Lucky Break

by Chloe Neill

  But I still gave him the much-deserved stink eye. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you naked? You and Mallory considered the entire house your personal love shack.” Mallory and I had been roommates once upon a time, before Catcher had moved into the town house we’d shared, and I’d moved into Cadogan House to escape the nudity.

  “Your”—I waved my hand at his body—“rod and tackle touched pretty much everything in the place.”

  “My body is a wonderland,” was his only response.

  “Be that as it may,” Ethan said, “Merit is not your Alice. I’ll thank you to keep your rod and tackle away from her.”

  “Nowhere near my agenda,” Catcher assured him.

  Ethan’s phone beeped, and he pulled it out quickly, checked the screen. “Just a media inquiry,” he said, tucking it away again.

  Every phone call put us on high alert, because a ghost—or someone pretending to be—had staked a claim in our lives. That ghost was Balthasar, the vampire who’d made Ethan immortal on a battlefield nearly four hundred years ago, and nearly turned him into a monster in his own image. Ethan had escaped his maker, made a new life for himself, and believed Balthasar had died shortly after Ethan had escaped. He hadn’t yet told me the details, but he hadn’t indicated any doubts about Balthasar’s death.

  And yet, three weeks ago, a note had been left in our top-floor apartments in Cadogan House. A note purporting to be from Balthasar, who was alive and excited to see Ethan again.

  A note . . . and then nothing.

  He’d made no contact since then, and we’d found no evidence he was alive, much less in Chicago and waiting for an opportunity to wreak havoc, to wage war, to exert control over Ethan once again.

  So we waited. Every phone call could be the call, the one that would change the life we’d begun to make together. And there were so many more calls these days. The AAM was still working out the operational details, but that hadn’t kept vampires from lining up outside Cadogan House like vassals, seeking protection, requesting Ethan’s intervention in some city dispute, or offering fealty.

  And vampires weren’t the only ones interested. Chicago was home to twenty-five percent of the country’s AAM members, and humans’ fascination with Ethan, Scott Grey, and Morgan Greer, who headed Grey House and Navarre House, had ballooned again.

  It was a strange new world.

  “So, not to interrupt the mirth-making,” Mallory said, “but there’s actually a reason we asked you guys to come out tonight.”

  “Who says ‘mirth-making’?” Catcher asked.

  “I do, Sarcastasaurus.” She elbowed him with a grin. “And we’re here for a reason?”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “But I’m going to need that on a T-shirt.”

  “I was just thinking that,” I said. “And you’re making me nervous. What’s going on?”

  Catcher nodded. “Well, as it turns out—”

  As it turned out, Catcher was interrupted by an explosion of noise, our phones beeping wildly in obvious warning.

  I got to mine first, saw Luc’s number, switched it to speaker. “Merit.”

  Luc’s nose loomed on the screen. “Sorry to interrupt date night.”

  I grimaced at the image. “Step back from the camera. We don’t need to see your sinuses.”

  “Sorry,” he said, leaning back so his nose moved back into proper perspective, right in the middle of his very charming face, which was surrounded by tousled blond-brown curls. “You’re alone?”

  “We’re with Catcher and Mallory,” I said, then glanced around to ensure that no curious humans were eavesdropping. “We can talk. What’s going on?”

  “Media vans at the House. Four of them. Mess of reporters, all gathered at the gate, ready and waiting.” Luc’s pause, matched with his drawn expression, made me nervous. “They’re asking questions about Balthasar.”

  We went quiet enough to hear the strains of a lone saxophone player near the pier, probably selling a song for tourists’ cash.

  “What questions?” Ethan asked.

  “They’re asking about a supposed reunion,” Luc said. The answer made T. S. Eliot echo alarmingly in my head. This is the way the world ends.

  Ethan’s reaction was as hot and fast as Luc’s had been cautious.

  “Double the guards on the gate,” Ethan said. “We’re on our way.”

  I wanted to argue with him, to tell him he’d be safer staying put than running toward whatever reunion this “Balthasar” had planned. But Ethan was a stubborn and careful man. He wouldn’t leave the House to face danger without him, and certainly not when the danger was a monster from Ethan’s own past. Ethan still hadn’t forgotten the things he’d done when he was with Balthasar, or forgiven himself for his own complicity. He was still looking for redemption. And he’d meet that opportunity head-on.

  We said our good-byes, and I tucked the phone into my pocket again, tried to mentally prepare myself for what we might face—what Ethan might have to face, and the emotional storm that might rip through both of us.

  And then I looked at Mallory and Catcher, remembering they’d been on the verge of making their own announcement.

  “Go,” Catcher said, even as Mallory began stuffing food back into the picnic basket. She was playing the trouper, but I could see the frustration in her eyes. “You want us with you?”

  Ethan shook his head. “There’s no point in dragging you into this debacle. Balthasar is dead; this is someone else’s ploy for attention.”

  Catcher nodded. “I’ll tell Chuck, put him on alert just in case.”

  “Be careful,” Mallory said, and squeezed me into a hug.

  “I will,” I said, searching her gaze for answers, and finding none. “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. We can talk about this later. Take care of your House first. Go,” she said when I hadn’t moved, and turned me toward the street.

  We went, jogging back toward Grand and the tall man with blond hair who waited for us in front of a glossy black Range Rover with a CADOGAN license plate. He wore a trim black suit and a sleek black tie, hands clasped in front of him.

  “Sire,” he said, bowing his head. Brody was a Cadogan House guard who’d been appointed Ethan’s official driver. Luc had outfitted Ethan with all the necessary perks, including the car, which was equipped with a complete security system, a small arsenal, and a comm center.

  “Luc called,” Brody said, pivoting smoothly to open the door, one hand on his tie as he waited for Ethan and me to climb into the backseat. He closed the door with a solid thud, then rounded the car and slid inside the driver’s seat.

  The car was comfortable, and I appreciated that Ethan had extra security, but I missed Moneypenny, my vintage Mercedes convertible. She was currently parked in the basement of Cadogan House, weeping from neglect. I missed the freedom, the quiet, the solitude of a good long drive—as most drives anywhere in Chicago tended to be.

  Unless Brody was driving.

  “May I?” he asked, meeting Ethan’s gaze in the rearview mirror, not doing a very good job of fighting back a smile. Brody had been a new guard, and he was still pink around the edges. But he did have one particularly enviable skill.

  The boy could handle a car.

  He was Chicago’s version of the Transporter—master of the smooth ride, but equally adept at weaving and dodging through Chicago’s gnarly traffic. Luc had given Brody a dressing-down the first time he rode with him. But when the time came to assign Ethan a driver, he turned to Brody first.

  “If you can get us there in one piece,” Ethan said, and managed not to flinch when Brody dashed into traffic like a cheetah in pursuit.

  Brody just avoided nicking a cab, then slipped smoothly into a gap in the other lane.

  I’m not sure when I’m going to get used to this, Ethan said silently, using the telepathic con
nection between us.

  You’re just irritated you aren’t the one driving.

  I have a Ferrari for just such occasions. And speaking of occasions, what was Mallory’s and Catcher’s production about? She looked upset.

  I’m not sure, I admitted. But if it was really bad news, I don’t think she’d have arranged a picnic. There were plenty of milestones that might merit a picnic, but I wasn’t sure they’d put that look on her face.

  I’ll call her, I promised, and ferret out the truth. But for now, let’s deal with vampires.

  Chapter Two

  Dead Spin

  Fifteen minutes later, miraculous timing for Chicago, Brody turned off Woodlawn, tires squealing as he veered toward the House, its white stone glowing beneath heavy moonlight.

  Media vans clustered outside the tall iron fence that bounded the House’s large grounds, their antennas extended, reporters and cameramen on the sidewalk with equipment in hand.

  The gate in the fence was closed—something I’d rarely seen—the black-clad human guards we hired out to protect the House staring down the reporters with open malice that made me appreciate them even more.

  Our wealthy Hyde Park neighbors stood on their stoops or porches and stared grimly at the activity, probably already composing their letters to the editor—or to Ethan—protesting late-night vampiric shenanigans.

  I sent Luc a message, advising him we’d reached our destination, as Brody pulled the car to a stop beside the nearest van.

  Ethan was out of the car before we could stop him. As I followed him, scabbarded katana in hand, a red bus with VAMPIRE TOURS OF CHICAGO in white letters across the side rolled slowly down the street, tourists gawking out of windows, the driver’s narration ringing through the darkness.

  “. . . Cadogan House, the city’s second oldest House behind Navarre. And, ladies and gentlemen, grab your cameras, because that’s Ethan Sullivan and Merit right there on the street!”

  I waved politely for the camera flashes and shouts from tourists—no point in making things worse—but muttered a curse as soon as my back was turned. “Keep the bus moving,” I told Brody, when he met me on the sidewalk. “Let’s not drag the tourists into whatever this is.”

  Brody nodded, jogged toward the bus, and directed it down the street.

  The reporters ignored the onlookers—they were too busy with Ethan. Like sharks in the water, they’d scented blood, begun to circle.

  “Ethan! Ethan! Who is Balthasar? What’s he to you?”

  “Is he in Chicago to cause trouble? Is Cadogan House in danger? Or Hyde Park?”

  “Tell us about the reunion he has planned!”

  Ethan, eyes silver with emotion, focused his dangerous gaze on the reporter closest to him. There was nothing kind in his expression, and very little that was human. “What did you say?”

  I had to give the reporter credit. The smell of his fear soured the air, but he kept his knees locked and his eyes on Ethan, and didn’t step back even beneath Ethan’s withering glare. And what’s worse, he must have seem something in Ethan’s eyes, some hint of dismay that triggered his own instincts. His lips turned up in a hungry smile.

  “Who is Balthasar?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Why are you avoiding the question?”

  Ethan took another step forward, magic rising in an invisible cloud behind him. Dread settled low in my belly, both at the fiasco someone had arranged, and Ethan’s potentially explosive reaction to it.

  I positioned myself behind Ethan.

  I caught sight of movement to my left, found Brody, Luc, and Lindsey (Luc’s girlfriend, one of the House’s guards, and my best House buddy) moving cautiously toward us.

  “I am not avoiding the question,” Ethan said quietly, every word bathed in rage. “I’m wondering why so many members of the media have come to my home and are disrupting the neighborhood with inquiries about a vampire who’s been dead for centuries.”

  “Dead?” the reporter asked, his gaze searching Ethan’s as if for weak spots. “That’s not the information we’ve received.”

  Ethan’s lip curled, and I took a careful step forward, just in case I needed to haul him back.

  “Balthasar is dead. Any information you received to the contrary is mistaken.”

  All heads turned when a sleek black limousine raced up the street and pulled to a stop outside the House. While the reporters redirected their cameras, a liveried driver climbed out and opened the back door.

  As I unsheathed my katana, a vampire stepped out.

  Ethan had kept a miniature portrait in a drawer in his office, an oval painting barely two inches across, its frame delicately gilded. The man in the frame had straight dark hair, pale skin, almost preternaturally symmetrical features. Straight, long nose, dark eyes, lips pulled into a near smirk.

  Then the man in the portrait had worn a white cravat and a vest and coat in regal crimson, and his hair had been straight and dark, pulled into a queue at the back of his neck.

  Now his hair was different—shorter around the sides and back, longer in front, so dark locks fell dramatically across his face. He’d exchanged the period clothing for black pants and a long coat, and there were scars across his neck, a web of crisscrossing lines that rose just above the coat’s mandarin collar and told of something harsh and ugly . . . but something he’d clearly survived.

  He was attractive, undeniably so, with the look and bearing of a dark prince, a man used to having the attention of men and women, and reveling in it. And he was undeniably the same vampire as the one in Ethan’s portrait.

  The entire crowd around us—reporters, cameramen, guards, vampires—went eerily silent as he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Ethan. A mourning dove cooed from a nearby rooftop—once, twice, three times, as if calling a warning. A cold sweat inched down my spine, despite the chill in the new spring air.

  The vampire let his gaze drift from Luc, to me, before settling on Ethan. There was much in his expression—anger, regret, fear. All of that tempered with hope.

  For a long moment, they stared at each other, evaluating, watching, preparing.

  I took cautious steps forward, one after another, until I stood beside Ethan with my katana extended, ready to strike.

  The vampire’s eyes suddenly changed. They narrowed, darkness peeking through them like a demon at the door. The color turned, blue darkening and shifting to swimming quicksilver.

  And then his magic—warm, heady, and spicy; whiskey spiked with cloves—burst through the air like lightning. He bared his fangs, longer than any I’d seen, thin and dangerous as needles, and that trickle of sweat became a cold slick that matched the wave that rolled through my abdomen.

  Ethan’s eyes widened with amazement, with horror.

  My first instinct was to move, to protect. But magic had thickened the air like molasses; merely lifting a hand through it brought beads of sweat to my brow. I glanced around, found the other vampires around us similarly still.

  Once upon a time, vampire glamour had been a crucial skill for luring and seducing humans. Master vampires also used the psychic skill to call the vampires they’d turned, to psychically pull them to the Master’s side. By stroke of luck, or the unusual circumstances of my turning, I could feel glamour, but I was largely immune to the effects. So why was this magic affecting me?

  Hold, Ethan said silently, the word heavy and lumbering as if he’d had to force it out through a syrup of magic.

  And then Ethan uttered one word aloud. A word that would change everything.

  “Balthasar.”

  Ethan said the name with utter conviction, equal to his previous certainty that Balthasar had been dead. I wanted to demand this vampire produce his bona fides. But Ethan seemed to need no further convincing.

  The word was like a charm, a key that unlocked the viscous magic.
In the space of a blink, it dissipated, pouring across us like a northern wind. And just as quickly, now freed of our magical bonds, the world erupted with movement, with noise. Reporters, apparently unaware of the delay, rushed forward, shouted questions, microphones and cameras pointed like weapons.

  Ethan took a step backward, shock etched in his face, in his eyes.

  I lifted my sword, moved between them, putting my body and blade between Ethan and the vampire he now stared at. The vampire he apparently believed was the one who had made him.

  Luc, Brody, and Lindsey moved behind us, katanas drawn, a steel shield against the horde of reporters.

  Balthasar cast a mild glance at me and my sword before shifting his gaze to Ethan again.

  “It has been a long time,” he said, his accent faintly French, his words softly lyrical. But that demon still lurked behind his eyes. He was a Master from a different time, a man who demanded loyalty, who defined the world for his vampires.

  Ethan’s internal struggle was clear on his face—he was torn between biological loyalty to the vampire who’d made him and hatred of the monster he’d been and tried to make of Ethan.

  “A very long time,” Ethan cautiously agreed.

  “There is much to say.”

  “So it appears,” Ethan said. He gestured toward the reporters around him. “You arranged all this?”

  “I believed it was the only way to secure an audience with you.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To give voice to long-unspoken things. To make amends. There is . . .” Balthasar paused, obviously selecting his words carefully. ”. . . a void when one of your children is separated from you, as we have been for so long. At this time in my life, I find that void more painful.”

  Ethan just watched him, as one predator might watch another, with careful consideration. “We have been apart for a very long time. I believed you were dead.”