“Is it just magic,” he asked, “or is it steel, as well?”
I frowned. “I’m not sure I could separate it out. Probably both?”
“Probably,” he agreed, then pointed toward the doors that led off from the main hallway. “What are these?”
“Classrooms. Nurseries.”
“Unlikely spots for the making of assassination plans.”
“You’d think. If someone’s going to make an attempt against Gabe, they’ve probably done the planning somewhere else.” I pointed toward the last door. “The one on the end is the kitchen.”
He stopped, turned in a half circle, and perused the hallway, his gaze tripping over the handouts, children’s art, and religious posters. “Anything of interest there?”
“Does my pan of cabbage rolls count?”
He made a sarcastic sound. “Only for you, Sentinel. And now that we’re out of Gabriel’s hearing, is there anything you’d like to tell me about your anonymous phone call?”
“Are you suggesting I didn’t tell you the whole truth?”
He gave me a flat look.
“It wouldn’t be incorrect to assume the caller has a journalistic bent.” Ethan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could form words, the exit door at the end of the hallway crashed open. Ethan and I both whipped around, hands on our swords. Two tall men in black suits, shades over their eyes, walked inside.
One of the men carried a package wrapped in brown paper, the sides wrapped in black electrical tape.
My heart thudded. I’d only seen packages like that on television cop shows—right before they exploded into shrapnel. Vampires didn’t care for shrapnel, especially not the wooden variety.
Steady now, Sentinel, Ethan silently said to me, as if sensing my sudden fear. And since I was undoubtedly throwing magic into the air, he probably could.
“Can we help you, gentlemen?” Ethan asked.
Both men arched eyebrows over their glasses, but kept moving forward. Despite the thudding of my heart, I moved to stand beside Ethan, a barricade of vampires. A song from Les Misérables began, however inappropriately, to echo through my head.
“We have a delivery,” said the man who wasn’t holding the package. He reached into his suit pocket, but Ethan had his sword up and out before the man could pull out whatever he was reaching for.
I unsnapped the thumb guard on my handle.
“Whoa,” said the man with the package, his Chicagoland accent heavy enough that it bled through the single word. “We’re only here to make a drop-off, right?” He extended the package in his hands.
“You hold that,” Ethan told him, then looked back at the man whose jugular was currently inches from the tip of his sword. “And you,” he said to the other one, “pull that hand back very, very slowly.”
The man swallowed, but did as he was told. And when his hand was clear of his jacket, he offered up a black leather wallet. “Just getting the ID, pal.”
“Open it,” Ethan said.
He flipped it open, then held it out for Ethan to see, then me.
“I got an import/export business,” he said. “I’m just a businessman.”
“And what’s in the package?”
The two men exchanged a glance. “It’s a gift for, uh, the head honcho, if you get my meanin’.” He winged up his eyebrows, as if willing Ethan to understand.
“For your head honcho?” Ethan asked.
The men nodded with relief. Apparently, they were members of the North American Central (and good at hiding that fact), and they were relieved not to have to admit it aloud. Maybe living in hiding wasn’t as easy as Tony had made it out to be...
“And what’s in the box?” Ethan asked.
The man with the package leaned forward, moistening his lips nervously. “It’s a rather fine vintage, if you get me? A vintage of the red variety? It’s a gift from a family that’s prominent here in Chicago, to the family of Mr. Keene.”
“Ahhh,” said Ethan aloud, then switched to silent mode. What’s in the box?
I leaned down a little and frowned at it, clearing my mind to block out the extraneous noise and magic. But the box was a blank slate—no metal, no magic—so I switched to a simpler sense and took a sniff. There it was.
“It’s booze,” I said, standing straight again. “Good stuff, too, as far as I can tell.”
The man without the package rolled his shoulders and adjusted his tie. “Of course it’s good. Who do you think we are? Bit players?”
Ethan smiled politely, put his left hand at his scabbard, and carefully resheathed his sword. Then he stepped aside. “Enjoy the convocation, gentlemen.”
We turned to watch them proceed down the hallway.
“I believe those gentlemen are connected, Sentinel.”
“They’re related?”
“Connected to something a little more, shall we say, organized?”
It took a moment for the implication to sink in—Ethan thought they were mobsters. “And you let them walk into the chapel?”
“And with alcohol to boot. They’re Pack members with bounty in hand. We can’t stop every Pack member who tries to walk into the church with booze.” He snickered. “The chapel would be empty.”
I chuckled in spite of myself.
He bobbed his head toward the kitchen door again. “That was the kitchen?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going to get something to drink.”
I followed him inside and waited by the door while he inspected the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewed the top, and took a long drink. When he was done, he tossed the empty bottle and cap in a recycling bin, then nodded toward the door again.
I was about to push it open when I froze. The exterior door at the end of the hall had been opened again, and I could hear voices moving toward us down the hallway.
And this time, a metallic buzz accompanied them.