Page 44 of Cold Curses

“Cook County records now identify Dantalion as the owner of the Buckley town house,” Petra said. “Buckley owned it for five years and sold it to Dante, just like Dante said.”

“How much did he pay?” I wondered.

“One dollar,” she said. “Obviously not fair market value for that condo.”

“It’s a contract thing,” Roger said. “A ceremonial amount when you just want to transfer the property from one person to another.”

“So Buckley was freaked out by the warehouse bombing and gave him the condo?” I wondered.

“Or wasn’t given a choice,” Theo said.

“I talked to Jonathan Black,” I said, and sent to the wall screen the picture I’d taken of his face.

Everyone looked up.

“Did Connor do that?” Theo asked.

“No. This was probably while Connor was being hit by cheap magic.”

“Oh,” Petra said, “I forgot—we found the spellseller’s site, turned it over to the CPD’s regulatory folks.” Her smile was wide and thin and a little sharklike. “They’ll do a number on the spellseller.”

“Appreciate it. No one should be able to buy that kind of magic.”

“The challenger?” Roger asked.

“I didn’t ask,” I said. “It’s better that way.”

“And who hurt Black?” Theo asked.

“I don’t know. He was very cagey. Seemed worried, and he looked around a lot, like he was trying to avoid the person who’d done the damage.”

“Hmm,” Roger said contemplatively.

“Yeah,” I said, “that was my thought, too: that he’s gotten mixed up in something. Maybe one of his clients isn’t pleased with his service.”

“Odds being what they are,” Petra said, “it would be something demony.”

“That, too.”

My screen signaled. I found Lulu’s name blinking at me, and my first thought was she’d gotten an update from her mother about the wards. But wouldn’t Aunt Mallory have called me directly?

“What’s up?” I asked when I answered.

The first thing I heard was a crash and a sizzle loud enough to make my screen buzz.

“Lulu?”

“Shit! Elisa! I need you. They’re fighting at the mural.”

There was another crash, and then a very human scream.

“Lulu? What’s happening? Who’s fighting?”

“Demons. They’re fighting each other, and we’re stuck, and they’re getting closer.”

I switched off my rising fear, forced myself to focus on the details. “How many of you?”

“Four. Me, Clint Howard, and two of his assistants. Four.”