Drama or not, there was always time for snark in Cadogan House.
“I’ll manage,” I assured him, “although I hate to leave my grandfather here.”
My grandfather was Chicago’s former supernatural liaison—emphasis on the “former”—but he and his employees, Catcher Bell and Jeff Christopher, still helped the CPD with supernatural issues. Because he’d helped us investigate the riots, McKetrick had targeted him. Grandpa’s house had been firebombed, and he’d been caught in the explosion. He was recovering, but he was still in the hospital. He’d been more of a father to me than my actual father, and although he had people to protect him, I felt guilty leaving while he was out of service.
“I’ll check in on him,” Luc promised. “Give you updates.”
“In that case,” Ethan said, “we’ll leave shortly. Malik has the House. And as you know, he makes a very capable Master when I’m . . . indisposed.”
There were appreciative chuckles in the crowd. It wasn’t Malik’s first rodeo as Master; he’d held the job when Ethan hadn’t been among the living.
“I will be honest. This may not work. We are betting that Diane Kowalcyzk is politically ambitious enough to not cross the Breckenridge family. That gambit could prove incorrect. Either way, our relationship with the city of Chicago could get worse before it gets better. But we are, and we will remain, Cadogan vampires.”
He arched an eyebrow, a habit he used frequently and usually with good effect. “Of course, those Cadogan vampires should be at work right now, not eavesdropping outside their Master’s office.”
Smiling and appropriately chastised, the vampires dispersed, offering good-byes to their Liege as they passed. Margot, the House’s brilliant chef, squeezed my hand, then headed down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Malik, Luc, Lindsey, and I stepped inside Ethan’s office. He looked over his staff.
“We have a brief reprieve,” Ethan said, “but the city may come knocking again.”
“The House is ready,” Luc said. “Lakshmi, however, is still on her way. We couldn’t convince her to delay.”
That was another sticky situation. Cadogan was no longer a member of the Greenwich Presidium, the organization that ruled North American and Western European vampire houses. Monmonth had been one of its members. The GP was no friend of Cadogan House, and they apparently weren’t willing to ignore the fact that we were now responsible for the deaths of two of their members. While we were no longer concerned about their opinion of us, they made powerful and dangerous enemies.
Lakshmi, one of the remaining GP members, was traveling to Chicago to render its verdict. It probably helped that she was one of the more commonsensical members of the GP, but it was odd that she was traveling while Darius West, the GP head, stayed under the radar in London. He’d been a political nonentity since an attack by a vampire assassin relieved him of his confidence, or so we surmised.
As it turned out, Lakshmi also was a friend to the Red Guard, the secret organization that kept watch on the Houses and their Masters. I was a new member, partnered with the guard captain from Grey House, Jonah. Lakshmi had provided insider information about GP shenanigans; in return for her help, I’d offered an unspecified favor. It was inevitable she’d attempt to collect; vampires were particular that way.
“Keep her out of the House,” Ethan said. “We aren’t members of the GP, and she has no business in our domain. She may have a legitimate claim to reparations, but that can be dealt with when we’ve dealt with the city.”
“I spoke with Lakshmi’s majordomo,” Luc said, “tried to winnow information out of her. She wouldn’t budge.”
“We’ll deal with it when we deal with it,” Ethan said. “This entire situation is fraught with hazard.”
Malik nodded. “It all comes down to who blinks first.”
Ethan’s eyes flattened. “Whatever happens, Cadogan House will not blink first.”
• • •
We lived in Chicago, which meant off-street parking spots were hard to come by and the objects of envy. The House’s coveted underground parking lot was accessible through the basement, so we headed downstairs. Ethan keyed the security pad at the door and stepped inside the basement but, when the heavy door closed behind us, dropped his duffel and grabbed my hand.
“Come here,” he said, voice heavy with desire. He didn’t wait for my response, but caught me by surprise, his mouth on mine, his hands at my waist, suddenly insistent.
I was nearly out of breath when he finally released me.
“What was that?” I barely managed to ask.
Ethan brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I had need of you, Sentinel.”
“You’ve got me,” I assured him with a smile. “But at the moment, we have need of speed.”
“Not your best work,” he cannily said, but he put a hand on my cheek and gazed into my eyes as if he might discover the world’s secrets there. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m nervous about leaving,” I admitted.
“You’re worried about your grandfather.”
I nodded. “He was asleep when I called. He’ll understand—he always does. I just wish I didn’t have to ask him to be understanding.”
Ethan kissed my brow. “You are a good granddaughter, Caroline Evelyn Merit.”
“I’m not sure about that. But I’m trying.” Sometimes, that was the best a girl could do.
I gestured toward the gleaming silver bullet that sat in the House’s visitor spot, the antique Mercedes roadster Ethan had bought for me from the Pack leader himself. She was sweet and perfectly restored, and I called her Moneypenny. She was also still registered in Gabriel’s name, which seemed a better transportation option than taking Ethan’s car. But since he had decades’ more driving experience than me—and we were in a hurry—I held out the keys.
“Shall we?”
Ethan’s eyes widened with delight. He’d been attempting to buy Moneypenny for years and had probably wanted to slide behind the wheel for even longer.
“If we’re going to run,” he said, taking the keys from me, a spark jumping across our fingertips as they brushed, “we might as well escape in style.”
Sometimes that was the best a vampire could do.
Chapter Two
UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS
That the Breckenridges had money was undeniable when one was facing down their palatial estate in Loring Park. Chicago was a metropolis bounded by water on one side and farmland on the other. Loring Park managed to fit itself just outside the latter, a fancy suburb of rolling green hills a simple train ride away from the hustle of the Second City.
Loring Park itself was a small and tidy town, with a central square and pretty shopping centers, the area newly developed and decorated with dark iron streetlights and lots of landscaping. A winter carnival had even set up shop in a parking lot, and residents undoubtedly sick of winter were trundling around amid the games and handful of rides. It would be months before green would peek through the flattened brown grass, but the snow was nearly gone. It had been a strange winter in northeastern Illinois—the weather veering back and forth between frigidly cold and practically balmy.
The estate was located a few miles outside the city center on the crest of a long, rolling hill. The house, with turrets and windows and several wings of rooms, was modeled after Biltmore and was surrounded by rolling hills of neatly manicured grass; the back lawn sloped gently down into a forest.
As hidey-holes went, it wasn’t a bad option.
We pulled the car up to the door, covered by a stone arch, and got out, gravel crunching beneath our feet. The night was dark and moonless; the air was thick with wood smoke and magic.
“Is that what you think?” A tall, dark-haired man burst through the door, and a wave of prickly, irritated magic followed him like a cresting wave. He was broad shouldered, and he came out with arm raised, pointing an accusing finger at us. “You want to let those bloodsuckers stay here? In our home?”