Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1)(4)
Author: Chloe Neill

"Tacky," Mallory accused, but let it go. "The House, I guess it was, did call me, but I don’t know who else they contacted. The call was pretty short. ‘Merit was attacked on campus two nights ago. In order to save her life, we’ve made her a vampire. She’ll return home tonight. She may be dizzy from the change, so please be home to assist her during the first crucial hours. Thank you.’ It sounded like a recording, to be real honest."

"So this Ethan Sullivan’s a cheapo," I concluded. "We’ll add that to the list of reasons we don’t like him."

"Him turning you into a soul-sucking creature of the night being number one on that list?"

I nodded ruefully. "That’s definitely number one." I shifted and glanced over at her. "They made me like them. He made me like them, this Sullivan."

Mallory made a sound of frustration. "I know. I am so effing jealous." Mal was a student of the paranormal; as long as I’d known her, she’d had a keen interest in all things fanged and freaky. She put her palm to her chest. "I’m the occultist in the family, and yet it’s you, the English lit geek, they turn? Even Buffy would feel that sting. Although," she said, her gaze appraising, "you will make damn good research material."

I snorted. "But research material for what? Who the hell am I now?"

"You’re Merit," she said with conviction that warmed my heart. "But kind of Merit 2.0. And I have to say, the phone call notwithstanding, this Sullivan’s not a cheapo about everything. Those shoes are Jimmy Choo, and that dress is runway-worthy." She clucked her tongue. "He’s dressed you up like his own personal model. And frankly, Mer, you look good."

Good, I thought, was relative. I looked down at the cocktail dress, smoothed my hands over the slick, black fabric. "I liked who I was, Mal. My life wasn’t perfect, but I was happy."

"I know, hon. But maybe you’ll like this, too."

I doubted it. Seriously.

CHAPTER TWO

RICH PEOPLE AREN’T NICER – THEY JUST HAVE BETTER CARS

My parents were new-money Chicago.

My grandfather, Chuck Merit, had served the city for thirty-four years as a cop – walking a beat in Chicago’s South Side until he joined the CPD’s Bureau of Investigative Services. He was a legend in the Chicago Police Department.

But while he brought home a solid middle-class living, things were occasionally tight for the family. My grandmother came from money, but she’d turned down an inheritance from her overbearing, old-Chicago-money-having father. Although it was her decision, my father blamed my grandfather for the fact that he wasn’t raised in the lifestyle to which he thought he should have been accustomed. Burned by the imagined betrayal and irritated by a childhood of living carefully on a cop’s salary, my father made it his personal goal to accumulate as much money as possible, to the exclusion of everything else.

He was very, very good at it.

Merit Properties, my father’s real estate development company, managed high-rises and apartment complexes throughout the city. He was also a member of the powerful Chicago Growth Council, which was made up of representatives of the city’s business community and which advised the city’s newly reelected mayor, Seth Tate, on planning and development issues. My father took great pride in, and often remarked upon, his relationship with Tate. Frankly, I just thought that reflected poorly on the mayor.

Of course, because I’d grown up a Chicago Merit, I’d been able to reap the benefits that came with the name – big house, summer camp, ballet lessons, nice clothes. But while the financial benefits were great, my parents, especially my father, were not the most compassionate people. Joshua Merit wanted to create a legacy, all else be damned. He wanted the perfect wife, the perfect children, and the perfect position among Chicago’s social and financial elite. Little wonder that I worshipped my grandparents, who understood the meaning of unconditional love.

I couldn’t imagine my father was going to be happy about my new vampiric identity. But I was a big girl, so after I washed my face of tears, I got into my car – an old boxy Volvo I’d scrimped to pay for – and drove to their home in Oak Park.

When I arrived, I parked the Volvo in the drive that arced in front of the house. The building was a massive postmodern concrete box, completely out of place next to the more subtle Prairie Style buildings around it. Money clearly did not buy taste.

I walked to the front door. It was opened before I could knock. I glanced up. Dour gray eyes looked down at me from nearly seven feet of skinny white guy. "Ms. Merit."

"Hello, Peabody."

"Pennebaker."

"That’s what I said." Of course I knew his name. Pennebaker, the butler, was my father’s first big purchase. Pennebaker had a "spare the rod" mentality about child rearing and always took my father’s side – snooping, tattling, and generally sparing no details about what he imagined was my rebellious childhood. Realistically, I was probably lower than average in the rebellion department, but I had perfect siblings – my older sister, Charlotte, now married to a heart surgeon and pumping out children, and my older brother, Robert, who was being groomed to take over the family business. As a single twenty-seven-year-old graduate student, even though studying at one of the best universities in the country, I was a second-class Merit. And now I was coming home with a big ol’ nasty.

I walked inside, feeling the woosh of air on my back as Pennebaker shut the door firmly behind me and then stepped in front of me.

"Your parents are in the front parlor," he intoned. "You are expected. They’ve been unduly concerned about your welfare. You worry your father with these" – he looked down disdainfully – "things you get involved in."

I took offense to that, but opted not to correct his misunderstanding of the degree to which I’d consented to being changed. He wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

I walked past him, following the hallway to the front parlor and pushing open the room’s top-hinged door. My mother, Meredith Merit, rose from one of the room’s severe boxy sofas. Even at eleven p.m., she wore heels and a linen dress, a strand of pearls around her neck. Her blond hair was perfectly coiffed, her eyes pale green.

Mom rushed to me, hands extended. "You’re okay?" She cupped my cheeks with long- nailed fingers and looked me over. "You’re okay?"

I smiled politely. "I’m fine." Relative to their understanding, that was true.

My father, tall and lean like me, with the same chestnut hair and blue eyes, was on the opposite sofa, still in a suit despite the hour. He looked at me over half-cocked reading glasses, a move he might as well have borrowed from Helen, but it was no less effective on a human than a vampire. He snapped closed the paper he’d been reading and placed it on the couch beside him.