Chicagoland Vampires - Some Girls Bite Part 29

Jeff gave her a sad smile and opened his arms. Melaina practically jumped forward and into Jeff's embrace, squealing when he hugged her. As Jeff patted her back, crooned soothing whispers into her ear, Mallory, agog, slid me a dubious glance.

I could only shrug. Who knew little Jeff had this in him? Maybe it was a shifter-nymph thing? I made a mental note to check the Canon.

"There, there," Jeff said, and released Melaina to her sisters. "Now." He folded long-fingered hands together and looked over the group. "Are we done bothering Mr. Merit for the evening? I'm sure he's noted your concerns, and he'll pa.s.s them along to the Mayor." He looked at my grandfather for approval, and Grandpa nodded in response.

"Okay, girls?" A little more sniffling, a few brushes of hands across teary cheeks, but they all nodded. The making up was as loud as the dispute had been, all high-pitched apologies and plans for mani-pedis and spa days. Hugs were exchanged, ripped hemlines were cooed over, makeup adjusted. (Miraculously, not a mascara smudge to be seen. Indelible mascara was a river nymph necessity, I supposed.) When the nymphs had calmed themselves, they gathered around Jeff, peppered him with kisses and sweet words, and filed out the door. Mallory and I watched through the screen door as they flipped open cell phones and climbed into their tiny roadsters, then zoomed off into the Chicago night.

We turned simultaneously back to Jeff, who was typing with his thumbs on a cell phone with a slide-out keyboard. "Warcraft tourney tonight. Who's in?"

"How long do shifters live?" I asked Catcher.

He looked at me, one eyebrow arched in puzzlement. "A hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty years. Why?"

So he was young, even if, at twenty-one, a legal adult in human years. "Because he's going to be frighteningly good when he grows up."

Jeff looked up, pointed at his phone. "Seriously, who's in?" he asked me, his eyes wide and hopeful. "You can be my elf? I have headsets."

"When he grows up," Catcher confirmed, and slipped the cell phone from Jeff's hands, and into his own pocket. "Let's eat, Einstein."

After exchanging belated h.e.l.lo hugs with my grandfather, I was led into the dining room. A meal fit for a king-or a cop, two vampires, a shifter, and two sorcerers-was laid out on the table. In the infield of a ring of green place mats lay bowls of green beans, corn, mashed potatoes, squash ca.s.serole, macaroni and cheese. There were baskets of rolls and on a side buffet sat the desserts-a layered white cake mounded with coconut shavings, a pan of frosting-covered brownies, and a plate of pink and white cupcakes.

But the showpiece, which sat on its own platter in the middle of the oval table, was the biggest ketchup-topped meat loaf I'd ever seen.I made a happy sound. I loved to eat, sure, and I'd eat nearly anything put in front of me, the pint of blood I'd downed earlier evidence enough of that, but my grandfather's meat loaf-made from my grandmother's recipe-was by far my favorite meal.

"Anyone touches the meat loaf before I get my share, you become chew toys," I said, pointing a cautionary finger at the grinning faces around the room.

My grandfather put an arm across my shoulders. "Happy birthday, baby girl. I thought you'd appreciate the gift of food as much as anything else."

I nodded, couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks, Grandpa," I said, giving him a hug before pulling out a chair.

They moved around the table, my friends, Mallory beside me, Catcher at one end, Grandpa at the other, Lindsey and Jeff-who wore an unfortunately eager grin-on the opposite side. There was a quick moment of silence led, interestingly, by Catcher, who closed his eyes, dropped his head, and said a quick, reverential blessing over the food.

And when we all looked up again, we shared a smile and began to pa.s.s the bowls.

It was a homecoming, the family homecoming I'd always wanted. Jeff said something ridiculous; Catcher snarked back. Lindsey asked Mallory about her work; my grandfather asked me about mine. The conversation took place while we heaped meat loaf and vegetables on our plates, sprinkled salt and pepper, sipped at the iced tea that already sat in our gla.s.ses. Napkins were put into laps, forks lifted, and the meal began.

When we'd eaten our fill, leaving bowls empty but for crumbs and serving spoons, when the men had unb.u.t.toned the tops of their pants and leaned back in their chairs, happy and sated as cats, Lindsey pushed back her chair, stood, and raised her gla.s.s.

"To Merit," she said. "May the next year of her life be full of joy and peace and AB positive and hunky boy vamps."

"Or shifters," Jeff said, raising his own gla.s.s.

Catcher rolled his eyes, but raised his gla.s.s as well. They saluted me, my family, and brought tears to my eyes. As I sniffled in my seat-and wolfed down my third helping of meat loaf-Mallory brought in a gigantic box wrapped in pink-and-purple unicorn- covered paper and topped by a big pink bow.

She squeezed my shoulders before putting it on the floor beside my chair. "Happy birthday, Mer."

I smiled at her, pushed back enough to pull the box into my lap, and pulled off the bow. The wrapping paper was next, and I complimented her juvenile taste as I dropped crumpled b.a.l.l.s of it onto the floor. I popped open the box, pulled out the layer of tissue paper, and peered inside.

"Oh, Mal." It was black, and it was leather. b.u.t.tery soft leather. I pushed my chair all the way back, dropped the box on the seat, and pulled out the jacket. It was trim black leather with a mandarin collar. Like a motorcycle jacket, but without the branding. It wasn't unlike the jacket Morgan had worn at Navarre, and as chic as black leather came. I peeked into the box, saw that it contained matching black leather pants. Also sleek, and hot enough to make Jeff's eyes glaze over when I pulled them out.

"There's one more thing in there," Mallory said. "But you may not want to take it out right now." Her eyes glinted, so I grinned back, a little confused, and peered inside.

It could arguably have been called a "bodice," but it was closer in form to the black spandex band I had worn during training. It was leather, a rectangle of it, presumably designed to fit across my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, with a slat of corsetlike ties in the back. The band was maybe ten inches wide, and would reveal more skin than it covered.

"Vampire goth," Mallory said, drawing up my gaze again. I chuckled, nodded, and closed the box around the pants and "top."

"When you said you were going to buy me a black suit, I thought you meant the one you already bought." I grinned at her. "This goes above and beyond, Mal."

"Oh, I know." She stood up and came around the table, taking the jacket to help me shrug into it. "And don't think you don't owe me."

Mallory held out the leather, and I slid one arm in, then the second, and zipped up the snug, partially ribbed bodice. The arms and shoulders were segmented to give me some freedom of movement, a handy thing when I'd need, at some point in the future, to swing a sword around.

Jeff gave an appreciative whistle, and I struck a couple of a.s.s-kicking poses, hands clenched in front of me in guard positions.

This was a new style for me. Not goth, exactly. More like Urban Vamp Soldier. Whatever it was, I liked it. I'd be able to bluff a lot better in leather than in a pretentious black suit.

While Mallory and Lindsey patted the b.u.t.tery softness of the leather, Catcher rose, and, with the lifting of an imperious eyebrow, motioned me out of the dining room. I made my excuses and followed him.

In the middle of my grandfather's small fenced-in backyard lay a square of white fabric-a linen tablecloth I remembered from dinners hosted by my grandmother. One hand at the small of my back, Catcher steered me toward it. I took a place facing him on the opposite side of the square, and when he went to his knees across from me, I did the same.

He had a katana in his hand, but this one was different. Instead of his usual black-scabbarded model, this one was sheathed in brilliant red lacquer. Handle in his right hand, scabbard in his left, Catcher slipped the sword from its home. The scabbard was laid to the side, and the sword was placed on the linen square. He bowed to it and then, his hand inches above the blade, pa.s.sed the flat of his palm over the length of the sword. I'd have sworn he said words, but nothing in a language I'd heard before. It had the staccato rhythm of Latin, but it wasn't Latin. Whatever the language, it had magic in it. Enough magic to ruffle my hair, to create a breeze in the still April night.

When he was done, when goose b.u.mps peppered my arms, he looked up at me.

"She will be yours, Merit. This sword has belonged to Cadogan since the House existed. I've been asked to prepare it for you.

And prepare you for it."

Admittedly, I'd been avoiding Ethan, so it was fine by me that he wasn't here, that Catcher was commanding the a.r.s.enal. But I still didn't get why it was him, and not Ethan, who'd been charged with giving me the sword. "Why not a vampire?"

"Because a vampire can't complete the temper." Catcher lifted the sword, flipped it around so the handle was on my right, and laid it down again. Then he nodded down at my arm. "Hold out your hand. Right. Palm up."

I did as he directed, watched him pull a small squarish knife from his pocket, the handle wrapped in black cord. He took my right hand in his left, then pressed the sharp tip of the knife to the center of my palm. There was an immediate sting, as a drop of blood, then two, appeared. He gripped my hand hard against my instinctive flinch, put aside the knife, and rotated my palm so it was positioned directly above the sword.

The crimson fell. One drop, then two, three. They splashed against the flat of the steel, rolled across the sharpened edge of the blade, and dropped onto the linen beneath it.

And then it happened-the steel rippled. It looked like waving heat across hot asphalt, the steel flexing like a ribbon in the wind. It lasted only seconds, and the steel was still again.

More words were whispered in that same rhythmic chant; then Catcher released my hand. I watched the pinp.r.i.c.k in my palm close.

Props for vampire healing.

"What was that?" I asked him.

"You've given a sacrifice," he said. "Your blood to the steel, so that she can keep you from shedding it in battle. Care for her, respect her, and she'll take care of you." Then he removed a small vial and cloth from a pocket of his cargo pants, showed me how to paper and oil the blade. When the sword was clean again and lay gleaming in the light of the backyard flood lamps, he rose.

"I'll let you two get acquainted," he said. "Since you won't be wearing robes, I've left a belt inside. The scabbard fits it. From today on, you wear it. All day, every day. When you sleep, you keep it beside you. Understood?"

Having gotten the same speech about my beeper, and understanding the threat of the still-loose killer, I nodded, waited for him to rise and leave, then looked down at the sword that still lay in front of me. It was an oddly intimate moment-my first time alone with her. This was the thing-this complicated arrangement of steel and silk and ray skin and lacquered wood-that was supposed to keep me safe for the next few hundred years, the thing that would enable me to do my duty, to keep Ethan and the other Cadogan vamps alive.

Nervously, I looked around the yard, a little self-conscious about picking it up, and scratched absently at my eyebrow. I rustled my fingers, cleared my throat, and made myself look at it.

"So," I said, to the sword.

To the sword.

I grinned down at her. "I'm Merit, and we're going to be working together. Hopefully I won't . . . break you. Hopefully you won't get me broken. That's about it, I guess." I reached out my right hand, clenching and unclenching my fingers above the metal, somehow suddenly phobic about taking up arms for the first time, and then dropped my fingertips to the wrap around the handle, and slid them around the length of it.

My arm tingled.

I gripped the handle, lifted the sword in one hand and stood, angling the blade so that it caught the light, which ran down the steel like falling water.

My heart sped, my pupils dilated-and I felt the vampire inside me rise to the surface of my consciousness.

And, for the first time, she rose not in anger or l.u.s.t or hunger, but in curiosity. She knew what I held in my hand, and she reveled in it.

And, for the first time, instead of fighting her, instead of pushing her back down, I let her stretch and move, let her look through my eyes-just a peek. Just a glimpse, as I had no illusions that if given the chance, she could overpower me, work through me, take me over.

But when I held the sword horizontally, parallel to the ground, and when I sliced it through the air, swung it in an arc around my body, and slid it back into its sheath, I felt her sigh-and felt the warmth of her languid contentment, like a woman well-satisfied.

I kissed the pommel of the sword-of my sword-then let it slip into my left hand, and went back into the house. Jeff, Catcher, Lindsey, and Grandpa were gathered around the dining room table. Mallory stood at the side table, carving up the coconut cake.

"Oh, sweet!" Jeff said, his gaze shifting from the katana in my hand to Catcher. "You gave her the sword?"

Catcher nodded, then looked at me, quirked up an eyebrow. "Let's see if it worked. Is he carrying?"

I blinked, then looked between Jeff and my grandfather. "Is who carrying what?"

"Look at Jeff," Catcher said carefully, "and tell me if he's carrying a weapon." I arched a brow.

"Just do it," Catcher insisted, frustration in his voice.

I sighed, but looked over at Jeff, brow pinched as I scanned his body, trying to figure out what trick I was supposed to be demonstrating. "What am I trying to-"

"If you can't see it," Catcher interrupted, "then close your eyes and feel him out. Empty your mind, and allow yourself to breathe it in."

I nodded although I had no idea what he was talking about, and while facing Jeff, closed my eyes. I tried to blank my mind of extraneous information and concentrate on what was in front of me-namely, a skinny, shape-shifting computer programmer.

That's when I noticed it.

I could feel it. Just a hint. The different weight of him, feel of him. He kind of-vibrated differently.

"There's . . . There's. . . ." I opened my eyes, stared at Jeff, then turned my head to look at Catcher. "He's carrying. Steel. A knife or something," I guessed, given the weight of it.

"Jeff?"

"I don't even own a weapon," Jeff protested, but he stood up and reached into his first pocket. As we all watched, riveted, he turned it inside out. Empty.

He tried the second, and when he reached in, he pulled out a small, cord-wrapped knife, its blade covered in a black sheath.

Obviously shocked, he held the knife in his palm, and looked at each of us. "This isn't mine."

Catcher, who sat next to him, clapped him on the back. "It's mine, James Bond. I slipped it into your pocket when you were ogling Mallory."

A flush rose on Jeff's cheeks as Catcher took back the knife, slipped it into his own pocket. "I wasn't ogling Mallory," he said, then glanced apologetically at Mal, who was walking back to the table, paper plate of cake in her hand. "I wasn't," he insisted, then looked back at Catcher. "Ogling's a harsh word."

Catcher chuckled. "So's 'beat down.' "

"And on that pleasant note," Mallory interrupted with a chuckle, placing the slice of cake on the table in front of me, "let's eat."

We ate until we were stuffed, until I expected my stomach to burst open like a coconut-filled pinata. The food was incomparable, deliciously homey, the sweetness of cake the perfect dessert. And when our bellies were full and my grandfather began to yawn, I prepared to take the team home. I belted the sword and grabbed the box of leather.

The car loaded with gifts and cupcakes, I slipped back inside to say a final goodbye, and inadvertently walked in on another Catcher-Mallory moment.

They were in a corner of the living room, their hands on each other's hips. Catcher gazed down at her, eyes full of such respect and adoration that the emotion of it tightened my throat. Mallory looked back, met his gaze, without coquettish eyelash batting or turning away. She met his gaze and shared his look, the expression of partnership.

And I was struck with the worst, most nauseating sense of jealousy I'd ever felt.

What would it be like, I wondered, to have someone look at me that way? To see something in me, inside me, worth that kind of admiration? That kind of attention?

Even when we were younger, Mallory had always been the one around whom men flocked. I was the smart, slightly weirder sidekick. She was the G.o.ddess. Men bought her drinks, offered their numbers, offered their bank accounts and time and rides in their BMW convertibles. All the while I sat beside her, smiled politely when they looked my way to size me up, to determine if I was a barrier to the thing they wanted-blond-haired/blue-haired, blue-eyed Mallory.

Now she had Catcher, and she was being adored anew. She'd found a partner, a companion, a protector.

I tried to force my jealousy into curiosity, to wonder at the sensation of being wanted, desired in a profound way. I tried not to begrudge my best friend her moment in the sun, her opportunity to experience true love.

Yeah, that didn't work so well.

I was jealous of my best friend, my sister in every way that mattered, who deserved nothing less than total adoration. I hated myself a little for being jealous of the happiness she deserved. But when he kissed her forehead, and they looked up and smiled at me, I couldn't help but hope.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD.

SO IS THE CITY OF CHICAGO.