"I don't get it."
"This is Lake Michigan."
I frowned, trying to figure out what I'd missed. Lake Michigan made up the eastern border of the city. Since we were awake only at night, the lake was always pitch-dark by the time we woke up. So I didn't understand the concern.
"I'm sorry," I told her apologetical y, "but I stil don't get it."
Kel ey pul ed back the phone, punched some buttons, and swiveled it again. This time, it displayed a photo of a drinking glass ful of inky black water.
"That's water from Lake Michigan," she explained before I could ask. "The Internet is going crazy. About two hours ago, Lake Michigan turned completely black."
"And that's not al ," Lindsey piped up, then swiveled in her chair to face us. "Same thing happened to the Chicago River, at least as far as the city limits. They've both gone black, and they've stopped moving."
I struggled to understand what they were tel ing me. I mean, I understood the literal meaning of the words, but they didn't make any sense. "How could they just stop moving?"
"We aren't certain," Kel ey said, "but we have a sense this might be involved." She flipped the screen to a third image. It showed a petite but busty woman with long red hair and a very tiny green dress. She stood on a bridge over the river, arms outstretched, eyes closed.
I'd seen a girl like that before—a number of them, actual y. She looked like one of the nymphs that ruled Chicago's waterways. I'd met them before when my grandfather, the city's supernatural mediator, had helped them resolve a dispute.
"A River nymph," I concluded, leaning in to peer closer at the screen. "But what's she doing to the water?"
"We aren't entirely sure," Kel ey said. "This photo's making the Internet rounds just like the one of the water.
Based on the picture's time stamp, the lake went dark a few minutes after she did that—whatever ‘that' was."
I grimaced. "That's not a good coincidence."
"No, it's not," Kel ey agreed. "Especial y not with the mayor convinced we're the root of al evil."
Former Mayor Seth Tate had made his mark—at least pre-indictment—by staying on top of the supernatural situation in Chicago and supporting our integration into the human population. He set up my grandfather's office, and when vampires came out of the closet, he positioned Chicago as the frontier of supernatural relations in the U.S.
Mayor Kowalczyk was no Mayor Tate, and she certainly wasn't interested in positioning herself as a friend to sups.
The campaign for her special election had been short, but she'd made her position plenty clear. Chicago might have been built on patronage, but under the Kowalczyk administration, that patronage didn't extend to vampires or shifters. No "special treatment" for supernaturals.
"As if we weren't already popular enough," I mumbled.
When she and Lindsey exchanged a glance, I knew I was in trouble. "What?"
"Here's my thought," Kel ey said. "I know this water thing isn't exactly our problem, especial y if nymphs are involved.
I seriously doubt any vampire created the issue, and probably the Om-bud's office wil get people working on it, right?"
"It's a definite possibility."
But we are the public face of supernaturals."
Kel ey said. "The public only knows about us and shifters, and Gabe's keeping them on the down low. If people start freaking out . . ."
"They're going to blame us," I finished for her. Suddenly nervous, I tugged at the hem of my jacket a bit. "What do you want me to do?"
"Make contact with your grandfather. Find out what he knows, then get downtown. Keep an eye on things, and do whatever you can to help the Ombud's office, preferably with as little public drama or political involvement as possible."
"What about you? The House? If I'm out, you're going to be even more shorthanded."
She shook her head. "There won't be a House if the mayor finds a reason to crucify us." Then her expression softened. "I didn't think to ask—wil you be okay doing this?
You haven't been out of the House much since . . . you know."