“So,” Derek asked, “are you from Chicago?”

“Sagamore,” I said. “New York state.”

“You’re a long way from home, Sagamore.”

I glanced through the windows toward St. Sophia’s towers, the prickly spires visible even though we were a couple of blocks away. “Tell me about it,” I said, then looked back at Derek. “You did your time at MA?”

“I was MA born and bred. My dad owns a chain of bodegas”—he bobbed his head toward the shelves in the store—“and he wanted more for me. I got four years of ties and uniforms and one hell of an SAT score to show for it.”

“Derek’s kind of a genius,” Scout said, placing the Choco-Loco on the counter. “Biggest decision I’ll make all day, probably.”

Derek chuckled. “Now, I know that’s a lie.” He held up the front of the comic book, which featured a busty, curvy superheroine in a skintight latex uniform. “Your decision making is a little more akin to this, wouldn’t you say?”

My eyes wide, I glanced from the comic book to Scout, who snorted gleefully at Derek’s comparison, then leaned in toward her. “He knows?” I whispered.

She didn’t answer, which I took as an indication that she didn’t want to have that conversation now, at least not in front of company. She pulled a patent leather wallet from her bag, then pulled a crisp twenty-dollar bill from the wallet.

I arched an eyebrow at gleaming patent leather—and the designer logo that was stamped across it.

“What?” she asked, sliding the wallet back into her bag. “It’s not real; just a good fake I picked up in Wicker Park. There’s no need to look like a peasant.”

“Even the humblest of girls can have a thing for the good stuff,” Derek said, a grin quirking one corner of his mouth, then lowered his gaze to the comic book again. I sensed that we’d lost his attention.

“Later, D,” Scout said, and headed for the quick shop’s door.

Without lifting his gaze, Derek gave us a wave. We walked outside, the sky still gray and moody, the city eerily quiet, and toward St. Sophia’s.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me get this straight. You wouldn’t tell me—your roommate—about what you were involved in, but the guy who runs the quick shop down the street gets to know?”

Scout nibbled on the end of one of the sticks of chocolate in her Choco-Loco wrapper, and slid me a sideways glance as she munched. “He’s cute, right?”

“Oh, my God, totally. But not the point.”

“He has a girlfriend, Sam. They’ve been together for years.”

“Bummer, but let’s keep our eyes on the ball.” We separated as we walked around a clutch of tourists, then came back together when we’d passed the knot of them. “Why does he get to know?”

“You’re assuming I told him,” Scout said as we paused at the corner, waiting for a crossing signal in heavy lunchtime traffic. “And while I’m glad he’s supportive—seriously, he’s so pretty.”

“It’s the hair,” I suggested.

“And the eyes. Totally chocolatey.”

“Agreed. You were saying?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Scout said, leading us across the street when the light changed. “Remember what I told you about kids who seemed off? Depressed?”

“Humans targeted by Reapers?”

“Exactly,” she said with a nod. “Derek was a near victim. He and his mom were superclose, but she died a couple of years ago—when he was a freshman. Unfortunately, he rushed the wrong house at U of C; two of his fraternity brothers were Reapers. They took advantage of the grief, made friends with him, dragged him down even further.”

“They”—how was I supposed to phrase this?—“took his energy, or whatever?”

Scout nodded gravely as we moved through lunch-minded Chicagoans. “There wasn’t much left of him. A shell, nearly, by the time we got there. He was barely going to class, barely getting out of bed. Depressed.”

“Jeez,” I quietly said.

“I know. Luckily, he wasn’t too far gone, but it was close. We identified him and had to clear away some nasty siphoning spells—that’s what the younger Reapers used to drain him, to send the energy to the elders who needed it. We got him out and away from the Reapers. We gave him space, got him rested and fed, put him back in touch with his family and real friends. The rest—the healing—was all him.” She scowled, and her voice went tight. “Then we gave his Reaper ‘friends’ a good talking-to about self-sacrifice.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, we managed to bring one of them back. The other’s still a frat boy in the worst connotation of the phrase. Anyway, Derek’s one of a handful of people who know about us, about Adepts. We call them the community.” I remembered the term from the conversation with Smith and Katie. “People without magic who know about our existence, usually because they were caught in the crossfire. Sometimes, they’re grateful and they provide a service later. Information. Or maybe just a few minutes of normalcy.”

“Strawberry soda,” I added.

“That is the most important thing,” she agreed. She pulled me from the flow of pedestrian traffic to the curb at the edge of the street. “Look around you, Lil. Most people are oblivious to the currents around them, to the hum and flow of the city. We’re part of that hum and flow. The magic is part of that hum and flow. Sometimes people say they love living in Chicago—the energy, the earthiness, the sense of being part of something bigger than you are.”