I assumed he meant the day I’d become a Master vampire. It wasn’t exactly something I looked forward to, but it would get me out of Cadogan House.
“You look forward to it because we’ll be equally matched? Politically, I mean?”
He slid me a dry glance. “Because I’ll enjoy watching you squirm under the pressure.”
“Charming,” I muttered.
A woman in a snug navy blue suit stood in front of the double front doors beneath a low overhanging stone eave. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. They were quite a contrast to the patent platform heels.
Was she going for sexy librarian, maybe?
“Mr. Sullivan. Merit. I’m Tabitha Bentley, the mayor’s assistant. The mayor is ready to see you, but I understand there are some preliminaries we need to address?” She lifted her gaze to the threshold above us.
The old wives’ tale was that vampires couldn’t enter a house if they hadn’t been invited in. But like lots of other fang-related myths, that was less about magic and more about rules. Vampires loved rules—what to drink, where to stand, how to address higherranking vampires, and so on.
“We would appreciate the mayor’s official invitation into his house,” Ethan said, without detailing the reasons for the request.
She nodded primly. “I have been authorized to extend an invitation to you and Merit to Creeley Creek.”
Ethan smiled politely. “We thank you for your hospitality and accept your invitation.”
The deal struck, Ms. Bentley opened the doors and waited while we walked into the hallway.
It wasn’t my first time in the mansion. My father (being well moneyed) and Tate (being well connected) were acquaintances, and my father had occasionally dragged me to Creeley Creek for some fund-raiser or other. I looked around and concluded it hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d visited. The floors were gleaming stone, the walls horizontal planks of dark wood.
The house was cool and dark, the hallway illuminated with golden light cast down from wall-mounted sconces.
The smell of vanilla cookies permeated the air.
That smell—of bright lemons and sugarreminded me of Tate. It was the same scent I’d caught the last time I’d seen him. Maybe he had a favorite snack, and the Creeley Creek staff obliged.
But the man in the hallway wasn’t one I’d expected to see. My father, dapper in a sharp black suit, walked toward us. He didn’t offer a handshake; the arrogance was typical Joshua Merit.
“Ethan, Merit.”
“Joshua,” Ethan said with a nod. “Meeting with the mayor this evening?”
“I was,” my father said. “You’re both well?”
Sadly, I was surprised that he cared. “We’re fine,” I told him. “What brings you here?”
“Business council issues,” my father said. He was a member of the Chicago Growth Council, a group geared toward bringing new businesses to the city.
“I also put in a good word about your House,” he added, “about the strides you’ve taken with the city’s supernatural populations. Your grandfather keeps me apprised.”
“That was . . . very magnanimous of you,” Ethan said, his confusion matching my own.
My father smiled pleasantly, then glanced from us to Tabitha. “I see that you’re heading in.
Don’t let me keep you. Good to see you both.”
Tabitha stepped in front of us, heels clacking on the floor as she marched deeper into the mansion. “Follow me,” she called back.
Ethan and I exchanged a glance.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“For some unknown reason, your father has suddenly become friendly?”
There was undoubtedly a business-related reason for that, which I assumed we’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, we did as we were told, and followed Tabitha down the hallway.
Seth Tate had the look of a playboy who’d never quite reformed. Tousled, coal black hair, blue eyes under long, dark brows. He had a face women swooned over and, as a second-term mayor, the political chops to back up the looks.
That explained why he’d been named one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelors, and one of the country’s sexiest politicians.
He met us in his office, a long, low room that was paneled floor to ceiling in wood. A gigantic desk sat at one end of the room in front of a tufted, red leather chair that could have doubled as a throne.
Both the desk and throne stood beneath an ominous five-foot-wide painting. Most of the canvas was dark, but the outlines of a group of suspicious-looking men were visible. They stood around a man positioned near the center of the painting, his arms above his head, cowering as they pointed down at him. It looked like they were condemning him for something. It wasn’t exactly an inspiring painting.
Tate, who stood in the middle of the room, reached out a hand toward Ethan, no hesitation in the movement. “Ethan.”
“Mr. Mayor.” They shared a manly handshake.
“How are things at the House?”
“I’d say the mood is . . . anticipatory. With protesters at the gate, one tends to wait for the other shoe to drop.”
After they’d shared a knowing look, Tate turned to me, a smile blossoming. “Merit,” he said, voice softer. He took both my hands and leaned toward me, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, the scent of sugared lemon floating around him. “I just met with your father.”
“We saw him on the way out.”
He released me and smiled, but as he looked me over, the smile faded. “Are you all right?”
I must have looked shaken; being held at gunpoint could do that to a girl. But before I could speak, Ethan sent a warning.
Don’t mention McKetrick, he said. Not until we know more about his alliances.
“There was a protest outside the House,” I obediently told Tate. “It was unnerving. A lot of prejudice was thrown around.”
Tate offered an apologetic look.
“Unfortunately, we can’t deny the protesters their permits for First Amendment reasons, but we can always step in if matters escalate.”
“We had things well in hand,” I assured him.
“Gabriel Keene’s announcement that shape-shifters exist hasn’t done much for your popularity.”