Page 82 of Cold Curses

We were both emotionally exhausted. I was physically exhausted, too, from the beating and having been used as a marionette by two temperamental supernaturals. I debated going home early, but settled for a refresh at a late-night breakfast joint not far from the condo. It was fancier than the typical Ombud lunch spot, but it was close and we both needed a break.

Coffee and bacon later, I was feeling more myself.

We checked in with our respective partners; Connor reported he was still at headquarters, and would like a very large beer after work. I could relate.

Dad advised me that Mom had taken down two demons harassing humans on the L—Chicago’s elevated train. And someonehad, of course, recorded the incident, so Theo and I watched the video as we walked back to the vehicle.

I’d seen her practice before, sparring with Dad or the Cadogan guards. But since she had been officially out of commission, that was for fun or exercise. This was street fighting—or above-street fighting anyway—and it was different. She was fast. The moves were less precise than in the House training room, but more fluid. Dad had said she danced when she fought, and I could see that in the way she moved the sword, swung her body. The demons—minions, by the look of it—hadn’t stood a chance against her.

“You fight like her,” Theo said, then sipped from a to-go cup of coffee. “Not exactly like her,” he added, responding to my dubious expression. “But you can tell she trained you. You’re more deliberate, though.”

“Deliberate?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a planner,” he said, tapping his head. “You fight like you’re playing chess, responding to the opponents’ moves and whatever. She doesn’t seem so predictive. But the core is the same.”

I nodded, considered his analysis. I’d never thought about my fighting that way, at least consciously. But it made sense.

“What about you?” I asked as we climbed inside our vehicle. “What’s your fighting style?”

“Mortal,” he said with a grin, and started the vehicle. “Stay away from the shooty and pointy parts.”

FOURTEEN

We’d been planning to go back to the office and strategize, check on Petra’s research. But because this night intended to be one shit sandwich after another, my mother’s call interrupted us.

“Lulu?” I asked immediately.

“Fine,” my mother said. “I’m not calling about that.”

“Then what—,” I began.

Before I finished the sentence, something made a low, mournful sound behind her.

“Was that a whale?” Theo asked.

I wondered the same thing, but didn’t think it was possible, due to Illinois being landlocked.

“Are you at the aquarium?” I asked.

“No,” Mom said. And then there were more sounds—an impact, a crash, and a splash.

“Wacker and Wabash,” she said. “Catcher accidentally tripped a ward. Get here as fast as you can.”

* * *

Theo and I were improperly excited on the way over. Not just to find out who had made the noise, but because one of the wards had been at least temporarily operational. That warmed the cockles of my still aching heart. We knew a ward near the ChicagoRiver existed. It was one of the spots we’d (correctly) identified. But we weren’t sure how it operated, as it hadn’t yet been triggered by a demon.

The drive downtown was…strange. It seemed every uniformed person in Illinois—local deputies to National Guard—was in the city tonight, protecting businesses to prevent looting, guarding wards to prevent the destruction of additional cornerstones, working with vampires to stop ongoing demon attacks, and helping to relocate humans out of danger zones.

And then there was the magic. Maybe it was the demons. Maybe it was the ley lines now unbounded by the cornerstones. Whatever the reason, the city seemed to be wilding. Tree limbs stretched over city streets so they looked like ancient forest paths. Dead flowers had rebloomed, and cottontail rabbits—a Midwestern fixture—hopped down sidewalks, apparently unafraid of human eyes.

When we reached the intersection my mother had named, we parked on the street, which was nearly empty of vehicles anyway. The Wabash Avenue bascule bridge crossed the Chicago River here; the bridge was flanked on the north and the south by sleek glass buildings. But the bridge wasn’t a bridge any longer. It was now just two chunks of concrete that extended out from each side of the riverbank, the breached ends jagged. The middle of the structure was simply gone.

We walked to where Mom stood with Aunt Mallory and Uncle Catcher, and found no glowing pillars of light or attacking ghosts. The three of them looked healthy and safe.

“What happened to the bridge?” I asked.

Mom and Aunt Mallory looked at Uncle Catcher with equally bland expressions.