Hard Bitten cv-4

by Хлоя Нейл

  Tate arched his eyebrows. “I notice you don’t deny it. As for the information, I have my sources, just as I’m sure you do.”

  “Sources or not, I don’t take kindly to blackmail.”

  With shocking speed, Tate switched back from Capone to front-page orator, smiling magnanimously at us. “ ‘Blackmail’ is such a harsh word, Ethan.”

  “Then what, precisely, do you want?”

  “I want for you, for us, to do the right thing for the city of Chicago. I want for you and yours to have the chance to take control within your own community.” Tate linked his hands on the desk and looked us over. “I want this problem solved.

  I want an end to these gatherings, these raves, and a personal guarantee that you have this problem under control. If it’s not done, the warrant for your arrest will be executed. I assume we understand each other?”

  There was silence until Ethan finally bit out, “Yes, Mr. Mayor.”

  Like a practiced politico, Tate instantly softened his expression. “Excellent. If you have anything to report, or if you need access to any of the city’s resources, you need only contact me.”

  “Of course.”

  With a final nod, Tate turned back to his papers, just as Ethan might have done if I’d been called into his office for a friendly chat.

  But this time, it was Ethan who’d been called out, and it was Ethan who rose and walked back to the door. I followed, ever the dutiful Sentinel.

  Ethan kept the fear or concern or vitriol or whatever emotion was driving him to himself even as we reached the Mercedes.

  And I meant “driving” literally. He expressed that pent-up frustration with eighty thousand dollars of German engineering and a 300-horsepower engine. He managed not to clip the gate as he pulled out of the drive, but he treated the stop signs between Creeley Creek and Lake Shore Drive like meek suggestions. Ethan floored the Mercedes, zooming in and around traffic like the silver-eyed devil was on our tail.

  Problem was, we were the silver-eyed devils.

  We were both immortal, and Ethan probably had a century of driving experience under his belt, but that didn’t make the turns any less harrowing. He raced through a light and onto Lake Shore Drive, turned south, and gunned it. . .

  And he kept driving until the city skyline glowed behind us.

  I was almost afraid to ask where he was taking us—did I really want to know where predatory vampires blew off political steam?—but he saved me the trouble when we reached Washington Park. He pulled off Lake Shore Drive, and a few squealing turns later we were coasting onto Promontory Point, a small peninsula that jutted into the lake. Ethan drove around the tower topped building and stopped the car in front of the rock ledge that separated grass from lake.

  Without a word, he climbed out of the car and slammed it shut again. When he hopped the rock ledge that ringed the peninsula and disappeared from sight, I unfastened my seat belt. It was time to go to work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE SAVAGE BEAST

  The air was thick and damp, the sharp smell of ozone signaling rain. The lake looked like it was already in the middle of a squall: whitecaps rolled across the water like jagged teeth, and waves pounded the rocky shoreline.

  I glanced up at the sky. The anvil-shaped marker of a gigantic thunderstorm was swelling in the southwestern sky, visible each time lightning flashed across it.

  Without warning, a crack split the air.

  I jumped and looked back at the building, thinking it had been struck by an early bolt of lightning. But the building was quiet and still, and when another crack shattered the silence, I realized the sound had come from a stand of trees on the other side of the building.

  I walked around to investigate and found Ethan standing at the base of a pine tree like a fighter facing down a forty-foot-tall opponent.

  His fists were up, his body bladed.

  “Every time!” he yelled. “Every time I manage to bring things under control, we become enmeshed in bullshit again!”

  And then he pivoted and thrust out—and punched the tree.

  Crack.

  The tree wobbled like it had been rammed by a truck, needles whoosh ing as limbs moved. The smell of pine resin—and blood—lifted in the breeze. And those weren’t the only things in the air. Magic rippled off Ethan’s body in waves, leaving its telltale tingle around us.

  And that, I thought, explained why he’d driven here instead of the House. With that much anger banked, there was no way Ethan could have gone home. Cadogan’s vampires—even those who weren’t as sensitive to magic as I was—would have known something was wrong, and that certainly wasn’t going to ease the anticipatory mood. It was an obvious downside of being a Master vampire—to be all riled up with nowhere to go.

  “Do you have any idea how long—how hard—I’ve worked to make this House successful? And this human—this temporary blip in the chronology of the world—threatens to take it all away.”

  Ethan reared back for a second strike, but he’d already split his knuckles and the poor tree probably wasn’t faring much better. I understood the urge to rail out when you were being held accountable for another’s evils, but hurting himself wasn’t going to solve the problem. It was time to intervene.

  I was standing on the lawn between the building and the lake; I figured that was a perfect place to work off a little tension. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” I called out.

  He looked over, one eyebrow defiantly arched.

  “Don’t tempt me, Sentinel.”

  I peeled off my suit jacket and dropped it onto the ground, then put my hands on my hips and, hopefully for the last time tonight, pulled out my vampire bravado. “Are you afraid you can’t handle me?”

  His expression was priceless—equal parts tempted and irritated—the masculinity warring with the urge to tamp down the challenge to his authority. “Watch your mouth.”

  “It was a legitimate question,” I countered.

  Ethan was already walking closer, the smell of his blood growing stronger.

  I won’t deny it—my hunger was perked. I’d bitten Ethan twice before, and both times had been memorable. Sensual, in ways I wasn’t entirely comfortable admitting. The scent of his blood triggered those memories again, and I knew my own eyes had silvered, even if I wasn’t thrilled about bring tempted.

  “It was a childish question,” he growled out, taking another step forward.

  “I disagree. If you want to fight, try a vampire.”

  “Your attempts at being clever aren’t serving you, Sentinel.”

  He moved within striking range, blood dripping from his right knuckles, which were split nearly to the bone. They’d heal, and quickly, but they must have hurt.

  “And yet,” I said, squeezing my own hands into fists, “here you are.”

  His eyes flashed silver. “Remember your position.”

  “Does putting me in my place make you feel better?”

  “I am your Master.”

  “Yes, you are. In Hyde Park and in Creeley Creek, and wherever else vampires are gathered, you’re my Master. But out here, it’s just you and me and the chip Tate put on your shoulder. You can’t go back to the House like this. You’re pouring magic, and that’s going to worry everyone even more than they already are.”

  There was a tic above his eyebrow, but Ethan held his tongue.

  “Out here,” I quietly said, “it’s just you and me.”

  “Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With no more warning, he offered up his favorite move, a roundhouse kick that he swiveled toward my head. But I dropped my arm and shoulder and blocked it.

  That move thwarted, Ethan bounced back into position. “Don’t get cocky, Sentinel. You’ve only taken me down once.”

  I tried a roundhouse of my own, but he dodged it, ducking and spinning around the kick, before popping up again. “Maybe so,” I said. “But how many Novitiates have beaten you before?”

  He scowled and offered a ja
b combination that I easily rebuffed. For all the vampiric power we could put behind our shots, this wasn’t a real battle. This was play-fighting. The release of tension.

  “Never fear,” he said. “You may have gotten me down, but I’ve been above you before, and I’m sure I’ll manage it again.”

  He was being arrogant, letting the gentle, insistent veneer he’d been wearing lately slip.

  But I’d managed to transmute his anger into romantic steam, which softened his punches.

  I swatted away a halfhearted jab. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not that kind of hungry.”

  “My hopes, as you call them, are perpetually up when you’re in the vicinity.”

  “Then I’ll try to stay farther away,” I sweetly responded.

  “That won’t exactly be conducive to your standing Sentinel.”

  “Neither will your being arrested,” I said, bringing him back to the point.

  Ethan ran his hands through his blond locks, then linked his fingers together atop his head. “I am doing everything I can to keep the city together. And it’s only getting harder. And now, within a few hours, we see the ugly side of freedom of speech, we learn Chicago has a militia, and we discover Tate’s out for blood. My blood.”

  My heart clenched in sympathy, but I resisted the urge to reach out to him. We were colleagues, I reminded myself. Nothing more.

  “I know it’s frustrating,” I said, “and I know Tate was out of line with the warrant. But what can we do but try to solve the problem?”

  Frowning, Ethan turned back to the lake, then walked toward it. The edge of the peninsula was terraced into stone rings that formed giant steps into the water. He shed his suit jacket, placing it gingerly on the stone ledge before sitting down beside it.

  Was it wrong that I was a wee bit disappointed he didn’t just shed the shirt altogether?

  When I joined him, he picked up a pebble and pitched it. Even with the chop, it flew like a bullet across the water.

  “This doesn’t sound like a rave,” I said. “What Mr. Jackson described, I mean, at least not like how you’ve described them before. This didn’t sound like it was about seduction or glamour.

  This isn’t some underground hobby.” As I waited for him to answer, I pushed the bangs from my face. The wind was picking up.

  Ethan wound up and threw another pebble, the rock zinging as it skipped ahead. “Continue,” he said, and I incrementally relaxed. We were back to politics and strategy. That was a good sign.

  “I’ve experienced First Hunger, and First Hunger Part Deux. There was a sensual component to both, sure, but at base they were about the blood—the thirst. Not about conquering humans or killing them.”

  “We are vampires,” he dryly pointed out.

  “Yes, because we drink blood, not because we’re psychopaths. I’m not saying there aren’t psychopathic vampires, or vampires who wouldn’t kill for blood if they were starving for it, but it doesn’t sound like that’s what happened here. It sounds like violence, pure and simple.”

  Ethan was quiet for a moment. “The hunger for blood is antithetical to violence. If anything, it’s about seduction, about drawing the human closer. That is the quintessential purpose of vampire glamour.”

  Glamour was old-school vampire mojo—the ability of vampires to entrance others, either by manipulating their targets or by adjusting their own appearances to make themselves more attractive to their victims. I couldn’t glamour worth a damn, but I seemed to have some immunity toward it.

  “This is the second time raves have gotten us in trouble,” I pointed out. “We’ve avoided them until now, and it’s time we shut them down. But we can’t go in assuming this is some run-of-the-mill party that got out of hand. This just sounds . . . different. And if you want a silver lining, at least Tate’s giving you a chance to resolve the problem.”

  “Giving me a chance? That’s putting it mildly.

  He’s doing precisely what Nick Breckenridge attempted to do—blackmailing us into taking action.”

  “Or he’s giving us an opportunity we didn’t have before.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “He’s forcing our hands,” I said. “Which means that instead of tiptoeing around the GP and worrying what this House or that might think of us, we’re forced to get out there and do something about it. We get to spend some of that political capital you’re always harping about.”

  Ethan arched an eyebrow imperiously.

  “Talking about. Talking about in well-reasoned and measured tones.”

  This time, he rolled his eyes.

  “Look,” I continued. “The last time we worked on the raves, you made me focus on the media risk. Tonight, we’ve proven that worrying someone might find out about the problem doesn’t actually solve the problem. We need to get in front of the issue. We need to close them down.”

  “You want to tell vampires they can no longer engage in human blood orgies?”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to use those words, exactly. And I did plan to take my sword.”

  He smiled a little. “You are quite a thing to behold when you’ve got steel in your hands.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I touched a hand to my stomach. “And now that we’re looking on the bright side, let’s find some grub. I am starving.”

  “Are you ever not starving?”

  “Har-har.” I nudged his arm. “Come on. Let’s get an Italian beef.”

  He glanced over at me. “I assume that has some meaning important within Chicago culinary circles?”

  I just stood there, both saddened that he hadn’t experienced the joy of a good Italian beef sandwich—and irritated that he’d lived in Chicago for so long and had so completely sequestered himself from the stuff that made it Chicago.

  “As important as red hots and deep dish. Let’s go, Liege. It’s your turn to get schooled.”

  He growled, but relented.

  We drove to University Village, parked along the street, and took our places in line with the third-shifters on lunch breaks and the UIC students needing late-night snacks. Eventually we placed our orders and moved to a counter, where I taught Ethan to stand the way God intended Chicagoans to stand—feet apart, elbows on the table, sandwiches in hand.

  Ethan hadn’t spoken since his own eight-inch Italian beef sandwich had been delivered, still dripping from its dip in gravy. When his first bite left a trail of juice on the floor in front of his feet—and not on his expensive Italian shoes—he smiled grandly at me.

  “Well done, Sentinel.”

  I nodded through my bite of bread, beef, and peppers, happy that Ethan was in a better mood.

  Say what you might about my obsession with all things meat and carbohydrate, but never underestimate the ability of a stack of thin-sliced beef on a bun to make a man happy—vampire or human.

  And speaking of happiness, I wondered what else Ethan had been missing out on. “Have you ever been to a Cubs game?”

  Ethan dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, and I got a glimpse of his knuckles—already healed from the blows. “No, I have not. As you know, I’m not much of a baseball fan.”

  He wasn’t much of a fan, but he’d still tracked down a signed Cubs baseball to replace one I’d lost. That was the kind of move that threw me off balance, but I managed to keep things lighthearted.

  “Just stake me now,” I said. “Seriously —you’ve been in Chicago how long and you’ve never been to Wrigley? That’s a shame. You need to get out there. I mean, for a night game, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  A couple of large men with mustaches and Bears T-shirts moved toward the high bar where we stood, sandwiches in hand. They took a spot beside Ethan, spread their feet, unwrapped their own Italian beefs, and dug in.

  It wasn’t until bite number two that they glanced over and noticed two vampires were standing beside them.

  The one closest to Ethan ran a napkin across his dripping mustache, his gaze shifting from me to Eth
an. “You two look familiar. I know you?”

  Since my photo had been smeared across the front page of the paper a couple of months ago, and Ethan had made the local news more than once since the attack on Cadogan, we probably did look familiar.

  “I’m a vampire from Cadogan House,” Ethan said.

  Our area of the restaurant, not full but still dotted with late-night munchers, went silent.

  This time, the man looked suspiciously at the sandwich. “You like that?”

  “It’s great,” Ethan said, then gestured toward me. “This is Merit. She’s from Chicago. She decided I had to try one.”

  The man and his companion leaned forward to look at me. “That so?”

  “It is.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “You had deep dish yet? Or a red hot?”

  My heart warmed. We might have been vampires, but at least these guys recognized that we were first and foremost Chicagoans. We knew Wrigley Field and Navy Pier, Daley and rush hour traffic, Soldier Field in December and Oak Street Beach in July. We knew freak snowstorms and freakier heat waves.

  But most of all, we knew food: taquerias, red hots, deep dish, great beer. We baked it, fried it, sautéed it, and grilled it, and in our quest to enjoy the sunshine and warmth while we could, we shared that food together.

  “Both,” I said. “I got him pizza from Saul’s.”

  The man’s bushy eyebrows popped up. “You know about Saul’s?”

  I smiled slyly. “Cream cheese and double bacon.”

  “Oooh,” the man said, grinning ear to ear. He dropped his napkin and threw his hands into the air. “Cream cheese and double bacon. Our fanged friend here knows about Saul’s Best!” He raised his giant paper cup of soda in a toast. “To you, my friend. Good eats and whatnot.”

  “And to you,” Ethan said, raising his sandwich and taking a bite.

  Hot beef in the name of peace. I liked it.

  “I’m surprised you told him we were vampires,” I told Ethan on the way back to the car. “That you admitted to it, I mean, given what we saw earlier tonight.”