Hard Bitten cv-4

by Хлоя Нейл

  Currently living there was the politician Chicago had always wanted. Handsome. Popular.

  A master orator with friends on both sides of the aisle. Whether or not you liked the slant of his politics, he was very, very good at his job.

  The gate opened when we arrived, the guard who stood inside the glass box at the edge of the street waving us onto the grounds. Ethan circled the Mercedes around the drive and pulled into a small parking area beside the house.

  “From a House of vampires to a house of politicians,” he muttered as we walked to the front door.

  “Said the most political of vampires,” I reminded him, and got a growl in response. But I stood my ground. He was the one who’d traded a relationship with me for political considerations.

  “I look forward,” he said as we walked across the tidy brick driveway, “to your turn at the helm.”

  I assumed he meant the day I’d become a Master vampire. It wasn’t exactly something I looked forward to, but it would get me out of Cadogan House.

  “You look forward to it because we’ll be equally matched? Politically, I mean?”

  He slid me a dry glance. “Because I’ll enjoy watching you squirm under the pressure.”

  “Charming,” I muttered.

  A woman in a snug navy blue suit stood in front of the double front doors beneath a low overhanging stone eave. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. They were quite a contrast to the patent platform heels.

  Was she going for sexy librarian, maybe?

  “Mr. Sullivan. Merit. I’m Tabitha Bentley, the mayor’s assistant. The mayor is ready to see you, but I understand there are some preliminaries we need to address?” She lifted her gaze to the threshold above us.

  The old wives’ tale was that vampires couldn’t enter a house if they hadn’t been invited in. But like lots of other fang-related myths, that was less about magic and more about rules. Vampires loved rules—what to drink, where to stand, how to address higherranking vampires, and so on.

  “We would appreciate the mayor’s official invitation into his house,” Ethan said, without detailing the reasons for the request.

  She nodded primly. “I have been authorized to extend an invitation to you and Merit to Creeley Creek.”

  Ethan smiled politely. “We thank you for your hospitality and accept your invitation.”

  The deal struck, Ms. Bentley opened the doors and waited while we walked into the hallway.

  It wasn’t my first time in the mansion. My father (being well moneyed) and Tate (being well connected) were acquaintances, and my father had occasionally dragged me to Creeley Creek for some fund-raiser or other. I looked around and concluded it hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d visited. The floors were gleaming stone, the walls horizontal planks of dark wood.

  The house was cool and dark, the hallway illuminated with golden light cast down from wall-mounted sconces.

  The smell of vanilla cookies permeated the air.

  That smell—of bright lemons and sugarreminded me of Tate. It was the same scent I’d caught the last time I’d seen him. Maybe he had a favorite snack, and the Creeley Creek staff obliged.

  But the man in the hallway wasn’t one I’d expected to see. My father, dapper in a sharp black suit, walked toward us. He didn’t offer a handshake; the arrogance was typical Joshua Merit.

  “Ethan, Merit.”

  “Joshua,” Ethan said with a nod. “Meeting with the mayor this evening?”

  “I was,” my father said. “You’re both well?”

  Sadly, I was surprised that he cared. “We’re fine,” I told him. “What brings you here?”

  “Business council issues,” my father said. He was a member of the Chicago Growth Council, a group geared toward bringing new businesses to the city.

  “I also put in a good word about your House,” he added, “about the strides you’ve taken with the city’s supernatural populations. Your grandfather keeps me apprised.”

  “That was . . . very magnanimous of you,” Ethan said, his confusion matching my own.

  My father smiled pleasantly, then glanced from us to Tabitha. “I see that you’re heading in.

  Don’t let me keep you. Good to see you both.”

  Tabitha stepped in front of us, heels clacking on the floor as she marched deeper into the mansion. “Follow me,” she called back.

  Ethan and I exchanged a glance.

  “What just happened?” I asked.

  “For some unknown reason, your father has suddenly become friendly?”

  There was undoubtedly a business-related reason for that, which I assumed we’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, we did as we were told, and followed Tabitha down the hallway.

  Seth Tate had the look of a playboy who’d never quite reformed. Tousled, coal black hair, blue eyes under long, dark brows. He had a face women swooned over and, as a second-term mayor, the political chops to back up the looks.

  That explained why he’d been named one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelors, and one of the country’s sexiest politicians.

  He met us in his office, a long, low room that was paneled floor to ceiling in wood. A gigantic desk sat at one end of the room in front of a tufted, red leather chair that could have doubled as a throne.

  Both the desk and throne stood beneath an ominous five-foot-wide painting. Most of the canvas was dark, but the outlines of a group of suspicious-looking men were visible. They stood around a man positioned near the center of the painting, his arms above his head, cowering as they pointed down at him. It looked like they were condemning him for something. It wasn’t exactly an inspiring painting.

  Tate, who stood in the middle of the room, reached out a hand toward Ethan, no hesitation in the movement. “Ethan.”

  “Mr. Mayor.” They shared a manly handshake.

  “How are things at the House?”

  “I’d say the mood is . . . anticipatory. With protesters at the gate, one tends to wait for the other shoe to drop.”

  After they’d shared a knowing look, Tate turned to me, a smile blossoming. “Merit,” he said, voice softer. He took both my hands and leaned toward me, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, the scent of sugared lemon floating around him. “I just met with your father.”

  “We saw him on the way out.”

  He released me and smiled, but as he looked me over, the smile faded. “Are you all right?”

  I must have looked shaken; being held at gunpoint could do that to a girl. But before I could speak, Ethan sent a warning.

  Don’t mention McKetrick, he said. Not until we know more about his alliances.

  “There was a protest outside the House,” I obediently told Tate. “It was unnerving. A lot of prejudice was thrown around.”

  Tate offered an apologetic look.

  “Unfortunately, we can’t deny the protesters their permits for First Amendment reasons, but we can always step in if matters escalate.”

  “We had things well in hand,” I assured him.

  “Gabriel Keene’s announcement that shape-shifters exist hasn’t done much for your popularity.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Ethan admitted. “But he came to the fight at the House when our backs were against the wall. Going public—getting his side of the story out there—was the best of a bad set of options for protecting his people.”

  “I don’t necessarily disagree,” Tate said. “He doesn’t make the announcement, and we end up having to arrest every shifter there for assault and disturbing the peace. We couldn’t just let them off without some justification. The announcement gave us that reason, helped the public understand why they’d joined the fight and why we weren’t arresting them on sight.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate your understanding.”

  Tate offered a sardonic look. “I doubt that kind of thing interests them. Shifters don’t strike me as the most political types.”

  “They aren’t,” Ethan agreed. “But Gabrie
l is savvy enough to understand when a favor’s been done, and when a favor needs to be returned. He wasn’t happy about making the announcement, and he has even less interest in his people getting pulled into the public’s fear of vampires. He’s working on that now, keeping his people out of the public’s notice.”

  “That’s actually the reason I’ve asked you to meet with me,” Tate said. “I realize it’s an unusual request, and I appreciate your coming on such short notice.”

  He sat down in the throne behind his desk, the onlookers in the portrait now pointing down at him. Tate gestured toward two smaller chairs that sat in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Ethan took a chair. I took point behind him, Sentinel at the ready.

  Mayor Tate’s eyes widened at the gesture, but his expression turned back to business fast enough. He flipped open a folder and uncapped an expensive-looking fountain pen.

  Ethan crossed one leg over the other. The signal: he was moving into political-chat position.

  “What can we do for you?” he asked, his voice oh-so-casual.

  “You said the mood at the House was anticipatory. That’s the concern I have about the city more broadly. The attack on Cadogan has reactivated the city’s fear of the supernatural, of the other. We had four days of riots the first time around, Ethan. I’m sure you’ll understand the tricky position that puts me in—keeping the citizenry calm while trying to be understanding toward your challenges, including Adam Keene’s attack.”

  “Of course,” Ethan graciously said.

  “But humans are nervous. Increasingly so.

  And that nervousness is leading to an uptick in crime. In the last two weeks, we’ve seen marked increases in assaults, in batteries, in arson, in the use of firearms. I’ve worked hard to get those numbers down since my first election, and I think the city’s better for it. I’d hate to see us slide backward.”

  “I think we’d all agree with that,” Ethan said aloud, but that was just the precursor to the silent conversation between us as Ethan activated our telepathic link. What’s he building toward?

  Your guess is as good as mine, I answered.

  Tate frowned and glanced down at the folder on his desk. He scanned whatever information he found there, then lifted a document from it and extended it toward Ethan. “Humans, it seems, are not the only increasingly violent folk in our city.”

  Ethan took the document, staring silently down at it until his shoulders tensed into a flat line.

  Ethan? What is it? I asked. Without bothering to answer, Ethan handed the paper over his shoulder. I took it from him. It looked like part of a police transcript.

  Q: Tell me what you saw, Mr.

  Jackson.

  A: There were dozens of them.

  Vampires, you know? Fangs and that ability to get inside your mind. And they was blood-crazy.

  All of them. Everywhere you looked—vampire, vampire, vampire. Bam! Vampire. And they were all over us. No escape.

  Q: Who couldn’t escape?

  A: Humans. Not when the vampires wanted you. Not when they wanted to take you down and pull that blood right out of you.

  All of ’em were on you and the music was so loud and it was pounding like a hammer against your heart. They were crazed with it. Crazy with it.

  Q: With what?

  A: With the blood. With the lust for it. The hunger. You could see it in their crazy eyes. They were silver, just like the eyes of the devil. You get only one look at those eyes before the devil himself pulls you down into the abyss.

  Q: And then what happened, Mr.

  Jackson?

  A: [ Shaking his head. ] The hunger, the lust, it got them.

  Drove them. They killed three girls. Three of them. They drank until there was no life left.

  The page stopped there. My fingers shaking around the paper, I skipped the chain of command and glanced up at Tate. “Where did you get this?”

  Tate met my gaze. “Cook County Jail. This was from an interview with a man who’d been arrested for possession of a controlled substance.

  The detective wasn’t sure if he was drunk or disturbed . . . or if he’d actually seen something that required our attention. Fortunately, she took the transcript to her supervisor, who brought it to my chief of staff. We’ve yet to find the victims of whom Mr. Jackson spoke—no missing persons match his descriptions—although we are actively investigating the accusation.”

  “Where did this occur?” Ethan quietly asked.

  Tate’s gaze dropped down to Ethan and narrowed. “He said West Town, and he hasn’t been more specific than offering up the neighborhood. Since we haven’t identified a crime scene or the victims, it’s possible he exaggerated the violence. On the other hand, as you can see from the transcript, he’s quite convinced the vampires of our fair city were involved in a bloodlust-driven attack on humans.

  An attack that left three innocents dead.”

  After a moment of silence, Tate sat back, crossed his hands behind his head, and rocked back in the chair. “I’m not thrilled this is going on in my city. I’m not happy about the attack on your House and whatever animosity lies between you and the Packs, and I’m not happy that my citizens are scared enough of vampires that they’ve lined up outside your home to protest your existence.”

  Tate sat forward again, fury in his expression.

  “But you know what really pisses me off? The fact that you don’t look surprised about Mr.

  Jackson’s report. The fact that I’ve learned you’re well aware of the existence of drinking parties you call ‘raves.’ ” My stomach clenched with nerves. Tate was normally poised, politic, careful with words, and invariably optimistic about the city. This voice was the kind you’d expect to hear in a smoky back room or a dark restaurant booth. The kind of tone you’d have heard in Al Capone’s Chicago.

  This was the Seth Tate that destroyed his enemies. And we were now his targets.

  “We’ve heard rumors,” Ethan finally said, a master of understatement.

  “Rumors of blood orgies?”

  “Of raves,” Ethan admitted. “Small gatherings where vampires drink communally from humans.”

  Raves were usually organized by Rogue vampires—the ones that weren’t tied to a House and tended not to follow traditional House rules.

  For most Houses, those rules meant not snacking on humans, consenting or not. Cadogan allowed drinking, but still required consent, and I didn’t know of any House that would condone outright murder.

  We’d come close to having raves pop into the public eye a few months ago, but with a little investigation on our part, we’d managed to keep them in the closet. I guess that blissful ignorance was behind us.

  “We’ve been keeping our ears to the ground,” Ethan continued, “to identify the organizers of the raves, their methods, the manners in which they attract humans.”

  That was Malik’s job—Ethan’s secondin-command, the runnerup for the crown. After a blackmailing incident, he’d been put in charge of investigating the raves.

  “And what have you found?” Tate asked.

  Ethan cleared his throat. Ah, the sound of stalling.

  “We’re aware of three raves in the last two months,” he said. “Three raves involving, at most, half a dozen vampires. These were small, intimate affairs. While bloodletting does occur, we have not heard of the, shall we say, frenetic violence of which Mr. Jackson speaks, nor would we condone such things. There has certainly never been an allegation that any participant was

  . . . drained. And if we had heard of it, we’d have contacted the Ombudsman, or put a stop to it ourselves.”

  The mayor linked his fingers together on the desktop. “Ethan, I believe that part and parcel of keeping this city safe is integrating vampires into the human population. Division will solve nothing—it will only lead to more division. On the other hand, according to Mr. Jackson, vampires are engaging in violent, largescale, and hardly consensual acts. That is unacceptable to me.�
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  “As it is to me and mine,” Ethan said.

  “I’ve heard talk about a recall election,” Tate said. “I will not go down in flames because of supernatural hysteria. This city does not need a referendum on vampires or shape-shifters.

  “But most important,” he continued, gaze burrowing into Ethan, “you do not want a bevy of aldermen showing up at your front door, demanding that you close down your House. You do not want the city council legislating you out of existence.”

  I felt a burst of magic from Ethan. His angst—and anger—were rising, and I was glad Tate was human and couldn’t sense the uncomfortable prickle of it.

  “And you do not want me as an enemy,” Tate concluded. “You do not want me requesting a grand jury to consider the crimes of you and yours.” He flipped through the folder on his desk, then slid out a single sheet and held it up. “You do not want me executing this warrant for your arrest on the basis that you’ve aided and abetted the murder of humans in this city.”

  Ethan’s voice was diamond-cold, but the magical tingle was seismic in magnitude. “I have done no such thing.”

  “Oh?” Tate placed the paper on his desk again.

  “I have it on good authority that you changed a human into a vampire without her consent.” He lifted his gaze to me, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “I also have it on good authority that while you and your vampire council promised to keep Celina Desaulniers contained in Europe, she’s been in Chicago. Are those actions such a far stretch from murder?”

  “Who suggested Celina was in Chicago?”

  Ethan asked. The question was carefully put. We knew full well that Celina—the former head of Navarre House and my would-have-been killer—had been released by the Greenwich Presidium, the organizing body for European and North American vampires. We also knew that once the GP let her go, she’d made her way to Chicago. But we hadn’t thought she was still here. The last few months had been too drama free for that. Or so they’d seemed.