"Third-biggest city in the country," Catcher said. "We took what we could get."
"Which is?"
"A bit of land the city took over when the former tenants vacated. It's a former ceramics factory," my grandfather said. "They used to form and fire bricks and tile out here."
"Which means lots of thick, fireproof, and insulated buildings," I guessed.
"Precisely," my grandfather said.
We drove (twice as fast as probably recommended) around the compound, circling around until we came to a very bumpy, quick stop at a building with a long bank of yel ow doors bearing sizable black numbers.
"These were the wood-fired kilns," my grandfather explained as we climbed from the cart.
"Interesting," I said. "Creepy" was what I thought.
Silently, I fol owed them down a narrow path beside the kiln building, stopping in front of a smal but pretty brick building that stood alone in the center of the circle made by the rest of the buildings.
The smal one couldn't have been more than forty feet square. Fairy guards stood at the door and each corner, leaving little doubt about its purpose.
My stomach began to churn as the anticipation built. I looked at my grandfather. "He's in there?"
"He is. This used to be the factory's main office. It's divided into two rooms. He's in a room by himself."
Catchert sir? Catchs phone beeped, and he pul ed it out, glanced at it, and smiled.
"Kind of bad timing for sexy messages, isn't it?"
He rol ed his eyes and showed me the screen of his phone. It bore a picture of a brick room, empty but for a cot on the floor and smal sink on one side.
"Tate's cel ," he explained. "Since he's out of the room, I had it searched."
"Clever," my grandfather said.
"It might have been if there was anything in it," Catcher said, tucking the phone away again. "Room's empty. He may not have a shiv, but that's not to say he doesn't have power. You'l want to hand over any weapons. We don't want them to fal into the wrong hands," he explained. "And if you need help, we'l be right outside."
I hesitated, but lifted my pant leg and pul ed the dagger from my boot. The thought of playing supernatural cat-and-mouse with Tate without weapons didn't thril me, but I took Catcher's point. If Tate managed to best me and take a dagger, he'd be a much bigger threat against me, the fairies, or anyone else he managed to pass.
Catcher took the dagger with a nod, his gaze skating across the engraving on the end.
"Are you going to be okay in there, babygirl? You sure you need to do this?" my grandfather asked. There was concern in his voice, but I didn't think he was worried about me. I think he was worried about Tate. After al , if it hadn't been for Tate's machinations, Ethan would stil be alive.
I took a moment to actual y consider his question.
Honestly, I didn't know if I was going to be okay. I knew I needed to talk to him. I also knew he was dangerous. While he'd been masquerading as a politician with Chicago's best interests in mind, he'd been a drug kingpin and a manipulator. And he'd practical y scripted the drama that had taken place in his office two months ago.
Fear and anger battled. I was smart enough to be afraid of who Tate was and what he might do. His motivations were opaque but surely self-interested, and I had no doubt he'd take me out for fun if the mood struck him. That thought put a knot of tension in my gut.
But beneath the fear was a core of molten fury.
Fury that Ethan had been taken from me because of Tate's need to play out some childish game. Fury that Ethan was gone and Tate was stil alive, if stuck in his anachronistic prison. Fury that I hadn't been able to stop Tate's game before he'd played the final piece, and that even now he was trying to undermine my position in the House.
But I wasn't a child, and I wasn't Celina. I wasn't going to kil him for revenge, or to avenge Ethan's death, or because I was pissed that he'd taken something from me. What good would violence do other than putting me and mine in hot water?
No. Tate had caused enough drama, and I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of baiting me to violence.
Tonight, we were talking about the GP, and the grift he was currently running. God wil ing, when I walked through the door and looked into his eyes again - the first time I'd seen him since the night of Ethan's death - I'd keep that nice, tidy, logical conclusion in mind.
"Yes, I need to do this," I told my grandfather. "Tate wouldn't lie to the GP without a plan, and I want to know what it is. The last time we were too late. I won't be fooled by him again. I'l be fine," I added, crossing my fingers [g mth=that I wasn't lying to him - or myself.
With an apologetic smile, he pul ed a packet of indigo-blue silk from his vest pocket. "This might help a bit," he said, holding it in the palm of one hand and unwrapping the silk with the other.
With that much buildup - careful disrobing, silk lining - I'd imagined a much fancier trinket than the one he showed me. Upon the cushion of silk sat a three-inch-long rectangle of heavily grained wood, the finish so smooth it gleamed.
Half the wood was a darker shade than the other, as if two pieces had been fused together and the edges careful y rounded into a fluid, organic form.
"What is it?" I asked.
"We cal it 'worry wood,' " my grandfather said. "It's a kind of magic blocker. We aren't entirely sure what magic Tate might be working. But added to your immunity to glamour, this should keep you safe from whatever tricks he might try to pul ."
"The fairies carry them, as wel ," Catcher said.
My grandfather extended his hand, and I plucked the worry wood from the silk. It was warmer than I expected it to be, and softer to the touch. The wood had been careful y sanded, leaving the grain only just rough enough that it stil felt like wood - not plastic. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, the curves situated so they left a soothing depression for my thumb.
In a strange way, it was reassuring, tangibly comforting in the same way prayer beads might be. I slid the wood into my pocket, thinking it might behoove me to keep Tate unaware of it for as long as possible.
My grandfather nodded at the gesture, then refolded and rep-ocketed the square of silk. With a hand at my back, he escorted me to the door, where the fairy looked me over.
"We'l be right outside if you need us," my grandfather reminded me.
"Okay," I said, blowing out a breath. "I'm ready."
Only the first step will suck, I reminded myself, and headed inside.
There were plenty of beautiful people who'd been successful - actors, rock stars, models. But there were probably just as many who'd squandered their genetic gifts on drugs, crime, lust, greed, and various other deadly sins.