Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1)(69)
Author: Chloe Neill

Shines the divine same body and beauty through,

The body spiritual of fire and light

That is to worldly noon as noon to night;

Love, that is flesh upon the spirit of man

And spirit within the flesh whence breath began;

Love, that keeps all the choir of lives in chime;

Love, that is blood within the veins of time;

Fire. Light. Blood. The veins of time. Those words had never meant as much to me as they did now. Context definitely mattered.

I was staring at the text, contemplating the metaphor, when a knock sounded at my bedroom door. It opened, and Lindsey peeked inside.

"So this is where the mysterious Cadogan Sentinel spends her free time?" She was in jeans and a black T-shirt, heavy, black leather bands at each wrist, her blond hair in a ponytail. She tucked her hands behind her back, turned around to survey the room. "I understand it’s someone’s birthday."

I closed the book. "Aren’t you working today?"

Lindsey shrugged. "I switched with Juliet. Girl loves her guns, sleeps with that sword. She was happy to take duty."

I nodded. In the few days that I’d known Juliet, that summed up my impression. She had the look of an innocent, but she was always ready for a fight. "What brings you by?"

"You, birthday girl. Your party awaits."

I arched a brow. "My party?"

She crooked a finger at me, walked back into the hallway. Curious, I put the book aside, unfolded my legs, turned off the bedside lamp, and followed her. She trotted back down the stairs and into the living room – and into an assemblage of friends. Mallory, Catcher behind her, one hand at her waist. Jeff, quirky grin on his face and a silver-wrapped box in his hands.

Mallory stepped forward, arms outstretched. "Happy birthday, our little vampette!" I hugged her and gave Jeff a wink over her shoulder.

"We’re taking you out," she said. "Well, no, actually, we’re taking you in – to your grandfather’s house. He’s got a little something prepared."

"Okay," I said, at a loss to argue, and a little gushy-hearted that my friends had come to sweep me away to birthday festivities. It was a hell of an improvement over the mock- paternal visit earlier in the evening.

I found shoes and we gathered up purses, turned off lights, and locked the front door under the gaze of the guards who stood outside. Mallory and Catcher bundled off to the SUV that sat at the curb, a vehicle I guessed was Lindsey’s when she headed toward the driver’s seat. Jeff hung back, shyly offering the silver box.

I took it, looked at it, glanced up at him. "What’s this?"

He grinned. "A thank-you."

I smiled, and pulled off the silver gift wrap, then slid open the pale blue box beneath it. Inside was a tiny silver sculpture. It was human in form – a body genuflecting, arms outstretched. A little confused, I looked up at him, brows lifted.

"It’s bowing to you. I may have" – he pulled at the collar of his dress shirt – "spread around the fact that the Sentinel of Cadogan House had a tiny crush on me."

I folded my arms and looked at him. "How tiny?"

He started for the car. I followed.

"Jeffrey. How tiny?"

He held up a hand as he walked, the fingers pinched together.

"Jeff!"

He opened the back door, but turned before he slid in, a grin lighting his eyes. "There may have been begging, and I may have turned you down because you were a little too. . . ."

I rolled my eyes, slid into the backseat beside him. "Let me guess – too clingy?"

"Something like that."

I faced forward, felt his worried gaze at my side and the sudden peppering of magic that filled the back of the car. No, not just magic – alarm. But he was a friend, so I ignored the prick of vampiric interest – predatory interest – in the sweetly astringent aroma of his fear. "Fine," I said. "But I’m not giving you underwear."

I heard a chuckle from the front seat, then felt Jeff’s lips on my cheek. "You seriously kick ass."

Mallory flipped down her visor, met my gaze in the inset mirror, and winked at me.

There were cars all around my grandfather’s house – at the curb, parked on the front lawn. All luxury roadsters – Lexus, Mercedes, BMW, Infiniti, Audi – all in basic colors –  red, green, blue, black, white. But it was the license plates that gave them away: NORTH 1, GOOSE, SBRNCH. All divisions of the Chicago River.

"Nymphs," I concluded, when we were out of the car and Catcher had joined me on the sidewalk. I remembered the designations from the posters in my grandfather’s office.

"This wasn’t scheduled," he said. "They must have needed some Ombud input. A mediation, probably." He looked over at Jeff, stuck out a pointed finger. "No touching. If they’re fighting, there’ll be tears enough."

Jeff raised both hands, grinned. "I don’t make the ladies cry, CB."

"Don’t call me that," Catcher ground out, before looking at me. "This was not part of the birthday party."

I looked at the house, brightly lit, figures moving to and fro inside, and nodded. "So I gathered. Anything I need to be aware of?" And before he asked the obvious question, I gave the obvious answer. "And, yes, I’ve read the Canon." The book wasn’t a bad fill-in for the supernatural reference guide I’d been wishing for – it had introductory sections on all the major supernatural groups, water nymphs included. They were small, slim, moody, and prone to tears. They were territorial and wielded considerable power over the river’s flow and currents, and were rumored – and God only knew how to evaluate rumor in something like this – to be the granddaughters of the Naiads of Greek myth.

The boundaries of the nymphs’ respective areas were constantly waxing and waning, as the nymphs traded up and down for tiny bits of water and shore. And although human history books didn’t mention it, there were rumors that they’d played a key role in reversing the Chicago River’s flow in 1900.

"Just stay out of arm’s reach," Catcher advised, and went for the door.

My grandfather’s house was full of women. All of them petite and curvy, not a single one taller than five foot four. All drop-dead gorgeous. All with flowy hair, big, liquid eyes, tiny, tiny dresses. And they were screaming, screeching at one another with voices half an octave past comfortable. They were also crying, watery tears streaming down their faces.

We walked in, the five of us, and were greeted by a brief din in the silence.

"My granddaughter," my grandfather, seated in his easy chair, one elbow on the arm, hand in his chin, announced. "It’s her birthday."