“And White?” Sierra asked.

“A different but connected issue.”

Severin swore under his breath.

“We’ll take you inside,” Sierra said. “If Giles is there, he might talk to you. He might not. Either way, remember that he’s a very busy man.”

FOURTEEN

As they led us through the side door I surreptitiously texted Elena to let her know where we were. Mom was busy explaining the bow case—she’d put it down to deal with the girl and only now did Severin and Sierra notice. Mom said it was exactly what it looked like—a bow. We’d been on the way to her archery class when we’d decided to swing past the meeting house and scope it out, and just happened to catch the escapee and win an introduction Was it a good excuse? No. But if we were trying to smuggle in weapons, we’d do something a little less obtrusive—and a little more deadly—than a bow.

When we got inside, I looked around. The last time I’d been in a SLAM meeting house, what struck me most was how serene it was. Like what I’d imagine from a cult or a commune.

Throw a bomb in the mix and that serenity gets blown to hell.

People darted from one door to another. I heard voices raised in irritation, in anger, in anxiety. Somewhere someone was shouting that he didn’t give a shit if it wasn’t possible to clear out in two hours—make it possible.

When Sierra and Severin came through, people slowed down and lowered their voices, clearly trying not to get noticed. As soon as we passed, the chaos rose in their wake. Finally we reached the one silent door in the hall. Sierra knocked. A woman cracked it open from inside. She was about my age, and so mousy she made the twins look like supermodels. Veronica Tucker, better known as Roni.

Roni had been my first introduction to SLAM, back when I’d been solving the murders Leah had committed. She’d been a witch hunter who just “happened” to be in town at the same time. There were no such coincidences, of course. She’d hunted me, then pretended she’d been set up, to lure me in and hand me over to Giles.

“He’s not seeing anyone,” Roni whispered. “You’ll need to—”

Severin slammed his open hand into the door, sending her stumbling back. Sierra pushed through and shoved Roni aside when she squawked.

The room was small and empty. Sierra headed to a second door. She rapped on it, and waited for a “yes?” then blocked the opening so I couldn’t see inside.

“There are a couple of new girls here. They—”

“Recruits?” a woman said. “In this mess, you bring us recruits?”

“No,” Sierra said, her voice chilly. “I bring you information. Potentially important information. Giles? The girls say that trouble at the police station has something to do with Shawn Roberts and Toby White. Do you want to speak to them?”

“Yes, yes.” Giles’s voice. “Of course.”

He murmured something, presumably to whoever else was in the room. A moment later, three people came out. I recognized two from when I’d been held captive. The third—a dapper man in his fifties—was a stranger. He stopped and gave us the once-over.

“My dears,” he said, extending a hand. “May I be the first to welcome you to the cause.” He turned to the doorway. “Giles? If you need someone to show these lovely young ladies around …”

“I have better uses for your time, Gord,” Giles said dryly, still from the next room. “I’ll see you as soon as I’m done here.”

They left. Severin held the door and waved Mom inside. I followed. The door closed behind us, Severin and Sierra staying in the hall.

At first I didn’t see Giles. Then I spotted him at a table, papers strewn before him. He rose and stepped toward us, hand extended, a welcoming smile on his lips.

Giles Reyes. Or, if the stories were correct, Gilles de Rais— a French nobleman who’d ridden with Joan of Arc. That military service was not, however, what put de Rais in the history books. He was tried and convicted in the deaths of at least forty children. I knew the stories of what he did to those children. I won’t repeat them. It is enough to say that now, seeing him for the first time since I’d heard whom he claimed to be, the first thought to enter my mind was I could kill him. If I could manage to touch him without throwing up. And that’s if I could kill him at all. He claimed to be immortal, and we had Cassandra DuCharme’s eyewitness account of him seventy years ago to support that claim.

All I could do was try to see him as the man I remembered—Giles, leader of SLAM, nothing more. Just a well-dressed guy in his thirties, bearded, dark haired, and dark-eyed.

“You’re clearing out?” Mom said. “Can’t say I blame you. I heard about the lab.”

His eyes darkened, annoyance creasing the corners of his mouth. “Well, we’re making some changes at least. You say you have information for me?”

His gaze moved back to his papers, as if he’d already decided that nothing we could tell him would be worth his undivided attention.

I answered before Mom could. I’d spent enough time with Giles to understand the man a little. He could play the friendly, unflappable leader, but poking him, as Mom had, was like prodding a resting cobra.

“We do, sir. I’m sorry we’ve come at such a bad time, but we do think this is important. Do you know Toby White and Shawn Roberts?”

“I have … worked with Mr. White. My sources suggest Mr. Roberts is a supernatural who doesn’t believe in my cause. I suspect you’re here to confirm that?”

“Roberts was part of a group who hijacked your arrangement with Jackie Medina. They planned to teach supernaturals that revealing themselves is a very bad idea.”

Now I had his full attention. He motioned for us to sit. I told him a little more about the anti-reveal movement. No additional names or details—I didn’t care if they were idiots, I wasn’t siccing this psycho on them.

“Sierra mentioned something about a police station?” he said when I finished. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard anything about this incident. What can you tell me?”

I reiterated pretty much exactly what Lucas had said was on the news. Then I said, “One of the bodies found was Shawn Roberts. He hasn’t been identified yet, but he was there. So was Jackie Medina.”