Chloe Neill - Blood Games

“Four of Wands,” I said, pulling it out and holding it up so they could see the Lady Godiva-esque feature, her horse, her castle .

I turned the card so they could look at it, too. “He’s been literal so far with the symbolism. If he keeps that here, he needs a castle.”

“The Water Tower?” Ethan suggested. “It looks medieval.”

It was the type of place he’d like—a public space with lots of attention. But he had an eye for detail. The Water Tower was much too small to look like the enormous battlement on the card.

“Too small,” I said. “What about that castle in River North?”

“It’s a club now,” Skylar-Katherine said. “Good scene.”

“But surrounded by concrete,” Ethan said, tapping the card. “And he won’t want that much attention, not at first. He’s too particular, and he’ll want time to arrange things. He can’t do that privately downtown.”

“Oh, I know something!” Skylar-Katherine walked to the back of the store, grabbing shelves for balance as she moved. The shuffling of paper and moving drawers echoed through the store.

“This,” Skylar-Katherine said, emerging from the back room only seconds later, one hand on the doorjamb as she made the turn into the store again, feet practically skidding on the carpet as she moved. A newspaper, folded open, was in her hand.

“This,” she said again, thrusting it at us. “The Bellwether Castle—it used to be a private school, but they rent it out now for weddings or whatever. They’re having a spring open house.”

Ethan took the paper, and we looked at the black-and-white photograph of a building that, yeah, looked very much like a castle. Large, square, and tall, with a turret on each corner. The stones were roughly hewed, and the giant front door consisted of large planks of wood butted together with golden bolts. The building was set back on the lot, with plenty of green space behind it.

Ethan held the picture beside the card, whistled. “That’s pretty damn close.”

“We don’t have time for ‘pretty damn close,’” I said.

“There’s a stable behind the building,” Skylar-Katherine said. “I don’t know if they still have horses, but there’s a stable.”

“ That’s pretty damn close,” I said, and took a picture of the newspaper to send to Jeff just as tires squealed outside the front of the building.

“Where the fuck is she?” demanded the voice that rushed inside over the clang of the bells on the door.

Catcher had arrived. His magic—sharp and dangerous—was telling enough. He emerged around the row in a T-shirt that read, fittingly enough, YOU’RE MY PROBLEM.

He and Mallory might have had their problems, and their relationship might have been endangered during her Nebraska period, but there was no doubting the ferocity in his eyes or the cloud of magic behind him. His woman had been threatened, and he’d damn well take care of it.

Jeff and my grandfather rounded the corner behind him. Not just Catcher taking care of it, but Mallory’s entire magical family.

“We think she’s here,” Ethan said, extending the paper to Catcher. He grabbed it, took a look, lifted his gaze again before handing it off to Jeff.

“Why?” my grandfather asked.

“There’s a castle on the Four of Wands.” Ethan handed him the card.

Catcher reviewed, nodded. “Jeff?”

“On it,” he said, handing the paper down the line to my grandfather as he pulled out a thin tablet that looked like little more than a thin sheet of glass. He swiped fingers across it.

“Bellwether Castle,” he read. “Formerly Bellwether Beaux Arts Academy, built 1891.” He looked up. “It’s in Logan Square. Near the park.”

“That’s only a couple of miles from here,” I said.

Catcher turned and started for the door, but my grandfather adjusted to block him.

“Chuck,” Catcher warned, his eyes wild with fear and fury. “He’s probably drugged her, and he’ll kill her if we don’t get there.”

But my grandfather stayed calm. “If we don’t go in there with a plan, we risk her getting hurt in the process. And we don’t want that. We’ll get to her first,” my grandfather said, keeping his gaze on Catcher.

“Curt is careful,” my grandfather continued. “The arrangement, the positioning. Think of the trouble he goes to. We do this right, and she’ll be fine. But we have to do this right.”

Catcher nodded, stepped aside.

“There are a couple of other places,” I said. “Water Tower, the castle. Low chance he’s there, because they don’t quite match, but . . .”

My grandfather pulled out his phone. “I’ll tell Arthur. Have him send squads to both places just in case. They’ll need to go in quietly. No sirens. We don’t want to startle or scare him.”

He looked at me. “You said you talked to Curt?”

I nodded. “Day before yesterday, when we came to ask about the purchase of the tarot deck. I was with Mallory when she ordered the stuff.”

“So he’ll recognize you. I’ll talk to Jacobs, but you might be the best candidate to go in. How do you feel about that?”

I expected Ethan to protest, but he was silent. I glanced at him, saw concern on his face. But by his silence, he offered me trust, faith. He squeezed my hand supportively.

“Fine,” I said. “I’m fine with it. I’ll go in. I can talk to him about what he did, why he did it. Try to build a bond?”

My grandfather nodded. “The card. What weapon would he use?”

I offered it to him, but it wasn’t clear from the simple artwork. Castle. Horse. Wands. Pennants.

“The wands?” Ethan asked. “That’s a possibility.”

“Or the braid,” I suggested. “Strangulation?”

“Each murder has been different,” Catcher grimly said. “He won’t repeat something he’s done before. He’s strangled, stabbed, slit wrists. This would be something else.”

“That will have to wait until we get there.” My grandfather held up his phone, stepped away. “Two minutes,” he said to Catcher, “to work the details. And then we’ll get your girl. Because she’s our girl, too.”

Like many places in Chicago, Logan Square was the name of a neighborhood and a park within it. And as in other Chicago neighborhoods, the economics of Logan Square varied from block to block. Well-manicured lawns could quickly give way to empty, trash-strewn lots where violence was all too common.

We met in a long strip of parking lot on the street between Logan Square Park and Bellwether Castle. Detective Jacobs was there already, along with a black van, out of which poured some of the city’s best warriors in their black SWAT uniforms.

Jacobs had spread maps on the trunk of his cruiser, and everyone was gathered around.

My grandfather gestured us over, and the warriors smiled and made space in the circle for me. I was nervous but ridiculously humbled by their encouragement.

“Merit will make the approach,” Detective Jacobs said. “And to bring you up to speed, Merit, we’ve got uniforms at Curt’s house right now. They found, I suppose we’ll call it a shrine, to Mitzy Burrows.”

I nodded. “So he’s obsessed with her, and their breakup is probably what got the ball rolling.”

“Probably had the animosity in him for a long time,” said a woman in a suit on the other side of the trunk. I put her in her late thirties, with wavy blond hair and a pretty face. She extended a hand. “Rainey Valentine. Staff psychologist.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, as we shook. “You think he’s got innate violent tendencies.”

“In my experience, this is more a case of a recent trauma lowering his inhibitions. He may not have been engaged in this level of violence in the recent past, but it’s possible he wanted to and suppressed the urge.”