There was a bag of B in the refrigerator, and I concluded his palate was more sensitive than mine if he could taste the difference in the coagulant qualities of a bag of blood. I was about to reach for two glasses when I realized that, in addition to the apparent philosophical differences, he might ingest differently, too.
My hand on the open cabinet door, I turned back to him. “How do you take it?”
“Just pour it into a glass.” He frowned, scratched absently at his temple. “You know, maybe we need to have some kind of mixer. Get Cadogan and Navarre vamps together, get them talking. It seems like there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”
“I was just thinking that the other day, actually,” I said, thinking Ethan would be thrilled at the opportunity to build rapport, and potentially an alliance, with the folks from Navarre.
I pulled down waffle-etched glasses from a cabinet and opened the plastic valves in the top of the bags, filling a glass for each of us. I handed one to Morgan, and took a sip of mine.
Morgan sipped from his own glass, eyes on me as he drank. His eyes didn’t silver, but his predatory, seductive gaze left little doubt about his line of thinking. He drained the glass without taking a breath, chest heaving when he finally finished it.
And then, with the tip of his tongue, he grabbed a single drop that had caught on his upper lip.
“I win,” he said, very softly.
It took Mallory’s voice to drag my gaze away from his mouth. “All right, kids,” she said from the dining room, “I think we’re ready.”
I took the final drink from my glass, put both our glasses into the sink, and accompanied Morgan into the dining room. His
tulips were in the vase and the accessories of fancy dining—place mats, cloth napkins, silverware, and wineglasses—lay on the table before each of the four chairs. Our plates were already laden with food—fillets of salmon, herb-sprinkled rice, and spears of steamed asparagus—larger portions for the calorie-sucks that were modern-day vampires.
Catcher and Mallory were already seated on two sides of the table. We took the remaining two chairs, then Morgan picked up his wineglass and raised it to both of them. “To good friends,” he said.
“To vampires,” Mallory said, clinking her glass against mine.
“No,” Catcher said. “To Chicago.”
Dinner was great. Good food, good conversation, good company. Catcher and Mallory were entertaining, as usual, and Morgan was charming, listening intently to Mallory’s stories of my antics.
Of course, because I’d been a grad student the entire time that I’d known her, there weren’t that many antics to report. There were, however, plenty of stories about my geekiness, including the tale of what she called my “Juilliard” stage.
“She’d been in the middle of some kind of musical obsession,” Mallory began, grinning at me. She’d pushed back her plate and crossed her legs on her chair, clearly prepped for a lengthy tale. I pre-cut the last of my salmon into tiny bites, ready to intervene should things get dicey.
“She’d rented, like, every musical DVD she could find, from
Chicago
to
Oklahoma
. Girl could not get enough of the singing and dancing.”
Morgan leaned forward. “Did she watch
Newsies
? Tell me she watched
Newsies
.”
Mallory pursed her lips to bite back a laugh, then held up two fingers. “Twice.”
“Do go on,” Morgan said, giving me a sideways glance. “I’m fascinated.”
“Well,” Mallory said, lifting a hand to push blue hair behind her ear, “you know Merit used to dance—ballet—but she eventually came to her senses. And by the way, I don’t know what kind of freaky shit vampires are into, but if at all possible, stay away from her feet.”
“Mallory Carmichael!”
My cheeks heated with a blush I’m sure was crimson red.
“What?” she asked with a nonchalant shrug. “You danced in toe shoes. It happens.”
I put an elbow on the table, my forehead in my hand. This, I bet, is what my life would have been like had my sister Charlotte and I been closer—the kind of intimate humiliation that only siblings could provide. For better or for worse and, God willing, in sickness and in health, Mallory was a sister.
A hand caressed my back. Morgan leaned over, whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, babe. I still like you.”
I gave him a sardonic look. “That feeling is not mutual at the moment.”
“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, then turned back to Mallory. “So our former ballerina was hooked on musicals.”
“Not so much the musicals, but the style.” Mallory looked at me, made an apologetic face.
I waved her off. “Just put it out there.”
“Keep in mind, she went to NYU, then Stanford, then lands back in Chicago. And our Merit loved the Big Apple. The Windy City is a little more akin to New York living than California was, but it’s far from having a walkup in the Village. But Mer decides she can make up for it. With clothes. So this one winter, she starts wearing leggings, big floppy sweaters, and always a scarf. She never left the house without a scarf kind of”—Mallory waggled her arms in the air—“draped all around her. She had
a pair of brown knee-high boots, wore them every day. It was this whole ‘ballerina chic’ thing.” Mallory adjusted on her seat, leaned forward, and crooked a finger at Morgan and Catcher. They both leaned forward, obviously entranced. The girl knew how to work a crowd.
“There was a beret.”
They both let out groans, sat up again. “How could you?” Morgan asked with a mock horror that was belied by the laugh that was threatening to escape him. “A beret, Merit? Really?”
“You will never give me shit again,” Catcher said. “I own you now. I own your ass.”
I plucked at a bite of salmon, chewed it with careful deliberation, then waved my fork at them. “You are all on my shit list. All of you.”
Morgan sighed happily, drained the last of his glass of wine. “This is good,” he said. “This is really helpful. What else do I need to know?”
“Oh, she has tons of secrets,” Mallory confided, with a grin to me. “And I know all of them.”
Morgan, one arm slung on the back of his chair, made a beckoning movement with his free hand. “Let’s go. Keep ’em coming.”
“Mallory,” I warned, but she only laughed.
“Well, let’s see. I bet you didn’t tell him about the secret kitchen drawer. You should clean that out while you’re over here.”
Morgan sat up straight and slid a glance behind him at the kitchen door. “Secret kitchen drawer?” Then he looked back at me, winged up eyebrows.
My answer was quick and vehement.
“No.”
He slid back his chair.
“Morgan, no.”
He was halfway to the kitchen before I was out of my chair,
laughing as I rushed after him. “Morgan! Damn it, stop! She was kidding. There’s no such thing.”
By the time I made it to the kitchen, he was pulling drawers open left and right. I jumped on his back and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “She was kidding! I swear.”
I expected him to throw me off, but he laughed, pulled my legs around his waist, and kept searching.
“Merit, Merit, Merit. You’re too quiet. So many secrets.”
“She was kidding, Morgan.” In a desperate attempt to keep my secret drawer, well,
secret
, I kissed the top curve of his ear. He paused and cocked his head to the side to give me better access. But after I put my chin on the top of his head and said, “Thank you,” he started searching again.
“Hey! I thought you were going to stop!”
“Then you’re naïve.” He pulled open another drawer, froze.
“Holy shit
.
”
I sighed and slid down his back. “I can explain this.”
He pulled out the drawer—a long, flat bay intended for silverware—as far as it would go, and stared into it. He gaped, mouth open, at its contents before turning his head to look at me. “Anything you want to say?”
I gnawed the edge of my lip. “My parents didn’t let me have candy?”
Morgan reached in and grabbed a handful of the drawer’s contents—South American chocolate bars, bags of chocolate-covered dried cherries, chocolate pastiches, chocolate buttons, chocolate stars, chocolate lollipops, chocolate shells, chocolate-covered gingerbread Christmas tree cookies, a white-chocolate-covered Twinkie, chocolate caramels, cocoa from a small-batch chocolatier and a foot-long Toblerone bar. He looked at me, tried not to laugh, and, for all that effort, made a strangled, hiccupped sound. “And so you’re compensating for that?”
I crossed my arms. “Do you have a problem with my stash?”
He made that sound again. “No?”
“Quit laughing at me,” I ordered, but I was grinning when I said it. Morgan redeposited his handful of chocolate, closed the drawer, grabbed my hips, and arranged my body between his and the island.
He looked down at me with an expression of mock gravity. “I’m not laughing at you, Mer. Chortling, maybe, but not laughing.”
“Ha.” I gave him a baleful look that even I knew was unconvincing.
“Um, not to get personal, but I saw that dessert you brought. Were you planning on sharing that, or was that just your portion?”
“HA,” I repeated.
“It’s a good thing you’re not obsessive. Oh, wait,” he said dryly, “yes, you are.”
“Some people like wine. Some like cars. Some,” I said, tugging at the hem of his undoubtedly designer T-shirt, “like fantastically expensive clothes. I like chocolate.”
“Yeah, Mer, I can see that. But the real question is, do you apply that passion to other areas of your life?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” he said, closing his eyes and lowering his lips to mine. Our lips had just touched when the silence was broken.
“Would you please stop feeling up my Sentinel?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEY’LL EAT YOU ALIVE
Ethan, in black pants and a snug, long-sleeved black shirt, stood at the threshold of Mallory’s kitchen, hands in his pockets. His hair was tied back, the casualness of the ensemble indicating he had plans that didn’t involve negotiations or diplomacy. Mallory and Catcher stood just behind him.
Morgan’s eyes snapped open, emotion tightening his features and, for a fraction of a second, silvering his eyes.
I was just kind of dumbfounded. Why was Ethan here?
“If you want me to court her properly, Sullivan, you’re going to need to give us some time alone.” The words and tone were for Ethan, but his gaze was on me.
“My apologies for the . . . interruption,” he said, but he couldn’t have sounded more sarcastic. In fact, he sounded plenty happy to interrupt.
It was a long, quiet, awkward moment before Morgan finally looked over at him. They exchanged manly nods, these two Masters, the two men who together controlled the fates of two-thirds of the vampires in Chicago. Two men who claimed a little too much authority over my time.
“I’m sorry to steal her away,” Ethan said, “but we have Cadogan House business.”
“Of course.” Morgan turned back to me, and in full view of God and the assorted houseguests, kissed me softly. “At least we got dinner.”
I looked up into baleful eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Sure.”
Uncomfortable silence fell again until Morgan offered, “I guess I should get going and leave you two to your . . . business.” His tone was petulant, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced Ethan was here for Cadogan-related reasons. God only knew why Ethan had decided to darken Mallory’s door. If he needed me, why hadn’t he just paged me?
“I’ll walk you out,” I said.
Ethan, Catcher, and Mallory turned to their sides in the hallway, allowing us egress from the kitchen. Morgan walked out, me behind, both of us ignoring Ethan as we passed him.
I walked him to the door and resumed my position on the stoop.
“It’s not your fault,” Morgan said, his eyes on the house. There was no doubt about that—it’s not like I invited Ethan over—but I wondered if he really thought me truly blameless. I’m sure he mostly blamed Ethan, but Morgan had raised questions before about my relationship with my Master. This probably wasn’t helping.
Whatever his thoughts, he shrugged off the gloom and gave me a cheery smile, then bobbed his head toward the brownstone. “I suppose being an omnipotent Master has its advantages: having people at your beck and call.”
“Don’t you have people at your beck and call?” I asked, reminding him that he was one of the Masters he’d been referring to.
“Well, I do
have
them, but I don’t think I’ve officially becked
or called them yet. And I suppose this is the price of dating the hot shit Cadogan Sentinel.”
“I’m not sure about hot shit, but the Sentinel part is true enough.” I cast my own dark glance at the doorway; Ethan and Catcher communed in the hall. “Although I have no idea what this is about.”
“I’d like to know.”
I looked back at him, hoping he wasn’t about to pump me for information. That concern must have shown on my face; he shook his head. “I’m not going to ask, I’d just like to know.” Then his tone went flat—Master vampire flat. He must have been practicing. “I hope that if it’s something that affects us all, he’ll fill us in.”
Don’t bet on that, I thought.
After we said our goodbyes, I shut the door behind me and found everyone still standing in the hallway. Catcher and Ethan were in identical poses—chests back, arms crossed, chins dropped. Warriors in concentration. This was serious, then, and not just a means for Ethan to further irritate me.
When I joined them, they expanded their semicircle to let me in.
“I’ve learned,” Ethan began, “that a rave was held earlier tonight. We need to check it out. We also need to hope that we’re the only ones who’ve heard about it.”
How Ethan had learned about the rave, given that his usual source for such things was standing beside him, was an interesting question.