Connor and Alexei came downstairs. “Why is your brow all furrowed?”

I looked up at Connor. “What?”

“Furrowed,” he said again, and kissed the spot between my eyebrows. “Why?”

“Jonathan Black wants to talk,” I said. “He messaged yesterday and I forgot to respond. So I should probably talk to him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“I don’t think I like him, either. But he has supernatural connections, and we need supernatural information.” I sent Black a response, agreeing to meet him, then put my screen away. “Pack?” I asked him.

“All quiet,” he said. “But the night is young.”

* * *

Jonathan Black’s mansion was on Chicago’s Prairie Avenue, where Gilded Age entrepreneurs had made their homes. It was just south of downtown, not far from the lake. In terms of atmosphere, its old and elegant wealth was about as far away from the Pack’s HQ as one could get. I’d taken an Auto, which pulled up in front of his stone house half an hour after his message.

Jonathan answered the door in a dark button-down and slacks. He was fit, with sun-kissed skin, blond hair, and ears that pointed slightly at the top. He wasn’t hiding his magic today, and it prickled in the air like dust motes through a beam of light.

“Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

“I was in the neighborhood,” I lied. But he wasn’t lying in wait for me in the dark, so that was at least some improvement.

He didn’t look like he believed me but gestured grandly. “Come in.”

I walked into his beautiful historic home, with its crown molding, tall ceilings, and fireplaces in every room.

“I need to know what happened two nights ago.” There was confidence and demand in his voice. As if he refused to consider the possibility that I’d refuse to answer. No magic in it, at least. But I wasn’t that easy.

“What happened two nights ago?” I asked, all innocence.

“There was a lot of magic. I figured the Ombuds might have been called.”

I cocked my head at him. “How did you know there was a lot of magic?”

His look was bland. “Am I being interrogated?”

“Am I?”

That had his lips twitching. “Touché. I could feel the magic but didn’t think much of it. It’s Chicago. And then one of my clients called. They felt it and didn’t care for it.”

Referring to his unnamed “clients” was generally his way of refusing to share his sources or the details of his knowledge. “Who are your clients?”

“Entitled to their privacy,” he said with a smile.

“What kind of Sups are they?”

“The kind who are entitled to their privacy,” he said again.

“You want information, you give information,” I said. “That’s the deal. It’s always the deal.”

He snorted. “What am I, a supernatural informant?”

“You called me,” I reminded him, and that had the smile falling. “You said you felt magic. What kind of magic?”

He closed his eyes as if replaying the memory. “I felt . . . a tremor. Like a muscle twitch but more. A kind of wave that passed through me.”