Nick had been an unwilling participant in Peter’s blackmail scheme. And in the process, he’d transformed from a former boyfriend of yours truly to a growly pain in the ass. “Badger” seemed entirely apropos. “Agreed.”
“Unfortunately,” Ethan said, “the families don’t generally publicize their particular animals. So other than being on very, very good terms with a shifter, the only way for an outsider to know the animal is to see the shift. That said, one would presume the more powerful members of the Pack—Apex and the like—are predators. Bigger, badder, fiercer than the rest.”
“So, wolves or grizzlies or something, rather than least weasels.”
“Least weasels?”
“They’re real,” I confirmed. “I saw one in a nature center once. Tiny little guys. So Gabriel—what do we know about him?”
“The Keene family—Gabriel’s father, great-uncle, grandfather, and so forth—have led the North American Central Pack for centuries. We’ve had independent confirmation they’re wolves.”
“Independent? Did that come from your secret vampire source?” My grandfather had representatives of three supernatural groups in his employ—Catcher for the sorcerers, Jeff for the shifters, and a third, secret vampire source who kept his profile low in order to keep from pissing off his Master. That anonymity notwithstanding, my grandfather sometimes shared the info he received with Ethan.
It had occurred to me that Malik, Ethan’s second in command, might be the anonymous vampire. Malik knew everything that went on in the House, but usually kept to himself. He was intense, but seemed to be on the side of truth and justice. Providing secret, but crucial, information to the Ombud’s office, information ultimately used to keep supernatural peace in Chicago, seemed right up his alley.
“Independent,” Ethan said, “as in it didn’t come from a vampire. I suppose we are throwing you to the wolves,” he added after a moment, “although you’re not exactly the type to go traipsing through the woods, basket in hand, to grandmother’s house.”
“No,” I agreed, “I’m not. But I am the type to take the Volvo to my grandfather’s office, bucket of chicken in hand.”
“Sounds like a good trip.”
“It was. You know I love food. And my grandfather. But not necessarily in that order.”
Traffic wasn’t bad as we moved north, but it still took twenty minutes to reach West Town. Ethan made himself comfy for the ride—one arm perched on the door, one on the steering wheel at three o’clock.
Eventually, we pulled off I-95 and into a neighborhood, then made a few more turns onto a commercial street of brick buildings that probably had its heyday in the 1960s. Now they sat largely empty but for a few industrial dry cleaners and international bakeries. At this time of night the street was empty of pedestrians . .
. but plenty full of bikes.
The bikes, I guessed, were a marker for the Packs. In this case, it was a row of retro-looking cruisers—low, curvy motorcycles with lots of chrome and red leather—parked one beside the other, a dozen or so in all. They were lined up in front of a brick building that sat at the corner. A round, glowing white sign—like a full moon in the midst of Wicker Park—bore the words LITTLE RED across it in simple red letters.
“That must be it,” I said as Ethan maneuvered the Mercedes into a parallel parking spot up the block. We emerged from the car and into the thump of rock ’n’ roll music, which spilled onto the street when the door opened. A leather-clad man with a short beard and dark blond ponytail mounted one of the bikes, started the engine, and rode away.
“One fewer shifter we’ll be able to get to know,” I whispered to Ethan, who humphed in response.
We belted on our katanas, then walked down the block toward the door into the bar.
The bikes weren’t the only indication that something different was going on in Ukrainian Village. When we reached the corner where the front door sat kittycorner to the street, I spied a trio of gouges in the brick wall. I stopped and peered more closely, then lifted my fingertips to the brick. They were clean marks, long, evenly spaced, and deep into brick and mortar.
These weren’t gouges, I realized. They were clawmarks.
“Ethan,” I said, then gestured toward the scratches.
“It’s a sign,” he explained. “That this is a Pack place.”
And here we were, vampires walking into their den.
But since we were here, and there was nothing to do but do it, I took the lead and pushed open the door.
The bar was one narrow room—a handful of tables in front of a large picture window, a long wooden bar along the other side. The hard-driving music was loud enough to bruise my eardrums, and I winced at the throb of it. The sound burst from a jukebox in a corner, that machine the only decoration that didn’t involve advertisements for beer, whiskey, or Malört, Chicago’s wickedly strong version of absinthe.
Men in leather jackets with NAC in giant, embroidered letters across the back sipped at the tables, somehow managing to chat over the roar of the jukebox. I assumed NAC stood for the North American Central Pack.
The hair on the back of my neck lifted. There was something unnerving about the place, about the tingle of magic that filled the room, as though the air itself was electrified.
The shifters looked up as we entered, their expressions not exactly welcoming. Apparently none too thrilled about the vampires in their midst, they stood and pushed back chairs. My heart raced, my hand moving to the handle of my katana, but the shifters headed for the front door. Within a matter of seconds, they were gone, leaving us in the middle of the bar, rock ’n’ roll still pouring out around us.
Ethan and I exchanged a glance.
“Maybe the food’s bad?” I wondered loudly, but that couldn’t be the case. The bad vibe notwithstanding, the smells in the bar were fabulous. Under the top note of cigar smoke was something delicious—cabbage and braising meat, as if cabbage rolls were steaming in the back room. My stomach growled.
“Help you?”
We turned to face the bar. Behind it stood a heavyset woman, wearing a T-shirt with LITTLE RED and a cartoon girl in a red petticoat and hood emblazoned across the front. The woman’s short, bottle-blond hair was teased above her head, and there was suspicion in her eyes.
This must have been Berna.
“Gabriel,” Ethan, stepping beside me, said over the music, “asked us to meet him here.”
One hand on the bar, one on her hip, the woman indicated a red leather door near the end of the bar. “Back,” she half yelled, then arched an eyebrow as she looked me over. “Too thin. You need eats.”
I’d only had a chance to open my mouth to respond—which, given the meat-and-veg smell of the place, would have involved a resounding “yes”—when Ethan smiled politely back at her.
“No, thank you,” he called out.
She sniffed at Ethan’s answer, but turned back to her well-shellacked bar and began to wipe it down with a wet rag.
Ethan headed for the red door.
So much for the cabbage rolls, I thought, but followed him.
Before he opened it, his hand on the tufted leather, he initiated the telepathic connection between us. Sentinel? he silently asked, checking in before we made the final plunge. I shook off the sudden, but refreshingly brief, vertigo. Maybe I was getting used to the sensation.
I’m ready, I told him, and in we went.
I was thankful the room was quieter than the rest of the bar, but the air was thick with old magic. I’m not sure I would have normally been able to separate new from old, but this felt different from the magic I’d felt around vampires or sorcerers. It was the difference between sun and moon. This was ancient magic; earthy magic; the magic of damp soil and sharp lightning, of grassy, windswept plains on cloudy days; the magic of dust and fur and musky dens and damp leaves. It wasn’t unpleasant, but the sheer difference between this prickle and the magic I was used to unnerved me. It was also exponentially more powerful than the tingle I’d felt around the few shifters I knew.
Four men—four shifters—sat around an old-fashioned, vinyl-topped, aluminum-legged table. Four heads lifted when we walked in the door, including Gabriel Keene’s. He gave me a once-over, then offered up a slow grin that lifted the corners of his mouth.
I guessed he liked the leather.
After looking me over, Gabe shifted his gaze to Ethan; his expression became businesslike.
I tried to keep my eyes on Gabriel in order to give the rest of the alphas time to check out the vampires who’d stepped onto their turf. But my occasional glimpses gave me basic details—all three had dark hair and the stiff shoulders of folks not thrilled to be in the back room of a bar in Ukrainian Village, vampires in their midst.
Finally, Gabriel nodded and gestured toward a wall that was empty but for a couple of small, cheaply framed movie posters. I followed Ethan over there and stood beside him. I wasn’t expecting immediate trouble, but I gripped the handle of my katana with my left hand, rubbing my fingers across the leather cording, the friction somehow comforting.