by Chloe Neill
I looked at Ethan, all but felt the guilt etch into my features. “Not if we brought it home.”
Luc and Lindsey went pale. Given that they were vampires, that was something.
“How could that have happened?” Lindsey asked, her voice barely a whisper. She was as brave as anyone I knew. But even vampires had limits where the supernatural was concerned. The risen dead were apparently among hers.
“I’ve no idea,” Ethan said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “Certainly not intentionally. We left Chuck, Catcher, Jeff, and Annabelle at the cemetery, did nothing magical between the cemetery and the House. We went to Portillo’s for god’s sake.”
“The ride felt heavy.”
Lindsey looked at me. “Heavy?”
“I felt kind of weighed down,” I said. “I thought it was just a funk from being in the cemetery, the disturbed grave, the horror story factor. Maybe not?”
Ethan looked at Luc. “I want the tunnel locked, and I want the cameras running and the feed monitored twenty-four seven.” That meant enlisting our human counterparts for the job, since we’d be out of commission during daylight hours.
“We can’t show the tape to Margot,” Lindsey said, then looked around at the other guards in the room. “She’d freak, and there’s nothing she can do about it.”
“We can’t show this to her,” Ethan agreed. “Nor does anyone outside this room see it.” Each guard nodded his or her approval.
“We’ll still have to warn the Novitiates,” Luc said quietly, not wanting to argue with his Master. “Just in case.”
Ethan nodded. “Send an electronic bulletin, and make sure they’re on alert. In the meantime, we investigate. We figure out what followed us from the cemetery.”
“First things first,” I said, rising from my seat. “I want to take a look at the tunnel.”
• • •
If I was being honest, I didn’t want to look at the tunnel; I wanted to put a cork in this night and climb into bed with Ethan and a bottle of that Pinot. But I needed to look at it, because I stood Sentinel of the House and Margot was a friend.
A short set of stairs led down from the basement, ending at an imposing metal door with THREE stenciled in black paint. Luc pushed it open, flipped on the lights, and we followed him inside.
The floor was concrete, the walls brick, the lights industrial—metal cages with bare bulbs. The room smelled of old and damp air, brick dust and water and earth, and the tang of spilled wine from the broken bottle in the middle of the room. A dark puddle had stained the concrete.
It was cold. Both because it was underground and because of the dense lingering magic. The same magic we’d felt in the cemetery.
Ethan, I silently said.
He nodded. I can feel it.
I ignored the grasping fingers of fear and walked into a small alcove on the room’s left-hand side. The wine racks, a dozen rows of dark wood, were tucked like library shelves in the nook. There were hundreds of bottles, some of them clean and shiny, others covered in a layer of dust.
“You have quite a collection,” I said.
His mouth curled with amusement. “Didn’t you ever wonder where the wine you enjoy comes from?”
“I presumed France or Chile or California,” I said with a sly smile. “I hadn’t really gotten more specific than that.” I paused. “I don’t see any evidence of magic.” There were no symbols, no char marks, no books or random bits of charms. I wasn’t entirely sure how to investigate a ghost who didn’t leave physical clues.
I thought of the ghosthunters we’d met at the cemetery and looked back at Luc. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any of those gadgets they use on TV to find ghosts.”
“Merit,” Ethan quietly said, the word nearly a sigh and full of regret.
“No,” Luc said, excitement dawning in his eyes. “But I’m pretty sure I could hire someone who’s got them.” He looked at Ethan. “You ready to commit to a full EMF sweep of the premises?”
I guessed this wasn’t the first time Ethan and Luc had had this conversation. Sorry, I told Ethan, but had trouble biting back a smile. Luc’s enthusiasm made this situation a little less disturbing.
Ethan simmered silently for a moment. “Merit will get a message to Catcher and Chuck, and she’ll call Annabelle. Perhaps this is an issue Annabelle’ best situated to investigate. If not, we happened to run into individuals who might be.” He walked to the front rack, selected a bottle of wine. “As for now, I need a drink.”
• • •
He took crystal glasses from his office, met me in our apartments. We didn’t need the warmth, but he turned off the lights and lit the fire, letting shadows dance across the room’s high ceiling.
While he uncorked the wine, I sent the Ombuddies a message and called Annabelle.
“Hey, Merit,” she answered. “Did Chuck find something?”
“Not that I’m aware of, although something else has happened that might be related. Is it possible for a ghost to travel?”
“Sure,” she said, and my stomach twisted at the simple confidence in her word. “That’s how they move from plane to plane, after all. Why do you ask?”
“Because I think one may have followed us home.” I told her what had happened to Margot and what we’d seen.
“Interesting,” Annabelle said. “It’s unusual for a spirit to hitchhike, so to speak, but not unheard of. He must have been drawn by your magic, or maybe your immortality.”
Knowing that was a possibility didn’t make me feel any better. But there was still work to be done. “We’ll want someone to, I guess, take a look at the tunnel, supernaturally speaking, and whatever goes along with that. Is that something you can do?”
Annabelle’s flat and decisive “no” surprised me.
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. Not the answer I’d been expecting, and I was more than a little stung by the quick refusal. After all, we’d come when she’d called.
“I mean—damn it,” she said. “I’d like to say yes. And not just because I’d love to take a look inside Cadogan House. The thing is, I’m not allowed to.”
“Why aren’t you allowed to?”
“Because of the Order,” she said.
If I remembered what she’d told me correctly, the Order wasn’t particularly fond of necromancers and had refused to grant them membership in their organization.
“I work in graveyards,” she said. “And according to the deal made by the Order and the MVD”—that was the necromancers’ group—“I’m only allowed to work graveyards. Anything else is a breach of that contract.”
I knew enough about the Order from Catcher and Mallory, and while nothing Annabelle had said was especially shocking, it still sounded unusually harsh.
“I’m surprised the MVD made that deal,” I said.
“Blame Sorcha,” she said. “It’s one of the changes they made after Towerline.” That had been our final showdown with the sorceress, a brutal magical and physical fight. “The Order made some big argument about specialization, and the need for clear licensing to keep people from accusing us of being like Sorcha. In reality, it just enforces the hierarchy they prefer.”
“With Order-licensed sorcerers at the top.”
“Pretty much.”
“So who works outside graveyards if not necromancers?”
“Only Order-approved sorcerers. And I’m not aware of any who practice that kind of magic in Chicago. Since it could bump right up against dark magic, the Order would regulate it pretty tightly. But,” she said, drawing out the word, “since I’m currently standing in my house, and neither the MVD nor the Order have any damn authority here, you can send me the video if you want.” I heard what sounded like the whistling of a teakettle, the shuffle of ceramic. “I can take a look at it. Maybe I’ll recognize something.”
“That would be great. I
’ll have Luc get it to you.” She gave me her e-mail address, and I jotted it down to send to Luc later.
“If you’re willing to think outside the box,” she said, “you could try the paranormal investigators who showed up tonight. I’m not saying I think they’re legit—this isn’t an endorsement—but they had the right equipment. If they’re worth their salt, they’ll be able to confirm you’ve got a ghost instead of some other supernatural, help identify it, and get you in touch with sorcerers who can send it home again.”
“It’s a place to start,” I agreed, and thanked her for the help.
• • •
Ethan directed Luc to check out CPAN, engage them if appropriate. Then I joined him in front of the fire and greedily accepted the glass of dark wine he offered.
“This night,” I said, and watched the flames move and shift from orange to blue to white.
“It’s been an unusual one,” he agreed, and clinked his glass gently against mine. “We crossed a milestone tonight,” he said with a smile. “Our first shower.”
“Our only shower,” I reminded him with a grin. There were advantages to the shortened timeline.
“And only two months to go.”
“Until I have to get my driver’s license renewed? Yeah, I know. I’m not looking forward to it. Such a hassle.”
He took my free hand, pressed his soft and generous mouth to my knuckles. “You know very well I wasn’t talking about the DMV.”
I pursed my lips. “Hmm. Was there something else on my schedule?”
He nipped at my neck. “Our wedding. The reason we had that mostly lovely shower earlier tonight. The reason we’re now in possession of several new toasters.”
“How much toast do they think vampires eat?”
“Volumes, evidently.” He stretched out beside me, crooked his elbow, propped his head on his hand, and looked at me. “You aren’t nervous, are you, Sentinel?”
“Nervous? No. Of course not. Definitely not nervous.”
“I believe you’re familiar with the Bard and the bit about protesting too much.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m a little nervous.”
For an instant, his eyes went hot. There was surprise there and maybe a little hurt.
I put a hand on his cheek. “Not about the marriage,” I said, and let him see the truth in my eyes. “I’m apprehensive about the humans. I’m not proud of what happened tonight. Even if I handled Aunt Sarah, she may not be the only badly behaving guest.”
Ethan smiled, took my empty wineglass, set it aside. “Badly behaving guests are the least of our concerns. If they want to drink our champagne and snipe about vampires, there’s nothing we can do to stop them. And we’re only out the cost of the champagne.”
“That’s a very practical response.”
“It is an unfortunate but undeniable fact that we can’t always rely on humans to be good allies. Your relatives and family friends—even though they’re your relatives and family friends—likely won’t be exceptions.”
“They should be. They knew me before I was a vampire, know me now. They should be better than that.”
“Most of us rarely rise to our full potential.” The glint in his eyes my only warning, he covered my body with his, pressed me back into the soft carpet.
“And you’ve risen to yours?” I asked with a grin, putting my arms around his neck.
“So it seems,” he said. “The nearness of you is enough.”
His voice was low and roughened by desire, and the feel of his lips on my skin sent a shiver of excitement through me.
“The nearness of you isn’t bad, either,” I said, and drew his head closer, pressed my mouth to his. I kissed him, letting love mingle through soft lips and tangling tongues.
He balanced on his elbow, set his free hand against my hip, and drew my body up against his, against the hard line of his arousal.
“Rising to the occasion,” I murmured against his mouth, and felt his answering smile.
He sat back on his heels, pushed away his hair with a hand, and began unbuttoning his shirt. The fire in his eyes—silver and green in turn—sparked and changed, like the flames of the fire beside us. He watched me, let his long fingers trail down each pearl button with slow deliberation. It was a tease, exposing a hint of his flat and toned abdomen, of preternaturally smooth skin.
I lifted a hand to press against the muscles that clenched there, but he pushed it aside.
“I’m not done,” he said, and tossed the shirt away. “And I’m in charge now. I want you wild with desire.”
One corner of my mouth quirked into a smile. “Trust me. You won’t have to try very hard.” The sight of him—strong and powerful and undeniably gorgeous—was enough for me. But Ethan Sullivan—soldier and Master—was a man of his word.
He clasped my hands in his, lifted them over my head, lowered his mouth to mine as he pinned me beneath him.
“This isn’t so bad,” I said playfully. And it wasn’t, until he let his fangs descend and tugged at my lip, then scraped the delicate skin of my neck.
“No?” he asked, and rearranged his hold on my wrists to free one of his hands. He slipped it beneath the hem of my dress, trilled those long and clever fingers up my thigh, heightening desire and want with movements designed to tease. To inflame.
He sat up again, his eyes silver, his fangs gleaming in the firelight, his face glazed with desire. He was the embodiment of power, of man, of vampire.
And he was mine.
It was my turn to take. And fortunately, I’d learned a trick or two, mostly from him.
Still beneath him, I arched my body, watched his eyes shift down. I took the moment, and I took the control. I shifted my weight and, in one quick move, reversed our positions so he lay in front of the fire while I straddled him.
His expression—surprise, awe, and thrilled desire—was worth the trouble.
“I believe I’m in charge now,” I said, and pulled the dress over my head, tossed it aside. He did the same with his final garments, and then I covered him with my body, pressed my mouth to his, and kissed him until his body thrummed with tension, with anticipation.
His nimble fingers roamed carefully, intently, as if he might memorize the shape of my body by touch alone. He looked up at me, traced a thumb over my swollen lips. “I’m not sure I’ll ever have enough of you, Sentinel.”
“You have all of me, always,” I said, and arched when he touched me, when he drove me over the first delicious wave of pleasure.
He leaned up, skimmed fangs across my collarbone, my neck, then paused to wait for my affirmation. For the consent I’d once been unable to give.
Yes, I said, and he bit, fangs piercing tender skin, and sent me over another crest. Ethan groaned with pleasure, arms banding around me as he drank, as we shared the unique connection of vampires, the union that linked us even closer together.
My body was already warm and limp with pleasure when he covered me again, kissed me slowly as he moved within me. I slid my fingers into his hair, closed my eyes to focus on sensations, on the taste of him, the feel of his body against mine as heat gathered and rose again.
“Look at me,” Ethan said, his voice deep, the words as much order as request. I opened my eyes, undoubtedly well-silvered by desire, and met the molten metal of his gaze. And I watched his pupils dilate, his lips part, as sensation pushed through him.
The sight of him midpleasure, sharing that most intimate of moments with me, sent me flying again. We fell together like angels bound to earth, and bound to each other.
It wasn’t a bad way to go.
4
Since Ethan and I were both vampires, the sinking of the sun behind the horizon should have affected us equally, waking us together at the same time. But for some reason—personality, biology, or just plain magic—he was usually awake before I was, do
nning a dark, sexy suit while I snoozed.
Tonight, those tables were turned.
I’d risen before Ethan, grabbed a muffin from the basket Margot had left at the door—and I had no idea how she accomplished the miracle of waking even earlier than Ethan usually did—and taken a seat at the antique desk in the sitting room.
Becoming an investigator of the supernatural wasn’t something I’d planned on. Not when a Ph.D. in English literature had been my goal. But over the last year, I’d done more investigating. And I’d gotten better at it.
I checked my messages, found a note from Annabelle confirming the video likely showed a ghost but the magic—which she couldn’t analyze from video alone—would tell for sure. I also found a message from Luc confirming ghosthunters—in the form of CPAN—would be arriving at the House shortly, and a message from Mallory advising she and Catcher wanted in on the ghosthunting. I sent along the particulars.
I also found the usual set of e-mails from my mother about the wedding. Since those weren’t our highest priority at the moment, I turned to the Internet.
It wasn’t difficult to find the official Almshouse Cemetery records online, but most were still on old-fashioned ledger pages. While they’d had been scanned and posted online, the data itself hadn’t been pulled out or compiled, so I had to check each handwritten page individually for the number that matched the disturbed grave.
I was staring so intently at a page written in a looping, slanted cursive I didn’t hear Ethan up and around until he walked into the room, his favored silk pajama bottoms slung low on his lean hips, every muscle in his abdomen defined.
“You’re up early.” He pressed his lips to my neck, then offered a teasing kiss that made my blood go instantly hot.
“I’m detecting,” I said, offering it as information and defense. “And breaking my fast.” I pointed to the basket. “The chocolate chip muffins are divine.”
Ethan opted for an apple and peered over my shoulder at the computer screen. “Cemetery records?”
“Yeah. And as it turns out, I think I finally found what we were looking for.” I pointed to the spot on the screen where the plot number—1-CCU49-871—was neatly printed. “Mickey Riley,” I said. “Buried in 1929.”
