He nodded. “If you’ll be quick about it. And then we’ll find out precisely what’s rotten in Navarre House.”

*   *   *

I cleaned up and pulled on jeans and a fitted, scoop-neck Cadogan T-shirt. I’d done my part for Cadogan couture already tonight; it was time for comfortable clothing. My hair had lost most of its wave, so I pulled it into a high bun. If they ever made vampire paper dolls, this would be the “Sentinel after a night of ass-kicking” ensemble.

The remains of the dress, in its tangled pile on the floor, looked nothing like the pristine gown Helen had delivered earlier.

“More’s the pity,” I said quietly, and had a terrifying mental image of Helen walking into the apartments, finding the dress, going utterly ballistic about its current condition.

So I stuffed it back into the bag, and stuffed the bag into the back of the closet—on Ethan’s side. Because I was mature like that.

Chapter Nine

WHAT THE WORLD NEEDS NOW . . . IS A WINEGLASS OF UNUSUAL SIZE

There were a lot of people in the office, and a lot of tension. Ethan, Morgan, Malik, and Luc, along with Catcher and my grandfather, watched as Margot parked a food tray in the middle of the office, blazing a delicious trail of coffee scents.

Ethan, who’d ditched the tie and rolled up the sleeves of his battered shirt, moved to pour the coffee into a mug, offered it to my grandfather.

He walked over without his cane, which was parked beside the door, and took the mug with both hands.

“Thank you. Sugar, by chance?”

“Like granddaughter, like grandfather,” Ethan said, moving aside so my grandfather could spoon sugar cubes into the mug.

Ethan took a bottle of blood, offered one to me. When I accepted it, but skipped delicately layered pastries for a protein-laced granola bar, he looked at me dubiously.

“Did you take a knock to the head?”

“Har-har,” I said, and ripped the package open when I could feel hunger awakening with the ferocity of a starved panther. “This isn’t a time for taste,” I said, taking a bite. And thank God for that, since the bar tasted like a very unpleasant ménage à trois of malt, chalk, and dates. “It’s a time for nutrition.”

“Color me proud,” Ethan said, and uncapped the bottle of blood, sipped. “If everyone’s ready, we should probably begin.”

We looked at Morgan, who stood across the room near the bookshelves, which had already been repaired, the displaced contents neatly rearranged.

“My people?” he asked.

“They’re in the CPD’s new full-dark facility,” my grandfather said.

Morgan nodded.

“Let’s sit,” Ethan said, and we followed him to the sitting area, took seats. All except Morgan, who hadn’t yet moved from his spot across the room. Not an unusual position for him—separate from the rest of us.

“What happened, Morgan?” Ethan asked.

Morgan walked to the cart, took a bottle of water, uncapped it. But as he walked to the seating area, he twisted the cap back on and set it beside the chair he lowered himself into.

“They weren’t playing vigilante. They were trying to protect the House.”

“From what?” Ethan asked.

Morgan closed his eyes, rubbed his hands over his face. He looked so young, and so tired. He was, I thought, the victim of time and circumstance, of having been given control of his House—the leadership of his House—before he was ready.

On the other hand, he’d had every opportunity to succeed, and could have asked us for help. I suppose that meant the blame fell on him.

“It’s better if I start at the beginning. Well, not better,” Morgan said. “But you’ll need the whole story.”

For the second time in as many nights, Ethan nodded him on. “Then tell it.”

“It’s all about money,” Morgan said. “Goddamn money.” He cleared his throat nervously, like a man about to enter confession.

“Celina had very good taste. Her spending habits didn’t match her assets, even the stipend she received from the GP. She borrowed extensively to fund her lifestyle, her tastes, her desire for the finer things. Clothes. Art. Food. Parties. Everything had to be big. Everything had to be perfect.”

“Borrowed from whom?”

Morgan looked away, stared at the opposite wall. “The Circle.”

Ethan and Malik shared a look, and my grandfather sighed heavily. I didn’t recognize the name. It wasn’t a supernatural group; if it had been, I’d have seen it in the Canon.

“What’s the Circle?” I asked.

“A criminal enterprise,” my grandfather said. “Based in Chicago, although they have roots internationally.”

“You’re talking about the mob?” I asked.

“Only in the mob’s wildest dreams,” Catcher said. “Bigger, more capital, more connections. And for all that, much more secretive.”

Ethan looked at me. “Do you remember the murders in Lakeview a year or two ago? The alderman and her family?”

I searched my memory, recalled a black-and-white photograph, a tiny body on a square of grass that posed as a front yard. “They killed her, her husband, her children.”

Malik nodded. “Because she wouldn’t help the Circle push something through the Zoning Board. She’d apparently owed them a favor and hadn’t delivered.”

That didn’t exactly lighten the mood in the room.