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And certainly not anything I haven’t seen before. Not that I spent half a month disassembling mag-lock doors in a warehouse to workshop this shit or anything.

“You sure, big guy?” I give the jamb a light tap. “Dampness can seep into these heavy frames.”

“I’m sure.” Jerry bounces on his heels. “Can’t.”

“Well, you’re the boss.” I give the mag lock one more casual glance. Maybe next time, little lockie.

I flash Jerry my best dimpled smile, hiding the mental blueprints I’m already drafting in my head. “Lead on, friend. No sense wasting time on wood that isn’t rotting.”

I guess if there’s one upside to all this tech wired through every square inch, it’s that it’s all, you know, electrical energy. And not anything more nefarious. They say magic and technology don’t play well together, so maybe that means Morton isn’t packing any of the dark stuff.

Good.

If I catch wind of even a whiff of magic in this place, I’m out. Done. I don’t care what the hell Nick’s up to.

But now I’ve got another potential room target to add to the Nick List. Which leaves us with the third-floor bedroom or second-floor office. And once I figure out which way he’s headed, hell, maybe I’ll swing by the other stop on the list. Just for hoo-has.

Just ’cause I can.

“The game room!” Jerry announces, yanking me out of my mental meandering.

Focus, Jax. Jesus.

We’ve arrived at the last door in the hall, and Jerry throws it open with a flourish that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that this is one of his favorite spots. Probably because it is, in fact, a fucking game room. There’s a pool table, ping-pong table, pinball machine, and an old-school jukebox that makes me want to blast some Aerosmith or something.

Naturally, that’s where my focus fixes.

“Jerry,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble. “Please tell me that’s a working jukebox?”

“Yes!” He’s already hurrying across the floor toward it. “We could put on some Def Leppard.”

Goddamn, this dude.

“I think we might be best friends. Soul brothers?” I prop a hip against the side of the box, watch him flip through to find whatever he’s looking for. Takes him about one second flat to locate “Foolin’.”

“You like Def Lep?” His eyes glow with excitement.

We really are brothers from another mother, eh? “They’re my favorite.”

The music warbles through the box, and Bertha pops through the doorway, bearing two steaming mugs in her round little hands. “Brought you some refreshments, boys!”

Wowza. This is some first-class catering here. It’s just so homey and domestic, almost warms my cold little heart.

“Do you treat all your service workers this nice?” I accept the proffered mug. Christ, it’s hot chocolate, not even tea. My poor black heart might’ve just shuddered out a beat.

Bertha shoves the second cup into Jerry’s fingers. Just another thing to look comically small compared to his Great Dane-ness. “Of course I do. Mr. Morton isn’t here right now. He can be a bit—”

She stumbles. Feet staying put, torso slipping back, hands windmilling.

I reach for her on instinct. One hand on her lower back, the other still holding my mug, as I guide her to the little sofa. “Easy there.”

“Thank you, Dennis.” She shakes her head. “I deserved it. I shouldn’t speak ill of my employer.”

My brows lift, but I opt not to comment. I guess it’s not surprising. Old money is . . . well, to be frank, people who’re used to being on top of the world often don’t look too closely at what’s below.

Good for heisting, actually—’cause the heist is always below, ya feel? Pretty shitty for like, having to be around those types of folks, though.

“Mr. Morton’s a little grumpy sometimes,” Jerry informs me from the jukebox, flipping again. I’m kinda pumped to see what he picks next. “But he works hard on his sailboats!”