Luckily, I was saved the necessity of giving Noah’s offer more thought—the shooting suddenly stopped, and the low growl of a bike let us know the shooter was retreating.
Silence fell . . . at least until the cursing began.
Adam popped up first, his gaze scanning the bar front and street outside. “Clear,” he said, and the rest of us followed. I helped Berna to her feet, preparing her for a trip in the ambulance that was beginning to whine its way down the street, undoubtedly called by someone in the neighborhood who’d heard the barrage of shots.
I was almost embarrassed to look at Ethan, the thing that had passed between us in the midst of the attack too personal to acknowledge in front of strangers.
Despite our positions, he’d thrown his body over mine with no hesitation, inserting himself between me and danger. And then there was the look in his eyes. It seemed unlikely I was the target of the drive-by, but that didn’t make his effort any less meaningful than the last time he’d come to my rescue—the night I’d been attacked and made a vampire.
His bravery notwithstanding, now things just seemed awkward, like we were teenagers who’d suddenly become aware of their attraction to each other.
Ethan finally glanced back at me, his gaze emotionless, his expression flat. He’d turned off the emotion, so I adopted the same Master vampire look and nodded back at him, a quick, efficient gesture that said nothing of the thing that had passed between us. Denial seemed the easiest response.
“I’m assuming,” Ethan said aloud, turning back to the shifters, “that one of you was the target of that hit?”
“All signs point to Gabriel,” Jason said, arms over his chest as he looked across the destruction in the bar. “This ConPack was his idea.”
I understood the ruefulness in his voice. The bar was in shambles. There was nothing left of the picture window but the few jagged scraps of glass that remained in the frame; the rest of it was in piles on the checked tile, scattered amidst the remains of the bar’s neon signs and shredded beer posters. A breeze swept through the gaping hole in the front of the bar, carrying the scents of hot metal and gunpowder and the sounds of sirens as they hurried toward us.
“There are three Pack leaders in here,” Adam pointed out, “not just the leader of the North American Central. The target could have been any one of you.”
“Valid point,” Gabriel said.
Adam leaned toward me. “By the way, you did good. I’m not sure Sullivan gives you enough credit.”
I appreciated the compliment. I’d have appreciated it more if it had been accompanied by a pan of cabbage rolls, but a girl took what a girl could get. I grinned at him beneath my fan of bangs. “I know. I’m kind of a big deal.”
He snorted with amusement.
“One Pack leader is noticeably absent from the group,” Ethan said. “And the manner of the hit—that we heard a bike before and after—suggests it was a shifter.”
“Tony was riled up when he arrived,” Robin put in.
There was silence at that suggestion.
Jason finally shook his head. “Tony isn’t that stupid. Not to attempt a hit right after storming out of the room. Besides,” he added, as three police cars pulled to a stop outside the bar, “this only creates more drama. Draws more attention to the Packs.” Car doors slammed as police burst from the vehicles, hands on their holsters.
More attention, I thought. Just the thing the shifters wanted to avoid. And maybe that attention was the shooter’s motivation? “Would more drama and attention make the Packs more interested in leaving for Aurora? To stay out of the public eye, I mean?”
Heads turned my way.
“That’s not a bad thought,” Gabriel said. “It would be a ridiculous plan, if that’s what the shooter had in mind, but a good thought.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Since we’re all about to be interviewed, let’s keep the supernatural drama and the complicated lies to a minimum, shall we? Skip the biological details but spill the rest. We were playing poker and planning a family reunion. We wrap up the game and our meeting, and the next thing you know . . .”
The next thing you know, Chicago’s finest walk in the door.
They took statements from all of us, four uniforms and a couple of plainclothes detectives, walking us through the details of the drive-by as a forensic team plucked through glass and kindling for bullets or other evidence that might lead them to the shooter. I kept to the basics Gabriel had laid out—telling the tale exactly as it had progressed, but leaving out the bit about why the shifters really planned to meet.
The cops generally seemed to buy it. They were probably curious about why two vamps were in Ukrainian Village, katanas belted to their sides, at a meeting of folks who were planning a family reunion. But they knew who I was—whether because I was Chuck Merit’s granddaughter or Joshua Merit’s daughter, I wasn’t sure—so they kept the intrusive questions to a minimum. I played innocent (which, of course, I actually was), and they seemed satisfied enough by my answers.
After we were interviewed, Ethan and I stood outside on the sidewalk, loath to walk away and leave the shifters alone, but not interested in being charged with interfering in a police investigation. We were still outside when a familiar Oldsmobile pulled up.
“We’ve got company,” I said, nodding toward the car, a smile blossoming on my face.
My grandfather emerged from the driver’s side; his right-hand man, Catcher Bell, stayed in the front seat, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Catcher was twenty-nine and a little rough around the edges, but that gruffness actually enhanced his appeal. His head was shaved, his eyes pale green, his body a slab of tight muscle and the occasional tattoo—including a circle cut into quadrants across his abdomen.
Jeff emerged from the backseat. He was dressed in his usual emsemble—a long-sleeved button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up midforearm and a pair of khaki pants. Jeff was twenty-one and, to the unfamiliar, would have seemed to have the sweet bashfulness of a boy with a very big heart . . . but not a lot of worldly experience.
That assumption would be wildly incorrect. Jeff was a shifter who had a way with the ladies and was rumored, at least by Catcher, to be more than capable of taking care of himself. I took Catcher’s word for it.
Jeff ambled over. He smiled at me, then nudged me with a shoulder. “How’s my favorite vampire?”
“She likes being someone’s favorite, especially on days she gets shot.”
“You got shot? How? Where? Are you okay?” He put his hands on my arms and began looking me over. His eyes widened at the hole in my jacket where the bullet had penetrated. “You have to be more careful.”
I happened to glance up and catch the smile on Ethan’s face; he was clearly enjoying this. I gave him an arch look, but removed Jeff’s hands, then pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “I’m fine. Let’s worry about your people today. What the hell happened here? I thought the Packs were supposed to be big happy families?”
His expression went unusually serious. “That’s exactly what I’m about to find out.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked toward the bar’s front door. The two shifters who stood outside keeping watch moved aside to let him in, both nodding their heads respectfully as he passed.
The kid was definitely a wonder.
“Fancy meeting you here,” my grandfather said, offering me a smile before offering a hand to Ethan, who took it, then shook.
“Mr. Merit,” Ethan said.
“Chuck, please, Ethan,” my grandfather said. “Mr. Merit was my father.” He looked at me again, and his expression turned to worry.
“You got shot?”
“A couple of times, as it turns out. They aren’t lying about the immortality thing.”
He blew out a breath of relief, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. “I worry about you.”
“I know. I take care.” At least as much as possible, I silently added. I cast a sly glance at Ethan. And even when I didn’t take as much care as I might, I had a vampire in the wings, ready to take a shot on my behalf.
I wasn’t sure if that thought was comforting or not.
“You’d better,” my grandfather said, then pulled back.
“Everybody is fine except for the bartender,” Ethan explained. “She took a shot in the shoulder, but it looks like it was a through-and-through. Merit played EMT. She did good.”
My grandfather huffed out a breath. “Of course she did good. She’s my granddaughter.” He took a step forward and lowered his voice. “It appears you’ve gotten yourselves involved in another shifter controversy. Word is, you’re doing a favor for Gabriel?”
Ethan nodded. “He asked that we be a presence at this meeting and the convocation.”
My grandfather’s caterpillar eyebrows lifted in surprise. “So they are convening, then?”