Knights sense Nicodemus

O'Hare is huge. We drove around in crowded parking lots and auto loading zones for nearly half an hour before Michael abruptly slowed the truck down outside the international concourse, his spine and neck straightening as if he'd heard a warning klaxon.
Sanya glanced aside at Michael and said, "What is it?"
"Do you feel that?" Michael asked him.
"Feel what?"
"Close your eyes," Michael said. "Try to still your thoughts."
I muttered, "I sense a great disturbance in the Force."
"You do?" Michael asked, blinking at me.
I sighed and rubbed at the bridge of my nose. Sanya closed his eyes, and a second later his expression twisted in distaste. "Rot," the Russian reported. "Sour milk. Mildew. The air smells greasy."
"There's a Pizza Hut kiosk about fifty feet away," I pointed out, looking through the windows of the concourse. "But maybe it's just a coincidence."
"No," Michael said. "It's Nicodemus. He leaves a kind of stain everywhere he goes. Arrogance. Ambition. Disregard."
"I only smell rotten things," Sanya said.
"You're sensing him too," Michael said. "Your mind is interpreting it differently. He's here." He started pulling forward, but a cab zipped in front of him and stopped. The cabby got out and began unloading an elderly couple's bags.
I muttered to myself and sniffed. I even reached out with my magical senses, trying to detect what Michael had. I felt nothing but the usual-patternless white noise of thousands of lives moving around us.


Death Masks Chapter 31, Page 273-274