“If it were that simple, I’d have done it by now.”
“You’ll find someone,” I assured him. “You’ll find someone, and they’ll help you build the House.”
Morgan nodded, took the final sip of his coffee, three-pointed the empty cup into a nearby trash can.
“Come on,” he said, standing up. “I’ll buy you a donut.”
Now, that was an offer I could accept.
* * *
I walked back into the House, only mildly embarrassed that I’d chased two donuts with a bottle of blood and seriously considered stopping by Portillo’s for a cake shake. I managed to overcome the temptation, not in part because of the memories of our Mallocake Massacre. I still bore the mental scars.
I walked into the House, found Helen straightening the foyer table in preparation for the next night’s supplicants.
She looked up, stood up. “Oh, that’s convenient.”
I closed the door, too high on sugar to be bothered with what I expected would be an insult. “Is it?”
She nodded, picked up a brown paper package, extended it. “A CPD officer left these for you.”
I took the package, felt nothing ticking, no sense of metal or weaponry. “Who?”
“It’s not my business,” she said haughtily, as if managing my incoming mail—limited though it was—was too much of a burden. “It was left with the guards. They’re hardly going to interrogate an officer.”
Must have been from Detective Jacobs or my grandfather, although it was an odd way to get something to me.
“Okay, then,” I said, and started for the stairs. “Good night.”
A glance down the hallway said Ethan was still in his office—the door was open, the light on. So I took my package to his office, found him sitting in one of the club chairs with a bottle of longneck blood in one hand and a book in the other.
I paused in the doorway, smiled at him. “Now, that’s a sexy picture.”
He glanced up, smiled. “Hello, Sentinel. How was your meeting?”
“Morgan’s going to give Navarre House another try. And I got a donut.”
“Only one?”
He knew me too well.
“What’s in the package?”
I glanced down at it. “I’m not sure. Helen said a CPD officer left it for me.”
Ethan took the final drink of blood, put the bottle and book on the coffee table. “From your grandfather?”
“I don’t know. It’s a little weird,” I admitted, and sat down in the chair beside him, put the package on the table in front of us. It was tied with twine horizontally and vertically, as a Christmas gift might have been wrapped with ribbon. I untied it, slipped the tape around the paper with a fingernail, and drew open the edges.
Ethan’s magic spiked beside me.
Six leather-bound books, the same size as the one I’d seen in “Balthasar’s” room the night he’d attacked me. These had covers of taupe leather with burgundy spines, well-worn with age. A grinning skull was embossed in the cover above the letters “M.M.”
“The Memento Mori’s ledgers,” I said, opening the cover of the top book delicately with a fingertip, and a piece of thick cardstock fell to the floor.
THE GAME IS AFOOT, it read. MAY THE BEST WIN. AND IN THE MEANTIME, A TOKEN OF APPRECIATION FOR OUR FIRST ROUND. I BELIEVE YOU’LL FIND THESE INTERESTING READING.
The card was signed, in bold slashes, “AR.”
So Adrien Reed had come full circle. A few weeks ago, he’d drawn us into his world with a note from one of his players. And now he reminded us that he held the trump card—a card he’d gotten a member of the Chicago Police Department to deliver to our House. But he hadn’t just held the card; he’d stacked the entire deck.
“Ethan,” I said quietly after a moment, not sure what else to say.
But Ethan Sullivan was rarely at a loss for words. “Every move he makes,” he said, quietly and carefully, “is another bit of evidence against him, and it brings us one step closer to his downfall.”
He pulled me into his arms, his breath warm against my cheek. “Let us be still, Sentinel. And let us help him toward defeat.”