Ethan’s smile was thin. “We were invited, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose. If you’ll excuse us,” Reed said, and made to step around Ethan. But Ethan moved in front of him, blocking the path.

“We’ll have words, Reed. Now or later, but we’ll have them.”

“What could we possibly have to talk about, Mr. Sullivan?”

“The threat you’ve made against Merit. The danger you pose to this city.”

Reed’s eyes flashed with what looked like pleasure, but his voice stayed cool. “As usual, Ethan, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I find most supernaturals tend toward hyperbole.”

Ethan cocked his head. “Then how about the death of Caleb Franklin, the alchemy written near Wrigley Field?”

“I have no idea who that is,” Reed said casually, lifting a champagne glass to his lips. That was perhaps the most infuriating thing about Adrien Reed. He bluffed as well as any vampire.

“Ah,” Ethan said, nodding. “So you’ll play the mogul here, when surrounded by others who have money. Is that it? Afraid to let your true self show? Afraid they’ll see you for what you really are?”

“And what, pray tell, is that?”

“A thug.” Ethan dropped his gaze to Reed’s tuxedo. “A common thug at that, in a suit of medium quality. I’m surprised at you, Adrien—that your taste doesn’t run to something finer.”

That arrow found its mark, slipping through Reed’s armor. The monster flashed across his gray eyes. “You forget yourself.”

“I don’t, actually. I’ve remembered myself, and what my people stand for.”

“Which is?”

“Chicago, mostly. I’m sure you know we’ve discovered something of yours. A club in Hellriver. La Douleur, I believe it was called?”

“I don’t know it.”

Ethan frowned. “Curious. You don’t know Caleb Franklin, who was killed by one of your vampires. You don’t know about the alchemy near Wrigley, and you don’t know about a club run by one of your own people in a neighborhood where more of the same alchemy was located.”

Ethan glanced at Sorcha. “For a man who professes to have his finger on the pulse of the city, your husband is surprisingly unaware of what his own people are doing.”

She didn’t react. No flush, no huff of surprise, no curse. She just kept staring at her phone.

While she seemed unaffected, Reed was annoyed, and angled his body in front of her. It also kept anyone else nearby from seeing his face.

“I am aware of everything,” he said, that self-satisfied glint in his eyes. “From Robert Merit’s financial desires to the very unfortunate tension that’s developed between shifters and vampires.”

“Tension you created.”

“Actually, no. I didn’t kill Caleb Franklin, nor did I order him killed. And if, hypothetically, I had any familiarity with the other matters you’ve mentioned, what of it? You could never prove it.” Reed returned the condescending look Ethan had given him earlier. “They’d never believe you over me. I’m a pillar of Chicago. You are, quite literally, a parasite.”

Reed shifted the momentum again. His anger now rising, Ethan’s magic filled the air, his glamour potent, and my body unfortunately primed for it. My eyes silvered and my fangs descended in reaction to the glamour he spilled around Reed.

But it seemed to have no effect on Reed. “Glamour doesn’t affect me. Call it a side benefit of having . . . powerful . . . friends,” he said, then glanced at me. “Considering the look on your girlfriend’s face, seems like she could use a friend like that.”

His tone was vulgar, obviously intended to incite Ethan, embarrass me. But I’d seen enough of Reed to be unsurprised. I glanced again at Sorcha, intrigued and baffled. If the comment bothered her, she didn’t show it. Then again, Reed was manipulative, controlling. Maybe she was under his thumb, too.

Ethan dropped the glamour but bared his fangs. If he’d been wearing his katana, he’d probably have pulled that, too. “Stay away from her, and from the rest of my House.”

But Reed was enjoying himself now. “Why should I? Your entire community is a mess, and that’s just one sliver of our city. Do you know how many murders occurred in this city last year?”

“No, but I imagine you had a hand in most of them.”

Reed shook his head. “Tsk-tsk, Ethan. I didn’t, of course. And the answer is, too many. Chicago is, in your parlance, a disaster.”

“And you’re going to save it?”

“Not that it’s your concern, but let’s say I’m less troubled by the end result than the profitable middle. My job involves evaluating financial opportunity. Chicago has that in spades. Hypothetically speaking, a man with connections in both legitimate and illegitimate worlds would bring order and efficiency to a city that wastes time and resources on people who refuse to do their part.”

My brain tripped back to Cyrius Lore and the conversation in his office, to the order he’d mentioned, Reed’s “plan.” Lore had believed Reed was a messiah. I wasn’t sure if that was spin by Reed or naïveté by Lore, but it was wrong either way.

“So which is it?” Ethan asked. “Do you want the money or the power?”

Reed clucked his tongue. “You know better, Ethan. Money and power are inseparable. Money begets power; power begets opportunity; and opportunity begets more money.”