by Хлоя Нейл
It’s more the kind of thing I’d consider making a living from.”
“Who would?”
Paulie snorted. “Who do you think would have the motivation to do something like that? To make vamps crazy for blood, to make them want to act like ‘real vampires’?” He shrugged. “All I can say is, you gotta go higher in the chain than me, doll.”
Another hint about Celina? Or maybe another higher-up in Chicago’s Houses? I needed more info. “You wanna point me in the right direction?”
“And take the chance of reducing my income?
No, thanks, kid.” An old-school telephone rang from somewhere in the house. Paulie glanced back at it, and then at me. “You need anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
“In that case, you know where to find me.” He stepped away and closed the door, and the house shook a bit on its foundations as he walked back to the phone and silenced its ringing.
I closed my eyes and closed out some of the extraneous neighborhood noise, focusing in on the phone call.
“Wrong number,” I heard him say, the phone’s bell ringing as he put it back on its cradle again.
I walked back down the stairs and across the yard to the driveway, then turned back to face the house. I gnawed my lip for a moment, trying to figure out my next move. Even in the dark, it was obvious the paint was peeling in sizable chunks away from the shingles. The roof looked awful, and the screen in the door was ripped across the bottom.
I glanced back at the garage. Paulie’s house was in pretty miserable shape—but he had a perfect vintage Mustang? If he couldn’t even afford to fix up the house, how could he afford to pay for the Mustang?
I didn’t know the answer, but I thought it was worth exploring. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Jeff. “NO DICE AT THE CERMAK HOUSE. KEEP LOOKING AT THE CAR.”
I’d just gotten back into the car when Jeff called back.
“That was fast,” I said.
“We were on the same wavelength. I’ve been poring through databases since we talked earlier, and I’ve got nothing about the sale of the car. If this thing was actually sold—I mean if money exchanged hands—it was an off-the-grid sale.
The only way we’re going to be able to trace it now is if Cermak happened to tell you who sold it to him.”
“Negatory on that one. I guess that makes the car a dead end.”
“Unless you randomly bump into the guy who sold it to Cermak.”
“In a city of nearly three million? Unlikely.”
But he did give me an idea. While I couldn’t exactly cuddle up to Celina and ask her if she knew Paulie Cermak, I knew someone else who might.
I checked my watch. It was only eleven o’clock. I had time for a little trip east . . . and some Zen deep-breathing exercises before I got there, because I was going to need all the patience I could muster.
“Do me a favor, would you, Jeff? E-mail me the picture of Cermak from the video footage?”
“You got it.”
Once I’d received his e-mail, I put away the phone. I considered calling Ethan to give him an update, but the idea made my stomach roil. He’d just been on the phone with Darius, and I really didn’t want to know how that conversation had played out.
Ethan probably also wouldn’t have approved of my next trip. No—a visit to Navarre House seemed like one of those things for which it would be easier to apologize later than get permission in the first place, especially with a grouchy GP leader in the city.
Decision made, I pulled away from the curb. It was time to visit the Gold Coast.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TWO MASTERS AND ONE BAD ATTITUDE
I was halfway to Navarre House when the phone rang again. It was Jonah, so I flipped it open and nestled the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“Hi, Jonah. What’s up?”
“Just checking in. How’s the investigation progressing?”
“Well, we were able to ID the short man Sarah saw outside the bar. Found video with his car on it. Guy named Paulie Cermak. I just paid him a visit.”
“Get anything interesting?”
“Not really. He’s got a crappy house and a fabulous vintage Mustang. He’s not exactly shy about his work, but his story is that he’s a bit player. He says he’s got management running the show. The police didn’t find anything to pin on him, so I don’t think we’ll have much luck, either.”
“Any chance McKetrick’s in charge?”
“He seems to have no idea who McKetrick is.
He also says V stands for veritas.”
“Truth?”
“The very same.”
“That’s awfully deep for a pill pusher.”
“That’s exactly what I thought.”
“Great minds and all,” he said, with an amusing tone in his voice. “You coming to the shindig tonight?”
“I am. You?”
“With bells on . . . and a fine Italian suit I have no choice but to wear.”
“Just be glad you only have to pull it out on special occasions,” I told him. “You guys get jerseys—we get fine Italian suits every night.”
He chuckled. “Very true. Hey, speaking of Ethan, a headsup—my story is that we met for the first time outside Temple Bar after the incident.”
“Fine by me. Have you talked to Darius this trip?”
“Not yet. I’ve been with the guards today. We were training. Why?”
“Just a heads-up, he’s kind of an ass.” I regretted the words the instant they were out of my mouth. Sure, Jonah had done me a solid, but did I really know anything about him? Other than his pretty-boy looks and ridiculous overabundance of graduate degrees?
“Well aware,” Jonah said. “He and Scott went a round about the jerseys, actually. Darius found them unbecoming of Housed vampires.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “That does sound like something he would say. I guess Scott won the battle eventually?”
“I wouldn’t say he won it per se. More like he wouldn’t give in and Darius eventually lost interest in the argument.”
“That’s a risky strategy with an immortal,” I said. “They’ve got all the time in the world to argue.”
“Speaking on your own behalf?”
“Me? Of course not. I’m not at all stubborn and completely flexible.”
“Liar,” he slyly said. “Well, I’ll stop harassing you and let you get back to it. Call me if you need me.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
I tucked the phone away again, a little weirded out by the phone call. It was nice of Jonah to check in—to work from the assumption V was a problem vamps needed to face together. All hands on deck, as it were, instead of the Sentinel going it solo.
On the other hand, the conversation had sounded a little . . . datey. He was checking in, asking what I was doing later. Maybe he hadn’t meant anything by it. Maybe he really was warming up to me and my various charms. But there was a flirty, friendly edge to his voice that I hadn’t heard before . . . and I wasn’t entirely thrilled to hear now. Flattered? Yes. But I didn’t need the complication.
I also wasn’t thrilled that I’d just given Jonah an update I hadn’t yet provided to Ethan. I didn’t like deception, especially not when it came to deceiving someone who’d saved my life once upon a time. I knew why I was withholding information from him, but that didn’t make it any more comfortable.
The irony? I’d railed against Ethan for withholding information from me. Not that it had stopped him, but it still drove me crazy. And here I was, doing the same thing. Were my reasons any better? Had his been any worse?
And although we weren’t a couple, the dishonesty felt wrong. Like a breach of the trust we’d earned, a kind of trust that went beyond Sentinel and Master. I was also missing out on using Ethan as a sounding board about Jonah and the RG. If there was any possibility he could be neutral, a second opinion would have been helpful.
But as a Master, he couldn’t be neutral. So
as much as I didn’t like it, there was no clear path to the truth right now.
I nibbled on that conclusion for a while, working it over and over in my mind. I lost myself in my thoughts and the drive.
It wasn’t that vampires were antithetical to mansions. The vampire design aesthetic was far from chains, skull candles, and black lace, and it wasn’t as if Cadogan House was a hovel. It had been elegant before the attack, and it was becoming elegant again.
But Navarre House set a new standard for vampire opulence. First, it was tucked into the Gold Coast neighborhood, one of Chicago’s ritziest areas, full of Gilded Era mansions and celebrity retreats. Second, the interior was awe inspiring. Giant spaces, weird art, and the kind of furniture you saw in design magazines. (The kind of furniture you thought was neat in a museum kind of way, but wouldn’t actually want to sit on when watching a game on the flat screen on a Saturday afternoon.)
Did I mention Navarre had a reception desk?
Having parked the Volvo and freshened up as much as possible in the rearview mirror, I went inside and prepared to face the three dark-haired women who controlled access to Navarre and its Master.
Ethan and I had dubbed them the three Fates, à la Greek myth, because they exercised a similar amount of power. They looked petite, but I had the sense that one false move—or one unauthorized step past the reception desk—and you’d be in trouble.
Today they mostly seemed overwhelmed. The House’s lobby was swamped with people. None fit into obvious categories—no reporters, no vampires, no one who seemed like a member of McKetrick’s crew doing a little in-House surveying. Most wore standard black suits, more of the accountant variety than the Cadogan House variety, and they carried notepads or nondescript black bags.
I maneuvered through them to the reception desk and waited until I got the attention of the Fate on the left.
After a moment, she looked up at me, obviously frazzled, her fingers flying across the keys even as she made eye contact.
“Yes?” she asked.
“Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan, here to see Morgan if he’s available?”
She blew out a breath, finally glanced down at her screen, and continued her marathon typing. A man bumped beside me at the desk and looked down at her.
“I had an appointment fifteen minutes ago.”
“Nadia is working as quickly as possible, sir.
She’ll be with you shortly.” She pointed a long-fingered nail at the benches behind the desk.
“Have a seat.”
The man clearly didn’t like her answer, but he bit his tongue and squeezed back through.
I leaned forward a bit. “What’s going on in here today? I thought Tate wasn’t allowing humans in the Houses?”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s offered an exception to that rule. We’re in the process of selecting our vendors for the next calendar year.
The mayor suggested Nadia talk with representatives of the human businesses in town to get their bids.”
Nadia was the Navarre Second, Morgan’s vice president. She was also supermodel gorgeous, which was a shocking thing to learn the first time you walked into your ex-boyfriend’s abode.
The Fate cast an unhappy glance out across the crowd. “I seriously doubt they can meet our needs.”
I’d assumed we had a cleaning crew and a grounds staff, and I knew one of the House chefs. But it hadn’t occurred to me that vampires needed vendors. But someone had to stock the House kitchens, keep folders and highlighters in the Ops Room, and ensure the crystal decanters in Ethan’s office were filled with fine liquor.
Here, that duty fell to Nadia and a boatload of vendors vying for the privilege of selling their wares.
I wondered if Malik did the same thing for Cadogan House, interviewing vendors, considering bids and quotes, and reviewing contracts. It certainly would have made sense.
Ethan was the House’s chief executive officer, which made Malik its chief operating officer.
A blonde with tightly hot-rolled hair and a lot of black eyeliner stepped up to the desk. “Is Mr.
Greer available? Perhaps I could just speak with him if Nadia is too busy?”
Expression flat, the Fate glanced at me. “Do you remember where his office is?”
“I can find my way up,” I assured her, walking away to the unhappy squeals of the woman I’d displaced in line.
Not that she’d had any chance.
I walked across the House’s gigantic first floor to the arching staircase that led to the second floor. Morgan’s office was there, a modern suite with a garden view. The door was closed, so I rapped my knuckles against it.
“Come in.”
I stepped inside . . . and nearly lost my breath.
Morgan was half-naked, clad only in black trousers, pulling a short-sleeved white undershirt over his head, the muscles in his stomach clenching and bunching with the effort. When he was clothed, he pulled his dark, shoulder-length hair back and tied it at his nape.
It wasn’t until then that he glanced over at me.
“Yes?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again, having completely forgotten the speech I was prepared to make. Honest to God, my mind was completely blank, all rational thought having fled at the sight of his body. God knew, physical attraction was never the problem. Nothing about Morgan was the problem. I was the problem.
Ethan was the problem.
I had to shake my head to clear it. His expression went smug; I assumed he was happy he’d been able to fluster me.
“Not expecting company?” I finally managed.
Morgan sat down on the edge of a chair, pulled on socks, then lifted fancy square-toed shoes from the floor and slid his foot into one. “I just finished a workout, and we’ve got the dinner in an hour. What do you need?”
Realizing I was still standing in the doorway, door askew, I stepped into the room and closed it behind me.
“I wanted to update you on the investigation.”
Halfway through the second shoe, his hands stilled, and he looked up at me. That’s when I noticed the blue shadows under his eyes. He looked tired. It couldn’t have been easy for him to fill Celina’s shoes, especially given the unrest.
I didn’t envy a Second forced into the role of a Master . . . and I’d helped put him there.
“Then by all means, update me.”
I managed not to roll my eyes, and repeated what we’d discovered in Streeterville, what we’d learned at the bar, and what we’d learned from Paulie. By the time I was done, Morgan was fully clothed and was sitting back in the chair, fingers linked across his stomach.
“You came across town to tell me all that?”
“We’ve identified the guy who’s been selling V to vampires. His name’s Paulie Cermak. I need to know if he looks familiar.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t generally hang around with addicts.”
The attitude wasn’t unexpected. That’s why I’d asked Jeff for the picture—this was about evidence, not irritation. I pulled out my phone and called up Paulie’s picture. “He’s not an addict. He’s a salesman, at least as far as I can tell.”
I walked closer and held out the phone, then watched to make sure he glanced over at it.
I’d expected Morgan to roll his eyes and tell me he hadn’t seen Cermak. I’d expected him to wax sarcastic about my investigation.
I hadn’t expected the wide-eyed expression.
He tensed, his shoulders squaring, his jaw clenching. He knew something.
“You’ve seen him,” I said, before he could deny it or make his features blank again. But it still took him a minute to answer.
“Six months ago. Celina never allowed humans in the House, even before Tate issued the mandate. I was on my way up here to talk to her—I don’t remember what we were meeting about. He—Cermak—was on his way out of the office. I asked her who he was. It was . . . strange that he was in the House.”
So Celina had met with the man who sold V in her o
wn House. That was all well and good, but it was completely circumstantial.
Circumstantial or not, Morgan was clearly flustered, clearly bothered by the links he was beginning to put together. Morgan closed his eyes, then scrubbed his hands over his face and linked his hands over his head. “It really, really pisses me off when you’re right.”
“I don’t want to be right,” I assured him. “I want to be the one with ludicrous theories. I don’t want Celina making your job—or mine—harder.”
He grunted and looked away, not ready to share the details of whatever he knew. I gave him space, walking to the other side of the office where a giant window overlooked a smartly designed courtyard.
“What did Celina say about him?” I asked after a moment.
“That he was a vendor for the House.”
And things had come full circle. “And as Second, selecting vendors was your job, right?”
Morgan glanced back and nodded ruefully.
“That’s another reason it was strange that he was here. I just guessed it was a special project. I checked the books—they were fine. All the House’s funds were accounted for. But there weren’t any extra vendors listed.”
“So she hadn’t actually gotten anything from him. On the books, anyway.”
Morgan nodded.
“What else would she want with Paulie Cermak? I mean, even if they were in the drug game together, why would she want to be involved in selling drugs to vamps? Does she need money?”
Morgan shook his head. “She gets a stipend from the GP for being a member, and she’s been alive for a very long time.”
“Compound interest?”
“Compound interest,” he confirmed.
No dice there, then. “Maybe it’s the drug itself,” I suggested. “Cermak said it stood for veritas, which is Latin for ‘truth.’ He said it’s supposed to make vampires feel more like themselves.”
Morgan furrowed his brow, considering.
“Celina has always believed relations between humans and vampires were going to come to a cataclysmic end. She just thought she’d come out on top.”
“Which is why she’d worked to ingratiate herself to humans—to usher in the end of their reign?”
