He frowned. “I’m not sure I’m ready to return to the House. Not that I’d prefer to be at Creeley Creek, of course, but until I go back to Hyde Park, the drama hasn’t quite solidified.” He glanced at me. “Does that make sense?”
Only a four-hundred-year-old Master vampire would wonder if a grad student could understand procrastination. “Of course it does.
Procrastination is a very human emotion.”
“I’m not sure humans have a monopoly on procrastination. And, more important, I’m not sure this counts as procrastination.” He turned back again and started the ignition. “Unlike what you’re doing.”
“What I’m doing?”
He smiled just a little—a tease of a smile.
“Procrastinating,” he said. “Avoiding the inevitability of you and me.”
“How long does ‘inevitability’ take when you’re immortal?”
He grinned and pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
One summer night in Chicago. Three sets of battle lines drawn.
The protesters were still outside when we returned, their apparent hatred of us undiminished. On the other hand, their energy did seem to be a little diminished; this time, they were sitting on the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and street. Some sat in pop-up camping chairs. Others sat on blankets in pairs, one’s head on the other’s shoulder, given the late hour. Late-night prejudice was apparently exhausting.
Malik met us at the door, folder in hand; Ethan had given him a heads-up call in the car on the way back to the House.
Malik was tall, with cocoa skin, pale green eyes, and closely cropped hair. He had the regal bearing of a prince in training—shoulders back, jaw set, eyes scanning and alert, as if waiting for marauders to scale the castle walls.
“Militiamen and arrest warrants,” Malik said.
“I’m not sure it’s advisable for you two to leave the House together anymore.”
Ethan made a snort of agreement. “At this point, I’d tend to agree with you.”
“Tate indicated the supposed incident was violent?”
“Exceptionally so, according to the firsthand account,” Ethan said.
Once we were in Ethan’s office and he’d closed the door behind us, he got to the heart of it. “The story is, the vamps lost control and killed three humans. But Mr. Jackson’s description rang more of uncontrolled bloodlust than of a typical rave.”
“Mr. Jackson?” Malik asked.
Ethan headed for his desk. “Our eyewitness.
Potentially under the influence, but sober enough that Tate was apparently convinced. And by convinced, I mean he’s threatening my arrest if we don’t fix the problem, whatever it is.”
Malik, eyes wide, looked between the two of us. “He’s serious, then.”
Ethan nodded. “He’s had the warrant drawn.
And that makes this problem our current focus.
Tate said the incident occurred in West Town.
Look through your rave intel again. Any connections to that neighborhood? Any talk about violence? Anything that would suggest the scale the witness talked about?”
That assignment given, Ethan looked at me.
“When the sun sets, talk to your grandfather.
Ask him to track down what they can about the Jackson incident—the vampires involved, Houses, whatever—and any new information they’ve gotten about the raves. This may not actually be one, but at the moment it’s the best lead we’ve got. And one way or the other,” he added, looking between us, “let’s close these things down, shall we?”
“Liege,” I agreed with a nod. I’d definitely visit my grandfather, but my circle of friends had grown a little wider over the last few months. I’d recently been asked to join the Red Guard, a kind of vampire watchdog group that kept an eye on Master vamps and the GP. I’d declined the invitation, but I’d made use of the resource, calling on the RG for backup during the attack on the House. This might be the time to make that call again. . . .
“And this McKetrick fellow?” Malik asked.
“He’ll wait,” Ethan said, determination in his eyes. “He’ll wait until hell freezes over, because we’re not leaving Chicago.”
I’d visit my grandfather when the sun set. But first, I had a couple more hours of darkness and many hours of daylight to get through.
All the bedrooms in the House, which accommodated about ninety of Cadogan’s three-hundred-odd vampires, looked like small dorm rooms. A bed. A bureau. A nightstand. Small closet, small bathroom. They weren’t exactly fancy, but they gave us a respite from vampire drama. Given the messes we tended to get into, drama free was definitely a good thing.
My second-floor room—just like the rest of the House—still smelled like construction. New paint. Varnish. Drywall. Plastic. It smelled good somehow, like a new beginning. A fresh start.
The storm broke overhead just as I shut my door, rain beginning to pelt the shuttered window in my room. I peeled off my suit and toed off Mary Jane heels, then headed to my small bathroom, where I scrubbed my face. The makeup washed off easily. The memories, on the other hand, weren’t going anywhere.
Those were the tough things to ignore—the sounds, the expressions, the sensation of Ethan and his body. I’d tried to lock the memories away, to keep my mind clear of them in order to get my work done. But they were still there.
They stung a little less now, but you couldn’t unring the bell. For better or worse, I’d probably always have those memories with me.
When I’d dressed again in a tank top and shorts, I glanced back at the clock. I had two hours to kill until dawn, which meant I had an hour to kill until my weekly date with my other favorite blond vampire.
My first task—taking care of basic vampiric necessities. I walked down the hallway to the second-floor kitchen, smiling at a couple of vaguely familiar-looking vampires as I passed them. Each of the House’s aboveground floors had a kitchen, a very handy thing since vampiric emergencies didn’t respect cafeteria hours. I opened the fridge and plucked out two drink boxes of type A blood (prepared by the lamely named Blood4You, our delivery service), then headed back to my room. Most vamps were fortunate enough to retain a pretty good hold on their bloodlust, me included. But just because I wasn’t ripping at the seams of the boxes didn’t mean I didn’t need the blood. Most of the time, bloodlust in vamps was kind of like thirst in humans; if you waited to drink until you were truly thirsty, it was probably already too late.
While waiting for her highness’s arrival, I poked a straw into one of the drink boxes and pored through the stack of books that was beginning to crawl its way up my bedroom wall.
It was my TBR—my To Be Read stack. The usual subjects were there. Chick lit. Action. A Pulitzer Prize winner. A romance novel about a pirate and a damsel in a low-cut blouse. (What?
Even a vampire enjoys a little bodice ripping now and again.)
Even though I’d spent the final hours of more than a few evenings in my vampire dorm room, my TBR stack hadn’t gotten any shorter. With each book I finished, I found a replacement in the House’s library. And I’d occasionally wake at dusk to find a pile of books outside my door, presumably left by the House librarian, another Novitiate vampire. His selections were usually related to politics: stories about the ancient conflicts between vampires and shape-shifters; biographies of the one hundred most vampire-friendly politicians in Western history; time lines of vampiric events in history. Unfortunately, no matter how serious the topic, the names were usually just silly.
Get to the Point: Vampire Contributions in Western Architecture.
Fangs and Balances: Vampire Politicians in History.
To Drink or Not to Drink: A Vampire Dialectic.
Blood Sausage, Blood Stew, Blood Orange: Food for All Seasons.