Or inside the alchemical web Sorcha had created, the one that had stretched out from Towerline like a spider’s.
I thought of what Winston had painted in his small, tattered notebook, and the painting of what even Winston thought had been rows of teeth—jagged and uneven—from the mouth that had screamed his delusions.
They weren’t teeth, I realized, looking back at the uneven line of buildings to the east. He’d drawn the skyline. He’d drawn Chicago.
He’d heard Chicago. Somehow, because of magic I didn’t understand, he’d heard Chicago.
“Merit?” Mallory asked, head tilted as she studied me.
“Winston Styles painted images that came to him when he heard the voice. He drew the skyline,” I said. “He heard Chicago. The smell isn’t the magic, or a chemical. It’s Chicago. Squeezed down and distilled, but Chicago all the same.”
None of them looked convinced. “Close your eyes,” I said. “Close your eyes, and think about the scent.”
They looked even more skeptical about that idea. But they did it.
“Traffic,” Mallory said after a minute. “Exhaust.”
“And beneath that?” I asked.
She frowned.
“Smoke. And the lake. And the wind blowing in from the prairies. Hot dogs and hot beef and summertime grills. Bodies and sweat and tears.” She opened her eyes. “It’s like someone made a perfume of Chicago—all of it together.”
Ethan and Catcher inhaled deeply, held the air in their bodies as if to measure its contents.
“Pizza,” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” Catcher said. “I mean, a lot of exhaust and smoke, but there’s a thread of sausage, maybe?”
“The delusions aren’t delusions,” I said. “They’re hearing Chicago.”
“The voice is sentient,” Catcher said. “Chicago isn’t. That’s not possible.”
“There shouldn’t be snow on the ground in August,” Mallory said. “There shouldn’t be people trying to harm themselves to alleviate their delusions. We don’t have the luxury of ‘possible’ right now. But,” she added, “I think you’re right about the city—Chicago is a really big place. If it was possible a city could be sentient, and if Chicago was that lucky, one-in-a-million city, I’m pretty sure there’d be more than a single voice and some stink.”
“Like dancing Chicago dogs?” Catcher asked.
“Something. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help us say what it is.” Mallory’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “But I aim to find out.”
• • •
We were less than an hour from dawn, so we skipped the previous food and beer plan, opted to head back to the House. The ride was silent, all of us thinking, wondering what was happening in Chicago. Catcher parked on the street, and we walked silently into the House.
Mallory yawned hugely but rolled her shoulders as if to shrug off exhaustion. “I need time to read and think,” she said. “I’m going to hole up in the library for a little while if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine by me,” Ethan said. “But don’t forget to take care of yourself, to sleep.”
She nodded. “I’ll sleep when I feel better. When I’ve conquered this.”
“I’ll tell Chuck what we’ve found,” Catcher said.
“Will he want to tell the mayor?” Ethan asked, closing and locking the door behind us.
Catcher tugged his ear. “Not yet, I think. Not until we can really tell her what it is. But that will be his call.”
Ethan nodded. “Let’s meet at dusk. And no magic in the House.”
“Trust me,” Mallory said. “I want no more of this magic until we have some information.”