“When did it come to Chicago?”

“In 1872,” she said. “What year is it now?” Theo told her, and her eyes widened. “So long since, and the magic did as it ought. It beckoned me to tell the story, as is my duty among the Guardians to do so.”

“We tested the magic,” Petra said. “And it showed a date of 1872.”

Patience nodded. “Eglantine was exiled the same year by the collective efforts of Chicago’s remaining supernaturals. The Guardians,” she added proudly. “Those who swore an eternal oath to drive out the demon and protect the city from its return. I am the Chronicler. It was my role to tell the story of the demon Eglantine and its efforts to destroy Chicago.”

“How did it attempt to do that?” Petra asked.

“It is a chaos demon,” Patience said again. “It’s singular purpose—and the source of its power—is creation of chaos. That’s the reason for its existence, its fuel, its desire. It is a hording demon; we believed it scouted the city to attract others of its ilk. To create more chaos, to feed more fully. To nest in Chicago and turn it into something rotten, wicked, spoilt.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Why do I smell it again? You must have allowed it in or facilitated its entrance. The Guardians’ wards cannot simply break.”

“What wards?” Theo asked.

“The wards built to keep Eglantine from returning and to keep the others out. You don’t think we’d leave the city without protection, do you?”

I had no idea what I was supposed to believe. I was no less confused than I’d been last night. But we were on a different kind of deadline now: Ariel wasn’t going to be able to hold open this connection forever, so we needed information, and we needed it quickly.

“What are the wards?” I asked. “I mean, I understand the concept—they’re barrier or protection spells. But what wards do you mean?”

Patience’s gaze went a little unfocused, and she seemed confused by the question. Which was weird. “I . . . don’t remember precisely,” she said, and seemed discomfited by that.

Petra watched her for a moment, gaze narrowed, then looked at me. “Tell her what happened, Elisa.”

“We were . . . proceeding toward Chicago in our . . . carriage,” I said, recalling a Victorian ghost wasn’t going to be up to speed (sorry not sorry) on modern roads and Autos, “when magic erupted from Chicago’s South Gate. It’s a large arcing structure,” I said, demonstrating its shape with my hands. “Ghosts came out and attacked us. They stopped our carriage and injured me and my partner. They kept saying ‘no’ and ‘go back.’ ”

She looked at each of us in turn. “You are not demons.”

“No, we are not. We were with a sympath, who was being pursued by her enemies.”

“Which must have included a demon,” Patience said, and seemed relieved that particular piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.