I opened my mouth to object, to proclaim that I wasn’t doing Ethan’s girlfriend, I was Ethan’s girlfriend, and I was doing Ethan. But I got a pinch on the arm from Jonah for my trouble. I glanced back at him, could feel my eyes silvering in irritation, caught the warning look in his expression.
“Investigation,” he quietly said. “We’re keeping it low-key.”
Oh, I’d keep it low-key, I thought, imagining for a moment the pummeling I could give these mere mortals. I’d keep it real low-key.
But that was not what Jonah had meant, so I sucked it up.
“Yeah, I’m wearing a Merit costume,” I said, with a forced smile, and strode away.
“You knew he had fans,” Jonah said when he caught up with me.
“There are fans, and there are fans. Fans buying underwear with my boyfriend’s face on them.”
“You’re awfully young to be a prude.”
“I’m not a prude. I’m just—it’s underwear.” I glanced at him. “Would you want your face on underwear?”
“No. But then again, I’m not Master of the House, dating one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelorettes, and constantly in the news.”
My expression and tone were bland. “So he asked for it?”
“I’m just saying. He’s pretty famous, and he doesn’t seem to mind it. But he obviously only has eyes for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about anything. It’s just . . . weird. They don’t know him.”
“They’ll know him intimately pretty soon.”
“You can stop now.”
“I’m not sure that I can,” Jonah said, with a cheeky grin. “I’m having entirely too much fun. I may not ever stop. I wonder if they make blow-up Ethan Sullivan dolls.”
“I am not having this conversation with you. But I am going to find those comic books you pose for. I’m going to find them, and I’m going to display them on easels in the foyer of Grey House.”
He stopped short near a fourteen-foot-tall plastic Godzilla with waggling, inflatable arms.
“I won’t mention your ‘costume’; you don’t mention the comics gig.”
“We get to work, and we never mention this again.”
“Agreed,” he said, and, both of us mortified, we looked around the floor to get our bearings.
“Who are we seeing today?” I asked.
“Them, actually,” Jonah said, nodding to a nearby vendor stocked with weapons.
The scrolled wooden sign read FAIREMAKERS and listed an address in Schaumburg. A man and a woman worked the booth. The man, who sat at the table, had short hair and a precisely trimmed goatee, and he wore a tunic, brown pants, and soft brown boots. The woman, who stood behind him, flipping through an old-fashioned ledger, had a mass of wavy strawberry blond hair that reached halfway down her back and wore a wide circle skirt and linen peasant’s blouse. Her br**sts were ample, and a round pendant lay nestled between them.
As we walked to the table, the man moved toward us with a wide grin. “Good evening. How can I help you on this lovely spring night? We have all variety of weaponry,” he said, gesturing toward the wall. There were maces, daggers, a couple of replica katanas, and several two-handled swords. Some of them looked like good replicas; some looked like well-worn antiques.
“Actually,” Jonah said, pointing at the woman behind him, “we need to talk to her.”
“Nan,” the clerk said, touching her shoulder to get her attention.
Nan turned back to us, her round face brightening at the sight of my RG partner. “Jonah! Such a pleasure. I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“It’s been a while,” he agreed, then put a hand at my back. “Nan, this is Merit, Sentinel of Cadogan House.”
“Namaste,” Nan said, pressing her hands together and bowing just a little.
“Hi.” I offered a little wave.
“Nan helps source our katanas and practice weapons,” Jonah said. And since he was captain of Grey’s guards, I bet he was responsible for purchasing and arranging all those weapons.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
She looked between us. “Are you looking to buy something? We only have replicas today, but perhaps there’s something . . .” She gestured to three katanas that hung behind her, their blades shining like chrome.
“We’re just looking for information, actually. We’re trying to identify swords that were recently used in a crime.”
Nan put a hand on her chest, leaned in. “Oh my God, are you here about the murder at that church? We saw it on television last night. Horrible thing. I certainly hope you find out who did it.”
“So do we,” Jonah said. He pulled out his phone, offered her photographs of the tsubas. “Do these look familiar at all?”
Nan squinted down at the phone, then glanced surreptitiously around and pulled a pair of funky leopard reading glasses from a beaded chain hidden beneath her shirt. She fitted them on, stared down at the phone.
“These are nice. Nice pictures, and very well rendered. Good three-dimensional qualities, good detail. We tend to stay away from fish images. We prefer dragons and bamboo.”
“Any idea who does prefer fish?” Jonah asked.
“Actually, yes.” She pointed at the phone’s display. “The colored enameling’s the giveaway—it’s called cloisonné. Gained traction in Japan in the seventeen hundreds. You don’t see it very often, and when you do, it’s usually an older piece. Not many craftsmen making it these days. Did you get any photos of the edge?”
“Let me see,” Jonah said, taking the phone back and moving through pictures. “I got one—there were markings there, and I thought maybe it was an artist’s mark.”
He handed the phone back, and she peered at it, tilted her head, leaned closer.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Not an artist’s mark per se, but similar. And you got very, very lucky.”
“Oh?” Jonah asked.
She held the phone out, the photograph zoomed in on a couple of small, raised squiggles on the edge of the tsuba. “See those?”
“Looks like an ‘M’ and an ‘S,’” I said.
“Precisely. Stands for the Magic Shoppe. Located right here in Chicago. Hipsters, if you ask me.” By her flat expression and tone, she was not impressed with the Magic Shoppe. “They sell replicas, but they customize. Pick your blade length, your cording, your tsuba design. They have tsubas made at a small workshop in Kyoto, have the store’s initials added to the side.