Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires #11)(46)
Author: Chloe Neill

“Did you have a place in mind for food?” I asked when we reached the sidewalk that ran in front of the House.

Ethan glanced left, right, at me. “Actually, I thought I’d let you follow your nose.”

“That’s very nearly insulting.”

“You don’t think you can sniff out the best restaurant in Gold Coast?”

I probably could, but that didn’t make the question any less insulting. “I’m not a bloodhound. But pizza sounds good.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “And in this neighborhood?”

“Lou Malnati’s, Gino’s East, Birbiglia’s.” Three more possibilities sprang to mind, but I stopped offering them when I realized I was only helping his argument. “Those are from memory. Not scent.”

Ethan chuckled. “Which way, Sherlock?”

“I’d suggest you go to hell, but if you mean pizza, we should go left. You think it’s safe?”

“Rarely,” he said grimly. “But I think it’s unlikely Balthasar would have followed us here, plans to attack us as we walk down the street for pizza.”

“Not enough ceremony,” I said, following the train of thought, and he nodded.

“Precisely.”

So we set off down the quiet street in the warm spring air. He’d normally have taken my hand, or put his long fingers at the small of my back to remind me he was there, or to remind others I was taken. I didn’t mind the machismo, but either he could tell I still needed space, or he was still stinging from my last physical rebuke.

I couldn’t think about that, I told myself. Had to worry about my own needs, had to take care of myself. And hopefully, when all was said and done—and all would be said and done—we could find each other again.

*   *   *

Six blocks later, we stood in front of Two Brothers’ Pizza, a new-to-me shop squeezed in a small commercial chunk of the neighborhood between a coffee shop and luxe real estate agency.

Two gold pots stood beside the door, each holding tropical flowers that looked decidedly genital—a white-cupped petal with blushes of pink in the center, and a large protruding stamen right in the middle.

I snickered like a fourteen-year-old boy.

“Interesting décor,” Ethan said, glancing through the window.

The restaurant was entirely white—white tile floor and walls, white stone bar, white leather bar stools on spindly brass legs. Even the liquor had been poured into white bottles. A giant chalkboard hung behind the bar, a list of apparent possible pizza toppings written in pretty chalk script.

“Intriguing,” Ethan said, scanning the list.

“I don’t know. I just don’t really see carrots on pizza. Or radishes.” I had an unpleasant memory of Catcher eating “shepherd’s pie” pizza covered in mashed potatoes, peas, and meat. I wasn’t exaggerating to say it was a felony against pizza, and the mere idea of it put me off vegetable toppings completely. If it wasn’t meat or cheese, it had no business atop a pie.

“The vitamins are good for you.”

“I’m immortal.”

“Strong fangs,” Ethan said, walking inside and stepping up to the counter.

*   *   *

Fortunately, he was willing to compromise. He’d try the triple meat I selected, and I’d try his beet, carrot, and mortadella concoction. Being the gentleman that he was, Ethan offered to carry the boxes back to Navarre House.

The night was beautiful—a light breeze, white clouds moving across the darkened sky, humans walking dogs or chatting with neighbors in the small, gated entryways that characterized the houses in the Gold Coast. It was a neighborhood of wealth, of luxury and relative safety. No turf wars, no abandoned lots, very little crime. Those who lived there were lucky, at least materially.

We were two blocks from Navarre when Ethan’s phone beeped. He pulled it out and stopped short, his magic filling the air. Even the flavor of Ethan’s fear and hatred for his maker was becoming recognizable.

“Where is he?” I asked, my stomach knotting with nerves.

He handed me the phone. Luc had messaged him a photograph—a grainy black-and-white of Balthasar standing on the sidewalk across the street from Cadogan, his coat billowing around his ankles as he stared at the House.

I handed Ethan the phone again, my buoyant mood suddenly deflated. “He’s showing us that he can get to us. That he’s here and he isn’t leaving.”

“And, as you mentioned, that he’s waiting for my response.” Ethan looked at the phone, which beeped as more messages arrived. “He left an obvious trail, and Kelley and Tara are on him again.”

“He wants to be found. Wants you to know where he is. Wants you to be able to find him.” Dread settled low in my belly. “He’ll try to find me again, Ethan. Try to get to me again while I sleep.”

“Mallory and Catcher will figure something out. They won’t let him get to you. I won’t let him get to you.”

I looked up at him, let him see the fear in my eyes. There wasn’t much these nights that scared me, other than losing him or Grandpa or Mallory, or someone else I loved, but Balthasar had scared me, and badly.

There was nothing equivocal in his gaze, in the steadiness of his green eyes. “He was my nightmare, Merit. You are my miracle. He will not touch you again. Yes?”

When I nodded, he smiled.

“We have pizza, each other, and a very good accountant. Let’s go back to Navarre House and get this job done.”

Just another fun evening for the vampires of Cadogan House.

*   *   *

We turned the corner on Navarre’s street, the hulking white building glowing beneath streetlights and spotlights in the careful landscape.

Nadia stood on the lawn talking to a tall and well-built man with ruddy skin and reddish hair that fell in tousled curls around his square face. He wore jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt beneath a bulky leather jacket.

I thought, at first, they were embracing. That Nadia had a new lover, and they were sharing a quiet moment on a spring night in Chicago outside the confines of her House. And when they hit the ground, I first thought they’d fallen into a sordid coupling there on the narrow strip of grass, and nearly at the feet of her former lover.

It took me precious seconds to realize they were fighting—grappling like MMA fighters in the final round of battle. Her legs were twined around his waist, and he’d pulled her arm at an awkward angle as she spat out phrases in quick, staccato Russian. I didn’t recognize the words, but it didn’t take a genius to figure them out—or that she needed help.