Gwen gestured to an officer, who understood the implicit instruction and hurried out.

“If she was in this neighborhood to find something,” Roger asked, “did she know the ward was here?”

“If she could feel the first ward,” I said, “I’d think she could feel this one, too.”

“So,” Connor said. “Which came first? The demon or the ward?”

Gwen looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Connor looked at her. “Was the ward in this neighborhood because the Guardians thought she might come here, or was Rose in this neighborhood because of the ward?”

“In other words,” I said, “we’re back to asking what she wanted.”

“I don’t suppose you saw the sigil?” Petra asked.

“She was not wearing a sigil necklace,” I said ruefully. “Or anything else with a sigil on it.”

“Knew that would have been too easy,” she said, “but had to ask.”

“Let’s go take a look at the ward,” Roger said.

* * *

We walked together back to the warehouse. That’s when I realized Jonathan Black was gone. In fairness, he didn’t need to be here. We’d moved on to the investigation part of the drama, and he didn’t have any lines in this particular scene. But it was weird that he hadn’t said goodbye. I still didn’t have a read on him, lifesaving or not.

Gwen walked beside me. “Officer Glenn said it was your idea to set up the triage area. Nicely done.”

“Thanks. I had good training,” I said, and meant that literally. Roger had made us watch a video produced by Homeland Security on responding to paranormal attacks. He’d sprung for doughnuts, and I was still finishing the first glazed when the speaker got to establishing a treatment zone for humans.

A dozen cops were posted outside the police tape that surrounded the warehouse. Protecting people from the machine and the machine from the people.

Gwen had ordered stands of floodlights, which were now shining through the empty window frames to illuminate the machine inside it. The building’s doors had survived the initial blast, so the CPD had to pull a ram to blow down the door. When it was open and out of the way, we walked inside. Glass and metal crunched under our feet, and the air smelled of dust and oil and heat. Like a cast-iron skillet ready to char.

I’d expected to see a jagged breach in the roof where the light had punched through, but the builders had planned for that. A sliding metal cover was currently pulled back from the opening where the shaft of light had risen into the city. Remnants of magic still peppered the air, and I could smell sour milk again. No cold. No ghosts. But an olfactory echo of whatever the Guardians had done.

The warehouse was three stories, but the middle of each wooden floor had been cored out to make room for the machine that rose nearly to the roof. It was easily twenty feet across—a complicated nest of metal gears, levers, and pistons. The components looked to be made of iron, with fittings in silver and gold and probably thousands of rivets holding it all together.