I kept a hat tucked low, all but obscuring my face. My distinctive, near-white hair was tucked beneath it, and I was putting out a general 'don't notice me' vibe as I climbed to the second floor. I wouldn't waste one of my clay statues on the way in. I'd need it for tomorrow night when there'd be at least a small press presence armed with cameras. The convention Marcone had arranged meant that most of the first floor was packed with bankers and investors of any kind. We'd have both preferred to be on the first floor for ease of evacuation in case the Fomor struck before or during the event, but we'd have to take what we could get.

I dodged event security, key card in hand, and made my way up to our rooms, a duffel bag over one shoulder. I was hoping that the magnetic strip would hold up until I could reach the room, but there was no telling anymore. Put a grumpy wizard in the proximity of any technology and things got weird.

By the time I reached my destination, my calf was beginning to burn. I'd been favoring it for close to two weeks now, leaning heavily on the pain-blocking techniques that Lasciel had taught me to blot it out during fights. Fortnea had been of additional help, bolstering my concentration when I faced off against threats, much the same way Lasciel had. It came at a cost, though. She tired quickly, and it had taken close to five days for her to recover enough to talk to me after the last time she'd tried. They were both silent as I mentally prepped myself for this mission, sensing intuitively that I couldn't afford the distraction.

I held my breath when I slotted the key card in the door as if it would somehow help. It took the mechanism longer than it should have to register the card, but after two tries I managed to get it open.

The room beyond was easily double the size of the crappy motels I was used to. The carpet was taupe and it looked soft. Sleeping on it would feel like heaven after some of the places I'd been forced to bunker down in the past. I wouldn't have to resort to that with the enormous king-size bed that dominated one corner of the room. There was a white couch pushed up against the opposite wall, close to the windows. Someone had drawn the royal blue curtains, probably in an effort to thwart a sniper who might be waiting on a nearby rooftop. Marcone was sitting on the sofa, a book open on his lap. He glanced up from it when I limped my way inside the room, slumping onto the bed, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Please tell me that you're not doing the old 'we're going to have to share a bed schtick.' I am not looking to cuddle with you."

He snorted. "Nothing that juvenile. I have the adjoining room, and Hendricks and Ms. Gard are two doors down. Ordinarily, I'd have them in the room connected to mine, but I thought it best that we be seen together. I trust you to address any supernatural attacks. Leave any physical defense to me. Your leg will only slow us down."

I scowled. He was probably right, but I didn't like being treated like an invalid. I'd managed to fight servitors up to this point, bad leg or no. Of course, I paid for it later, but I'd take the tradeoff.

"Got it," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "So, what's the plan?"

"According to my troubleshooters, Harvey Morrison is likely the next target. Several servitors have been spotted lurking near his place of business. A few more have staked out the offices of Maurice Conley, William Dawson, and Raymond Marsh. Gard and will cover the former while you and I keep an eye on the latter. I have several men in the security detail that will alert me if we have chosen the wrong victims. The rest of the night will be spent mingling."

"And I'm what? A lie detector? You really think the traitor is going to attend the party knowing you're onto them?"

He smiled. "Oh I doubt it, but one can hope. I'm relying on your abilities as a Sensitive. My sources tell me you're adept at psychomancy. If we manage to capture a servitor, it could point us in the direction of the traitor."

I bristled. "That's black magic. It taints the mind, and my sanity is shaky as it is. I don't go in for that stuff anymore."

He raised an eyebrow. "You'd prefer old-fashioned torture then?"

I recoiled at the thought. Death was already traumatizing enough. I wasn't sure I could be in the same room with him if he decided to administer some mob justice.

"We'll see," I said grudgingly. "But no promises."

Marcone didn't argue with that. He knew me well enough to guess that I'd go with Plan A, instead of the agonizing results of Plan B. The possibility of either made my stomach churn, which was probably why he'd failed to mention it before now. This whole thing had been a waste if I backed out.

"That's all I ask," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Your clothing is hanging in the hall closet. There's jewelry on your bedside table and Gard helpfully provided makeup. It's waiting in the bathroom. Is there anything else you need before we settle in?"

A chance to give him a swift kick in the ass, but that wasn't happening. I wasn't confident that I could beat him, even with my speed-enhancing footwear. He had at least a hundred pounds on me, all of it muscle, and the training to back it up.

"Supper," I said at last. "I haven't had anything to eat today."

"There's a room service menu on the bedside table, under the Cartier boxes."

Cartier. The man had casually gotten me jewelry from one of the most expensive companies in the country. He hadn't even blinked at the expense. Maybe I should have been flattered that he was willing to spend that much to keep up appearances, but it just made me uncomfortable. I couldn't shake the idea I was somehow in his debt, and I had no clue what he'd want in return.

"Thank you," I said. The words felt unnatural.

Marcone must have read the struggle on my face. He seemed darkly amused by my discomfort. Jerk.

"You're welcome." He pushed out of his seat, tucking his book under one arm. "I'm a room away if you need anything."

He left, closing the door behind him. I just stared at it for a moment before collecting myself. When I crossed to the bedside table I found velvet boxes of varying sizes stacked on top of the room service menu, as promised. I cracked one open and couldn't help but while. The necklace was made up almost entirely of diamonds, several strands of them woven together like a complex braid. A single ruby was fixed at the center, standing out like a drop of blood on white sheets. There were matching bracelets and earrings in the other boxes.

I sat back on the bed, a little stunned. The last time I'd worn something like this, I'd been propositioning Nicodemus. I couldn't help an unpleasant echo of that feeling. Hendricks was right. Marcone wasn't Nicodemus. I wasn't a loyal right-hand woman like Deirdre.

I ordered a steak and green beans before laying back, staring at the ceiling.

He's not Nic, I repeated. You're not Deirdre.

But at the moment, it sure felt like it.