Wild Things

“You find anything in your magic box?” Mallory asked.

“Receipts and ephemera. In other words, a big, fat nothing. You get anything else about Baumgartner or Simon?”

Catcher chewed, shook his head. “Simon is in South America. Decided a change of scenery was a good idea. I’m not crying that he’s on a different continent. I told Baumgartner what we saw. He denied they were really elves—probably fairies or humans dressing up like elves—and said the magic sounded like vampires.”

“Baumgartner is a royal sack of crap,” Mallory said.

“And still prefers to keep his head in the sand,” I suggested, then glanced at Ethan.

He’d opted for the forkless slice and was now swabbing his hands with napkins. I predicted fork in his future.

“The pizza’s good,” Mallory said. “It’s not Saul’s, of course, but it’s not bad.”

“You’re a pizza snob,” Catcher said.

She elbowed him. “No, I was raised right. Don’t deny a Chicagoan the right to pick her favorite slice. It’s un-American.”

I was inching into my second when my phone beeped. The slice went back to the plate, and I scrubbed grease from my hands before pulling it out of my pocket. I checked the screen . . . and my stomach curled with icy-cold nerves.

It was Lakshmi.

She was reminding me—as if I’d somehow forgotten—of the favor I owed and the message she wanted me to pass along. And she’d carefully drafted her message to ensure I recalled her larger point.

THE HOUSES DESERVE A MASTER WHO CAN TRULY LEAD THEM, she texted. DO NOT LET SELFISHNESS DEPRIVE THEM OF THAT.

Was it so selfish to want him close? To keep on the same continent the man I’d come to love, to need, to depend on? Or was it selfish of her to ask, to demand sacrifice of others instead of putting herself forward as a candidate, taking her own stand against tyranny?

“Sentinel?”

At the sound of his voice, I remembered I was sitting in mixed company—and with him. I plastered on a smile I didn’t feel and tucked the phone away again.

“It’s nothing,” I said, and grabbed a piece of pizza as if hunger was my only concern.

But of course it wasn’t nothing, and the curiosity didn’t disappear from Ethan’s gaze.

• • •

Sunrise found us tucked into the bedroom. The house was locked, the guards outside, Mallory and Catcher curled up in the living room. While Ethan showered, I plumped pillows and folded back the covers, climbed into cool sheets.

And then I obsessed about the GP.

My phone was in hand, Ethan on my mind, Lakshmi’s text under my squinty gaze. Jonah had tattoos on each arm—a devil on one side, an angel on the other. I thought of both, miniature devils and angels sitting on my shoulders, offering contradictory advice. But in my case, the angel looked like Seth Tate, Chicago’s former mayor, a former angel of peace who’d become magically linked to his identical twin, Dominic. Dominic had been an angel of judgment, a devil, and was as fallen as they came.

The devil derided me for even considering giving in to Lakshmi, a member of the GP, which had caused so much trouble for Cadogan House we’d been forced to quit it.

The angel shared Lakshmi’s fire, promising that I would be doing the right thing.

And all the while, as they debated, I still had to keep Ethan out of prison.

The bathroom door opened. Ethan, wearing only a towel, looked out. He’d brushed his hair, which was water-slicked back from his face.

Guilty and torn, I stuffed the phone hastily under the covers. But not so quickly he didn’t see me do it.

I’d never been a good liar, and this wasn’t an exception. “Arranging a secret rendezvous, are you, Sentinel?”

“No. Just checking in.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You’re a miserable liar.”

“Actually, I can usually bluff pretty well. But apparently not to you.”

“Is this about the message you got during dinner?”

“It is.”

“And would you like to tell me about it?”

There were things I could have said. You’d be the best GP leader. You should run. Take your position as the sire of vampires. Challenge Darius. But seconds passed and the sun inched higher toward the horizon, robbing me of the ability to debate. And I wasn’t going to take on something this serious when I wasn’t at full capacity.

“Nothing big,” I drowsily said. “Just a personal concern.”

“A personal concern?” he asked, a spark of green fire in his eyes that I recognized as jealousy. He probably imagined the personal concern involved Jonah and the RG, as that was the only thing I normally wouldn’t discuss with him in detail. But Ethan was the only man on my mind.

Apparently intent on guaranteeing that fact, he flicked a finger, and the towel fell to the ground, heaping at his feet. Ethan stood there, still damp, golden hair around his shoulders, hands on his hips and a less-than-modest expression on his face. Considering his impressive erection, modesty would have been wasted on me anyway.

I ignored my body’s undeniable twinge of interest and dragged my gaze to his face. “Not that kind of personal concern.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re certain?”

“That you’ll be the only man on my mind?” Especially with the image of him standing there seared into my retinas and memory. “Yes. I’m quite certain. Positive, you could say.”

He smiled a little. “Sentinel, you’re mumbling.”

“I’m tired. And your nakedness is distracting.”

But I moved to him anyway. Because sometimes distraction was just the thing you needed.

Some hours later, darkness fell without a knock at our bedroom door or any other. But alarms weren’t always raised with fists.

Chapter Eleven

LOOK AT LITTLE SISTER

We were dressed the next evening and preparing to emerge from the bedroom when our phones rang simultaneously. I reached for mine, but Ethan found his first.

“Sullivan,” he said, answering it through the speakerphone.

“It’s Luc. Turn on the television. NBC affiliate. Now.”

Dread ran cold along my spine like a spill of ice water.

We ran for the door, pulled it open, found Mallory on the couch, yawning as she flipped through a magazine. Catcher was gone, but there was shuffling in the kitchen.

Ethan reached the television first, switched it on, and found the channel.

“What’s the emergency?” Mallory asked.

A newscaster’s solemn voice began to ring through the air, drawing my attention back to the television. And there on the screen was Scott Grey, his lip bruised and bleeding, one eye swollen, his arm in a make-do sling. He limped as he walked, two men in black suits escorting him from the police station. The man on his left whispered to him, close and confidential.

“Catcher,” Mallory said, the same look of mortification in her eyes, “you need to see this.”

Catcher emerged from the kitchen, a mug in hand and wearing only boxers. He nodded at me and Ethan, then fixed his eyes on the screen.

“Scott Grey, the quote-unquote Master of Chicago’s Grey House of vampires, was led away from the precinct tonight by his lawyers after a day of intense questioning. Police spokesmen say they spoke with Grey about the recent murders and riots that have racked the city.”

“Bastards,” Ethan gritted out with obvious temper, needles of magic spilling into the air. “They’ve beaten him like he’s a goddamned animal.”

“Police say Grey is not a suspect in those events, but he may have information which could lead to the arrest of those suspected. John Haymer has more live from the precinct steps.”

The shot switched to a young man with dark skin, sharp gray eyes, and a very serious expression. “Thank you, Linda. I’m here with Terry Fowler, a resident of Hyde Park, with commentary.”

Haymer tipped a black microphone toward Fowler, a man with bony shoulders and a gleaming pate.

“It’s about time,” Fowler said, with a thick Chicago accent and a waggling finger, “that the mayor took some action on the hooligans that are running loose in our streets.”

“Those hooligans,” Ethan bit out, “are not vampires.”

“And what do you think about the charges the city used inappropriate force against Mr. Grey?”

“Inappropriate force? He’s a predator. They all are. Rioting, plucking victims here and there, probably grab you right off the street if they had a mind to. ’Bout damn time, if you ask me.” He smiled with gusto at the camera, clearly happy about his forty seconds of fame.

There would never be a moment’s peace, I realized. Not as long as human civilization had its own problems, not when vampires made such an easy target. Not when blaming us was easier than addressing deeply rooted social ills.

This was Celina’s doing, the result of her outing vampires, the mess she’d made by announcing their existence to the public. It had been more than a year since she’d made the decision, held a press conference, brought vampires into a light they hadn’t asked for. And now we were paying the price. This wasn’t the age of the Inquisition or the Salem witch trials, but it was proving to be different only by mechanism and degree. Technology didn’t make humans less blind; it only made it easier for hate and ignorance to spread.

“The mayor maintains the city’s supernaturals are little better than domestic terrorists. What are your thoughts?”

“They’re violent,” Fowler said. “Creating chaos. Making good people afraid to go out at night. Isn’t that terrorism? She should put ’em away or take ’em out.”

“You mean the death penalty?”

“If that’s what it takes, yeah. If it’s good enough for humans, ain’t it good enough for vampires?”

My blood chilled. His voice stayed casual, like it was nothing at all to suggest our deaths.

“Thank you, Mr. Fowler,” said the reporter, looking straight into the camera again. “I’ve spoken with a number of individuals here outside the precinct. Although not all of them support the mayor’s actions, it’s clear they are concerned about the presence of vampires in their community.”