And that mysterious reason made me wonder what price I’d have to pay with Nick. I wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse if he wrote the story because he got an unsubtle nudge from his boss. “Probably about the same way I’d feel if I got a nudge from a Master,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. What does this have to do with going to Navarre House?”
“The story gets considerably nastier as it goes along.”
“What kind of nasty?”
“It reminds the reader that the vampires of Navarre House weren’t nearly as, shall we say, philanthropic as Cadogan vampires.”
“It talks about the park murders?” Those were the results of Celina’s murderous escapade through Chicago’s parks . . . and the U of C campus. I was supposed to have been victim number two, at least before Ethan found me.
He nodded. “That’s why Morgan wants to see us. Since you’re featured in the story and were friends with Nick, he probably assumes we had something to do with its creation.”
Calling us friends gave my relationship with Nicholas Breckenridge a lot more credit than it deserved.
Ethan punched in his code, then opened the basement door.
“And how are you feeling about said article?” I asked, following him into the garage.
“Well, evidently I’m dating the Ponytailed Avenger, so I feel pretty good about that.”
I stopped to offer him a snarky look. When he walked past me to the car, smug grin on his face, I rolled my eyes. But I hardly meant it. He had said “dating,” after all.
We were on the road a few minutes later, silence reigning in the Mercedes as I finished reading the story. The article read like a primer on Cadogan and Navarre, from the Houses’ leadership positions to their histories. It also mentioned that a woman named Nadia was Morgan’s new Second. I hadn’t known he’d promoted someone. On the other hand, I hadn’t really thought to ask him about it.
That omission probably said a lot about our lack of potential as a couple.
“Where’d the information come from?” I asked, glancing up to realize that we’d moved from Hyde Park to Lake Shore Drive. Navarre was located in Chicago’s Gold Coast, an area of chichi townhouses, condos, and mansions near the Lake and north of downtown Chicago.
“That was my second question,” Ethan answered darkly, “right behind wondering what impolitic acts our young Master of Navarre might take upon seeing it.”
He glanced over at me. “Have you talked to him recently?”
“Not since the fight.”
There was a moment of silence in the car, the tension evident by the faint hum of magic. “I see,” he said.
There was disapproval in his voice. I tensed, anticipating an argument. “Is there something you’d like to say about that?”
When he looked over, his expression was mild. I couldn’t tell if it was forced or not.
“Not at all,” he said. “But it might add to his irritation at having seen the story.”
I thought back to the things Morgan had said in our last two conversations, the accusations he’d thrown, the condescension in his tone. “Yeah, he’s probably not going to be in the greatest of moods.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Barring a complete attitude adjustment, did you happen to bring along any of those chocolate mousse cake thingies?”
Cadogan House was an historic Hyde Park mansion turned vampire dorm—a restored beauty.
Navarre House, on the other hand, was big and garishly white and took up the corner of one of the city’s most expensive chunks of real estate. It was four stories tall and was marked by a giant turret at the corner, the entire facade wrapped in the same white marble.
“I think their turret is bigger than our turret,” I said as Ethan pulled up to the curb.
“Celina always had a flair for the dramatic,” he agreed.
I put a hand on his arm as we walked to the front door, which was all but hidden from the street by massive, leafy trees. He stopped and glanced down at my hand, then up at me.
“One of our disagreements—Morgan and me . . .” I picked over my words, trying to figure out a way to explain without being too, to use Lindsey’s word, anatomical.
“Morgan thought you and I were involved. Previously, I mean.” I stopped there, hoping Ethan got the point so that I wouldn’t have to spell out exactly what Morgan had accused me of doing with Ethan.
“Ah,” he said. “I see.”
“We weren’t, of course, but he wouldn’t be convinced. So, in addition to the other reasons he won’t be happy to see me, he may not be thrilled to see me with you.”
Ethan gave a half snort, then walked up the stairs. Without so much as knocking, he opened the front door and beckoned me inside.
“What’s funny?” I asked when I reached him.
“The irony. By accusing you of such wanton acts, he accomplished the very thing he sought to avoid.”
“I’m not sure I’d say ‘wanton.’ ” Ethan leaned in, his lips at my ear. “I, Merit, would definitely say ‘wanton.’ ” I couldn’t stop the grin that lifted a corner of my mouth, or the blush that warmed my cheeks.
“Besides,” Ethan whispered, following me into the House, “I’ve decided that if the Sun-Times story doesn’t top his list of things to accuse us of today, there is less hope for his skills as a Master than I might have imagined.”
There’d been no security outside the door of Navarre House, no ten-foot-high gate, no mercenary fairies keeping a watchful eye on the premises. Navarre vamps saved that fun for the foyer . . . but the guards weren’t the beefy types I expected.
Three women sat behind a semicircular reception desk made of glass and steel that was perched just inside the entrance. Each woman was posed in front of a sleek computer monitor. They all had dark hair and big brown eyes, and they all wore fitted white suit jackets. Each wore her hair up but in a different style—from left to right, funky bouffant, ponytail, and tidy bun.
They glanced up as we entered, then began to whisper and click keys on their respective keyboards.
I assume these are the gatekeepers? I silently asked.
Might as well be the Greek Fates, he replied.
“Name,” said the one in the middle, looking up from the monitor to gaze suspiciously at us.
“Ethan Sullivan, Master, Cadogan House,” Ethan said. “Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan House.”
The other two women stopped typing and looked at me. Their expressions showed a range of emotions—disgust, curiosity, sheer feminine appraisal. All emotions, I assumed, motivated by the run-ins I’d had with their former Master, Celina, and their current one, Morgan. I was zero for two in terms of Navarre Masters.
“Identification,” said the woman closest to Ethan. He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled a card from the interior pocket, then with two fingers handed it to the woman. She glanced at it, then began typing in earnest.