’d been through two nights of rigorous psychological and physical testing deserved a night behind the wheel of his Ferrari.

I could hardly argue with that, mostly because it would have made me look bad. So I sucked it up.

Ethan gave Luc our itinerary, and I sent Jonah a message advising him of the murder, promising to stay in touch. He wished Ethan luck and asked me to give him an update if the GP got in touch. I guessed that request was equally motivated by personal curiosity, House curiosity, and RG curiosity. If Ethan won, there seemed little doubt the RG would have more questions, especially about my loyalty.

The Art Institute of Chicago took up a prime spot on Michigan Avenue. We parked a few blocks away, then locked the car and set out for the park on foot.

The building was one of the city’s most famous landmarks, the classical architecture marked by columns and two giant stone lions that guarded the door. When I was younger, I’d stare at the lions, totally transfixed, wishing they’d come to life like twin Aslans.

I’d also spent plenty of time inside the building, staring at paintings and sculpture, obsessing over the museum’s collection of miniature rooms, and imagining myself a tiny denizen.

None of the tales I’d spun featured vampires, sparkling or otherwise. But there might have been pirates.

We walked past the lions, heads nobly pointed toward the sky. Ethan reached up and rubbed a hand along one’s leg, as if for good luck—or to ward off bad juju.

The sculpture garden was on the north side of the building, and half the park was boxed by lumber and clear plastic. That something had happened was obvious. Cops were parked on the street, their lights flashing. My grandfather stood on the sidewalk with Catcher, who nodded as we approached.

“Construction?” I wondered, gesturing toward what looked like temporary cover.

“Closed for a couple of weeks while they replace the concrete. They don’t want people initialing it in the meantime.” He gestured with his cane to a make-do door in the construction wrapping, and we walked inside.

Once again, temporary lights had been set up inside the barrier. The light bouncing off the plastic gave the garden an ethereal glow.

Cops and forensic folks were sprinkled around the park, looking for evidence, measuring, taking photographs. Detective Jacobs, looking drawn, and Detective Stowe talked to a construction worker who held his hard hat with white-knuckled fingers. His face looked equally bloodless. Perhaps he’d discovered the body.

We followed my grandfather to the park’s water feature, a long rectangular pool of water topped by a circular fountain. An enormous pedestal emerged from it, topped by five bronze figures. The lowest figure reached out, her eyes closed, toward the body that lay at her feet.

That body wasn’t sculpture, but very human.

Mitzy Burrows was propped beside the fountain, legs curled beneath her, one arm in her lap, the hand holding a golden cup marked by a blue cross. She wore a white dress; her feet were bare but, like the rest of her body, swollen with decay.

Her other arm lay across the edge of the fountain, and her head rested on it, as if she gazed longingly into the water. Both of her wrists had been cut, and blood stained the concrete around her and the water that pooled in the fountain. The scent of death was lifted by the breeze, and I used every bit of control to block it out.

“This isn’t the Four of Cups.” I looked at my grandfather. “I’ve seen that card, and this isn’t it. So this death doesn’t match the pattern. Two of Swords. Three of Pentacles. Four of Cups.”

“It’s not the Four of Cups,” my grandfather agreed. “But she wasn’t killed today. She was killed a week ago.”

I looked back at the body, the single cup. She may have been our best lead, but she’d never been our killer. “She was killed first, and she started it all. The Ace of Cups?”

Catcher swiped at his phone, scanned, then passed it over. The card he’d pulled up was remarkably identical—a woman in a white toga-style gown beside a circular fountain, cup in hand, fingers trailing in the water.

“How did no one find her?” Ethan asked.

“Dumb luck,” my grandfather said. “The concrete’s been curing, and the workers haven’t been on the site in a few days. No one saw her until tonight.” He gestured toward Detective Jacobs and the others. “The construction manager got word vandals were cutting through the plastic, so he came out to have a look.”

As the forensic team moved closer, we stepped back to give them room.

“So someone killed Mitzy Burrows,” I said, when we’d moved a few feet away. “Then her ex-boyfriend, then Samantha Ingram. And the killer is going in order: Ace of Cups, Two of Swords, Three of Pentacles.”

“Four of Wands would be next,” Catcher said. “Naked woman on a horse in front of a castle.”

“Lady Godiva?” Ethan suggested.

Catcher nodded. “Quite similar.” He looked at my grandfather. “What ties the victims together? Or to the killer?”

“The Magic Shoppe,” I said. “Mitzy used to work there, and she bought the swords there. There’s a good chance the tarot cards were purchased there, too, based on the limited supply. Have you heard anything from the manager?”

Catcher shook his head. “The records were supposed to be released today. We’re just waiting for him to take a look. Might be worth a drop-in later if we still haven’t heard.”

My grandfather nodded. “Follow up with them again, and drop by the store if you can’t reach them.”

“Not to be the bearer of bad news,” Ethan said, “but three deaths within a single week means the killer’s moving quickly.”

“And the media’s caught on to the tarot angle,” my grandfather said. “There was a story in the paper this morning: ‘City under Siege as Tarot Killer Strikes Chicago.’”

“Thank God they didn’t exaggerate,” Catcher said blandly. “If this was the killer’s first body, maybe he was sloppy. We could get lucky in the forensics.”

“That would be my hope. Detective Jacobs will run the investigation on the ground, follow up again with Brett’s, Mitzy’s, and Samantha’s neighbors, try to find the connection between them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’ll want to visit the store, as well.”

“Anything we can do?” I asked.

“Not at the moment. But we’d appreciate it if you’d stay available. We’ve got folks dabbling in magic, purposefully or not, and we’d appreciate your take. That’s what got us to the Magic Shoppe in the first place.”

I had to give credit where credit was due. “That was Jonah’s doing, actually. And we’ll circle around with him, just in case.”

“Appreciate it.” My grandfather glanced back at Mitzy, grief darkening his eyes. Decades as a cop hadn’t carved the emotion out of him.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said, a hand on Catcher’s back as they moved back.

I sighed, rubbed my eyes. “I, for one, am sick of murder.”

Ethan rubbed my neck. “You and me both, Sentinel. You and me both.”

* * *

We walked back to Ethan’s car, climbed inside. Ethan pulled out his phone to check it before we pulled into traffic.

My heart jumped immediately. “News?”

“Yes, but not of the variety we were expecting. The GP located Ronald Weatherby. And the GP is now down another vampire.”

I half turned in the seat. “Down another vampire—as in dead? They found out who did it?”

“It was Dierks; at least, it was Dierks in the end, God rest his soul. Ronald Weatherby actually named Harold Monmonth as the instigator. He made the plan to steal the money from the GP, and when he was gone”—by Ethan’s hand, notably—“Dierks continued the tradition.”

“Weatherby prepped the obelisk?”

Ethan paused, scrolling through the GP’s message. “He did. Said he had no idea what the vampires planned to use it for. ‘Bit of hypnosis,’ he told them.”

I sat back again. “Damn. And what did Dierks say?”

“He offered Darius a full confession, which might be the first honorable thing he’s done. Ironically, he said the GP was falling apart, and he wanted out. He decided continuing Monmonth’s plan was the easiest way to do that.”

“How did they kill Dierks?” I quietly asked.

“Decapitation. A relatively easy out for a vampire who committed treason and larceny, all things considered, but they’d have given him consideration since he’s a GP member.”

“What will happen to Ronald?”

More scrolling. The GP apparently prepared very thorough reports. “Lakshmi is communicating with the European version of the Order to ensure Ronald uses more care in the future.”

“That’s a familiar story,” I said, thinking of Mallory and her former tutor, Simon.

“Perhaps,” Ethan said with a smile. But when he looked down at his phone again, the smile faded. A pulse of despondent magic filled the car.

I put a hand on his arm but stayed quiet. From the look on his face, I didn’t need to ask what news he’d received.

“I didn’t win,” Ethan said. “I lost the vote.” He looked sad, shocked, befuddled, all at once.

I waited for him, gave him time to say the rest of it aloud.

“She won—Nicole. She’ll be the next head of the GP.” He put the phone down, put both hands on the steering wheel, stared into the night.

“I’m so sorry,” I quietly said. “So very sorry. I know how much you wanted it—how much good you would have done.”

He nodded but kept his eyes on the street.

“Will you want to address the House?”

Silence, then: “No, Merit. I just want quiet. Peace and quiet. We’ll broadcast the coronation in the ballroom, and I’ll address the House then. I’ll thank them for their service, for putting up with the intrigue and the testing, for all of it. But for now, let’s just have peace.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. Can I ply you with food? That’s really my go-to response.”

Before he could answer, my phone rang again. “Damn, but we’re popular,” I murmured, switching it to speaker mode.

“Merit and Ethan.”

“It’s Catcher. Just heard from the manager of the Magic Shoppe.”

“That was fast.”

“Yeah. Apparently he saw the story in the paper, actually got to work. He confirmed Samantha Ingram was a customer. Bought some vampire memorabilia a couple of days ago.”

“Probably excited about being a potential Initiate,” I said.

“Yeah, possible. He also finally checked the box, and the cards were actually purchased by a store employee—Curt Wachman. Jacobs is going to the store as soon as the scene is processed.”

“Curt? Curt bought the tarot cards?”

“You know him?”

“He was at the store when Mallory and I went. We asked him about Mitzy. He didn’t say anything unusual . . .” Something horrible occurred to me, because Mitzy wasn’t the only thing we’d talked to him about.

Ace of Cups. Two of Swords. Three of Pentacles . . . and Four of Wands, something a practitioner of magic might use.

“Catcher,” I said, forcing my voice to not shake. “Where’s Mallory?”

“At home, I assume. Why?”

My heart began to pound. “She talked to Curt about going back to the store. She wants some wolfsbane, and he said they had some on the way.” I calculated the timing. “She was going to pick it up. He tried to warn her off buying it, but she said she knew what she was doing. Didn’t say she was a sorceress outright, but nudged around it. And it’s her favorite shop—he knew her, had sold things to her before.”