Twice Bitten (Chicagoland Vampires #3)(16)
Author: Chloe Neill

Not that I cared what he thought, I lied to myself.

Ethan beeped his security system, then opened the passenger side door for me.

"So very gracious," I said as I climbed inside, arranging my katana inside the tiny coupe.

"I have my moments," he replied, his gaze on the garage around him, then shut the door behind me.

When he was equally ensconced, we drove up the ramp to the security door, which lifted upon our approach, then headed out into the dark, summer night, zooming past the handful of paparazzi who stood at one corner of the lot, cameras at the ready. Since we were a captive group – nearly one-third of the vampires in the House returning to the roost before each sunrise – they hadn’t yet bothered tracking us around when we left Hyde Park.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"A bar called Little Red," Ethan said. "Somewhere in the midst of Ukrainian Village." He nodded toward the GPS panel in the dashboard. It was already plotting our way toward the neighborhood, which was in a chunk of Chicago known as West Town.

"Little Red," I repeated. "What does that mean?"

"It’s a reference to Little Red Riding Hood, I assume."

"So the shifters are wolves? Jeff said their shape had something to do with their power."

"They aren’t all wolves. Each shifter transforms into one animal, and the animal runs in the family."

"So if one of the Brecks was a badger, all the Brecks would be badgers?" Ethan snickered. "And given our experiences with Nick Breckenridge so far, I’d be happy to learn he was a badger."

Nick had been an unwilling participant in Peter’s blackmail scheme. And in the process, he’d transformed from a former boyfriend of yours truly to a growly pain in the ass. "Badger" seemed entirely apropos. "Agreed."

"Unfortunately," Ethan said, "the families don’t generally publicize their particular animals. So other than being on very, very good terms with a shifter, the only way for an outsider to know the animal is to see the shift. That said, one would presume the more powerful members of the Pack – Apex and the like – are predators. Bigger, badder, fiercer than the rest."

"So, wolves or grizzlies or something, rather than least weasels."

"Least weasels?"

"They’re real," I confirmed. "I saw one in a nature center once. Tiny little guys. So Gabriel – what do we know about him?"

"The Keene family – Gabriel’s father, great-uncle, grandfather, and so forth – have led the North American Central Pack for centuries. We’ve had independent confirmation they’re wolves."

"Independent? Did that come from your secret vampire source?" My grandfather had representatives of three supernatural groups in his employ – Catcher for the sorcerers, Jeff for the shifters, and a third, secret vampire source who kept his profile low in order to keep from pissing off his Master. That anonymity notwithstanding, my grandfather sometimes shared the info he received with Ethan.

It had occurred to me that Malik, Ethan’s second in command, might be the anonymous vampire. Malik knew everything that went on in the House, but usually kept to himself. He was intense, but seemed to be on the side of truth and justice. Providing secret, but crucial, information to the Ombud’s office, information ultimately used to keep supernatural peace in Chicago, seemed right up his alley.

"Independent," Ethan said, "as in it didn’t come from a vampire. I suppose we are throwing you to the wolves," he added after a moment, "although you’re not exactly the type to go traipsing through the woods, basket in hand, to grandmother’s house."

"No," I agreed, "I’m not. But I am the type to take the Volvo to my grandfather’s office, bucket of chicken in hand."

"Sounds like a good trip."

"It was. You know I love food. And my grandfather. But not necessarily in that order." Traffic wasn’t bad as we moved north, but it still took twenty minutes to reach West Town. Ethan made himself comfy for the ride – one arm perched on the door, one on the steering wheel at three o’clock.

Eventually, we pulled off I-95 and into a neighborhood, then made a few more turns onto a commercial street of brick buildings that probably had its heyday in the 1960s. Now they sat largely empty but for a few industrial dry cleaners and international bakeries. At this time of night the street was empty of pedestrians . .

. but plenty full of bikes.

The bikes, I guessed, were a marker for the Packs. In this case, it was a row of retro-looking cruisers – low, curvy motorcycles with lots of chrome and red leather – parked one beside the other, a dozen or so in all. They were lined up in front of a brick building that sat at the corner. A round, glowing white sign – like a full moon in the midst of Wicker Park – bore the words LITTLE RED across it in simple red letters.

"That must be it," I said as Ethan maneuvered the Mercedes into a parallel parking spot up the block.

We emerged from the car and into the thump of rock ‘n’

roll music, which spilled onto the street when the door opened. A leather-clad man with a short beard and dark blond ponytail mounted one of the bikes, started the engine, and rode away.

"One fewer shifter we’ll be able to get to know," I whispered to Ethan, who humphed in response.

We belted on our katanas, then walked down the block toward the door into the bar.

The bikes weren’t the only indication that something different was going on in Ukrainian Village. When we reached the corner where the front door sat kittycorner to the street, I spied a trio of gouges in the brick wall. I stopped and peered more closely, then lifted my fingertips to the brick. They were clean marks, long, evenly spaced, and deep into brick and mortar.

These weren’t gouges, I realized. They were clawmarks.

"Ethan," I said, then gestured toward the scratches.

"It’s a sign," he explained. "That this is a Pack place." And here we were, vampires walking into their den.

But since we were here, and there was nothing to do but do it, I took the lead and pushed open the door. The bar was one narrow room – a handful of tables in front of a large picture window, a long wooden bar along the other side. The hard-driving music was loud enough to bruise my eardrums, and I winced at the throb of it. The sound burst from a jukebox in a corner, that machine the only decoration that didn’t involve advertisements for beer, whiskey, or Malort, Chicago’s wickedly strong version of absinthe.

Men in leather jackets with NAC in giant, embroidered letters across the back sipped at the tables, somehow managing to chat over the roar of the jukebox. I assumed NAC stood for the North American Central Pack.