Chicagoland Vampires - Friday Night Bites Part 22

"Maybe it's the genetics," she continued, apparently unwilling to abandon the argument. "Maybe it's the person he's asking you to be. We both have different lives now, bigger lives, than we did a few months ago. But the Merit I knew wouldn't push this boy away. Not this boy. Think about that."

The phone went dead.

The windshield wipers slapped against the gla.s.s as I drove, the summer night wet and humid, fast-moving clouds whipping through the sky below a darker, ominous ma.s.s that pulsed with branching threads oflightning. I parked directly in front of the architecturally austere building that held the gym where I trained with Catcher, and ran inside to avoid the falling rain.

Catcher was already there. He stood in the middle of the blue gymnastics mat that filled the training room, wearing a T-shirt and warm-up pants. His head was bowed, eyes closed, hands pressed together prayerfully.

"Take a seat," he said, without opening his eyes.

"Good evening to you, too, sensei."

He opened a single eye, and the look he gave me left no doubt about how unfunny he'd found the retort.

"Take a seat, Merit." This time his words were biting.

I arched a brow back at him, but stripped off my track jacket and took a seat in one of the orange plastic chairs near the door.

Catcher remained in his pose of quiet concentration for a few minutes, finally rolling his shoulders and opening his eyes.

"Done with meditation?" I lightly asked.

He didn't respond, but strode forcefully toward me, enough malevolence in his gaze to speed my heart.

"Is there a problem?" I asked him.

"Shut it."

"Excuse me?"

"Shut. It."Catcher stepped before me, pulled a hand across his jaw, then put his hands on the arms of the chair. He leaned forward. His torso arched over mine, I hunched back into the chair.

"She is my top priority."

I didn't need to ask who "she" was. Obviously, Mal had called Catcher.

"She is unhappy." He paused, pale green eyes tracking back and forth across my face. "She's having a difficult time. And I get that you're having a difficult time, Merit. Jesus knows, we all get it. You had problems adjusting to the transition from human to vampire, and now you appear to have trouble remembering your humanity."

He leaned incrementally forward. My heart began to thud, warmth flowing through my body as anxiety and adrenaline pulled the vampire from slumber, pushed her closer to the surface.

Not now, I begged her.Not now . He'd see, he'd know, and he'd handle me. Nothing good could come from that. For a split second, I thought he knew, his brow knitting as he leaned over me. I closed my eyes, counted backward, tried to push her down even as I felt him above me, the bulk of his body perched over my chair, the faint sizzle of latent magic electrifying the air.

Slowly, one drop at a time, I felt her recede.

"She's having trouble adjusting, Merit, just like you did. And she was there for you. It's time for you to be there for her. Cut her a little slack. I know she said some . . . regrettable things. And believe me, she knows it."

I opened my eyes, kept my gaze on his T-shirt and nodded, a little.

With a creak of plastic, he straightened, took a step backward, and looked down at me, arms crossed.

This time his expression bore a hint of sympathy. His voice was softer, too. "I know you're trying to help Ethan. Trying to get him access, trying to do your job. I get that. And maybe that's the problem here, maybe it isn't. Frankly, that's your business, not mine. But before you alienate everyone who cares about you, Mallory or Morgan or whoever, remember who you were before this happened, before you were changed. Try to find some balance. Try to find a place in your life for the things that mattered before he changed you." He started to turn away, but apparently thought better of it. "I know you have limited time today, but you better be willing to bust your a.s.s. If you're going to stand Sentinel, then you will d.a.m.n well be prepared for it."

I shook my head, irritated that he'd a.s.sumed it was a lack of effort, of trying, that kept me from being the fighter he wanted when, in fact, it was the opposite. "You don't get it," I told him.

His eyebrows lifted, surprise obvious on his face. "Then enlighten me."

I looked at him, and for a long, quiet moment I nearly did tell him. I nearly trusted him, trusted myself, enough to ask him about it, to tell him that I was broken-that my vampire was broken. Separate,somehow. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I'd tried to broach the subject once; he'd shaken off my concern. So I shook my head, lowered it.

"I don't know what you know," he said, "or what you've seen, or what you think you've done. But I advise you to find someone you can trust, and spill those beans.Capiche? "

Silently, I nodded.

"Then let's get to work."

We did. He wouldn't allow me to spar, given what he'd deemed my subpar effort two days ago. It was a punishment in his eyes, but a moral victory for me, allowing me to put my effort into movement and speed rather than holding back the predatory instinct that threatened to overwhelm me. And besides-since we hadn't been sparring, and thus didn't risk damaging the blades, he let me practice with my katana.

We worked through the first seven Katas for nearly an hour. While the movements of each Kata lasted only a few seconds, Catcher made me repeat the steps-over and over and over again-until he was satisfied with my performance. Until the moves became rote, until my movements were mechanically precise, until I could move so quickly through them that the gestures were blurred by speed. That fast, the Katas lost some of their tradition, but they made up for it in dance. Unfortunately, as Catcher pointed out, if I needed to use a sword in a fight, it would likely be against a vampire who was moving as quickly as I was.

After he'd taught me the basic movements of a second set of Katas, these using only one hand on the sword, he released me.

"I'm seeing some improvement," he said, when we'd settled on the blue mat, a spread of katana-cleaning implements before us.

"Thanks," I told him, sliding a piece of rice paper along the sword's sharpened edge.

"The interesting question is, why don't I see the same kind of effort when you're sparring?"

I glanced over at him, saw that his gaze was still on his sword. He clearly didn't understand that I'd been working double time to help him. And I'd already decided not to tell him, so I didn't answer the question.

We were silent for a moment, both of us wiping down our blades, me refusing to answer.

"No answer?" he finally asked.

I shook my head.

"You are as stubborn as she is, I swear to G.o.d."

Without comment, although I agreed, I slid my sword into its sheath.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

I COULD HAVE DANCED ALL NIGHT.

Back at the House, I showered and arranged undergarments, then slipped on my thigh holster and strappy heels. I opted for an updo tonight, twisting my hair into a knot at the back of my neck. All the basics accomplished, I slithered carefully into the dress. Short timing or not, the fit was exquisite. The dress was exquisite. Pale skin, dark hair, glossy lips, black dress. I looked like an exotic princess. A vampire princess.

But the lingering sting of my fight with Mallory lessened a little of the fairy tale.

As ready as I could be, I grabbed my clutch and scabbard and went downstairs, where Mallory's devil waited.

He stood in the foyer, hands in his pockets, lean body clad in a tuxedo. Black, crisply shouldered, a perfect bow tie at his neck. His hair was down, the gold of it straight around his face, highlighting cruelly perfect cheekbones, emerald eyes. He was almost too handsome, untouchably handsome, the face of a G.o.d-or something altogether more wicked.

"What's wrong?" he asked, without looking up.

I reached the first floor, shook my head. "I'd rather not talk about it."

That lifted his gaze, his lips parting infinitesimally as he took in the waterfall silk. "That's a lovely dress."His voice was soft, somehow that much more intensely masculine.

I nodded, ignoring the undertone. "Are we ready?"

Ethan tilted his head to the side. "Are you ready?"

"Let's just go."

Ethan paused, then nodded and headed for the stairs.

He let me be silent for most of the ride to Oak Park, which was considerably faster than the trip to the Breckenridge estate. But while he didn't talk, he kept turning to look at me, casting worried, surrept.i.tious glances at my face, and a few more lascivious ones at other parts of my anatomy.

I noticed them, but ignored them. In the quiet of the car, my thoughts kept going back to my conversation with Mallory. Was I forgetting who I'd been, my life before Cadogan House? I'd known Mal for three years. Sure, we'd had a spat or two along the way. We'd been roommates, after all. But never something like this. Never an argument where we questioned the other's choices, where we questioned our roles in each other's lives. This was different. And it was, I feared, the harbinger of unfortunate things. Of the slow dissolution of a friendship already weakened by physical separation, new ties, supernatural disasters.

"What happened?"

Since Ethan's question was softly spoken and, I thought, sincere, I answered it. "Mallory and I had a fight." About you, I silently added, then said aloud, "Suffice it to say, she's not happy with the person, the vampire, I'm becoming."

"I see." He sounded as uncomfortable as you might expect a boy, even a four-hundred-year-old boy, to sound.

I skipped a responsive nod, fearful that the movement would trip the tears, smear my mascara, and leave track marks down my face.

I really, really wasn't in the mood for this. Not to go to Oak Park, to play dress-up, to be in the same room as my father, to pretend at being that girl.

"I need a motivational speech," I told him. "It's been a pretty awful night so far, and I'm fighting the urge to take a cab right back to Cadogan House and spend an intimate evening with a couple of deep-dish meat pies. I could use one of those 'Do it for Cadogan!' lectures you're so fond of."

He chuckled, and the sound of it was comforting somehow. "How about I tell you that you look radiant?"

The compliment was probably the best, and worst, thing he could have said. Coming from him, it felt weightier, more validating, than it should have. And that bothered me. A lot.

Scared me. A lot.

G.o.d, was Mal right? Was I sabotaging my relationship with Morgan for this man? Was I exchanging real friendships, real relationships, for the possibility of Ethan? I felt like I was spiral ing around in some kind of vampire whirlpool, the remnants of my normal life draining away. G.o.d only knew what would be left of me.

"How about I remind you," he began, "that this is your opportunity to be someone else for a few hours. I understand, maybe better than I did before, that you're different from these people. But tonight you can leave the real Merit in Hyde Park. Tonight, you can play make-believe. You can be . . . the girl they weren't expecting."

The girl they weren't expecting. That had kind of a nice ring to it. "That's not bad," I told him. "And certainly better than the last speech you gave me."

He made a Master-vampire-worthy huff. "As Master of the House-"

"-it's your duty to give me the benefit of the doubt," I finished for him. "And to motivate me when you can." I glanced at him. "Challenge me, Ethan, if you need to. I understand a challenge; I can rise to it. But work from the a.s.sumption that I'm trying, that I'm doing my best." I glanced out the window. "That's what I need to hear."

He was quiet so long I thought I'd angered him. "You are so young," he finally said, poignancy in his voice. "Still so very human.""I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

"Frankly, Merit, neither am I."

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the circle drive in front of my parents' blocky Oak Park home. The house was a stylistic orphan, completely different from the Prairie-style, Wright-homage houses around it.

But my parents had had enough sway over Chicago's political administration to get the plans approved.

So here it sat, a rectangular box of pasty gray concrete in the middle of picturesque Oak Park.

Ethan stopped the Mercedes in front of the door and handed the keys to one of the ubiquitous valets that apparently haunted these kinds of galas.

"The architecture is . . . interesting," he said.

"It's atrocious," I replied. "But the food's usually pretty good."

I didn't bother knocking at the front door, nor did I wait to get an invitation into the house. Like it or not, this was my ancestral home; I figured I didn't need an invitation. More importantly, I hadn't bothered on my first trip back to the house shortly after I'd been changed. And here I was, the prodigal daughter, making her return.

Pennebaker, the butler, stood just inside the concrete-and-gla.s.s foyer, his skinny, stiff frame bowing at each pa.s.sing guest. His nose lifted indignantly when I approached him.

"Peabody," I said in greeting. I loved faking him out.

"Pennebaker," he corrected in a growl. "Your father is currently in a meeting. Mrs. Merit and Mrs.

Corkburger are entertaining the guests." He slid his steely gaze to Ethan and arched an eyebrow.

"This is Ethan Sullivan," I interjected. "My guest. He's welcome."

Pennebaker nodded dismissively, then looked back to the guests behind us.

That hurdle pa.s.sed, I led Ethan away and began the trek toward the long concrete s.p.a.ce at the back of the first floor where my parents entertained. Along the way, bare, angular hallways terminated in dead ends. Steel mesh blinds covered not windows but bare concrete walls. One stairway led to nothing but an alcove showcasing a single piece of modern art that would have been well suited to the living room of a maniacal serial killer. My parents called the design "thought-provoking," and claimed it was a challenge to the architectural mainstream, to people's expectations of what "stairways" and "windows" were supposed to be.

I called the design "contemporary psychopath." The s.p.a.ce was packed with people in black-and-white clothing, and a jazz quintet provided a sound track from one of the room's corners. I glanced around, looking for targets. There were no Breckenridges in sight, and my father was equally absent. Not that that was a bad thing. But I found something just as interesting near the bank of windows that edged one side of the room.

"Prepare yourself," I warned him with a grin, and led him into the fray.

They stood together, my mother and sister, eyes scanning the crowd before them, heads together as they gossiped. And there was no doubt they gossiped. My mother was one of the ruling matrons of Chicago society, my sister an up-and-coming princess. Gossip was their bread and b.u.t.ter.

My mother wore a conservative gown of pale gold, a sheath and bolero jacket well suited for her trim frame. My sister, her hair as dark as mine, wore a pale blue sleeveless c.o.c.ktail dress. Her hair was pulled back, a thin, glossy black headband keeping every dark strand in place. And in her arms, currently chewing on her tiny, pudgy fist, was one of the lights of my life. My niece, Olivia.

"Hi, Mom," I said.

My mother turned, frowned and touched fingers to my cheek. "You look thin. Are you eating?"

"More than I've ever eaten in my life. It's glorious." I gave Charlotte a half hug. "Mrs. Corkburger."

"If you think having my daughter in my arms will prevent me from swearing at you," Charlotte said, "you are sorely mistaken." Without batting an eyelash-and without explaining why she planned on swearing at me-she pa.s.sed over my eighteen-month-old niece and the nubby burp cloth that rested on her shoulder.