“New witch?” Mallory asked, paling. “Time out. Who’s a witch, hoss?”
Ethan glanced at her, brow arched, and his tone couldn’t have been more bland. “You, of course.”
While Mallory came to terms with that little revelation, Ethan and his staff filled me in on the current state of vampire relations in Chicago. While most vampires in the world—all the registered vampires—were affiliated with Houses, a minority were categorized as Rogues, vampires who had no ties to a House and no loyalty to a particular Master. There were a number of ways this could happen—being bitten by a vampire who wasn’t a Master and thus wasn’t strong enough to command the newly changed; by defecting from a House; or by being bitten by an unaffiliated vampire who required no oaths of loyalty or fealty.
Because of the implicit danger they posed to the House structure, they were treated as outcasts. And because they were rarely strong enough individually to take on House vampires, they were usually ignored by the Houses unless they’d chosen, somewhat ironically, to band together into anarchistic units.
Chicago’s vamps believed Jennifer Porter’s death was the work of a Rogue, maybe one unsatisfied with living in the shadow of Chicago’s Houses. This possibility posed two problems.
First, humans didn’t know Rogue vampires existed. They knew about the Houses, and seemed to take some comfort in the fact that vampires were organized into political bodies, were supervised by their Masters, and lived by a code—the Canon. That was a kind of existence that humans could relate to. And that was why vamps were tight-lipped about Rogues, about the fact that vampires with no House ties, no supervision, and no laws were living in their midst.
Second, as the vamps in the press conference had pointed out, a Cadogan medal, identical to the one Ethan (and, I belatedly realized with a glance around the room, the rest of the Cadogan vamps) wore snug around his neck, had been found at the site of Porter’s death. Ethan was confident no one from his House was involved, and he’d agreed to cooperate fully in the Chicago Police Department’s investigation. The CPD had interviewed him, and he’d agreed to interview each and every vampire in residence at Cadogan House to assure himself and the CPD detectives that his House, and his vampires, were innocent. He suspected, as did the representatives of Navarre House with whom he’d spoken (including Celina Desaulniers, its Master), that a Rogue was to blame for Porter’s death. But that didn’t explain why she’d been killed, especially since the Greenwich Presidium, the organization that regulated vampires in North America and Western Europe, would mete out its own punishment to the offender. Before the death of Jennifer Porter, the possibility of death-by-aspen-stake had been strong enough to protect humans. Now—who knew?
Whoever the perpetrator, the threesome believed my attack was the second attempt by the killer, and the note evidence of his bitterness at having failed to kill me.
“My name was in the paper today,” I reminded them, “so the person who threw the brick wasn’t necessarily the one who bit me.”
“But it was only your last name,” Malik said. “It’s doubtful he’d have been able to figure out who you were simply because of that.”
Ethan shook his head. “She’s a Merit. For better or worse, as often as the family appears in the papers, he’d have been able to figure out which Merit was involved. Robert and Charlotte are older and have children. They’re not the typical candidates for change.”
Disturbing, I thought, that he knew so much about my family. “But if he meant to kill me,” I asked, “why the note? The language suggested a choice, like I picked Ethan over the vampire who attacked, picked Cadogan over whatever group he was affiliated with. If he was going to kill me, why would it matter?”
Luc frowned. “So maybe this isn’t related to the Porter girl’s death?”
“Maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,” Ethan unhelpfully pronounced. “Without more information, we can’t discount either possibility. What we do know is that we were the second vampires at the scene of the attack. The language of the threat suggests that whatever plans had been made for Merit—death or otherwise—they’d been unable to follow through. They blame that on her and, to a more general extent, us. Given the tone of the note, maybe the House system more generally.”
“So we’re definitely thinking Rogues, then,” Malik summed up, “or a House with some unspoken animosity toward us. Grey?”
Luc snorted. “Opening day was last week. Scott’s attention is on completely different things right now, namely the Cubs’ chance at a pennant. It’s unlikely he’d be involved in this even if they cared about House politics, which they don’t. What about Navarre?”
Ethan and Malik shared an undecipherable glance. “Doubtful,” Ethan said. “As old and prestigious as Navarre is—”
“Or so they think,” Malik interjected.
With an amused expression, Ethan finished, “Navarre would have little to gain from warring with us. Celina’s strong, the GP loves her, and she’s positioned herself as poster child for Chicago vampires. There’s simply no reason for her to worry about Cadogan.”
“Which means we’ve got investigating to do,” Luc concluded.
Ethan nodded at me. “Luc will station sentries at your house. We’ll continue looking into the threat, and perhaps as we gain information about the Porter death, we’ll learn more about this. If you see anything suspicious, or if you’re attacked again, call me immediately. He pulled a card from his trouser pocket and handed it to me. It read, in tidy block letters:
CADOGAN HOUSE
(312) 555-2046
NAVR NO. 4 | CHICAGO, IL
“NAVR number four?” I asked, card between my fingers.
“That’s our registry number,” Malik explained, and I remembered the NAVR tag under the announcement in the Sun-Times. “We were the fourth vampire House established in the United States.”
“Ah.” I slid the card into my pocket. “Thanks. We’ll call if something comes up.”
“Not that this visit hasn’t been educational,” Ethan said, eyes on Mallory, “but we need to get back to work. I believe we’ve had plenty of excitement for one evening.” He dismissed Malik and Luc and motioned us toward the training room door.
The gazes of the vampires we passed still edged toward hostility, but at least they were tempered with curiosity. On the other hand, I’m not sure if that was better or worse; I generally preferred staying under the radar of people-sucking predators.
Or I would have, if I’d given that kind of thing any thought.
Ethan escorted us back through the House. When we reached the front door, he put a hand on my arm. “Mallory, could I have a word with Merit, please?”
“It’s your pitch,” she replied, and bounced through the doorway to the steps below.
He looked at me. “My pitch?”
“It’s a soccer thing. What did you need?”
His mouth tightened into a grim line, and I could tell he was preparing to speechify. “What happened tonight is unusual,” he said. “For an Initiate to challenge a Master is virtually unheard of, as is the Master not punishing an individual who has challenged his or her authority. I’m giving you a break because you didn’t choose to rise as a vampire, because our laws mandate consent, and you weren’t in a position to offer it.” He gazed down at me with frigidly green eyes.
“That said, should you ever pull a stunt like this again, you will be disciplined. If you ever raise a hand to me again, you’ll rue that decision. I am the Master of this House and in command of three hundred and eight vampires. They look to me for protection, and they give me their loyalty in exchange for it. Should any not understand that bargain, I’m fast, I’m strong, and I’m willing to demonstrate those qualities. Next time, I won’t pull my punches. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
The chill in his glare tamped down my instinct for sarcasm. I nodded.
“Good.” He held out his hand toward the sidewalk, inviting me out of the House. “You have five days yet before the Commendation. The Canon will explain the oaths, the ceremony and the manner in which I will call you to service. Prepare yourself.”
Giving him another acquiescent nod, I stepped down to the sidewalk.
“And do something about your clothes,” he ordered, just before closing the heavy oak door behind me.
We silently walked back to the car, where I found a club flyer beneath my windshield wiper. I lifted the wiper, scanned the sheet, which advertised Red, a club in River North. I got into the car, unlocked Mal’s door, and stuffed the flyer into the glove box. Partying wasn’t really on my agenda right now.
The ride back home was quiet as we both, I imagine, mulled over the night’s events. I certainly did, especially the enigma of Ethan Sullivan. For the few seconds I hadn’t known who he was, I’d been awed by his face and form, intrigued by his nearly tangible sense of power and determination.
Thinking he was pretty was one thing. Infinitely more disconcerting was the fact that after I discovered who he was—and even knowing what he’d taken from me—I could admit to a lingering attraction. His arrogance was irritating, but he was handsome, intelligent, and respected by his subjects. Ethan wore his power—his mantle of confident self-possession—as well as his designer clothes. But danger, I knew, lurked underneath that perfect facade. Ethan demanded complete and utter loyalty with no exceptions and, it seemed, had little willingness to compromise. He was skilled, strong, fast, limber, and confident enough to prove his mettle against an unknown opponent in front of a gallery of observers. And while he might have found me attractive—his flirting was proof enough of that—he wasn’t thrilled about the attraction. Quite the opposite—he seemed as eager to be rid of me as I was of him.
For all that, I hadn’t been able to banish the memory of my first glimpse of him. An after-image of green irises ghosted across my retinas when I closed my eyes, and I knew nothing would wipe away the visual. The impact had been that strong—like a crater furrowed into my psyche, leaving an empty space that a mortal man seemed unlikely to fill.
I muttered a curse when I realized the anatomical direction that line of thought was headed, and renewed my attention to Chicago’s dark streets.
Mallory cleared her throat. “So that was Ethan.”
I turned the Volvo down a side street as we neared home. “That was him.”
“And you’re thinking what?”
I shrugged, unsure how much I wanted to admit to my feelings, even to Mallory. “I should hate him, right? I mean, he did this to me. Changed everything. Took away everything.”