by Хлоя Нейл
“Yeah. I’m studying. I’ll be here.”
The studying explained the choice of restaurants. We said our goodbyes and I looked back at the office door for a minute, wondering if I should head back in and warn Catcher that his girl was a stressball. But I was a BFF, and there was a code of honor. A protocol. She’d called me, not Catcher—even though he was in the office and clearly reachable. That meant she needed to vent to me, so that was what we’d do.
“On my way,” I muttered, and started the car.
While I drove, I made plans for the second part of my investigation. And that part was a little bit trickier, mostly because I didn’t think my source liked me. The first time we’d met, Jonah had been brusque. The second time I discovered him on the dark streets of Wrigleyville, having followed me around so he could get a look at me.
Test my mettle, as it were.
The Red Guard had been organized two centuries ago to protect Master vampires, but now operated to keep a watchful eye on the Masters themselves. When Noah Beck, the leader of Chicago’s Rogues, made the membership offer, he’d informed me that Jonah, captain of the guards of Chicago’s Grey House, would be my partner if I signed up. I was flattered by the offer, but joining a group whose purpose was to keep an eye on Masters would have provoked World War III in Cadogan House.
Ethan, if he’d learned of it, would have seen the move as a slap in his face.
I considered myself to be a pretty low-drag vampire; purposefully adding to my stockpile of drama wasn’t really my cup of tea.
Jonah, having been singularly unimpressed with me, probably wasn’t bummed that I’d said no. I wasn’t expecting this telephone call was going to go any better, but the RG had details on the raves—including the rave they’d cleaned up.
And since my visit to the Ombud’s office hadn’t exactly been productive on an intelgathering basis (albeit very productive on a river-troll-diplomacy basis), Jonah was a source I needed to tap.
He’d called me once before, so when I was on the move north toward Schaumburg, I dialed his number. He answered after a couple of rings.
“Jonah.”
“Hi. It’s Merit.”
There was an awkward pause. “House business?”
I assumed he was asking if I was calling on behalf of Cadogan House—or our RG connection. “Not exactly. Do you have a minute to talk?”
Another pause. “Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.”
The line went dead, so I made sure my ringer was turned on and put the phone in the cup holder while I made my way toward I-90.
Jonah was punctual; the dashboard clock had moved ahead exactly five minutes when he called back.
“I had to get outside,” he explained. “I’m on the street now. Figured that would avoid the drama.” Scott Grey’s vampires lived in a converted warehouse in the Andersonville neighborhood, not far from Wrigley Field. The lucky ducks.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I decided to offer up the truth. “Mayor Tate called us into his office yesterday. Told us he had an eyewitness account that a band of vampires had killed three humans.”
“Damn.” His curse was low and a little tired-sounding. “Anything else?”
“Tate suggested the violence was part of the rave culture. But based on our intel, this sounds different. Bigger. Meaner. If the witness, a Mr.
Jackson, was telling the truth, this has the markings of some kind of attack. That it happened at a rave might be the minor issue. In any event, it’s time to do something about them, and in order to do that, I need information.”
“So you called me?”
I rolled my eyes. The question suggested he was doing me a favor—and that he’d ask for one in return. How very vampire.
“You’re my best hope for answers,” I matter-of-factly said.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot to tell you. I know about the last rave—the one the RG cleaned up—but only because Noah filled me in.
I wasn’t there.”
“Do you think Noah might have any more information?”
“Maybe. But why not just call him directly?”
“Because you were offered up to me as a partner.”
Jonah paused. “Is this call an indication of interest in the RG?”
It’s a last-ditch effort to glean information, I thought, but offered instead, “I think this is big enough that it transcends Houses or RG membership.”
“Fair enough. I’ll ask some questions and get back to you if I learn anything. I assume you won’t tell anyone we’ve talked.”
“Your secret is safe with me. And thanks.”
“Don’t thank me until I dig something up. I’ll be in touch.”
The line went dead, so I tucked the phone away. There were more drama and complications with each day that passed.
Rarely did a night pass without more vampire drama.
Sometimes hanging out in pajamas with a good book sounded like a phenomenal idea.
The phone rang again almost immediately after I’d hung up. I glanced at the screen; it was my father.
I briefly considered sending him directly to voice mail, but I’d been doing that a lot lately —enough that my lack of communication hit my grandfather’s radar. I didn’t want my problems on his plate, so I sucked it up, flipped open the phone, and raised it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“I’d like to speak with you,” my father said, apparently by way of greeting.
That was inevitably true. I’m sure my father had a number of topics in the queue for me. The trick was figuring out which particular topic was on his mind today.
“About?” I asked.
“Some things on the horizon. I’ve become aware of some investments in which I think Ethan might be interested.”
Ah, that explained the good humor at Creeley Creek. If there was anything that made my father happy, it was the possibility of a capital gain and a fat commission. Still, I did appreciate that he was interested in working with Ethan—instead of trying to bury us all.
“We’re in the middle of something right now.
But I’ll definitely advise Ethan of your offer.”
“He can call me in the office,” my father said.
He meant his skyscraper on Michigan Avenue across from Millennium Park. Only the best real estate for the city’s best real estate mogul.
With that bit of instruction, the line went dead.
If only we could have picked our family . . .
CHAPTER SIX
SEASON OF THE WITCH
I pulled into the restaurant’s almost empty parking lot. The restaurant’s windows glowed, only a handful of men and women visible through the glass.
I parked the Volvo and headed inside, glancing around until I found Mallory. She sat at a table in front of a laptop computer and a foot-high stack of books, her straight, ice blue hair tucked behind her ears. She frowned at the screen, a half-full tumbler of orange juice at her side.
She glanced up when I came in, and I noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes.
“Hi,” she said, relief in her face.
I slid into the booth. “You look tired.” No need to equivocate when your BFF was in pain, I figured.
“I am tired.” She closed the laptop and slid it out of the way, then linked her hands on the table. “Practicum isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
I crossed my legs on the bench. “Hard work?”
“Physically and emotionally exhausting.” She frowned over at the pile of books. “This is like sorcery boot camp—learning stuff I should have studied ten years ago, cramming all that into a fewmonth period.”
“Is it useful stuff?”
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve gone over it with my tutor so much it’s kind of second nature now.”
Before I had time to blink, the plastic salt and pepper shakers were sliding across the table in front of me.
I glanced up and found Mallory completely still, her expression bland.
I’d seen Mallory move things before—furniture, the last time—but I hadn’t seen her so lackadaisical about it.
“That’s . . . impressive.”
She shrugged, but there was something dark in her eyes. “I can do it almost without thinking about it.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
That was when the tears began to well. She looked up and away, as if the gesture alone would keep the tears from falling. But they slipped down her cheeks anyway. And when she brushed away the tears, I realized her fingers were red and raw.
“Talk to me,” I told her, then glanced around.
Our corner of the restaurant was empty; the only waitress in sight sat at a table on the other side of the room, rolling silverware into paper napkins.
“It’s practically just me and you in here.”
That unleashed a new flood of tears. My heart clenched at the thought that she’d done or seen things in the last couple of weeks that had brought her to tears—and that I probably couldn’t have stopped it.
I got up and moved to her side of the table, waiting until she slid down before I took a seat beside her.
“Tell me,” I said.
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I couldn’t help it; I smiled. If there was ever a problem I could understand as a newbie vampire, that was it. I bumped my forehead against her shoulder.
“Keep going.”
The floodgates opened. “I was this girl, right?
Doing my thing. Having blue hair, working my ad-exec mojo. And then you’re a vampire, and Ethan Sullivan is touching my hair and telling me I have magic. And then there’s Catcher and I’m a witch and I’m learning Keys and how to throw flaming balls of crap at targets so I’m ready when the vampire shit inevitably hits the fan.”
She sucked in air, then started again. “I was supposed to be a partner at thirty, Merit. Have a condo on the lake. Have a Birkin bag and generally be satisfied with my very fancy lot.
And now I’m doing”—she looked around
—“magic. And not just magic.”
Another tear slid down her cheek.
“What do you mean, not just magic?”
Her voice dropped an octave. “You know about the four Keys, right?”
“Sure. Power, beings, weapons, text.”
“Right. Those are the four major divisions of magic. Well, turns out it’s not that simple—those aren’t the only major divisions.”
I frowned at her. “So what are the others?”
She leaned in toward me. “They’re black magic, Merit. The bad stuff. There’s an entire system of dark magic that overlays the four good Keys.” She grabbed a napkin and uncapped a pen. “You’ve seen Catcher’s tattoo, right?”
I nodded. It was across his abdomen, a circle divided into quadrants.
She sketched out the image I’d seen, then pointed at the four pielike segments. “So each quadrant is a Key, right? A division of magic.”
She pulled another napkin from the holder and unfolded it, then drew another divided circle.
When she was done, she placed the second napkin on top of the first one.
“It’s the same four divisions—but all black magic.”
This time, my voice was softer. “Give me something to go on, here. What kind of black magic are we talking? Elphaba, Wicked Witch of the West–type stuff or Slytherin-type stuff?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“You can tell me anything.”
She looked over at me, frustration clear in her face. “Not won’t tell you, can’t tell you. There’s Order juju at work. I know things, but I can’t get them out. I can summon up the phrases in my head, but can’t actually give voice to the words.”
I did not like the sound of that—the fact that the already-secretive Order was using magic to keep Mallory from talking about the things that worried her. Dark things.
Regrettable things?
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, eyes on her hands on the table.
“Is that why your hands are so chapped?”
She nodded. “I’m tired, Merit. I’m training, and I’m learning what I can, but this—I don’t know—it uses you differently.” She clenched her hands into fists and then released them again.
“It’s a whole different kind of exhausting. Not just body. Not just mind. Soul, too, kind of.” Her eyebrows knotted with worry.
“Have you talked to Catcher about any of this?”
She shook her head. “He’s not in the Order. I can’t tell him anything I can’t tell you.”
I suddenly had an understanding of why Catcher wasn’t such a big fan of the Order—and why it mattered whether he was still a member or not.
“How can I help?”
She swallowed. “Could we just sit here for a little while?” She sighed haggardly. “I’m just tired. And I have exams coming up, and there’s so much prep to do—so many expectations on me right now. I just don’t want to go home. Not back to my life. I just want to sit in this crappy corporate restaurant for another couple of hours.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “As long as you want.”
We sat in the booth for an hour, barely talking, Mallory sipping orange juice from her cup and staring out the window at the rare car that passed the restaurant.
When her tumbler was empty, I bumped her shoulder again. “He loves you, you know. Even if it feels like something you can’t take to him, you can. I mean, I get that you can’t give him the details, but you can tell him this is worrying you.”
“You know that for sure?”
I caught the tiny thread of hope in her voice and tugged. “I know that for sure. It’s Catcher, Mallory. Crazy stubborn? Sure. Gruff?
Absolutely. But also totally in love with you.”
She sniffed. “Keep going.”
“Remember what you told me about Ethan?
That I deserved someone who wanted me from the beginning? Well, Catcher Bell is your somebody. He would snap anyone who came at you in half, and that’s been obvious since the second he met you. There’s not a doubt in my mind that he’s all in, and there’s nothing you can’t tell him. Well,” I added with a smile, “unless you become a vamp. That would probably be a deal breaker.”
Mal made a half laugh, half cry and wiped her face again.
“I assume you’re not making secret plans to become a vampire?”
“Not right at this moment.”
“Good. I think one vamp in the family is plenty enough.”
“Concur on that one. It’s just . . .” She paused, then started again. “There are very few decisions in my life that I regret. Not grabbing that vintage Chanel we saw at that consignment store on Division. Not watching Buffy until the third season. Minor stuff, but you know what I mean.”
She shook her head. “But this. Being ID’d as a sorcerer, agreeing to go along with this stuff, taking part in things—I don’t know. Maybe I should have just ignored the whole thing. Kept on with the ad gig and ignored the vampires and the sorcery and Ethan touching my hair. I mean, who does that? Who touches someone’s hair and pronounces they have magic?”
“Darth Sullivan.”
“Darth goddamned Sullivan.” She chuckled a little, then put her head on my shoulder. “Did you ever wish you could just walk away? Rewind your life back to the day before you became supernaturally inclined and catch an Amtrak out of town?”
I smiled a little, thinking of what Ethan had said. “The thought has occurred to me.”
“All right,” she said, putting her palms flat on the table and blowing out a breath. “It’s time for a pep talk. Ready, set, go.”
That was my cue to call adult swim at the pity pool and kick her out—and then offer up a little motivational magic of my own.
“Mallory Carmichael, you’re a sorceress. You may not like it, but it’s a fact. You have a gift, and you are not going to sit around a Goodwin’s drinkin
g fifty-nine-cent coffee because you’ve got concerns about your assignments. You’re a sorceress—but you’re not a robot. If you have concerns about your job, talk to someone about it. If you think something you’re doing flunks the smell test, then stop doing it. Break the chain of command if that’s what it takes. You have a conscience, and you know how to use it.”
We sat quietly there for a moment, until her decisive nod.
“That’s what I needed.”
“That’s why you love me.”
“Well, that and we wear the same shoe size.”
She swiveled in her seat and pulled up a knee.
Her foot, now propped on the seat, was snug inside a pair of lime green, limited-edition Pumas
. . . one of the pair I’d left at Mal’s house when I’d moved into Cadogan.
“Are those—”
“What they are is so comfy.”
“Mallory Delancey Carmichael.”
“Hey, Street Fest is this weekend,” she suddenly said. “Maybe we could head down and nosh some meat on a stick.”
Street Fest was Chicago’s annual end-of-summer food bash. Restaurants and caterers put up their white vinyl tents in Grant Park to hawk their wares and celebrate the end of August’s roasting heat and steamy humidity. Normally, I was a pretty big fan. Sampling Chicago’s finest grub while listening to live music wasn’t exactly a bad way to spend an evening.
On the other hand, “Are you trying to distract me with roast beast?”
She batted her eyelashes.
“Seriously, Mallory. Those shoes are limited edition. Do you remember how long I tried to find them? We staked out the Web for, like, three weeks.”
“Epistemological crisis here, Mer. Seriously.
One cannot tread lightly in cheap knockoff sneaks when one is enmeshed in a crisis.”
I sighed, knowing I’d been beaten.
As it turned out, she didn’t have two hours in her. She needed only twenty more minutes before she was ready to return to her life—to Keys and magic and Catcher. She decided to make an early night of practicum, and instead put in a call to Catcher that was sickly sweet enough that my blood sugar rose.
