Her eyes snapped up, her biceps shaking.
“Let it go,” he said.
She nodded, wet her lips, glanced down at her hand, and spread her fingers. The shimmer of air disappeared. After a second, Mal wiped at her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“Are you okay?”
She looked at me, nodded matter-of-factly. “Just hard work. Did I say anything helpful?”
I shrugged. “Not so much helpful as super-creepy.”
“I think we’ve gotten everything we can get,” Ethan said, “unless you’ve any other ideas?”
“Not much,” Catcher answered. “Vague sense of fear, the suggestion of an animal.” He looked between us. “I assume you got that?”
We both nodded.
“Nothing at all beyond that. Nothing else recognizable in the current, and I’m not sure the shifter was here when this happened. Maybe afterward. Either way, no sense that the media has discovered this place, at least not yet.” Catcher looked around the room, hands on his hips. “Speaking of, should I call in a crew? Have the place stripped, cleaned?”
It hadn’t occurred to me that the Ombud’s office had the authority or manpower to erase the evidence. They referred to themselves as liaisons, go-betweens. I guess they were a little more proactive than that.
“You can do that?” I asked.
Catcher gave me a sardonic look. “You really don’t talk to your grandfather very often.”
“I talk to my grandfather plenty.”
Catcher snorted and turned, led us from the room. “Not about the good stuff. The city of Chicago has been keeping the sups’ existence under wraps since before the fire, Merit. And that’s not because incidents don’t happen. It’s because the incidents are taken care of.”
“And the city is none the wiser?”
He nodded. “That’s the way it works. People weren’t prepared to know. Still aren’t, for some of the shenanigans vamps get into.”
We headed to the stairs in the same order we’d entered the house.
“If they were prepared now,” Mallory said, “we wouldn’t be here. I mean, I know you guys have pennants and bumper stickers and whatnot, but drinking in the dark in a dilapidated house doesn’t exactly scream assimilation. And now there’s that business with Tate.”
That stopped both Ethan and me in the middle of the staircase.
“What business with Tate?” he asked.
Mallory gave Catcher a pointed look. “You didn’t tell them?”
“Other business to attend to,” Catcher responded, hitching a thumb at the second floor behind us. “One crisis at a time.”
Catcher continued down the stairs. With no other choice, we followed, the silence thick enough to cut through. Ethan practically trotted down the staircase. When we reached the front door, then the porch, then the sidewalk, Ethan stopped, hands on his hips. Mallory made a low whistle of warning. I prepared for Ethan’s outburst, predicting quietly, “And the shit will hit the fan in four . . . three . . . two . . .”
“What business with Tate?” Ethan repeated, an edge of anger in his voice.
I bit back a smile, glad Catcher was the one Ethan was about to light into. That made a nice change.
Catcher stopped and turned back to Ethan. “Tate’s staff has been calling the office,” he said. “He’s been asking questions about vampire leadership, about the Houses, about the Sentinel.”
Since I was the only Sentinel in town, I perked up. “About me?”
Catcher nodded. “The General Assembly agreed to forgo vamp management legislation this year in lieu of investigation, to ensure that nothing too prejudicial was passed. But that wasn’t too hard a choice, since greater Illinois doesn’t have to deal with vampires in their midst—all the Houses are in Chicago. The City Council’s getting antsy, though. I know you and Grey talked to your aldermen”—Ethan nodded at this—“but the rest of the council has concerns. There’s talk about zoning, about curfews, regulations.”
“And what’s Tate’s position on that stuff?” I asked.
Catcher shrugged. “Who the hell knows what Tate thinks?”
“And he still hasn’t come to any of us,” Ethan muttered, eyes on the ground, brow furrowed. “He hasn’t talked to Scott or Morgan or me.”
“He’s probably not ready to talk to you in person,” Catcher said. “Maybe doing his groundwork before he sets up that meeting?”
“Or he’s keeping his distance on purpose,” Ethan muttered. He shook his head in reprobation, then glanced at me. “What does he want to know about Merit?”
“Likes, dislikes, favorite flowers,” Mallory put in.
“So not helping,” I whispered.
“I’m not kidding. I think he’s totally crushing you.”
I snorted in disbelief. “Yeah. The mayor of Chicago is crushing on me. That’s likely.” Unlike Ethan, I had met Tate, and though he’d seemed likable enough, there was no way he was crushing on me.
“He just wants information,” Catcher said. “I think at this point it’s a vague curiosity. And frankly, his interest could be related to her parentage, rather than her affiliation.”
Ethan leaned toward me. “At least I know you aren’t feeding Tate information, or you’d surely have ferreted that out.”
I clenched my jaw at the insinuation, which he’d made before, that I was some kind of informational spigot between the House and Tate’s office. I decided I’d been on the receiving end of one too many speeches and snarky comments today. I glanced at Catcher and asked the same favor he’d asked of us earlier. “Would you two give us a minute?”
Catcher looked between us, grinned cheekily. “Knock yourself out, kid. We’ll be in the car.”
I waited until the car doors were shut before I stepped forward, stopped within inches of Ethan’s body. “Look. I know
why you gave me that speech earlier today. I know you have an obligation to protect your vampires. But irrespective of the way that I was made, I have done everything that you’ve asked of me. I’ve taken training, I gave up my dissertation, I moved into the House, I got you in to see my father, I got you into the Breckenridge house, and I’ve dated the man you asked me to.” I pointed at the house behind us. “And even though I was supposed to get a few hours free from the drama of Cadogan House tonight with said man, I followed you here because you requested it. At some point, Ethan, you might consider giving me a little credit.”
I didn’t wait for him to answer, but turned on my heel and went to the car. I opened the back door, climbed inside, and slammed it shut behind me.
Catcher caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Feel better?”
“Is he still standing there with that dumbstruck expression on his face?”
There was a pause while he checked, then a chuckle. “Yes, he is.”
“Then, yes, I feel better.”
The car was quiet on the ride north to Wicker Park, Ethan pissed at Catcher for not sharing information about Tate within his preferred time frame (i.e., immediately), Mallory napping in the backseat, apparently worn out by her magical exertions, and Catcher humming along with an ABBA marathon he’d found on an a.m. radio station.
We reached the brownstone and said our goodbyes. Catcher reminded me that I was scheduled to practice with him first thing tomorrow evening, and Mallory and I teared up at her transition to Apprentice Sorceress, at the fact that my time with her for the next six weeks would be largely limited to phone calls. But
I trusted Catcher, and given that Celina was on the loose, I was glad Mal would be learning more about her gifts, her skills, her ability to wield magic. The more protection she had, the better I felt, and I was pretty sure Catcher felt the same.
Since we’d arrived separately, Ethan and I drove our respective cars back to Cadogan House—him in the sleek Mercedes, me in my boxy Volvo. I parked the Volvo on the street, glad I’d completed my round of obligations for the night so I could have at least a few hours to myself. But he met me in the foyer, cream-colored envelope in his hand. I adjusted my own armfuls of stuff—mail, shoes, sword—and took it from him.
“This was messengered to you,” he said.
I opened it up. Inside was an invitation to a gala at my parents’ house the next night. I made a face. Tonight had been long enough; it didn’t look like tomorrow would afford much relief.
“Lovely,” I said, then showed him the invite.
He read it over, then nodded. “I’ll arrange for a dress. You have katana training with Catcher tomorrow?” At my nod, he nodded back. “Then we’ll leave shortly after.”
“What’s on the agenda?”
Ethan turned and began walking back toward his office. I followed him, at least as far as the staircase.
“The agenda,” he said when we paused, “is to continue our investigations. Your father is aware that we are interested in a threat involving the Breckenridges. Given what I know of him, it’s likely he’ll have done some checking of his own.”
“You planned it,” I said, thinking of the seeds he’d planted with my father. “Told him just enough about the Breckenridges, about the danger facing us, to make him want to ask questions.” Although I wasn’t thrilled about the thought of going home, I could appreciate a good strategy when I heard one. “That’s not bad, Sullivan.”
He gave me a dry look before turning toward his office. “I
appreciate the vote of confidence. Until dusk,” he said, and walked away.
Once in my room, I dumped my sword and my pile of mail, then kicked off my shoes. I’d left my cell phone in my room, since I’d planned to spend the evening with the only people likely to call me, but found a voice mail waiting.
It was from Morgan. He said he was checking in, ensuring that I’d gotten home safely. But I could hear the questions in his voice—where I’d been, what I’d been doing, what had been important enough to motivate Ethan to pull in a few-months-old Sentinel for duty. I still wasn’t sure I had an answer to the last one.
I checked the clock; it was nearly four in the morning. I guessed Morgan would still be awake, but after a moment of hesitation, I opted not to call him back. I didn’t want to dance around issues, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with his less-than-veiled animosity toward Ethan. The night had been long enough, contentious enough, without that.
With dawn threatening, I stripped out of my date ensemble and got into pajamas, then washed my face, grabbed a Mole skine journal and a pen, and climbed into bed. I scribbled random notes as the sun rose—about vampires, the Houses, the philosophy of drinking—and fell asleep, pen in hand.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD
I woke happy, at least until I remembered what the evening had in store. I grumbled and grabbed the invitation to the party at my parents’ house. This one was a gala for a teen mentoring program. It’s not that the cause wasn’t legitimate, but I always wondered about my father’s motivations. His interest in making connections, in shaking hands, was at least as big as any interest he had in actually helping the organization.
Rising tides lift all boats, I thought, and put the invitation on the bed. I sat up and pushed the hair out of my eyes, then uncurled my legs and hit the floor. I didn’t bother to shower, knowing I’d just get sweaty again during my training session, but changed into my Catcher-approved ensemble—bandeaux bra and barely there shorts, throwing a track jacket over the top so I’d be decent during the drive.
Just as I zipped up the jacket, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and found Helen in the hallway in a tidy tweed suit.
“Hello, dear,” she said, holding out a royal blue garment bag emblazoned with the logo of a chic-chic store in the Loop. “I was just dropping off your gown.”
I took the bag from her hands, the weight not as heavy as I’d have expected given the size of the bag. Her hands free, she pulled a small pink notebook from the pocket of her nubby pink suit jacket. Nodding, she read it over.
“Tonight is a black-tie event. The color theme is black and white,” she read, then lifted her gaze to mine. “That helped my selection process, of course, but it took no small bit of finagling to obtain a gown this quickly. It was delivered moments ago.”
It bothered me, more than it should have, that she’d picked out the dress. That Ethan hadn’t picked out the dress.
That it bothered me was just wrong in so many ways.
“Thank you,” I told her. “I appreciate the effort.” More’s the pity she couldn’t have taken my place.
“Of course,” Helen said. “I need to get back downstairs. Plenty of work to do. Do enjoy the party.” She smiled and tucked the notebook back into her pocket. “And be careful with the dress. It was rather an investment.”
I frowned down at the garment bag. “Define ‘investment.’ ”
“Near twelve, actually.”
“Twelve?
Twelve hundred dollars?
” I stared at the dress bag, horrified at the thought that I was going to be responsible for four figures of Cadogan investment.
Helen chuckled. “Twelve thousand dollars, dear.” She dropped that bomb, then headed back down the hallway, completely missing my look of abject horror.
Ever so carefully, as if carrying the Gutenberg Bible, I laid the dress bag on my bed.
“Take two,” I murmured, and unzipped the bag.
A soft sound escaped me.
It was black silk, a fabric so delicate I could barely feel it between my fingers. And it was, indeed, a ball gown. A square strapless bodice that dropped to a spill of the luscious, inky silk.
I wiped my hands on my shorts, pulled the dress from the bag and held it up against my chest, spinning just to watch the skirt move. And move it did. The silk flowed like black water, the fabric the darkest shade of black I’d ever seen. It wasn’t the kind of black that you confused with navy in the dressing room. It was
black
. Moonless, midnight black. It was stunning.
My cell rang, and I hugged the dress to my body with my free hand, scanned the caller ID, and flipped it open.
“Oh, my God, you should see this dress I’m wearing tonight.”