“It might just be a couple wanting some privacy while they make out.”
“Do you actually believe that?”
“No. Just throwing out possibilities.”
I smiled. “Right. Off to investigate. Keep an eye on Monica.”
“My eagle eyes won’t leave them.”
“Lovely saying, except for the fact you’re not an eagle.”
“Eagle, hawk, same thing.”
“I’m betting there’re eagles out there who’d disagree.”
“Undoubtedly. They’re an arrogant lot.”
I snorted, shoved my phone back into my handbag, and casually wound my way through the various tables, my gaze rarely leaving the grayish halos. When I was halfway around, one of them rose and moved toward the stairs leading back down to the main floor. The other followed a few seconds later. The shields remained huddled close to the bodies of the witches underneath, and didn’t flicker when one brushed the arm of someone moving up the stairs—a sure sign we were dealing with someone who had a great deal of power. Whether those “someones” were hiding under the shields or said hiders had simply purchased the concealment spells was another matter entirely.
“Targets are on the move,” I said. “Heading down the rear right stairs.”
“I’m still not seeing anything,” she replied. “The concealments are fucking good ones, because none of those heading up those stairs gave any indication they sensed magic.”
“They might not be witches.”
“One was a Sarr, I can tell you that much.”
And while Sarrs—who were one of three so-called “lower-class” lines—weren’t powerful witches, they were some of the strongest psychics out there. A Sarr—even one who was using psi shields to prevent telepathic overload—should have picked up that there was someone in concealment on the stairs and at the very least looked. Or, at least, the Sarrs I knew would have.
I picked up my pace without being too obvious about it, but stopped at the top of the steps and searched the area immediately below for the gray halos. After a few seconds, I spotted them again—they were moving at an angle across the room, their pace unhurried and seemingly having no trouble whatsoever traversing the crowd.
I was halfway down the stairs when Ginny said, “Fuck, Monica’s on the move.”
I paused. “Bridesmaids going with her?”
“No.”
“Possibly a pee break then.”
“Possibly, but you better get your ass over there, just in case.”
I hesitated and scanned the packed dance floor below; there was no way known I’d get through that lot with any sort of speed. Not without causing an unnecessary ruckus, anyway. I ran back up the stairs, returned to my original position, then leaned over the railing. I couldn’t see the gray halos, though that might be because they were in the thick of the dancers, where the luminosity was at its strongest. I hoped that whatever their intent was tonight, it didn’t involve Monica.
Instinct suggested that hope was a forlorn one.
I pushed away from the railing and continued on toward the other stairs. “Location update?”
“Just moved past the bar, heading down the corridor toward the bathroom.”
“Tracker still active?”
“And coming through strong.”
I relaxed a little. Given she wasn’t aware of us or the tracker—it had been discreetly placed on her person by her driver, another Society operator, as she’d exited the limo they’d hired for the evening’s adventures—the chances of her ditching it and us were low.
I clattered down the stairs and kept close to the wall as I made my way around to the bar and the corridor. There was, as usual, a goddamn line for the ladies. I joined the end, but leaned out in an effort to see where Monica was. She wasn’t ahead of me, so either she was already in or had continued on, following the corridor to the exit at the far end.
Why would she do that, though?
