“For who?”

“For whoever the fuck I want. It’s no business of yours. The fact is, you came into my club with an old password. I don’t like interlopers in my club.”

“Surprising, since you’ll allow virtually anything else.”

Ethan’s words were slow and dangerous, but Cyrius snorted. “You think I’m intimidated by you because you’re head of some vamp house? No. I manage a club; you manage a club. That makes us equals, far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t allow my vampires to harm innocents in my ‘club.’”

Cyrius held up his hands defensively. “What happens among consenting adults is their business, not mine. I don’t police what happens here.”

I didn’t buy that everyone here was consenting, or that Cyrius didn’t know exactly what went on in his club.

But that was irrelevant, because he’d just shown us the only bit of business that mattered. On the inside of his right forearm was a forest green tattoo—an ouroboros, an old and circular symbol made up of a snake eating its tail.

It was the symbol of the Circle . . . and therefore of Adrien Reed.

Son of a bitch. Cyrius’s ink, I said to Ethan, and watched his gaze slip discreetly from Cyrius’s face to the symbol on his arm.

Cyrius Lore managed La Douleur, and the Circle managed Cyrius Lore. If we were right about the alchemical symbols, this was part of the sorcerer’s territory. We had a link between Adrian Reed and the sorcerer, the alchemy. Reed’s sorcerer and the alchemy sorcerer weren’t two different people. They were one and the same, part of his criminal organization. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

And once again, it raised questions about Caleb Franklin. Had he known about the Circle? About Reed?

Probably sensing our magic, Cyrius nodded and the vamp stepped closer, unsheathed her katana with a dull whistle of sound. I’d bet the edge was dull, too. She really needed to take better care of her blade.

She stepped forward, put the blade against my neck.

Maybe it was the place, maybe it was Reed. Maybe it was the residual effect of Ethan’s magic. Whatever the reason, my blood began to hum beneath the cold steel, aching to fight. Ethan tensed with concern, but my adrenaline was already flowing.

Focus on him, I said silently. She’s mine.

“Now,” Cyrius said. “Why don’t you tell me why the fuck you’re in my place when you weren’t invited?”

“We want information about Caleb Franklin.”

Cyrius frowned, which didn’t do his mug any favors. “The fuck is Caleb Franklin?”

“A shifter under the protection of Gabriel Keene,” Ethan said. Not entirely the truth, given the defection, but true enough for our purposes. “He’s dead.”

“I don’t know shit about him or who killed him.”

“He lived nearby,” Ethan said.

“We’re in Chicagoland. Few million people live nearby. I know nothing about him, which means you’ve wasted your time and mine.” Ugly or not, Cyrius’s face didn’t show any hint he was lying. Maybe he was just a good liar.

But the vampire was another matter. I didn’t need to see her face to know she had knowledge; the fizz of magic in the air was enough.

“What makes you think you have the right to walk into my place, disrupt my club, and ask me questions about anything?”

The vampire adjusted her position. Her sword was still at my neck, but she’d moved closer to Ethan, and her eyes were on him. In lust, in fascination, in hope. Maybe she had a crush on our photogenic Master. I could probably use that. And considering the current position of her sword, wouldn’t feel bad about exploiting it.

“I had the password,” Ethan said drolly.

“Your password is garbage.” Cyrius linked his hands on the table. “You know the penalty for trespassing?”

Ethan’s gaze flicked to the tattoo, up again. “For trespassing on Reed’s land, you mean?”

Cyrius shifted his arm to hide his ink, and his face went beet red. Maybe because of anger he’d been challenged, but more likely because of fear. Reed wouldn’t be happy that we’d discovered his bordello.

He offered a mirthless laugh, full of false confidence. “You don’t know shit about shit. But you just wrote your ticket out of here in a body bag.”

It was the kind of lead-in I’d probably heard a dozen times. The prelude to a command of violence to be meted out by someone else, by their weapon and their sweat.

And I was ready for it.

Cyrius signaled the vampire with a flick of his finger, a death penalty handed down with no effort on his part. I understood he believed us a threat—and he was right about that—but I didn’t have respect for people too lazy to fight their own battles.

Duck, I told Ethan, and when the vampire shifted her weight to bring the sword to bear, I moved. I put my hands on the arm of the chair, pushed up my weight, and as Ethan dodged, twisted and kicked. I caught her shoulder, sent her stumbling backward.

Ethan vaulted from his seat, jumped toward Cyrius, who’d pulled open a desk drawer. I caught the glint of metal, felt the buzz of steel in my bones. He had a gun.

Damn it. My arm had only just stopped aching. I did not want to get shot again this week. I’d let Ethan handle that one.

You got him? I asked Ethan.

I’ve got him. She’s yours.

Damn right she was.

I unsheathed my katana as the vampire regained her footing. I could give credit where credit was due: She’d held on to her sword, and was resetting to face me again.