Chicagoland Vampires - Some Girls Bite Part 16

"Merit," Morgan crisply said, the tattletale. "Cadogan."

"Would someone please explain to me what the problem is?" I got no response to the question. Instead, Celina looked at me, looked me over, arching a delicately shaped eyebrow. She repeated Morgan's name, an implicit demand.

"You need to leave," Morgan said. "We've got humans here, and we don't allow Cadogan vamps in the club."

I stared at him. What did they think I was going to do? Start munching on dancers? "Look, the guy at the door let my friends and me in here," I said, intent on making them understand, on pushing through blind prejudice. "We weren't causing any trouble-we were dancing. We certainly weren't hara.s.sing humans."

I looked to Morgan for support, but he only looked away. That small act of rejection, of denial, p.r.i.c.ked. Frustration began to give way to anger, and my blood began to fire. I moved to take a step forward, but a hand at my elbow stopped me.

"The fight's not worth it," Catcher whispered. "Not for this." He gently tugged me back in the direction of the door. "Let's get out of here."

Celina looked at me again, and for a moment we were the only two vampires in the room. Whatever power she had-and it was far beyond anything I'd yet felt-crept toward me in slow amoebic tendrils. The length of a heartbeat, and I was wrapped inside it, enveloped by it. At first, I wasn't sure what she was trying to do-the impulse wasn't physically threatening, but it was aggressive.

I didn't think she could injure me, but she tried to slink inside me, looking for weaknesses, feeling out my strengths. She was sizing me up, here in front of her Second and her patrons, in front of Catcher and Mallory. She was a.s.sessing me, testing me, waiting for me to cry out, to step back, to fall beneath that barrage of power.

I knew I wasn't strong enough to put up a wall against it, but neither would I give in, beg her to stop, cry uncle. And even if I had been strong enough, I didn't know how to fight it, how to battle against it. So I did the only thing I could think of-absolutely nothing. I blanked my mind, thinking that if I didn't fight her, if I put up no walls, it would slip and flow around me. That was easier said than done-I had to fight not to hold my breath as the air thickened, as it fairly pulsed with energy.

But I managed to keep my thoughts clear, stared back into her blue eyes, and let a corner of my mouth curve up.

Her eyes flashed silver.

In vampire terms, she blinked.

"Celina."

Morgan's voice broke the spell. I saw her concentration waver, watched her body relax as the magic dissipated around us. She took a breath and slid her gaze to Morgan, schooling her features into haughty impermeability. "You've compet.i.tion, pet, from Ethan's little plaything."

I nearly growled, and nearly jumped forward to get to her (although G.o.d only knows what I would have done), but Catcher's fingers, still around my arm, tightened.

"Merit," Catcher softly said, "let it go."

"Take the advice, little toy," Celina told me.

I wanted to snark back, but that would give her what she wanted. I decided I wasn't going to throw back anger or snarky words.

No-this was my chance to play the better vampire. To play the cool, calm, collected girl. To play the Initiate who still remembered what it was to be human.

I kept my gaze on Celina, and copied a move I'd seen Ethan make: I slid my hands into the pockets of my jeans, kept my posture businesslike, and let my voice go a little deeper, a little smokier. "Not a toy, Celina. But rest a.s.sured-I know exactly what I am."

That the words fairly mimicked Ethan's didn't occur to me until much later.

"Good girl," Catcher whispered, and tugged my arm, leading me away. I followed with what little pride I had left, and managed not to throw back a glare at the brown-haired boy who'd sold me out to his Master.

I kept quiet until we were a block from the club, and Catcher, apparently having deemed us a safe enough distance away, offered, "Okay. Let her loose."

And I did. "I cannot believe people would act that way! It's the twenty-first century, for G.o.d's sake. How is it okay to discriminate? And what the h.e.l.l was with Celina testing me?" I turned to Catcher, my eyes probably wild, and grabbed his arm.

"Did you feel that? What she did?"

"You'd have to be completely oblivious not to feel it," Mallory put in. "The woman's a piece of work." "I thought you said vampires didn't have magic?" I asked him. "What the h.e.l.l was that?"

Catcher shook his head. "Vamps can't do magic. They can't perform it. They can't bend and shape it. But you're still born of that magic, that power, whether you call vampirism genetic or not. You can sense it. Test it. And vamps can always do what vamps do best-manipulate." He pulled the Red flyer from his pocket again.

"They baited us," I realized. "They identified our cars, planted the fliers."

Catcher nodded and replaced the paper again. "She wanted a look."

"At me?"

"I don't know," he said, eyes on Mallory. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"And then there's Bedroom Eyes," I said. "I can't believe I fell for that pickup, actually danced with him. Do you think it was all a ploy?"

Catcher sighed, linked hands above his head, and gazed back at Red. "I don't know, Merit. Do you think he was plotting?"

He'd seemed sincere. Genuine. But who could tell? "I don't know," I decided. "But you know what the moral of this story is?"

We'd reached the Volvo, and I paused in the process of unlocking the doors, waiting to ensure I had their attention. When they both looked at me, I offered, "Never trust a vampire. Ever."

I was about to squeeze into the front seat when I noticed that the Hummer parked in front of my car bore a vanity plate that read "NVRRE." Grinning impishly, I darted toward it and kicked one oversized tire. When the car's alarm began chirping wildly, I scrambled into my car, started it, and hit the gas.

It didn't do much to the Hummer, but the catharsis was nice.

When we were on our way and blocks from the club, I met Catcher's gaze in the rearview mirror.

"All that drama because we drink?"

"In part," Catcher said. "The flyer got you into the club for a look; drinking got you kicked out. It's a convenient way for Celina to survey the city, have folks come unwittingly to her door."

"Unwittingly to her web," Mallory muttered, and I nodded. It was pointless, I suppose, to rue the House I'd been born into, but what a way to enter the world of vampires. Four days out of the change and a chunk of Chicago's population decided they didn't like me because of my affiliation. Because of what others did. It stank of human prejudice.

Catcher stretched out in the backseat. "If it makes you feel any better, both of them will get what's coming to them."

I tapped fingers against the steering wheel as I drove, then met his gaze again. "Meaning what, exactly?"

He shrugged and averted his gaze, looking out the side window. Apparently he was psychic, too, our former fourth-grade sorcerer.

"Catch, did you know this was going to happen? Did you know it was a Navarre bar?"

Catch? I looked over at Mallory, surprised that they'd already progressed to nicknames. Apparently I'd missed some serious bonding on the dance floor. But her expression showed nothing.

"Yes, Catch," I parroted, "did you set this up?"

"I wanted to check out the club," he said. "I knew it was a Navarre club, but it hadn't occurred to me that we'd been baited. I certainly didn't intend for us to get thrown out, to become actors in Celina's morality play, although I suppose it shouldn't surprise me. Vampires," he said with a tired sigh, "are f.u.c.king exhausting."

Mallory and I exchanged a glance as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "Yes, dahling," she said, doing a lovely Zsa-Zsa Gabor imitation, "vam-piahs ah exhausting."

I faked a smile, and drove us home.

I was brushing my teeth in ratty pajamas-an ex-boyfriend's pale green T-shirt that read I'M A ZOMBIE and a pair of frayed boxers-when Mallory, still in her club clothes, rushed into the upstairs bathroom and slammed the door shut. I paused midbrush, and looked at her expectantly.

"So, I have to break up with Mark."

I grinned. "That may not be a bad idea," I agreed and resumed brushing. Mallory stepped next to me in front of the counter and met my gaze in the mirror.

"I'm serious."

"I know. But you were talking about breaking up with Mark before you met Catcher." I finished brushing, splashed a little water in my mouth, and spit. Thank G.o.d for friends who were close enough to watch you brush without getting grossed out.

"I know. He's not right for me. But it's really late, and I need sleep, and I feel really weird about this I-got-my-job-because-I- wished-for-it thing. And then there's Catcher."

She quieted, obviously thinking, and her silence left a s.p.a.ce for strains of noise from the downstairs television, which floated through the house. A narrator was describing the plight of a battered woman who'd overcome adversity, cancer, and desperate poverty to start a new life with her children.

I wiped my mouth on a towel and looked at her. "And the fact that he's downstairs watching the Lifetime channel again."

She scratched her head. "He finds it inspiring?" I leaned a hip against the bathroom counter. "You should go for it."

"I'm just not sure. All of a sudden, about this, I'm not sure. Work, I'm sure about. Your fangs, I'm fine with. But this boy. He's got baggage, and magic, and I don't know. . . ."

I hugged her, understanding that this wasn't just about Catcher, but her acknowledgment of the new shape of her life. Of the fact that her interest in the occult, in magic, had become something much, much more personal.

"Whatever you do," I told her, "I'll be here."

Mallory sniffed, pulling back to dab carefully at the tears that lay beneath her blue eyes. "Yeah, but you're immortal. You've got the time."

"You're such a cow." I walked out of the bathroom and flipped off the light, leaving her in the dark.

"Uh, who ate her weight in sausage earlier tonight?"

I laughed and walked into my bedroom. "Have fun with Romeo," I told her, and shut the door behind me. In the cool quiet of the bedroom, it still being a couple of hours from dawn, I snagged back the blankets, lit the lamp next to the bed, and settled in with a book of fairy tales. It didn't occur to me that given the current shape of my life, I didn't need to read them. I was living them.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

FANGS MEAN NEVER HAVING.

TO SAY YOU'RE SORRY.

At sunset I woke to the smell of tomatoes and garlic, and trundled downstairs in my pajamas. The television blared, but the living room was empty. I shuffled into the kitchen and found Mallory and Catcher at the kitchen island, both tucking into plates of spaghetti with meat sauce. My stomach growled. "I don't suppose there's any of that left?"

"Stove," Catcher said, gnawing on the end of a piece of baguette. "We left it out. Knew you'd be down."

Did we? I wondered with a smile, and shuffled to the stove. I wasn't sure how I felt about spaghetti for breakfast-or breakfast at nearly eight at night-but my stomach suffered no qualms, grumbling loudly as I poured the remains of the pot onto a plate. Seeking a drink, I went to the refrigerator to grab a soda. But my hand paused over the bags of blood, my teeth suddenly pulsing with the urge to sink into a bag. I touched my tongue to my teeth, felt the p.r.i.c.k of my descended eyeteeth. Gone, though, was that raging, aggressive hunger I'd felt two days ago. Still, I pulled out a bag of type A and looked tentatively at Mallory and Catcher.

"I need blood," I told them, "but I can take it somewhere else if you're grossed out."

Mallory chuckled and chewed a forkful of spaghetti. "You're asking for permission to bite me? 'Cause you should know I don't care about the other thing."

I smiled gratefully and, permission granted, pulled a clean gla.s.s from the cabinet and filled it from the bag. I wasn't sure how long to heat it, so I set the microwave timer for just a few seconds, popped it in, and closed the door. When it dinged, I nearly lurched forward in eagerness to get to it, and drained the gla.s.s in seconds. The blood had a faintly plasticky aftertaste, presumably from the bag, but it was well worth the trouble. I repeated the move-pour, heat, sip-until I'd drained the bag, then patted my stomach happily, took my plate of spaghetti, and pulled out a stool next to Catcher.

"That took all of three minutes," he pointed out, sprinkling red pepper across his noodles.

"And was kind of anticlimactic," Mal said, "since you just stared at the microwave the entire time. I figured you'd at least give some kind of invocation, maybe some gnawing the plastic. Growling." She ate another forkful of spaghetti, then offered, "Clawing the ground. Barking."

"I'm a vampire, not a corgie," I reminded her and tucked into my own spaghetti. "So," I offered, when I'd chowed a couple of tasty forkfuls. Say what you wanted about Catcher's att.i.tude, the boy could cook. "What happened around here today?"

"Mark's going to start skydiving," Catcher said. "Fortunately, we don't have to care anymore."

Mallory gave him a skewering glance. "I really wish you wouldn't put it like that. He has feelings, you know."

"Mmm-hmmm."

"You could also temper that att.i.tude a little," Mallory warned, sliding off her stool. She dumped her plate in the sink and stalked out of the kitchen.

"Trouble in paradise?" I asked when she was gone, sliding Catcher a glance.

He lifted a shoulder. "She had Mark come over so she could break up with him in person. He was pretty upset. They both cried."

"Ah."

We ate silently until we'd cleaned our plates, and he put both in the sink. "Let's give her some s.p.a.ce. We'll go to the gym. I'll give you a couple of hours. Then I need to get to the office."

"On a Sat.u.r.day?"

He only shrugged in response. Catcher, I was learning, was a careful guard of information. The skill probably made him invaluable to my grandfather.As we left the kitchen, I asked, "Can I hold your sword today?"

Catcher glanced back over his shoulder and lifted a brow.

"The sword," I corrected. "The sword."

"We'll see."

We trained for two hours, skipping the fitness evaluation and moving right into the basic moves Catcher had begun to teach me the day before. I'd always been a fast learner, a skill honed from the necessity of picking up dance routines quickly, but my muscle memory solidified even faster now, and the moves were nearly automatic by the time the session was done. That didn't mean I was elegant or graceful, but I'd learned what to do, at least.

Catcher made halfway good on his promise to let me hold the sword. He wouldn't let me touch the unsheathed blade, but he allowed me to strap on the belt that held the scabbard, before taking it away again to demonstrate how to draw and sheath the sword from a kneeling position. The moves he taught me, he explained, were similar to those in Iaido, and were designed to allow the sword bearer to react to a surprise-and thus dishonorable-attack. I almost asked why, if a surprise attack was so dishonorable, he needed to teach me how to defend against it. But I guessed the chip on his shoulder would color his answer, and I'd get a response about dishonorable vampires. So I didn't bother to ask.