Tate was tall and surprisingly fit for a man who evaluated policy all day. He was also almost ridiculously handsome. He had the face of a rebellious angel—black hair, crystal blue eyes,
perfect mouth—and a patented bad-boy brood that no doubt made him the fantasy of more than one woman in the Windy City. He’d been named “America’s Sexiest Politician,” his face splashed on the covers of more than one newsmagazine. Despite the press, Tate was still single, but it was rumored he’d installed mistresses in a sprinkling of Chicagoland neighborhoods. None, as far as I was aware, were vampires. Although, having seen the voluptuous nymphs that ruled the segments of the Chicago River, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d slipped one of them into his rotation.
I looked back at Ethan, his gaze on Tate, and saw a strange look of covetousness on his face. That’s when the gears clicked into place.
I knew Ethan wanted access to my father and those of his ilk. Our attempt to keep the raves out of the press was a handy means toward building that connection. But the raves and the story aside, Ethan wanted access to Tate. Access that Tate hadn’t, at least until now, been willing to provide.
“You should say hello to our young mayor,” Ethan said.
“I’ve already said hello,” I said. I’d met Tate twice before. That had been plenty.
“Yes,” Ethan said. “I know that.”
Slowly, I slid him a glance, my eyebrows raised. “You know that?”
Ethan sipped his champagne. “You know that Luc researches his guards, Merit, and that he did his background on you. I’ve reviewed that background, and I can read the
Tribune
as well as anyone.”
I should have known. I should have known they’d have found the article, and I should have known Luc would have given it to Ethan.
I’d been home for a long weekend during my junior year at NYU. My parents got tickets to the Joffrey Ballet, and we’d run
into Tate outside the theater, where a
Trib
reporter snapped a shot of Tate and me shaking hands. That’s not the kind of thing that would have normally been picture-worthy, except for the fact that it almost perfectly mirrored a
Trib
picture of us from six years earlier. The first time around, I’d been fourteen with a bit part in a big ballet production. Tate had been a young alderman at the time, two years into law school. Probably to make inroads with my father, he’d delivered flowers to me after the performance. I’d still been in costume—leotard, tutu, pointe shoes and tights—and the photographer caught him in the middle of handing over a paper-wrapped bouquet of white roses. The
Trib
reporter who caught us at the Joffrey performance apparently liked the symbolism, and both shots ended up, side by side, on the local news page.
I suppose I couldn’t fault Ethan for thinking ahead, for milking every drop of opportunity, but it stung to play middleman again.
“Humans are not the only political animals,” I muttered.
Brows lifted, Ethan glanced over at me. “Is that a review of my tactics, Sentinel?”
Shaking my head, I looked back at the crowd and, surprisingly, found appraising blue eyes on me. I smiled slyly. “Why, no, Sullivan. If you have the perfect weapon, you might as well use it.”
“Pardon me?”
“Let’s see how well I can act, shall we?”
Before he could ask what I meant to do, I put on my brightest Merit-family smile, straightened my spine, and sauntered over to the mayor’s throng.
His gaze following me as I moved, Tate nodded absently to those around him, then steered his way through the crowd and toward me, two men in stiff suits behind him. The entourage was not a turn-on, but I appreciated his decisiveness.
Tate didn’t stop until he reached me, blue eyes sparkling, dimples perked at the corners of his mouth. Political upstart or not, he was undeniably attractive.
We met in the middle of the room, and I guessed, given his quick glance behind me, that Ethan had followed me.
“Ballerina,” he whispered, taking the hands I held out to him.
“Mr. Mayor.”
Tate squeezed my hands. When he leaned forward, pressing his lips to my cheek, a lock of soft dark hair—worn a little longer than generally thought appropriate by Chicago’s more conservative voters—brushed my cheek. Tate smelled like lemon and sunshine and sugar, a weirdly ethereal combination for a city administrator, but delicious all the same.
“It’s been too long,” he whispered, and a shiver trickled up my spine. When he pulled back, I glanced behind me, saw enough fire in Ethan’s emerald eyes to feel vindicated, and indicated him with a negligent hand.
“Ethan Sullivan, my . . . Master.”
Tate was still smiling, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d been excited to see me, for reasons lascivious or otherwise. He was clearly less excited to meet Ethan. Perhaps he
had
been avoiding encounters with the city’s Masters. And here I’d gone and forced it. On the other hand, there’s no way my father wouldn’t have mentioned that we were planning to attend the party—that was information he wouldn’t have been able to keep to himself. That was warning enough for Tate, I decided.
Ethan stepped forward, beside me, and Tate reached out a stiff hand.
“Ethan, glad to finally meet you.”
Liar, liar, I thought, but watched the interaction with fascination.
They shook hands. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Mayor.”
Tate took a step back, gave me an obvious perusal, the grin on his face softening a look that would have otherwise felt completely demeaning. (And, as it was, felt only forty to fifty percent demeaning. Bad boy or not, he was awfully pretty.)
“I haven’t seen you in years,” Tate said. “Not since the last
Tribune
picture.” He smiled charmingly.
“I believe you’re right.”
He nodded. “I’d heard you moved back to Chicago to work on your doctorate. Your father was so proud of your academic accomplishments.” That was news to me. “I was sorry to hear that you’d . . . halted your academic studies.”
Tate slid a glance in Ethan’s direction. Since I’d halted my studies only because Ethan had made me a vampire, the shot at Ethan was completely unsubtle and, frankly, a little surprising. Did Tate assume animosity between us? Or was he simply trying to create it, to drive a wedge?
While I admittedly enjoyed tweaking Ethan, I was still on his side, and I wasn’t naïve enough to think that biting the hand that fed me was a good idea, even to flatter the mayor.
“I believe the immortality more than makes up for the diploma,” I told Tate.
“Well,” he said, not hiding his surprise. “I see. Apparently, even the mayor isn’t always in the know.” I appreciated that he took the hit, that he could recognize that his intel about the supposed animosity between me and Ethan, from whatever sources, hadn’t been entirely correct.
Nor, to be honest, was it entirely incorrect.
“I wanted to thank you,” I told him, changing the subject, “for the trust that you’ve put in my grandfather.” I glanced around, thinking it best to limit what I said about my grandfather’s position in mixed company—and in my father’s house. As
far as I knew, my father knew nothing about my grandfather’s duties as the Ombud. I planned to keep it that way.
“Without getting into the details, given that this is neither the time nor the place for that kind of discussion,” I prefaced, and Tate nodded his understanding, “he’s glad he’s able to stay busy, to help, and I’m glad to know I have someone in my corner. All of us are.”
Tate nodded like you’d expect a campaigning politician might—seriousness and gravity in his expression. “We’re on the same page there. You—all of you—deserve a voice in Chicago.”
One of Tate’s body men leaned toward him. The mayor listened for a moment, then nodded.
“I’m sorry to leave you,” he told me, his lips curled into a melancholy smile, “but I need to get to a meeting.” He reached a hand out to Ethan. “I’m glad we were finally able to connect. We should put aside some time to talk.”
“That would be appreciated, Mr. Mayor,” Ethan agreed, nodding.
Tate looked at me again, opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it. He put his hands on my upper arms, leaned toward me, and pressed his lips against my cheek. Then he shifted, his lips at my ear. “When you can get away, get in touch. Call my office—they’ll put you through, day or night.”
The “day” part of that was superfluous, given my little sunlight problem. The rest of it—the fact that he’d requested a meeting from me, not Ethan, and the access he’d just granted—was surprising, but I nodded at him when he pulled back.
“Good evening,” he said, with a half bow to both of us. One of his guards stepped before him and began to tunnel through the crowd. Tate followed into the space he’d made, a second guard behind him.
“He wants me to call him,” I tattled, when the crowd had re-formed around us. “He told me to get in touch, anytime. That his office would put me through.” I glanced up at Ethan. “What could that be about?”
Ethan frowned down at me. “I’ve no clue.” He kept staring at me, one eyebrow arching into obvious disapproval.
“Why the long face?”
“Is there anyone who isn’t infatuated with you?”
I smiled at him, with teeth. “If not, it’s because you haven’t assigned them to me yet. Mata Hari at your service. Would you like to add him to the list?”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”
“I don’t appreciate being handed out like a party favor.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “What would you like me to say to that?”
I opened my mouth to give an answer just as snarky as my question, but a silver tray appeared at my elbow, interrupting me. The tray held only a small white card. JOSHUA MERIT was printed in neat block letters across it.
My heart skipped a discomforting beat, those six square inches of cardstock eliciting the same sense of dreadful anticipation they had when I was a child. My father had wanted peace and quiet and perfection, and on those occasions when he sought an audience with me for some failing in one of those categories, this is how he’d done it.
I reached out and picked up the card, then glanced at Pennebaker, who’d delivered it.
“Your father will see you in his office,” he said with a bob of his head, then disappeared into the crowd.
We stood silently for a moment, my gaze on the card in my hand.
“You’re ready,” Ethan said, and I understood that the statement was meant to be an affirmation.
“Ready enough,” I said. I smoothed the silk at my waist, and led him away.
My father rose from a black-and-chrome Mies van der Rohe couch when we slid open the top-mounted, reclaimed-wood door. Where Papa Breck’s office had been warm and masculine, my father’s was cold. It fit right in with the rest of the house’s ultramodern decor.
“Merit, Ethan,” my father said, waving us inside with a hand. I heard the door slide shut behind us and assumed Pennebaker had attended to it.
Merit
, I heard in my head, as I saw what Ethan had no doubt realized and meant to warn me about—that Nicholas and Papa Breck were standing in my father’s office.
Nick was in jeans, a T-shirt, and a brown corduroy sports jacket. Papa Breck, a solidly large, barrel-chested man, was in a tuxedo. They stood together, bodies close and aligned, suspicious eyes on us as we entered.
I looked at Nick, tried to ferret out his mood, which didn’t take long given the anger in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. And when he looked from me to Ethan, took in the dress and the tuxedo, disappointment joined his other expressions. The others were confusing, but the disappointment stung.
Papa Breck nodded at me. That nod was apparently the only greeting he could spare for the (vampire) daughter of his best friend, for his son’s former girlfriend. I hadn’t seen Michael Breckenridge, Sr., in years, but I’d have expected more than a nod. Maybe words, some indication of the closeness of our families, the relationship that had existed between me and Nick. I’d practically been a member of that family, for all the summer vacations I’d spent at his house, running through the halls, through the grass, along the dirt-lined path to the labyrinth.
On the other hand, I suppose I should have considered myself fortunate, as he didn’t even spare Ethan a nod.
“The Breckenridges have received information,” my father said, “about a threat of violence against their son.”
The surprise was evident in Ethan’s expression. “A threat of violence?”
“Don’t play coy,” Nick muttered. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what we’re talking about.”
Ethan’s jaw clenched, and he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I am afraid, Nicholas, that we have no idea what you’re talking about. We do not threaten violence. We certainly have not issued a threat of violence against you.”
“Not me,” Nicholas said. “Jamie.”
The room went silent, at least until I spoke up. “Someone threatened Jamie? What was the threat?” I asked. “And why would you think it came from us?”
Nick’s gaze slowly shifted to mine, stubbornness in the set of his jaw.
“Tell me, Nick,” I implored him. “I can guarantee you we haven’t threatened Jamie. But even if we had, you lose nothing from telling us what you’ve heard. Either we made the threat, so we know what it is already, or we’ve been framed, and we need to figure out what the hell’s going on.”
Nick glanced back at his father, who nodded, then turned back to us. “Before we talked in the garden at my parents’, we got a phone call at the house. Unlisted number. She said vampires were interested in Jamie.”
She
, Nick had said. The caller was female. Had it been Celina? Amber? Some other vamp who had it in for the Brecks, or who was itching to stir up trouble for Cadogan House?
“Today,” Nick continued, “I got an e-mail. It had specifics—details about exactly how you planned to harm my brother.”