Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(94)

Gabriel pulled out a single folded piece of paper. Without a word, but with an eyebrow arched, he opened it . . . then handed it to me.

On the piece of torn paper, hastily scribbled, was a list of alchemical symbols.

“Damn,” I whispered, staring at the slanted writing when he offered it to me. “It’s a cipher.”

“You’re sure?” Ethan’s voice, for the first time in days, held a note of hope.

“Yeah. I’m sure.” I held it out so they could both see it, pointed to the first column of scribbles. “These are the icons—the hieroglyphs that are specific to the sorcerer—and what they mean.”

Which meant Caleb Franklin had either found the list or translated the hieroglyphs and put them in a safe-deposit box Gabriel could access.

“Why a safe-deposit box?” Ethan asked. “Why not just tell you what was going on?”

“He tried,” Gabriel said, his words heavy with guilt.

We both looked at him.

“He called me the night before he was killed. I didn’t call him back. Meant to, but got occupied with other things.” He paused, shook his head. “No, that’s not honest. I put it off, because I thought he’d offer more excuses and justifications, and I didn’t want to hear them. But that’s not what he was offering. He learned what Reed was going to do, or some of it, and he wanted to stop it. And they killed him for it.”

“He probably tried to intervene at Wrigleyville,” Ethan said. “Prevent them from finishing the alchemy.”

Gabriel nodded. “And instead they finished him.”

“I’m going to take pictures,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I’ll send them to Paige and Mallory, let them get started. And copy Jeff,” I added, “because we aren’t going to need that algorithm now. We can do a straight translation.”

This was a big break, and all because I’d tried to think like a shifter at Caleb’s house. Lesson learned there.

“Good,” Ethan said. “Because we’re running out of time.”

“Caleb,” Gabriel said as we walked out of the vault again. “They took him out, because they thought he’d destroy their plan. Little did they know he’d already sown the seeds, and they blossomed anyway.”

“He has left a legacy,” Ethan said. “Let’s try to make good on it.”

? ? ?

My phone rang just as we hit the sidewalk and the bank locked its doors behind us.

I pulled it out, found Jeff’s number on the screen.

“Did you see it?” He asked the question before I even managed to say hello.

“See what?” I said, holding up a hand to get Ethan and Gabe to stop beside me.

“The watermark on the paper you sent me.”

I stopped on the sidewalk, pulled out the paper I’d wrapped in Ethan’s handkerchief, just in case.

“Bottom left-hand corner,” Jeff said. “I figured you didn’t see it—or feel it—or you would have mentioned it.”

I held up the paper, with its tight, slanted writing, to the streetlight. Sure enough, in the bottom corner, was the leading edge of a circular watermark—a spot where the paper had been lightly embossed. It looked like a company seal, and not just for any company.

I couldn’t read the entire seal, but the portion I could see was clear enough. The letters EED INDUSTR were visible, along with the tip of a building.

“Holy shit,” I murmured.

“Yeah,” Jeff said. “That list is on Reed Industries paper. Reed would probably say Caleb Franklin stole it, but then he’d have to explain how Caleb got access to his offices, which opens up a can of worms. In any event, combined with the alchemy, Chuck thinks it’s enough for a warrant for Reed’s office.”

I threw a victorious fist in the air. “Damn good job, Jeff.”

“It’s teamwork,” he said. “And it’s Caleb Franklin. This is because of him. And now he has a legacy.”

It was the least we could do for him.

? ? ?

Luc was waiting in the basement when we walked into the House again. We were actually running pretty high, so the dour expression on his face wiped the smiles off ours.

“What’s wrong?” Ethan asked, and Luc slid his gaze to me.

“We found him.”

Ethan looked puzzled, but I knew exactly who he’d meant. “The Rogue?”

Luc nodded, handed me a sheet of paper. Pale skin. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. No beard when this was taken. McDONALD HOUSE was printed across the top of the page. LOGAN HILL was printed across the bottom.

“Logan Hill,” I said. “He was in McDonald House.” McDonald was based in Boston, and one of the oldest Houses in the U.S. Second only to Navarre, if I remembered correctly. It looked like the database search had been successful after all.

Luc nodded. “Matched the eyes. I don’t know if he goes by that name now. Almost certainly not. But once upon a time, he did.”

“Why’d he leave McDonald?” Ethan asked.

“Insubordination. I talked to Will.” That would be Will McDonald, Master of the eponymous House. “He said Hill wasn’t a team player. Lots of skill, but lots of ego that ultimately didn’t work well in the House system.”