Chicagoland Vampires: Wild Things Part 17

I yawned hugely, stretching back in the chair. I was still residually sore from being dragged around and bound. It was nothing that a little sleep wouldn't fix, but I was getting achy from sitting.

"It looks like bedtime for you, Sentinel."

I looked back, found Ethan in the doorway, hands in his pockets, lips curled in amus.e.m.e.nt. "Having any luck here?"

"Not a d.a.m.n bit," I said. "We can't find anything that gives us a motive for Aline, or indicates she was a target of the attack. What about you? Any luck with Paige and the librarian?"

"They're looking through the archives," he said. "I was advised my request was substantial and it would take them some time."

Ethan's voice was flat, and I could easily imagine the librarian giving him a very pointed speech about the time he'd need to complete an a.s.signment. Like most of the vampires of Cadogan House, the librarian was particular.

Another yawn racked me, and I raised the back of my hand to my mouth. I was too tired to hold it in.

"You've had a bit of an evening," Ethan said. "I think it's time to head back to the carriage house."

I nodded and stood up, regretting that the end of the evening hadn't been more productive.

"I'll get this cleaned up," Jeff said. "And check in with Damien." He glanced at Ethan, smiled. "Merit held her own. Had those elves shaking in their boots."

"I'm sure she did. And it probably didn't hurt to have a tiger in her corner."

Jeff smiled shyly. "I'm just glad we got everyone out of there okay. Hopefully, we'll find Aline tucked away on holiday, and Niera on a jaunt, and everything can go back to normal."

I didn't disagree with the hope, but I was beginning to think crisis was the new normal.

We had an hour until sunrise, but my body was already shutting down. Ethan all but carried me back to the carriage house, where Mallory and Catcher had showered and were lying on the couch, a predictable Lifetime movie on the television. Some men golfed; some wrenched. Catcher Lifetime'd.

I headed straight for the bedroom, stripped down to bare skin, and blistered myself in the shower. My body ached like I was awaiting the onset of the flu. I could only a.s.sume the elves had thrown me around like a sack of potatoes in the process of getting me into the village.

When I'd risked using all the hot water, I flipped off the faucet and wrapped myself in a fluffy towel. They had their prejudices, but you couldn't fault their taste in linens.

I pulled on a Cadogan T-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, and then took care of the other necessary bit of business-sword care. I'd managed to s.n.a.t.c.h my sword back from the elves, but it hadn't come away unscathed. The steel was filthy, dotted with mud and probably worse, little clumps of dirt clinging to the scabbard. I placed both carefully on the floor, then grabbed the small kit Catcher had given me from my duffel bag. Rice paper. Oil. A whetstone to hone the surface.

I hadn't yet used the whetstone. The katana had been made by hands significantly more experienced and learned than mine; I'd long ago decided to leave sharpening to the experts. But I was good with oil and rice paper, which would clean the steel to a sheen and protect it from nicks during the next battle.

After removing the gunk with a soft cloth, I dotted oil onto a square of rice paper and folded the small sheet around the blade. With a smooth, swift motion, I wiped the oil from one end of the katana to the other, then repeated the process until the blade gleamed. The blade had been tempered with blood and magic, and with each pa.s.s of the paper I felt the answering shiver of satisfaction, as if the sword appreciated the care.

When I was done, I slid it back into the sheath with a zing of sound, and placed it on the top of the bureau beside Ethan's sword, already scabbarded. They made a beautiful pair, artisa.n.a.l weapons of death, handcrafted protectors of honor.

As I patted myself on the back for my mental poetry, a knock sounded at the front door.

I opened the bedroom door and peeked into the living room.

For the first time tonight, it wasn't bad news. A teenager with pink cheeks stood in the doorway wearing a Loring Park Pizza cap, and the siren's call of roasted meat spilled into the air from the four steaming pizza boxes he carried. The scent was nearly tangible; I could practically see the wavy lines of meat smoke rising off the box.

A victim to my hunger, I marched into the living room.

"What's this?" Catcher asked.

"Dinner, I guess." The kid shrugged. "Guy at the house paid for it, sent me out here with it." He grinned. "Said you should tip me really well."

"I'll just bet he did," Catcher mumbled, pulling his wallet out of his back jeans pocket. He s.n.a.t.c.hed out bills, then exchanged the cash for pizza and watched the kid head back down the driveway-as if there was a threat the pizza delivery boy might change his mind and attack.

After a moment, Catcher closed the door and put the pizza on the table. "I guess the Pack felt bad about last night's grub."

"Or tonight's hostage situation," Ethan said, throwing open a box and grabbing a steaming slice. Without napkin, fork, or plate, he dove into the slice, earning openmouthed stares from Mallory, Catcher, and me.

"I'm not that pretentious," he said over a mouthful of a pizza that looked like a butcher-shop special. I recognized pepperoni; the rest of it was a hearty, delicious mystery.

"You are," the three of us said together, but we were smiling when we said it. We all grabbed slices and took seats on the sofas.

"You find anything in your magic box?" Mallory asked.

"Receipts and ephemera. In other words, a big, fat nothing. You get anything else about Baumgartner or Simon?"

Catcher chewed, shook his head. "Simon is in South America. Decided a change of scenery was a good idea. I'm not crying that he's on a different continent. I told Baumgartner what we saw. He denied they were really elves-probably fairies or humans dressing up like elves-and said the magic sounded like vampires."

"Baumgartner is a royal sack of c.r.a.p," Mallory said.

"And still prefers to keep his head in the sand," I suggested, then glanced at Ethan.

He'd opted for the forkless slice and was now swabbing his hands with napkins. I predicted fork in his future.

"The pizza's good," Mallory said. "It's not Saul's, of course, but it's not bad."

"You're a pizza sn.o.b," Catcher said.

She elbowed him. "No, I was raised right. Don't deny a Chicagoan the right to pick her favorite slice. It's un-American."

I was inching into my second when my phone beeped. The slice went back to the plate, and I scrubbed grease from my hands before pulling it out of my pocket. I checked the screen . . . and my stomach curled with icy-cold nerves.

It was Lakshmi.

She was reminding me-as if I'd somehow forgotten-of the favor I owed and the message she wanted me to pa.s.s along. And she'd carefully drafted her message to ensure I recalled her larger point.

THE HOUSES DESERVE A MASTER WHO CAN TRULY LEAD THEM, she texted. DO NOT LET SELFISHNESS DEPRIVE THEM OF THAT.

Was it so selfish to want him close? To keep on the same continent the man I'd come to love, to need, to depend on? Or was it selfish of her to ask, to demand sacrifice of others instead of putting herself forward as a candidate, taking her own stand against tyranny?

"Sentinel?"

At the sound of his voice, I remembered I was sitting in mixed company-and with him. I plastered on a smile I didn't feel and tucked the phone away again.

"It's nothing," I said, and grabbed a piece of pizza as if hunger was my only concern.

But of course it wasn't nothing, and the curiosity didn't disappear from Ethan's gaze.

Sunrise found us tucked into the bedroom. The house was locked, the guards outside, Mallory and Catcher curled up in the living room. While Ethan showered, I plumped pillows and folded back the covers, climbed into cool sheets.

And then I obsessed about the GP.

My phone was in hand, Ethan on my mind, Lakshmi's text under my squinty gaze. Jonah had tattoos on each arm-a devil on one side, an angel on the other. I thought of both, miniature devils and angels sitting on my shoulders, offering contradictory advice. But in my case, the angel looked like Seth Tate, Chicago's former mayor, a former angel of peace who'd become magically linked to his identical twin, Dominic. Dominic had been an angel of judgment, a devil, and was as fallen as they came.

The devil derided me for even considering giving in to Lakshmi, a member of the GP, which had caused so much trouble for Cadogan House we'd been forced to quit it.

The angel shared Lakshmi's fire, promising that I would be doing the right thing.

And all the while, as they debated, I still had to keep Ethan out of prison.

The bathroom door opened. Ethan, wearing only a towel, looked out. He'd brushed his hair, which was water-slicked back from his face.

Guilty and torn, I stuffed the phone hastily under the covers. But not so quickly he didn't see me do it.

I'd never been a good liar, and this wasn't an exception. "Arranging a secret rendezvous, are you, Sentinel?"

"No. Just checking in."

He arched an eyebrow. "You're a miserable liar."

"Actually, I can usually bluff pretty well. But apparently not to you."

"Is this about the message you got during dinner?"

"It is."

"And would you like to tell me about it?"

There were things I could have said. You'd be the best GP leader. You should run. Take your position as the sire of vampires. Challenge Darius. But seconds pa.s.sed and the sun inched higher toward the horizon, robbing me of the ability to debate. And I wasn't going to take on something this serious when I wasn't at full capacity.

"Nothing big," I drowsily said. "Just a personal concern."

"A personal concern?" he asked, a spark of green fire in his eyes that I recognized as jealousy. He probably imagined the personal concern involved Jonah and the RG, as that was the only thing I normally wouldn't discuss with him in detail. But Ethan was the only man on my mind.

Apparently intent on guaranteeing that fact, he flicked a finger, and the towel fell to the ground, heaping at his feet. Ethan stood there, still damp, golden hair around his shoulders, hands on his hips and a less-than-modest expression on his face. Considering his impressive erection, modesty would have been wasted on me anyway.

I ignored my body's undeniable twinge of interest and dragged my gaze to his face. "Not that kind of personal concern."

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "You're certain?"

"That you'll be the only man on my mind?" Especially with the image of him standing there seared into my retinas and memory. "Yes. I'm quite certain. Positive, you could say."

He smiled a little. "Sentinel, you're mumbling."

"I'm tired. And your nakedness is distracting."

But I moved to him anyway. Because sometimes distraction was just the thing you needed.

Some hours later, darkness fell without a knock at our bedroom door or any other. But alarms weren't always raised with fists.

Chapter Eleven.

LOOK AT LITTLE SISTER.

We were dressed the next evening and preparing to emerge from the bedroom when our phones rang simultaneously. I reached for mine, but Ethan found his first.

"Sullivan," he said, answering it through the speakerphone.

"It's Luc. Turn on the television. NBC affiliate. Now."

Dread ran cold along my spine like a spill of ice water.

We ran for the door, pulled it open, found Mallory on the couch, yawning as she flipped through a magazine. Catcher was gone, but there was shuffling in the kitchen.

Ethan reached the television first, switched it on, and found the channel.

"What's the emergency?" Mallory asked.

A newscaster's solemn voice began to ring through the air, drawing my attention back to the television. And there on the screen was Scott Grey, his lip bruised and bleeding, one eye swollen, his arm in a make-do sling. He limped as he walked, two men in black suits escorting him from the police station. The man on his left whispered to him, close and confidential.

"Catcher," Mallory said, the same look of mortification in her eyes, "you need to see this."

Catcher emerged from the kitchen, a mug in hand and wearing only boxers. He nodded at me and Ethan, then fixed his eyes on the screen.

"Scott Grey, the quote-unquote Master of Chicago's Grey House of vampires, was led away from the precinct tonight by his lawyers after a day of intense questioning. Police spokesmen say they spoke with Grey about the recent murders and riots that have racked the city."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Ethan gritted out with obvious temper, needles of magic spilling into the air. "They've beaten him like he's a G.o.dd.a.m.ned animal."

"Police say Grey is not a suspect in those events, but he may have information which could lead to the arrest of those suspected. John Haymer has more live from the precinct steps."

The shot switched to a young man with dark skin, sharp gray eyes, and a very serious expression. "Thank you, Linda. I'm here with Terry Fowler, a resident of Hyde Park, with commentary."

Haymer tipped a black microphone toward Fowler, a man with bony shoulders and a gleaming pate.

"It's about time," Fowler said, with a thick Chicago accent and a waggling finger, "that the mayor took some action on the hooligans that are running loose in our streets."

"Those hooligans," Ethan bit out, "are not vampires."