by Хлоя Нейл
And as we moved, we passed two teenagers who stood on my side of the car, arms linked together—a boy and girl. They were so young, and they were dressed in shorts and tank tops like they’d spent the day at the beach. But their expressions told a different story. There was hatred in their eyes, hatred too intense for sixteen-year-olds. The girl had smeared mascara beneath her eyes as if she’d been crying. The boy watched the girl, his hatred for me maybe prompted by his infatuation with her.
With jarring suddenness, they began to chant together, “No more vampires! No more vampires! No more vampires!” Over and over again they cried out the mantra, zealotry in their voices, like angels ready to smite.
“They’re so young to be so angry,” I quietly said.
“Anger isn’t merely for the old,” Ethan pointed out. “Even the young can face misery, tragedy, and twist sadness into hatred.”
The rest of the crowd seemed to find the teenagers inspiring. One person at a time, they echoed the chant until the entire crowd had joined in, a chorus of hatred.
“Get out of our neighborhood!” shouted a human close to the car, a thin woman of fifty or sixty with long gray hair, who wore a white T-shirt and khaki pants. “Go back to where you came from!”
I faced forward again. “I’m from Chicago,” I murmured. “Born and bred.”
“I believe they had a more supernatural dominion in mind,” Ethan said. “Hell, perhaps, or some parallel dimension inhabited solely by vampires and werewolves and, in any event, far from humans.”
“Or they want us in Gary instead of Chicago.”
“Or that,” he allowed.
I forced myself to face forward, blocking out the sight of their faces at the window, wishing I could will myself invisible, or somehow merge into the leather upholstery and avoid the discomfort of listening to humans scream about how much they hated me. It hurt, more than I would have thought possible, to be surrounded by people who didn’t know me but who would have been more than happy to hear I was gone and no longer polluting their neighborhood.
“It gets easier,” Ethan said.
“I don’t want it to get easier. I want to be accepted for who I am.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone appreciates your finer qualities. But there are those of us who do.”
We passed a family—father, mother, and two young sons—holding a hand-painted sign that read HYDE PARK HATES VAMPS.
“Now, that,” Ethan grumbled, “I have little patience for. Until the children are old enough to reach their own conclusions about vampires, they should be immune from the discussion. They certainly should not have to bear the weight of their parents’ prejudices.”
I nodded and crossed my arms over my chest, tucking into myself.
After a hundred feet, the protesters thinned out, the urge to berate us apparently diminishing as we moved farther from the House. My spirit deflated, we headed northeast toward Creeley Creek, which sat in Chicago’s historic Prairie Avenue neighborhood.
I glanced over at Ethan. “Have we thought about a campaign or something to address the hatred? Public service announcements or get-to-know-you forums? Anything to help them realize we aren’t the enemy?”
He smirked. “Our social chair at work again?”
As punishment for challenging Ethan to a fight—although I’d been suffering from a bit of a split vampire personality at the time—Ethan had named me House social chair. He thought it a fitting punishment for a girl who spent more time in her room than getting to know her fellow vampires. I’ll admit I was a bookworm—I’d been an English-lit grad student before I was changed—but I’d been making inroads. Of course, the shifter attack had put a damper on my plans for a barbecue social mixer.
“I’m just a Novitiate vampire trying to make it through the night with a little less hatred.
Seriously—it might be something to consider.”
“Julia’s on it.”
“Julia?”
“House director of marketing and public relations.”
Huh. I hadn’t even known we had one of those.
“Maybe we could hold a lottery for one of the Initiate spots next year,” I suggested. “Get humans interested in being a Cadogan vampire?”
“I’ve got a golden ticket,” Ethan began to sing, then chuckled.
“Something like that. Of course, if you open a spot up to the public, you probably increase the odds of adding a saboteur to the House.”
“And I think we’re rather full in the saboteur department lately.”
Thinking of the two traitorous vamps the House had lost since I joined, I nodded.
“Wholeheartedly agreed.”
I should have knocked on wood, offered up a little protection against the jinx I’d caused by talking about sabotage . . . because it suddenly looked like the protesters had called ahead.
Our headlights bounced off two SUVs that were parked diagonally in the middle of the street, six hefty men in front of them, all wearing black T-shirts and cargo pants.
“Hold on,” Ethan yelled out, pulling the steering wheel with a screech of burning rubber.
The roadster banked to the right, spinning clockwise until we sat perpendicular to the SUVs.
I looked up. Three of the men jogged around us, guns at their waists, surrounding the car before Ethan could pull away from the roadblock.
“I am not crazy about this situation,” I muttered.
“Me, either,” Ethan said, pulling out his cell phone and tapping keys. I assumed he was requesting backup, which was fine by me.
“Military?” I asked Ethan, my heart beating wildly.
“It’s unlikely official military would approach us this way. Not when there are significantly easier means with less potential collateral damage.”
“Whatever else they are, I assume they’re anti-vamp.”
Two of the three men in front of the car unholstered their weapons, approached us, and pulled open the doors.
“Out,” they said in unison. I took mental inventory—I had my dagger, but not my sword. I hoped I wouldn’t need it.
“Anti-vamp, indeed,” Ethan muttered, then slowly lifted his hands into the air. I did the same.
Steady, Sentinel, he telepathically told me. Say nothing aloud unless it’s absolutely necessary.
You’re the boss, I replied.
All evidence to the contrary. The words were silent, but the snark was obvious.
We stepped outside onto the dark Chicago street. The vibration in the air—the buzz of steel I could feel after my katana had been tempered with blood—was intense. These guys, whoever they were, were well armed. Our hands in the air, their weapons trained on our hearts, we were escorted in front of the Mercedes. As vampires, we healed quickly enough that bullets wouldn’t generally do us in. An aspen stake to the heart, however, would do the trick without question.
Now that I thought about it, their guns didn’t exactly look off-the-rack; they looked like custom units, with muzzles a little wider than those in the House’s arsenal.
Is it possible to modify a gun to shoot aspen stakes? I asked Ethan.
I’d prefer not to find out, he replied.
My stomach churned with nerves. I’d become used to the fact that my job called for violence, usually perpetrated by crazy paranormals against me and mine. But these weren’t paranormals.
These were gun-wielding humans who apparently believed they were beyond the reach of the law, who believed they had the authority to stop us and hold us at gunpoint within the bounds of our own city.
The third man in front of us—big and bulky, with acne-marked skin and a military haircut —stepped forward.
Watch him, echoed Ethan’s voice in my head.
Hard to miss a human tank heading right for me.
“You think we don’t know what you’re doing to our city?” Tank asked. “You’re killing us.
Sneaking around in the night, pulling us from our beds. Enticing us, then drinking us down until there’s not
hing left.”
My chest tightened at his words. I certainly hadn’t done any of those things, nor did I know of any other vampires who had, at least not since Celina Desaulniers, Chicago’s vampire bad girl, had disappeared from the scene. But Tank seemed very convinced he was telling the truth.
“I’ve done nothing to you,” I told him. “I’ve never met you, and you don’t know anything about me except that I’m a vampire.”
“Bitch,” he muttered, but he snapped his head back when the rear door opened on the left-hand SUV. Two booted feet hit the pavement, followed by another man in the same black uniform. Unlike the others, this one was handsome, with long, wide eyes and high, pert cheekbones, his dark hair perfectly parted. His hands behind his back, he walked toward us while Tank closed the SUV’s door.
I guessed New Guy was the one in charge.
“Mr. Sullivan. Ms. Merit,” he said.
“And you are?” Ethan asked.
New Guy smiled grandly. “You can call me . .
. McKetrick.” The pause made it sound like he’d only just decided on the name. “These are some of my friends. Fellow believers, if you will.”
“Your manners leave something to be desired.” Ethan’s tone was flat, but angry magic peppered the air.
McKetrick crossed his arms over his chest. “I find that insult rather comical, Mr. Sullivan, coming from an interloper in our city.”
“An interloper?”
“We’re humans. You’re vampires. But for the result of a genetic mutation, you’d be like us.
And that makes you aberrations in our town, uninvited guests. Guests that need to mind their manners and take their leave.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he hadn’t just suggested we were genetic aberrations that needed to hightail it out of the city.
“I beg your pardon,” Ethan said, but McKetrick held up a hand.
“Come, now,” he said. “I know you understand me. You seem to be an intelligent man, as does your colleague here. At least from what we know of her parents.”
My parents—the Merits—were new-money Chicago. My father was a real estate investor mentioned in the papers on a daily basis. Smart, but ruthless. We weren’t close, which made me that much less excited to learn I was being judged on the basis of his narcissistic press coverage.
Don’t let him faze you, Ethan silently said.
You know who you are.
“Your prejudices,” he said aloud, “are not our problem. We suggest you put down the weapons and continue on your way.”
“Continue on our way? That’s truly rich. As if your kind are merely going to continue on your way without bringing this city into all-out supernatural war?” He shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Sullivan. You and yours need to pack, leave, and be done with it.”
“I’m from Chicago,” I said, drawing his attention to me. “Born and raised.”
He lifted a finger. “Born and raised human until you switched sides.”
I almost corrected him, told him that Ethan had saved me from a killer hired by Celina, brought me back to life after I’d been attacked. I could also have told him that no matter the challenges I faced as a vampire, Ethan was the reason I still drew breath. But I didn’t think McKetrick would be thrilled to learn that I’d been nearly killed by one vampire—and changed without consent by another.
“No response?” McKetrick asked. “Not surprising. Given the havoc your ‘House’ has already wreaked in Chicago, I’m not sure I’d object, either.”
“We did not precipitate the strike on our House,” I told him. “We were attacked.”
McKetrick tilted his head at us, a confused smile on his face. “But you must recognize that you prompted it. Without you, there would have been no violence.”
“All we want is to go about our business.”
McKetrick smiled magnanimously. He wasn’t an unattractive man, but that smile—so calm and self-assured—was terrifying in its confidence.
“That fits me fine. Simply take your business elsewhere. As should be clear now, Chicago doesn’t want you.”
Ethan steeled his features. “You haven’t been elected. You haven’t been appointed. You have no right to speak on behalf of the city.”
“A city that had fallen under your spell? A city finally waking up to your deviance? Sometimes, Mr. Sullivan, the world needs a prophet. A man who can look beyond the now, see the future, and understand what’s necessary.”
“What do you want?”
He chuckled. “We want our city back, of course. We want the departure of all vampires in Chicago. We don’t care where you go—we just don’t want you here. I hope that’s understood?”
“Fuck you,” Ethan said. “Fuck you, and your prejudice.”
McKetrick looked disappointed, as if he truly expected Ethan to see the error of his ways.
He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could answer, I heard it: cutting through the night like roaring thunder, the sound of rumbling exhaust. I glanced behind me and saw the headlights—a dozen in all—moving like an arrow toward us.
Motorcycles.
I began to grin, now knowing whom Ethan had contacted on his cell phone. These weren’t just motorcycles; they were shifters. The cavalry had arrived.
The troops looked back to their leader, not sure of the next step.
They cut through the darkness like sharks on chrome. Twelve giant, gleaming, low-riding bikes, one shifter on each—brawny and leather-clad, ready for battle. And I could attest to the battle part. I’d seen them fight, I knew they were capable, and the tingle that lifted the hair at the back of my neck proved they were well armed.
Correction—eleven of them were brawny and leather-clad. The twelfth was a petite brunette with a mass of long, curly hair, currently pulled back beneath a Cardinals ball cap. Fallon Keene, the only sister among six Keene brothers, named alphabetically from Gabriel down to Adam, who’d been removed from the NAC and sent into the loving arms of a rival Pack after he took out their leader. No one had heard from Adam since that exchange had taken place. Given his crime, I assumed that wasn’t a good sign.
I nodded at Fallon, and when she offered back a quick salute, I decided I could live with her poor choice of baseball allegiances.
Gabriel Keene, Pack Apex, rode the bike in front, his sunkissed brown hair pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck, his amber eyes scanning the scene with what looked like malicious intent. But I knew better. Gabriel eschewed violence unless absolutely necessary.
He wasn’t afraid of it, but he didn’t seek it out.
Gabriel revved his bike with a flick of his wrist, and like magic, McKetrick’s men stepped back toward their SUVs.
Gabe turned his gaze on me. “Problems, Kitten?”
I looked over at McKetrick, who was scanning the bikes and their riders with a nervous expression. I guess his anti-vamp bravado didn’t extend to shifters. After a moment he seemed to regain his composure and made eye contact with us again.
“I look forward to continuing this conversation at a more appropriate time,” McKetrick said.
“We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.” With that, he slipped back into the SUV, and the rest of his troops followed him.
I bit back disappointment. I’d almost wished they’d been naïve enough to make a move, just so I could enjoy watching the Keenes pummel them into oblivion.
With a roar from custom mufflers, the SUVs squealed into action and drove away. Pity it wasn’t forever. I checked the license plates, but they were blank. Either they were driving around without registrations or they’d taken off the plates for their little introductory chat.
Gabe glanced at Ethan. “Who’s G.I. Joe?”
“He said his name was McKetrick. He imagines himself to be an anti-vampire vigilante.
He wants all vamps out of the city.”
Gabe clucked his tongue. “He’s probably not the only one,” he said, glancing at me. “Trouble does seem to find you, Kitten
.”
“As Ethan can verify, I had nothing to do with it. We were driving toward Creeley Creek when we hit the roadblock. They popped out with guns.”
Gabe rolled his eyes. “Only vampires would find that a limitation instead of a challenge. You are immortal, after all.”
“And we prefer to keep it that way,” Ethan said. “The weapons looked custom.”
“Anti-vamp rounds?” Gabriel asked.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. McKetrick seemed like the type.”
“And my sword is at the House,” I pointed out to Gabe. “You give me thirty-two inches of folded steel, and I’ll take on anyone you want.”
He rolled his eyes, then revved his bike and glanced over at Ethan. “You’re headed to Creeley Creek?”
“We are.”
“Then we’re your escorts. Hop in the car and we’ll get you there.”
“We owe you one.”
Gabriel shook his head. “Consider it one more notch off the tab I owe Merit.”
He’d mentioned that debt before. I still had no idea what he thought he owed me, but I nodded anyway and jogged back to the Mercedes.
I slid inside the car. “You said the fairies detested humans. Right now, I feel like ‘detest’ is hardly a strong enough word. And it looks like we can add one more problem to the punch list.”
“That would appear to be the case,” he said, turning on the engine.
“At least we’re still friends with the shifters,” I said as we zoomed through the stop sign ahead of us, the shifters making a shieldlike V of bikes around the car.
“And officially enemies with humans again.
Some of them, anyway.”
As we moved down the street and finally began to gain speed, our escort of shape-shifters beside us, I turned back to the road and sighed.
“Let the good times roll.”
CHAPTER THREE
SCIENCE FRICTION
Creeley Creek was a Prairie-style building—low and horizontal, with lots of long windows, overhanging eaves, and bare, honeyed wood. It was bigger than the average Prairie-style home, built at the turn of the twentieth century by an architect with a renowned ego. When the original owner died, his estate donated the house to the city of Chicago, which deemed it the official residence of the mayor. It was to Chicago what Gracie Mansion was to New York City.
