It was Blake, coffee cup in hand, and still wearing the pendant. Based on the time stamp, this was minutes before he was killed.

So who was he talking to? Had he talked to the killer in those last moments?

I scrolled over, focused on the other man. And stared. There, talking with Blake in front of the coffee shop where he’d been killed, stood Jonathan Black.

“Holy shit,” I murmured, and zoomed in on the time stamp again, the faces again, to confirm I hadn’t misunderstood, hadn’t imagined a coincidence. But I’d seen the truth. And the other pieces fell into alignment.

He’d said he wanted to meet me.

He had blond hair and a white sedan, just like the man who’d struck Connor.

And now, proof he’d been with Blake a few minutes before Blake’s death.

Jonathan Black wasn’t a vampire, but he was connected to this somehow. It was time to have a discussion.

“Elisa.”

I blinked, looked up at Connor, whose head was tilted as he stared at me. “What did she send you?”

I showed him, but his expression was blank. “Who’s the man talking to Blake?”

“Jonathan Black.”

No sign of recognition, and I realized I hadn’t told him about my meeting. I gave him the update, and he nodded.

“He’s not a vampire, and the OMB trusts him. But he was the only person we know of who was with Blake before he was killed. Someone needs to talk to him.”

“It doesn’t have to be you,” he said, “especially if he’s the one who’s stalking you, or he’s involved in it.” His voice was testier now. “Surely they can handle one interview with an elf.”

“Black said his people owe me a favor,” I reminded him. “He may be more likely to talk to me.”

Connor stepped forward. “And if he’s involved, more likely to hurt you.”

“Then it’s even more imperative that I find him and correct his misperception.”

“What misperception is that?”

“That anyone gets to lay hands on you other than me.”

Connor stared at me, nostrils flaring as he exhaled his frustration. “I’m going with you.”

“No,” I said, put a hand on his chest. “I don’t think he’ll be frank with you there. Or if you’re flurrying magic into the air.”

“Because he knows I could tear him apart with my own hands.”

“That does tend to discourage conversation. I need to talk to him alone. But I’ll be armed.” I thought through my options, had a twinge of anger that I’d been dumped by the OMB. Theo would have been the natural choice to accompany me. But that wasn’t one of my choices at present.

“What if Dan drove me? He’s security, right? But he won’t be as magically hyper. That way you can stay here and deal with”—I waved a hand at the building—“all of this.”

He stared at me for a moment, hands on his hips and every muscle tense. “It would make me feel better if you were locked in the town house for the duration of the epoch.”

We both knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“I’m telling you about this ahead of time,” I reminded him. “Involving you in the decision-making. We’re running out of time; we’re going to have to do some uncomfortable things.”

“Such as it is,” he said, but sighed. “Fine. Dan, if he’s free and emotionally recuperated, will be armed. He’s a very good shot. He’ll keep me on the line, and you’ll contact me when you arrive, and when you’re back in the vehicle.”

He tipped up my chin, looked into my eyes. “But if Jonathan Black lays a finger on you, he answers to me.”

EIGHTEEN

Petra was able to give me Jonathan’s address—he worked out of his home—and Dan drove me to his house on Prairie Avenue, one in a line of historic mansions built by Chicago’s richest denizens during the Gilded Age. The house was pale stone with a green mansard roof, the lines ornate, and stood at the edge of a large lot big enough to be a park of its own.

I climbed out, belted on my sword. No point in being unprepared, especially if Black had powerful and magical friends.

“Any trouble,” Dan said, “and send me a message. Via screen, rapid flip of the lights, his bloody corpse thrown through the front door.”

“That would definitely send a message,” I agreed. “But I’ll probably go for something a little more subtle.”

“Must be that Midwestern nice I hear so much about.”

I snorted, closed the door.

The house was dark when I climbed the front steps, although thick curtains made it difficult to tell if the lights were on or off. I didn’t know if he worked for humans and Sups, or if he kept human or Sup hours.

I knocked. Waited and listened. And knocked again.

Five more minutes, and the door opened. Jonathan Black stood in the doorway, naked but for the towel slung around his hips, blond hair damp, and a very sultry smile on his face.

“Elisa Sullivan. What are you doing here?”

“I had a question,” I said, and I forced up a little blush.

“I was in the shower,” he said and opened the door. “Come in and make yourself at home. I’ll just go . . .” He looked down at himself. “Grab a robe, would be a good start. Five minutes,” he said and trotted to the stairs.

It was possible he was going to try to sneak out the back, but he didn’t seem concerned I was there. Or he was a very good actor. Vampires weren’t the only ones who could use glamour.

I glanced around the house, found the front room mostly empty. Large and beautifully maintained for a house as old as this one, but empty. The space was at least thirty feet long. There was a sofa beside a gleaming malachite fireplace. An old-fashioned secretary, the top closed and locked. Boxes marked with room names, still taped. A lamp, its cord wrapped around the base. The few items were dwarfed by the remaining emptiness.

Two minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs, the house creaking as if each step was a note, and then behind me.

I glanced back. Jonathan wore trousers and a V-neck sweater in a thin, dark fabric that looked very expensive. His feet were bare. A vulnerability. One he offered on purpose to show me he was relaxed?

“You just moved in?” I asked casually.

“Three weeks ago, actually.” He walked in, ran a hand down the fluted molding that framed the door. “This house had been on the market for an hour when I learned it was available. I’d planned to rent until I was settled, but couldn’t pass it up.”

“It’s not hard to see why. It’s a beautiful space.”

“It is. Extravagant for one person, but beautiful all the same.” He walked toward me, and I made a show of finishing my circle of the room, gaze on the ceiling. I didn’t trust him, and certainly not enough to put myself in a corner without an exit.

In fairness, the ceiling was gorgeous—large tiles of pressed silver metal that reflected the light of a delicate raindrop chandelier.

I made it to the room’s threshold, leaned against it, and looked back at him. He stood in front of the fireplace, hands in his pockets, his expression a mask of cool reserve.

Time to make a play. “Can we skip the chitchat and posturing and get to the point? I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

For an instant, his eyes widened in surprise, before settling back into reserved lines, but his smile was wide, sly. He tilted his head and let the veil of magic slip away.

The man who stood before me now looked the same, but the power he’d hidden had become very clear. It roared around him like an angry sea, waves crashing against hard and ancient stone.

I swallowed back a bolt of lust. Not for the man, but for a drink. I knew in that moment, certain as I was of my own heart, that his blood would be . . . intoxicating. Potent, imbued with power. The monster agreed, and shifted inside in a way that made me not entirely comfortable.

None of it was comfortable. And watching him, seeing that minute shift as the wave settled, I realized the bloodlust had been a trick of magic, too.

“A neat little trick,” I said, when I was certain my voice wouldn’t shake.

He gestured toward his ear. “It’s the elvish.”

“The hiding, or the unveiling?”

He smiled. “Both. Many find the magic distracting or the power . . . discomforting.”

“Because it’s greater than theirs?”

He nodded. “And revealing it can be a powerful tool. A seductive one.”

Maybe there was a little incubus along with the elvish, I thought, but wasn’t going to flatter him by asking.

“Now that we’ve skipped the posturing,” Jonathan said, stepping forward. “What can I do for you?”

“Blake.”

His expression didn’t change, but for the slight flattening of his mouth. “The vampire who was killed?”

“We’ve skipped the posturing,” I reminded him.

Silence. “What do you want to know?”

“You met with him in the Brass & Copper building shortly before his death.”

Much to my surprise, he smiled. “Very astute. Security cameras, I presume?”

“There’s an image,” was all I’d agree to.

He walked to the couch, sitting fluidly with his legs crossed and his arms stretched across the back.

“What are you thinking right now?” he asked, gaze narrowed with interest. “And no posturing.”

“That you move like a vampire.”

His grin was wide, disarming. “I’m not entirely sure, Elisa, but I don’t think you consider that a compliment.”

“It wasn’t intended to be one. What did you talk to him about?”

He frowned, smoothed a minute wrinkle in the knee of his dark trousers. “Business,” he said, without looking up. “And before you ask, no. It had nothing to do with the AAM or their shortsighted persecution of you.”