“Merit,” he began, “you stand Sentinel for this House.” He looked at me expectantly, eyebrows raised.
“That’s what I hear,” I dryly responded.
“My expectation,” he continued without comment, “the expectation of this House, is that when you are asked to improve your skills, to strengthen your abilities, you do so. Upon request. Whenever you are asked, whether during your one-on-one training or in front of your colleagues.”
He paused, apparently expecting an answer.
I just looked back at him. I could admit that I looked sloppy out there. But if they’d known the workout I was putting myself through, I guarantee they’d have been impressed.
“We’ve talked about this,” he continued. “I need—we need—a functioning Sentinel in this House. We need a soldier, someone who will put out the effort that is required of her, whose dedication to this House does not falter, whose effort and attention are always given. We need a vampire who gives of herself, entirely, to this cause.” He adjusted a silver stapler on his desk, aligning it with the silver tape dispenser it sat next to.
“I would have thought, given the fact that we’d trusted you with respect to the Breckenridges, the raves, that you understood this. That you wouldn’t need an elementary lecture regarding the level of your effort.”
I looked at him, managed not to offer up the bruise that had blossomed on my left arm—fading but not yet gone—as obvious evidence of my effort. Of my concerted exercise in self-control.
“Am I making myself clear?”
Standing there before him, sweaty in my workout gear, sheathed katana in my hand, I figured I had three choices. I could argue with him, tell him I’d worked my ass off (all evidence to the contrary), which would probably prompt questions I didn’t want to answer. Or, I could come clean, tell him about my half-baked vampire problem, and wait to be handed over to the GP for handling.
No, thank you. I opted for choice number three.
“Liege,” I acknowledged.
That was all I said. Although I had things to say about his own trust issues, I let him make his point, and I got to keep my secret.
Ethan looked at me for a long, quiet moment before lowering his eyes and scanning the documents on his desk. The knots in my shoulders loosened.
“Dismissed,” he said, without glancing up again.
I let myself out.
Once upstairs again, I showered and donned clothes that were decidedly not within the Cadogan dress code—my favorite pair of jeans and a short-sleeved, long-waisted red top with an off-center scooped neck. I had a date with Morgan and a not-going-that-far-away party for Mallory to attend. The neck-revealing top was very appropriate for a date with the vampire boyfriend.
I applied gloss and mascara and blush, left my hair down around my shoulders, slipped into square-toed, red ballet flats, then grabbed my beeper and sword—both required accessories for House guards—and locked my room behind me. I walked down the second-floor hall and rounded the corner.
As I took the stairs, I lifted my gaze from the treads to the boy ascending the other side. It was Ethan, suit jacket over one arm.
His expression showed a kind of vague male interest, as if he hadn’t yet recognized exactly whom he was checking out. Given the change from sweaty, post-workout Merit to pre-date Merit, not surprising that he didn’t recognize me.
But as we passed, when he realized it was me, his eyes widened. And there was an incredibly satisfying hitch in his step.
I bit back a smile and kept walking. As I strolled through the first floor and out the front door, I probably looked unconcerned.
But I knew I’d always remember that little hitch.
CHAPTER 12
MERIT’S DEEP, DARK (72% COCOA) SECRET
It was nearly midnight when I made it to Wicker Park, but I got lucky, finding a corner grocery with its neon OPEN sign still blazing in the window. I grabbed a bottle of wine and a chocolate torte, my calorie-laden contribution to Mallory’s not-going-that-far-away party.
On my way north, I tried to shrug off the job tension. It wasn’t that I was the first girl to have boss issues, but how many bosses were four-hundred-year-old Master vampires or sword-wielding sorcerers? It didn’t help that the same sword-wielding sorcerer was one-fourth of Mal’s party.
Once in the ’hood, I opted to leave my sword in the car. Since I was off duty and off Cadogan House turf, it was unlikely that I’d need it and, more importantly, the act felt like a tiny rebellion. A wonderful rebellion. A rebellion I needed.
Mal opened the door as soon as I popped up the steps. “Hi, honey,” she said. “Bad day at the office?”
I held up booze and chocolate.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, holding open the door for me. When I was inside and the door was closed and locked behind us, I handed over the gifts.
“Chocolate and booze,” she said. “You do know how to woo a girl. You’ve got mail, by the way.” She bobbed her head toward the side table, then headed for the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I mumbled after her, picking up the pile. Apparently the post office hadn’t completely caught up with my change of address. I set aside magazines, interesting catalogs and bills, and dumped credit card offers addressed to “Merit, Vampire” into a pile for shredding. There was also a wedding invitation from a cousin and, at the bottom of the stack, a small crimson envelope.
I flipped it over. The envelope was blank but for my name and address, both written in elegant white calligraphy. I slid a finger beneath the flap and found a thick, cream-colored card tucked inside. I pulled it out. It bore a single phrase in the same calligraphy, this time in bloodred ink:
YOU ARE INVITED.
That was it. No event, no date, no time, and the back was completely blank. The card contained nothing but the phrase, as if the writer had forgotten, mid-invite, exactly what party she’d been inviting me to.
“Weird,” I muttered. But the folks my parents hung out with could be a little flighty; maybe the printer was in a hurry, couldn’t finish the stack. Whatever the reason, I stuffed the half-finished invite back into the pile, dropped the pile back on the table, and headed for the kitchen.
“So, my boss,” I said, “is kind of an ass.”
“Which boss did you mean?” Catcher stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He glanced back at me. “The asshole vampire or the asshole sorcerer?”
“Oh, I think the name applies pretty well to either.” I took a seat at the kitchen island.
“Don’t take Darth Sullivan personally,” Mallory said, twisting a corkscrew into the wine like a seasoned expert. “And really don’t take Catcher personally. He’s full of shit.”
“That’s charming, Mallory,” he said.
Mallory winked at me and filled three wineglasses. We clinked, and I took a sip. Not bad for a last-minute quick-stop find. “What’s on the menu for dinner?”
“Salmon, asparagus, rice,” Catcher said, “and probably too much talk about girly shit and vampires.”
I appreciated the light mood. If he could leave our issues in the Sparring Room back in Cadogan House, I could, too. “You are aware that you’re dating girly, right?” I asked. Mal may have loved soccer and the occult, but she was all girly-girl, from the blue hair to the patent leather flats.
Mal rolled her eyes. “Our Mr. Bell is in denial about certain issues.”
“It’s lotion, Mallory, for God’s sake.” Catcher used a long, flat spatula and the tips of his fingers to flip salmon in his sauté pan.
“Lotion?” I asked, crossing my legs on the island stool and prepping for some good drama. I could always appreciate being the audience for a domestic squabble that had nothing to do with me. And God knows Mal and Catcher were a constant source—I’d been able to give up TMZ completely, my need for gossip sated by Carmichael-Bell disputes.
“She has, like, fourteen kinds of lotion.” He had trouble getting out the words, his shock and chagrin at Mallory’s moisturizer stockpile apparently that intense.