by Хлоя Нейл
“And they prefer not to leave the bridges.”
I glanced back. Catcher stood in the doorway, plate of fruit in hand and, just as Mallory had said, rectangular frames perched on his nose.
They were an interesting contrast with the shaved head and pale green eyes, but they totally worked. He’d gone from buff martial arts expert to ripped smart-boy. The Sentinel definitely approved. I also approved of his typically snarky T-shirt. Today’s read I GOT OUT OF BED FOR THIS?
“Mr. Bell,” I said, offering a small salute to my former katana trainer. “I like the glasses.”
“I appreciate your approval.” He moved to his desk and began stabbing the fruit with a toothpick.
So, Catcher was a sorcerer, and Jeff was a shifter. Vampires were also represented, at least partly. Because Chicago’s Masters were pretty tight-lipped about House goings-on, my grandfather had a secret vampire employee who offered up information—a vampire I suspected, largely without evidence, was Malik.
“Do they live under the bridges?” I wondered aloud, returning to the trolls.
“Rain or shine, summer or winter,” Catcher said.
“And why the open house? Is that just maintaining good supernatural relations?”
“Now that things are escalating,” Catcher said, frowning as he used the toothpick to push out the seeds from a chunk of watermelon, “we’re working through the phone book. Every population gets a visit—an evening with the Ombudsman.”
“Things are definitely changing,” Jeff agreed.
“Things are getting louder.”
We all looked back as a broad-shouldered river troll with short, ginger hair looked into the office. His wide-set eyes blinked curiously at us.
He didn’t have much neck to speak of, so his entire torso swiveled as he looked us over. A light breeze of magic stirred the air.
“Hey, George,” Catcher said.
George nodded and offered a small wave. “It’s getting louder. The voices. The talk. The winds are changing. There’s anger in the air, I think.”
He paused. “We don’t like it.” He shifted his gaze to me, a question in his eyes: Was I part of the problem? Making the city louder? Adding to the anger?
“This is Merit,” Catcher quietly explained.
“Chuck’s granddaughter.”
Awareness blossomed in George’s expression.
“Chuck is a friend to us. He is . . . quieter than the rest.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what George meant by
“quiet”—I had the sense it meant more to him than simply the absence of sound—but it was clear he meant it as a compliment.
“Thank you,” I said with as much sincerity as I could push into those two words.
George watched me for a moment. Thinking.
Evaluating, maybe, before he finally nodded.
The act seemed to carry more significance than just an acceptance of my thanks—like I’d been approved by him. I nodded back, my act just as significant. We were two paranormal creatures—members of different tribes, but nevertheless linked together by the city’s drama and an Ombudsman trying diligently to stem the tide—accepting each other.
The connection made, George disappeared again.
“Soft-spoken,” I commented when he was gone.
“They are,” Jeff said. “The RTs keep to themselves, except when the nymphs request it.
And even then, they appear, they work the task, and they head back beneath the bridges again.”
“What kind of things do they do?”
Jeff shrugged. “Generally they do the heavy lifting. Playing muscle for a nymph along her chunk of the river if there’s a boundary dispute, maybe enforcing the peace, maybe helping clean up that chunk of the river if the waters are moving too quickly.”
Apparently done with his explanation, Jeff stretched out to straighten a silver picture frame now on one corner of his desk. I’d previously seen the many-tentacled plush doll that sat atop one of his monitors, but the frame was new.
I walked over and peeked around his desk to get a glimpse of the picture. It was a shot of him and Fallon Keene. They’d apparently hit it off when the Keene family—and representatives of the rest of the Packs—had come to Chicago to decide whether to stay in their respective cities or head off to their ancestral home in Aurora, Alaska. The Packs had voted to stay, and the Keene family hadn’t yet returned to their HQ in Memphis. That respite must have given Jeff and Fallon time to get to know each other.
In the picture, Jeff and Fallon stood beside each other in front of a flat brick wall, their fingers intertwined, gazing at each other. And in their eyes—something weighty and important.
Love, already?
“You look very happy,” I told Jeff.
Crimson rose on his cheeks. “Catcher’s giving me crap about moving too fast,” he said, keeping his gaze on the monitors in front of him. “But he’s one to talk.”
“He is already living with my former roommate,” I agreed.
“Still in the room,” Catcher said. “And speaking of things in the room, what brings you by?”
“Just the usual door-darkening crap. First item on the agenda—some kind of G.I. Joe–wannabe organization, led by a man named McKetrick.
They set up a roadblock not far from the House.
They had full military gear—combat boots, black clothes, black SUVs without license plates.”
“No black helicopters?” Jeff asked.
“I know, right? McKetrick has styled himself as some kind of human savior from the vampire invasion. He thinks fangs make us a genetic mistake.”
“A mistake he’s going to remedy?” Catcher asked.
I nodded. “Precisely. He says his goal is getting vamps out of Chicago and, I assume, filling that vacuum with his sparkling personality.”
“We’ll do some digging. Find out what we can.” Catcher tilted his head curiously. “How’d you get out of the roadblock?”
“Ethan called our favorite Pack members.
Keene brought the family and then some.”
“Nice,” Jeff said. “Um, was Fallon there?”
“She was. But in a Cardinals cap. Can’t you do something about that?”
He shrugged sheepishly. “I know how to pick my battles. So no. Oh—and did you hear? Tonya had the baby. A nine-pound boy. Connor Devereaux Keene.”
I smiled back at him. Tonya was Gabriel’s wife; she’d been quite pregnant the last time I’d seen her, and they’d already decided on
“Connor” as a name. “Nine pounds? That’s a big boy.”
Jeff smiled knowingly. “That’s what she said.”
Catcher cleared his throat. “What’s the second thing?”
“Raves.”
They both looked up at me.
“What about them?” Catcher asked.
“That was actually my first question. At best, we have raves popping into the public eye—for real this time.”
“And worst?” Catcher asked.
“We have something with the markings of a rave, but that actually involves psycho-vamps committing atrocities against multiple humans.
Three supposed deaths so far, but there’s no physical evidence.”
There was silence in the office.
“You’re serious?” Catcher asked, voice grave.
“Aspen serious.” I gave them the details on Mr. Jackson and his experience, on the mayor’s investigation, and on our visit to his home. It worried me that they didn’t already have these details; my grandfather, after all, was the city’s supernatural Ombudsman. He should have been the first person Tate called.
“Is it because of me?” I asked. “Is Tate keeping information from him because I’m his granddaughter? Because I’m in Cadogan?”
Catcher pushed away his plate of fruit, propped his elbows on the table, and rubbed his temples. “I don’t know, and I really don’t like that idea. But I do know Chuck won’t be pleased at the possibility that we’re a figurehead
group, an office Tate keeps open to make sups think he gives a shit—”
“While he’s keeping important information from us,” Jeff finished.
“On the other hand,” Catcher thoughtfully said, “it wouldn’t be our job to investigate.
That’s the role of CPD detectives. But he’d normally give us a heads-up so we could make contact with the Houses or the Rogues.” He shook his head. “We always thought Tate was a little cagey. I guess this proves you have to keep one ear to the ground even when you’re supposedly in the loop.”
“And speaking of keeping an ear to the ground, what’s the word on raves? Anything new in the ether?”
He frowned. “I assumed you’ve talked to Malik or Ethan and you know about the three we tracked?”
“I’ve heard,” I growled out.
With a nod, Catcher rose and went to a whiteboard newly installed on one end of the office, uncapped a green marker, and began writing. Accompanied by the squeak of the pen, he started by drawing what looked like an angled, limp fish.
“What’s that?”
“Chicago,” he said without turning around.
“Seriously? That’s how you represent the city you work for? As a fish?”
“It really does look like a fish,” Jeff said excitedly. “Oh, maybe it’s an Asian carp. Are you making a metaphor about raves and invasive species?”
“Clever,” I said with a smile for Jeff.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling proudly.
“That’s what the ladies say.”
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Catcher, who was glaring at both of us above his Buddy Holly glasses. I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud.
“As I was saying,” he continued, before placing stars on the map in different locations, “we know about three new raves in the last two months.”
“Intel from the secret vampire?” I wondered aloud.
“Two of them,” Catcher admitted. “The third from Malik. All were second- or thirdhand reports.”
Okay, so that pretty much blew my Malik-is-the-secret-source theory.
“There’s also the rave we visited along the lakeshore,” Catcher added, placing another star on the board.
We didn’t find out about that one until after the rave was over and the vamps had closed up shop. As a result, we only walked away with a guess about the number of attendees and a clue as to who’d also investigated—the Red Guard and a shifter we later learned had been our blackmailer.
“There are also the raves we knew about before we visited that rave. And the one Tate identified. It was in West Town.”
Catcher nodded, grabbed a blue marker, and filled in those stars.
I squinted at Catcher’s “drawing,” but still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Except that it still looked like a fish. “Could you at least show us where Navy Pier is?” I asked him. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”
Catcher grumbled, but obliged, and drew a tiny rectangle poking out from one side of the fish.
Jeff chuckled. “Is that Navy Pier, or is Chicago just happy to see me?”
I laughed so hard I snorted a little, at least until Catcher pounded a fist on the top of the closest table.
“Hey,” I objected, pointing at him, “my Master might be in Cook County lockup by the end of the week, and that won’t exactly be good for me. Sarcasm is my way of relieving stress, as you know, since you’ve seen me and Mallory at it.”
Ironically, saying the jail bit aloud again made my stomach crumple with nerves. But Catcher’s expression softened. He glanced back at the board, a smile at one corner of his mouth. “I guess it does look kind of ridiculous.”
“And since you’ve acknowledged that, you may continue,” I magnanimously offered.
“So the raves,” he said without delay, “are sprinkled across the city. No apparent pattern.
No apparent locus of activity.”
“That’s telling in itself,” I said, sitting up.
“That says there’s no rave headquarters, not where the parties are held, anyway, and that the vamps are smart enough to move the party around.”
“So no humans or Masters—if these are Housed vamps—get suspicious,” Jeff added.
“Exactly,” Catcher said.
“What about the size?” I asked. “The scale?
Mr. Jackson was convinced there were dozens of vamps there, and that the entire thing was American Psycho violent.”
“Just like the site we visited, our current intel says raves are a handful of vamps and a few humans. Small, intimate. Focused on the act of giving and accepting blood. To continue the movie analogy, this isn’t Fight Club.”
“More like Love at First Bite,” Jeff said.
Catcher rolled his eyes again. “So this new incident we’re talking about is something unprecedented in terms of size and violence, without matching missing persons reports, and no actual evidence of a crime.” He shrugged. “That suggests Mr. Jackson wasn’t entirely honest.
Problem is, we haven’t talked to any vampires who were actually there. That would be the real coup—getting someone in from the beginning.
On the ground floor. Figuring out who’s there, how the information is being passed, who’s participating, and whether they’re participating willingly.”
“Can you pull in data from the CPD?” I asked.
“See what their files have to say?”
“Done and done,” Jeff said, sitting forward and beginning to tap on his keyboard. “I might have to dig a little to find it—their IT architecture is for shit—but I’ll let you know.”
Of course, just because the Ombud’s office didn’t have information didn’t mean there wasn’t information to be had. It was probably time to tap my next source. . . .
“Thanks,” I told both of them. “Can you give me a call if you hear anything else?”
“Of course. I assume Sullivan’s going to send you out on some sort of crazy psycho-vampire-hunting field trip?”
“The forecast is strong.”
“Call me if you need backup,” Catcher said.
“Of course,” I agreed, but I actually had an idea about that, as well. After all, Jonah had been offered up as a partner.
“And if you do go,” Catcher added, “look for identifying information, listen for any word about how they’re contacting vamps or identifying humans.”
“Will do.”
“You want me to find Chuck before you leave?” Jeff asked.
I waved him off. “No worries. He’s busy. Let him handle his open house.”
“I’m pretty sure I can manage a job and family both,” said a gravelly voice at the door. I glanced back and smiled as my grandfather walked into the office. He was dressed up tonight, having traded in the long-sleeved plaid shirt for a corduroy blazer. But he’d stuck with the khaki pants and thick-soled grandpa shoes.
He walked over to where I sat at the edge of the desk and planted a kiss on my forehead.
“How’s my favorite vampire?”
I put an arm around his waist and gave him a half hug. “Are there any others in the running?”
“Now that you mention it, no. They tend to be rather high maintenance.”
“Amen,” Catcher and Jeff simultaneously said.
I gave them a snarky look.
“What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“I was filling in Catcher and Jeff about our latest drama. Long story short, black ops and raves two-point-oh.”
He grimaced. “That wouldn’t thrill me even if I weren’t your grandfather.”
“Nope,” I agreed.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news myself,” he said, “but your father tells me you haven’t spoken in a few weeks.”
I didn’t care for my father, but I cared even less for the fact that he’d put my grandfather in the middle of our feud.
“Actually, I saw him leaving the mayor’s home last night. We had a very pleasant exchange,” I assur
ed my grandfather.
“Good girl,” he said with a smile.
I hopped off the desk. It was time to get the rest of the investigative show on the road. “I need to run, and you need to get back to your party, so I’ll let them fill you in on the details.”
“As if there’s a chance I could avoid it,” my grandfather said. He hugged me one more time, then let me go.
I said my goodbyes and walked back to the front door, the river trolls nodding at me when I passed as if I’d been vetted. Not as a vampire, maybe, but at least the granddaughter of a man they trusted.
Friends in high places definitely helped —especially if you had enemies in even higher spots.
My phone rang just as I was getting back into my car. I pulled the door shut and flipped it open.
It was Mallory.
“Hey, Blue Hair. What’s up?”
She didn’t speak, but she immediately began sobbing.
“Mal, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Catharsis,” she said. “It’s one of those catharsis cries.”
I blew out a breath. I’d been prepared to squeal tires in the rush to get to her if she’d been in danger. But every girl knows the importance of a cathartic cry—when you aren’t necessarily crying over something specific, but because everything has worked itself into a giant, contorted knot.
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Kind of. Not really. I don’t know. Can you meet me?”
“Of course. Where are you?”
She sniffed. “I’m still in Schaumburg. I’m at the Goodwin’s off I-90. I know it’s far away, but could you meet me out here? Do you have time?”
Goodwin’s was one of those ubiquitous twenty-four-hour restaurants that you saw in office parks and hotel parking lots. The kind frequented by senior citizens at four in the afternoon and teenagers at midnight. I wouldn’t call Mallory a foodie, but she definitely had an interest in hip cuisine. If we were meeting at a Goodwin’s, she wanted either bland food or anonymity.
I wasn’t crazy about either option.
“I’m just leaving the Ombud’s office. It’ll take me about forty-five to get there. That okay?”
