"Demons and devils enter this world all the time," Hunter said, "so the gates are an insufficient means of protection."
"The gates are not the problem. The magic that forces them open temporarily is. Stop the Charna, sorcerers, or Satanists responsible, and you'll stop the dark ones from entering."
She leaned forward a little, as if to convince me of her earnestness. All it did was make me suspect there was more to this than what she was saying. "But if we could learn what makes them work, then perhaps we can also make them stronger."
"If it were possible for them to be strengthened, then I think the reapers would have done it by now." I took another sip of coffee and tried to ignore the chills running down my spine. Tried to ignore the little voice in the back of my mind suggesting that Hunter's plans involved me a whole lot more than she was admitting.
"Reapers?" A brief glimmer in her eyes suggested interest. Or maybe that was me reading far too much into the flicker of movement in her otherwise well-controlled features. "You can see them?"
"Whether I can or not is irrelevant to this conversation."
"I disagree. If you can see the reapers, you can see the gates. And that is a talent we sorely lack."
We as in the Directorate, or the high council? I wasn't entirely certain which one she meant. "I've never seen the gates," I said. "I've never walked the gray fields."
Of course, the latter part of that statement was a total fabrication, but I was betting she really didn't know what I was capable of. Mom certainly wouldn't have told her, and the only other people who knew were those who'd been in the hospital room when I'd pulled Aunt Riley from those fields so long ago.
But one of those people had been Jack Parnell—Hunter's brother and the man in charge of the guardian pision. It was totally possible that he'd mentioned it in passing in his report.
And that could also explain why she hadn't sent a lackey to talk to me. She'd wanted to examine me in person.
I finished my latte in one long gulp, then stood. "How do I contact you if I hear from my father?"
She drew a business card from her wallet and slid it across the table. "This conversation is not finished—"
"Yeah, it is," I said. "I have to work today, and I really do not want to sit here listening to half-truths. When you feel like telling me what you're actually planning, contact me. Until then, don't bother."
I expected the cold rush of anger, but instead she merely leaned back in her chair and gave me a small smile. "You really are your mother's daughter."