I crossed my legs and arched my eyebrows. “Are you offering me a job, Mr. Kalamack? You want me for your new secretary? Type your letters? Fetch your coffee?”

“Heavens, no,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm. “You smell too strongly of magic for a secretarial position, despite trying to cover it with that—mmm—perfume?”

I flushed, determined not to drop from his questioning gaze.

“No,” Trent continued matter-of-factly. “You’re too interesting to be a secretary, even one of mine. Not only have you quit the I.S., but you’re baiting them. You went shopping. You broke into their records vault to shred your file. Locking a runner unconscious in his own car?” he said with a carefully cultivated laugh. “I like that. But even better is your quest to improve yourself. I applauded your drive to expand your horizons, learn new skills. The willingness to explore options most shun is a mind-set I strive to instill in my employees. Though reading that book on the bus shows a certain lack of … judgment.” A sliver of dark humor showed behind his eyes. “Unless your interest in vampires has an earthier source, Ms. Morgan?”

My stomach tightened, and I wondered if I had enough charms to fight my way out of here. How had Trent found all that out when the I.S. couldn’t even keep tabs on me? I forced myself to be calm as I realized how deep in the pixy dust I was. What had I been thinking, walking in here? The man’s secretary was dead. He ran Brimstone, no matter how generous he was during charity fund-raisers or that he golfed with the mayor’s husband. He was too smart to be content running a good third of Cincinnati’s manufacturing. His hidden interests webbed the underworld, and I was pretty sure he wanted to keep it that way.

Trent leaned forward with an intent expression, and I knew he was done with the idle chitchat. “My question, Ms. Morgan,” he said softly, “is what do you want with me?”

I said nothing. My confidence trickled away.

He gestured to his desk. “What were you looking for?”

“Gum?” I said, and he sighed.

“For the sake of eliminating a great deal of wasted time and effort, I suggest we be honest with each other.” He took off his glasses and set them aside. “Inasmuch as we need to. Tell me why you risked death to visit me. You have my word the record of your actions today will be—misplaced? I simply want to know where I stand. What have I done to warrant your attention?”

“I walk free?” I said, and he leaned back in his seat, nodding. His eyes were a shade of green I had never seen before. There was no blue in them. Not even a whisper.

“Everyone wants something, Ms. Morgan,” he said, each word precise but flowing into the next like water. “What is it you want?”

My heart pounded at his promise of freedom. I followed his gaze to my hands and the dirt under my nails. “You,” I said, curling my fingertips under my palms to hide them. “I want the evidence that you killed your secretary. That you’re dealing in Brimstone.”