Chicagoland Vampires - Some Girls Bite Part 20

"Not just the House," Catcher said, reaching over to pull more chicken from the bucket. "To the Master himself." He nibbled the edge of his drumstick, then glanced up at me. "Are you ready for that?"

How could I possibly be ready for that? I'd be twenty-eight years old in a matter of days, and hadn't even recited the Pledge of Allegiance in ten years. How could I be prepared to swear my loyalty and service to a community I'd joined as the alternative to death or to a man who didn't find me capable of loyalty, worthy of trust?

On the other hand: "Is it an option-not to take the oaths?"

"Not unless you want to live separately from them," Catcher said, picking a chunk of chicken from the bone. "Pretend you weren't made by him. Pretend you aren't what he made you."

You are what I made you, Ethan had told me. Hard to pretend otherwise.

"If you came at this vampire thing on your own, found your own way to it, what would you do?"

"I wouldn't have come to it," I countered. "I'm not like them, not into the vampire mystique."

His expression softened. "So, because things aren't exactly the way you want them, you're going to bail? Believe me, Merit-exile is a lonely way to live."

"Sometimes," my grandfather put in, "even if you can't be what you want, making the most of what you can be isn't a bad second choice. You have a chance to remake yourself, baby girl."

"But in whose image?" I drily asked.

"That's your decision," Catcher said. "You were made a vampire by Sullivan, sure, but the oaths are still yours to take. And you haven't taken them yet."

My grandfather nodded at me. "You'll know what to do when the time comes."

I hoped he was right. "Anything new in the Porter investigation?"

"Not much," he admitted, swinging a leg. "In terms of evidence, we've gathered nothing else."

"But we did get some interesting gossip," Jeff said, pausing to swallow a bite. He inclined his head toward my grandfather.

"Chuck's vampire says Celina Desaulniers met with Mayor Tate this week. Apparently, she was trying to rea.s.sure the mayor that the murders couldn't have been perpetrated by a House vamp."

"Morgan told me she thinks Cadogan's innocent, that Rogues are behind her murder." I explained my newly formed friendship with the Navarre vamp.

Grandpa seemed amused and nodded, then began to tell me what little they knew about Rogue vamps in the Windy City-mainly that they were a couple dozen strong-when his cell phone rang. He slid off the desk, unclipped and opened it, and frowned at the display before raising it to his ear.

"Chuck Merit . . . When?" He made a writing motion with his hand, and Jeff pa.s.sed over a pen and pad of paper. My grandfather began scribbling quickly, occasionally throwing in an "Okay" or "Yes, sir."

Mayor, Catcher mouthed to me. I nodded.

The call continued for a few minutes, my grandfather closing the phone after a.s.suring Mayor Tate he'd make some calls. He stared down at it, a chunk of silver plastic in his hand, and when he raised his head, worry was etched on his face.

"Another murder," was all he said.

Her name was Patricia Long. We sat quietly, without jokes or sarcasm, our eyes downcast, as he pa.s.sed along the details. She was twenty-seven years old. A tallish brunette. An attorney at an international firm that officed on Michigan Avenue. She'd been found in Lincoln Park this time, an anonymous phone call directing the CPD to the scene. The cause of her death had been the same-exsanguination due to the wounds on her neck and throat.

But there was an additional bit of information with this one. The caller said he'd seen a vampire leaving the scene-a man wearing a blue-and-yellow baseball jersey, fangs bared, mouth covered in blood.

Catcher swore. "The jersey's probably a Grey House shirt. It's one of Scott's signatures." He slid me a glance, explaining, "Grey's a sports fan. Doesn't do the medals like Cadogan and Navarre-they've got jerseys instead."

Grandpa nodded. "Unfortunately, you're right. Sounds like Grey House. They haven't found anything else at the scene-no medals or detritus that would link this to anyone else-but they're still processing." He reclipped the phone to his belt, his k.n.o.bby fingers working to join the plastic components. "This takes the heat off Cadogan, slides it right over to Grey. Anybody wanna put money on whether there'd have been something from Navarre at the scene of Merit's attack?"

The three of them looked at me, their expressions gloomy.

"You can ask Ethan," I said. "But he didn't mention anything to me." Not that he necessarily would. He still wasn't sure of my loyalties.

"Even if there'd been something," Catcher put in, "that doesn't mean it's related to the a.s.saults. I'll eat my right hand if Scott Grey, or anyone from Grey House, had something to do with this one. They're a tight squad and completely harmless."

"It's unlikely," my grandfather agreed.

"But there's no evidence that points specifically to a Rogue vamp, either," I pointed out.

"Actually, that's not entirely true," Grandpa said. "CPD knew the jersey linked to Grey House, so they sent a couple of uniforms over. When they got there, they found a note tacked to the front door. Scott hadn't seen it yet-they don't have guards outside, probably think the House is new enough not to have created enemies. It's barely three years old."

Catcher frowned and crossed his arms. "What did the note say?"

"It was an attempt at a rhyme: 'Blue, yellow, Grey/Who wants to pay?/The Devil is Due/The system is, too.' "

I winced. "That's truly, truly awful."

"By saying 'system'-that's a knock at the Houses?" Jeff asked. "The attacks are staged to look like House crimes, but the notes definitely read 'Rogue.' "

"Or," I suggested, "if the theory is that Rogues are responsible, the murders are for the cops, and the threats are for the House vampires."

My grandfather nodded thoughtfully. "It does play that way."

Catcher pulled over the pad, glanced at the notes my grandfather had written, and frowned. "I don't like this. It's too tidy. I never liked the medal plant, and I like this jersey thing even less. But for a Rogue to leave a note-isn't that a little suspect? They'd have to know the notes connect the Rogues, not the Houses, to the murder. Why go to all the trouble to set up the Houses in the attacks, then stab yourself in the foot with a note that pins the thing on you?"

"Depends on the Rogues," my grandfather suggested. "If the murders are supposed to be a slap at the system, the notes say, 'Hey, look what I pulled off right under your nose, affiliation or not.' Maybe they didn't think the vamps would share the notes with cops."

Catcher brushed a hand over his closely shaven head. "Whatever the f.u.c.k is going on out there, Sullivan needs to get on this. The Houses need to call the city's Rogues together, figure out who might be behind this, offer sanctions or rewards for information.

They love that bargaining s.h.i.t-I don't understand why they're not doing it now."

"Because talking to the Rogues would be an admission that the Rogues have power," Jeff offered. "The House vamps would have to acknowledge vamps who've bucked the system, and ask for their help. No way is Ethan or Celina going to do that. Grey maybe, but not the other two. Their memories are too long."

Grandpa picked up the notepad again and rose, then walked to the door. "You're right-they need to talk, if for no other reason than the timing of this thing. There was a week between Porter's death and Merit's attack, nine days between Merit and this girl's death. It's not a huge sample, but. . . ."

"We don't have much time," I quietly concluded. "Which means we could see another in the next ten days?"

My grandfather blew out a slow breath, then linked his hands above his head. "Maybe so, kid. I don't envy the CPD on this one."

He looked over at me, gave me a sad smile. "I'm sorry to run you off, but we need to start making phone calls. Cadogan and Navarre need to be notified, and I need to talk to my source."

"Thanks for dinner," Jeff said.

"Sure." I peeked in the bucket, looked over a handful of pieces, decided I still had no appet.i.te for fowl. "Enjoy the rest," I said.

"I'll leave it here."

"Oh, before you go," Jeff said, burrowing beneath this desk, "I got you something." He dug around underneath there for a minute making clanging and banging noises, before crawling out with an Army green canvas bag in his hands. He held it out to me, and I took it, and peeked inside.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Jeff?" I asked, peering into the sack of sharpened wooden stakes.

"Just that I'd prefer you alive."

I hitched the bag over my shoulder, gave him a jaunty wink. "Then thanks."

He smiled endearingly. Jeff was a kid, but a good kid.

Catcher rose. "I'll walk you out."

I gave Grandpa a hug, and pa.s.sed a final wave and smile to Jeff, then let Catcher guide me back to the front door. He uncoded it and held it open so I could walk through. "Stay close to the guards this week. Could be this maniac's going to try to finish you off, take a swipe at hit number three."

I shivered and hitched the bag of stakes a little tighter at my shoulder. "Thanks for the comfort."

"I'm not here to comfort you, babe. I'm here to keep you alive."

"And screw my roommate."

He smiled grandly, a dimple peeking from the left side of his upturned lips. "And that, a.s.suming I can get her to see it my way."

I left him with a smile, glad that, whatever the supernatural drama, I'd found friends to help me through it. A new family, for all the genetic differences.

I got into the car and drove home with the windows down, trying to hold on to that smile, that comfort, trying to let the spring breeze and a soft tune carry away my uncertainty.

Have you ever had a moment where you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were in the right place? That you were on the right journey? Maybe the sense that you'd crossed a boundary, jumped a hurdle, and somehow, after facing some unconquerable mountain, found yourself suddenly on the other side of it? When the night was warm, and the wind was cool, and a song carried through the quiet streets around you. When you felt the entire world around you, and you were part of it-of the hum of it-and everything was good.

Contentment, I suppose, is the simple explanation for it. But it seems more than that, thicker than that, some unity of purpose, some sense of being truly, honestly, for that moment, at home.

Those moments never seem to last long enough. The song ends, the breeze stills, the worries and fears creep in again and you're left trying to move forward, but glancing back at the mountain behind you, wondering how you managed to cross it, afraid you really didn't-that the bulk and shadow over your shoulder might evaporate and re-form before you, and you'd be faced with the burden of crossing it again.

The song ends, and you stare at the quiet, dark house in front of you, and you grasp the doork.n.o.b, and walk back into your life.

CHAPTER TEN.

KEEPING WATCH IN THE NIGHT.

"Time to get up, sleepyhead!"

I heard the voice, but grumbled into my pillow and pulled the comforter over my head. "Go away." "Aw, come on, Mer. Today's your big day! It's Vampire Rush!"

I tunneled into the blankets. "I don't want to be a vampire today."

I heard a huff, and the covers were ripped from my body and thrown to the floor.

"d.a.m.n it, Mallory!" I sat up and pushed a nest of dark hair from my face. "I'm twenty-seven years old and perfectly capable of getting up on my own. Will you get out of my room? Go bother Catcher."

"Catcher has bigger issues on his mind right now, Mer." She paused in the middle of flipping through the shirts that hung in my closet. "Did you hear about this other girl? The one who was killed."

I nodded as I rubbed sleep from my eyes. "They mentioned her last night."

"h.e.l.luva time to become a vampire."

"Tell me about it. I said the same thing the other day."

Mallory began to pull clothes off hangers and drop them into a pile on the floor. I gave her a dramatic glare she didn't bother to notice. "What are you doing?"

"I'm finding you something to wear. You've got Rush today." For all that Mallory proclaimed herself immune to the benefits of being as gorgeous and fit as she was, there were moments that she reveled in girly stuff. Her sorority sisters would have been proud.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "It's not Rush. It's hazing. Vampire hazing. I don't need to dress up so Ethan can humiliate me."

"True. He's humiliated you just fine when you were in jeans and a T-shirt." She glanced back, gave me a look over her shoulder snarky enough to reduce a pledge to tears. "But you're going to be there with, what did you say, eleven other new vamps? You need to show them what you're made of. Today's your day to start over. To reinvent yourself."

I shuddered as Mallory pulled out a pair of high black heels and a fitted white b.u.t.ton-up blouse. They joined the trousers she'd tossed on the bed.

"That's not the kind of stuff I usually wear."

She snickered. "That's why you're wearing it tonight." She made a shooing motion with her hands. "Bathroom. Clean thyself."

Once I'd showered and dried off, Mallory took over. Nothing escaped her notice. I was perfum'd, pluck'd and powder'd within an inch of my life, my long hair brushed and sprayed until it gleamed, the long fringe of my dark bangs over my forehead. I was tucked into the trim flat-front trousers and the very snug white b.u.t.ton-up shirt, which had cuffs at the ends of the three-quarter sleeves. The shirt was tucked in, and she twined a black belt around my waist, before unb.u.t.toning the top couple of b.u.t.tons on the shirt.

"You can see my b.o.o.bs if you do that," I warned her.

"Such as they are," she snarked back. "And that's the point. You're playing the part of hot single vampire tonight."

I watched my reflection change in the mirror-from casually attractive graduate student to something a little more fierce. She chained three snug strands of thick silver beads around my right wrist, added a couple of layers of makeup-giving me, as she explained, "a dramatic, smoky eye and just-kissed lips," then slid me into the heels.

"All right," she said, wiggling her finger in a circular motion. "Turn around."

I performed like a trained circus poodle, spinning slowly in place so she could look me over.

"Nice," she complimented. "You clean up very, very nicely."

I shrugged and let her adjust the cuffs on the pant legs and collar of my shirt, then check my teeth for lipstick.