Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (12 page)

“Merit,” I said. “I’m from Cadogan House. And this is Catcher. He’s from—well, currently, my grandfather’s house.”

“We’ve met,” Catcher said, and Charla smiled at me.

“We’re well acquainted with your grandfather, Merit. He handled several issues on our behalf when he served as Ombudsman.” She looked at Catcher. “It’s a shame you aren’t official anymore.”

“We couldn’t agree more,” Catcher said, casting a glance back at the building. “I hope no one was injured?”

“Fortunately, no,” Charla said. “We were between shifts, and in the middle of a company-wide meeting.” Charla looked sadly back at the building. “No lives lost, but the building will never be the same. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

We followed her toward the front door—or what was left of it. The smells of singed wood and plastic, and the low note of blood, grew stronger.

“The first bottle was thrown here,” she said, gesturing at the door. “On its own, it wasn’t terribly powerful. Less a blast than a source of fire. But they threw the second about fifteen feet away.” She gestured farther down the wall. “The fire breached the building’s propane line, which caused the explosions.”

That explained the
booms
we’d heard.

“The fires eventually merged, and that’s what caused most of the damage to the building.”

“Do you have security tapes?” I asked.

“We do, although some of the cameras were damaged by the fire.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you need a visual of the attack, it won’t be hard to find on the Web. The protestors weren’t exactly shy about taping their handiwork.”

“So we saw,” Catcher said. “But the videos could help us, if you can get them.”

Charla nodded. “My brother, Alan, is also involved in the business. He has a biology background, so he handles research and development and oversees our lab work. He’s also in charge of security. I’ll see what he can do.”

“How long have you been around?”

“In one form or another, since 1904. We’ve been in this building since the sixties.”

“How many people know what you actually do?” I asked.

“Obviously all of our employees,” she said. “But they stay quiet about it. We try to treat them well—pay them well—in return. That’s part of our policy. If something had been off in that direction, we’d know it.”

She looked back at us. “Did you see the mayor’s press conference? And McKetrick’s? Very disturbing stuff. How they think supernaturals would have been involved in this is completely beyond me. What benefit would they possibly have in endangering their own blood supply?”

“That’s a very good question,” Catcher said. “Which is why we tend to think this is about humans. We understand one of your former employees, Robin Pope, filed a grievance against the company. What can you tell us about that?”

Charla’s expression shuttered, and the pleasant smile evaporated.

“Robin Pope, if you’ll excuse my frankness, is an ignorant bully. If she didn’t get her way on the smallest issue, she complained up the chain of command until someone finally caved. She cannot conceive of the possibility she’s wrong, much less tolerate constructive criticism. She bullied her colleagues—even away from the office—and invented conspiracies to justify her behavior.”

“You fired her?” Catcher prompted.

“We did. Her little grievance is the result of it. She claims she was fired because we love vampires and, thereby, hate humans, including her. That everyone else we employ is human didn’t seem to cross her mind.”

“That must have been irritating,” I said.

“It was infuriating,” Charla agreed. “Do you think she’s involved?”

“I think it’s an awfully big coincidence if she isn’t,” Catcher said.

“Do you think she’s capable of it?” I asked Charla.

“I don’t want to give her too much credit,” she said, “but she didn’t seem the violent type.”

“You did say she bullied your employees,” I said.

“Well, yes, but that was small scale. She left a nasty note on someone’s car. Made a few unsettling phone calls. They were more about having uncovered the truth—and making sure that someone believed her—than violence. Firebombing the building because she was angry? I don’t know about that.” I wouldn’t have figured Robin Pope for attempting to prick me with an aspen stake and then running like a fugitive, but I didn’t mention that to Charla.

She scratched absently at a spot on her shoulder. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe we were all fooled.”

“What about any other threats against the business?” Catcher asked. “Harassing e-mails? Phone calls? Anything that would suggest you’d been targeted specifically?”

“Nothing at all. No communications, phone calls, anything. Not a single e-mail.”

“What about union disputes?” I asked.

“We aren’t unionized,” Charla said, “and the union hasn’t shown much interest because of our ties to the supernatural. They aren’t really sure what to do with us.”

“Supply chain issues?” Catcher asked. “Arguments with suppliers or vendors?”

“Our contracts are negotiated annually, and we’re right in the middle of the term, so it will be six months before anyone starts complaining. Here’s the thing—production is still running. So whoever hit us, if they meant to knock us off-line, didn’t know anything about how we operate. They hit the front of the building—where the offices are located—not the back.”

“Where the production actually occurs,” I said.

“Exactly.” She shrugged. “If they wanted to shut us down, they did a pretty crappy job of it. Thank goodness. Almost all of our employees live here, work here in the neighborhood. They take a lot of pride in what they do. We’re a very family-oriented company. And speaking of family,” she said, as a tall man with dark skin, glasses, and a goatee walked toward us. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting suit, which only added to the sense of business acumen.

“Alan,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. “This is Catcher Bell and Merit. They’re helping investigate the riots.”

“Good to meet you,” he said, shaking both of our hands. His handshake was strong, confident. “Thank you for your help.”

“Of course,” Catcher said. “We’re sorry about the trouble and property damage.”

“I was just telling them you’d get the security tapes,” Charla said.

Alan frowned. “I’m not sure what help they’ll be, as they aren’t outside the building. They wouldn’t show the rioters.”

“Even if they don’t,” Catcher said, “they might help us eliminate theories.”

Alan nodded. “I see. Of course. I should be able to get them onto DVDs. I assume that will work for you?”

“Perfectly,” Catcher said.

“Charla said you handle the science aspects of the business?” I asked.

“He actually just finished his PhD in December,” Charla said. “We’re very proud of him.”

Alan rolled his eyes affectionately. “It’s no big deal.”

“What’s your degree in?” Catcher asked.

“Biochemistry,” he said, gesturing toward the building. “You could say I grew up in the field. I’ve been heading our R and D division.”

“New products in the works?” Catcher asked.

“Always,” Charla said with a smile. “But not just new products. We’ve developed additives to keep blood from spoiling, products to keep the blood in suspension, nutritional enhancements.”

“Stronger teeth and shinier coat?” Catcher asked, earning an elbow from me.

But Charla laughed good-naturedly. “That’s not far from the truth. Fangs are important to vampires. No reason not to give them a calcium boost.”

Catcher smiled. “I’m sure they appreciate it. We should let you get back to work, unless there’s anything else you think we should know?”

Charla put her hands on her hips and frowned sadly at the remains of the building. “Only that I wish you could wave a wand, fix this damage, and turn idiots into humanitarians.”

“If I had a wand that could do that,” Catcher said, “I’d do nothing
but
wave it.”

LIKE A GOOD NEIGHBOR, VAMPIRES ARE THERE

C
harla disappeared into the building, and without our escort, the cops shooed us back behind the police tape. We regrouped beside Moneypenny, and looked very sharp doing it.

“Thoughts?” he asked.

“I think we have to wait for the CPD to question Robin Pope. I’m curious to know exactly how pissed she was about losing ‘most popular hot dish’ at the company potluck.”

“Hot dish? What’s a hot dish?”

“You know,” I said, moving my index fingers in the shape of a square. “A casserole. A hot dish.”

“Nobody says hot dish.”

I rolled my eyes. “People say hot dish. My roommate at NYU was from Minneapolis. She said it all the time.”

Catcher looked far from convinced, but he let it go. For the moment. “Idioms aside, I think you’re right, especially since we don’t actually have any other leads.”

The wind was picking up. I spied a coffee shop across the street; a man with a laptop sat at a table in front, sipping at his mug while he stared out the window. Aspiring novelist looking for inspiration in violence . . . or sociology student with a window on a natural experiment?

“It’s cold out here,” I said, gesturing toward the café. “Why don’t we grab something warm? We can talk shop.”

“Sure,” Catcher said.

We walked across the hills and valleys of snow to the shop’s front door, and then inside. The shop, which was new to me, was just the kind of place I’d have frequented in grad school. Dark and a little cozy, with shabby couches and mismatched chairs and the scents of coffee, cinnamon, and smoke from the roaster. A checkers set was on one small table; saltshakers and other random tchotchkes replaced missing pieces.

We walked to the counter, where Catcher immediately pulled out his wallet.

“Latte, half caf, extra hot, double foam, two shots, soy milk,” he rattled off, then looked at me.

“I’m not really sure how I can follow that,” I said, before looking over the chalkboard menu and picking something simple. “Hot chocolate?”

The barista looked suddenly tired. “Caramel, salted caramel, mocha, Aztec, dark chocolate, double chocolate, white chocolate, black and white, low cal, fat free, or regular?”

“Regular?”

The clerk seemed utterly unimpressed by my decision, but she rang us up. Ever the gentleman—or at least in coffee bars in February—Catcher paid for both drinks. We waited in silence for them to arrive, then picked them up and tucked into a sitting area along the back wall. Window views were nice, but not in Chicago in the winter. The cold inevitably seeped through, which left you only slightly less chilled than if you’d been outside in the first place.

I took a seat on the couch and curled my feet under me, then sipped my hot chocolate. It was tasty, although the residual warmth from the mug was more valuable than the drink.

“They’re going to strike again,” Catcher predicted. “The rioters, I mean. There was no event here. No trigger. They weren’t reacting to a Super Bowl win or the beating of a civilian. And if there’s no trigger, there’s a groundswell of rage. That’s not the kind of thing that just disappears.”

Unfortunately, I couldn’t disagree with him. “So how do we stop it? Get a handle on it?”

He shrugged. “By doing the stuff we’ve discussed. We’ll follow up with the CPD, check the security videos. The key here may not be the riot itself, but why this particular place was targeted. This isn’t exactly a public hot spot for vampire activity. It’s not flashy. Not like Cadogan House, which would have been the obvious, big-name target. There’s something to that—to picking this place. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

I nodded, and we sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping our beverages. “While we’re here, can I talk to you about something?”

“What?”

“Our little blue-haired friend? She asked me for a job at Cadogan House.”

Catcher looked surprised, which wasn’t a common expression for him. “A job?”

“She’s contingency planning. Looking for something to do when her time with the shifters is up. She hoped we might have something for her.”

“I can’t imagine Sullivan took that well.”

“He’s not thrilled at the idea. She violated the sanctity of his House. And his mind. But I think he also knows
we
need a plan for when she’s better. What do you think?”

He looked away; whether it was in thought or fear, I wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I think she’s making progress. I think
we’re
making progress. I don’t want to interrupt it.” He paused. “We started dating so fast. Jumped right into it, and into living together. To be honest, when she used the
Maleficium
, I thought I’d made a horrible decision. That I’d totally misjudged her.”

I hadn’t known how close Catcher had come to breaking up with Mallory, and I wondered if she did.

“And then I saw her with the shifters.”

Confused, I looked at him. “You mean washing dishes?”

Catcher made a sarcastic sound. “She’s doing more than just washing dishes, Merit.”

That was news to me. Everything I’d seen and heard indicated Mallory was doing manual labor while she learned to live with her magic. Neither Mallory nor Gabe had mentioned anything else, even last night.

“So what’s she doing?” And why hadn’t either one of them told me there was more to it?

“I don’t know all the details.” Catcher swirled the coffee left in his cup, and I waited him out. “Shifters have a connection to magic that we don’t,” he finally said. “I think they’re helping her learn to channel her magic productively.”

“I’m surprised Gabe hasn’t told us that.”

“He’s been playing it off,” Catcher said. “Shifters don’t involve themselves in the affairs of others; at least, that’s what they keep telling themselves. That rep’s taken a hit lately, considering his friendships with you and Ethan. And if word got out he was actively helping Mallory, a sorceress, a lot more people would come asking.”

I nodded. I understood the reasoning, even though the information probably would have gone a long way toward soothing Ethan—and everyone else who’d had an unfortunate run-in with Mallory.

“And how do you feel about it?” Catcher had been jealous of Simon, Mallory’s former tutor. I wondered how he felt about Mallory working with Gabriel and the other brutally attractive shape-shifters.

“It’s not my choice,” he said. “But it’s our obligation.”

He offered few words, but they packed a punch. Catcher was letting her work outside his comfort zone in order to prevent the chaos he’d helped facilitate by being inattentive the first time around.

My phone rang, so I pulled it out and checked the screen.

“It’s the House,” I told Catcher, holding it up to my ear. “Merit.”

“Merit.” Ethan’s voice rang through the phone. “You’re on speakerphone.”

His tone was serious, and my stomach turned with nerves. “What’s wrong?”

“Clean Chicago has fired back up,” Luc said. “They’re in Wrigleyville. And they’re attacking Grey House.”

The breath stuttered out of me in shock—then fear. Had we done this? Had we caused this riot by visiting Robin Pope, cluing her in to the direction of our investigation, and letting her get away?

And what about Jonah? As captain of the Grey House guards, he’d be right in the middle of the violence, right in the line of fire. I knew he was capable of handling himself, but that didn’t mean I wished him into combat.

“Scott’s called the CPD,” Luc said. “But they don’t have control yet. They’re estimating three hundred rioters. He also sent out an SOS for help from other Chicago vampires.”

“The GP blacklisted us,” I pointed out. “Are we even allowed to help?”

“Blacklisting is between Cadogan and the GP,” Ethan said. “Not Cadogan and Grey. That Grey House has not come to our aid does not mean we won’t come to theirs. We set the example; we set our own bar. Besides, you’ve already heard from one Grey House vampire, who risked the blacklist to tell us about it. The barrier’s already been breached. They need help, and we’ll provide it.”

“But that doesn’t mean we can be careless,” Luc put in. “This is the kind of situation the GP will likely stay out of—too much bad press, too many ways for their hands to get dirty, which they don’t care for. But keep an eye out anyway. Just because action by the GP is unlikely doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

“Luc and Juliet are about to leave for Grey House,” Ethan said. “Malik will stay at the House, in the event the rioters are looking for other targets. Lindsey is not to leave his side under any circumstances. Kelley’s got command of the guards in our absence. Notify the humans at the gate. I want them on full-alert status. The tunnels are prepared?”

“Cleaned, stocked, and ready,” Luc answered. “I’m going to say good-bye to Lindsey; then I’m heading to the car.”

My heart clenched. Luc was saying good-bye—not just because he was leaving the House, but because he was leaving the House for possible battle.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Wait for me,” Ethan said. “I’m already en route, and I’ll meet you there.”

The last place I wanted my boyfriend—and the Master I’d taken an oath to protect—was in the middle of a war zone.

“I suppose there’s no point in arguing with you about this?”

“There is not,” Ethan said, his tone firm. “So don’t bother.”

“Where should I meet you?”

“I’ll talk to Luc and select a spot. We’ll text you coordinates. Where are you currently?”

“At a coffeehouse with Catcher, across the street from Bryant Industries.”

“Stay put until we send the location,” Luc said. “I don’t want you heading in blind.”

“Roger that,” I said. I didn’t want to head in blind, either.

The call ended, and I looked at Catcher. “I suppose you got the gist?”

He held his phone out, revealing a message from my grandfather:
GREY HOUSE UNDER ATTACK.

“Word moves quickly,” I said.

“As does violence,” Catcher said. “And we all have our parts to play.”

Fear in my heart, I looked at him. “Did we do this? By questioning her, by letting her get away, did we make this happen? Did we scare her into it?”

“Did we scare her, within an hour, to organize a riot of three hundred people? No. This would have been on the books before we talked to Pope, maybe even before the riot last night. It’s too big to be anything other than a planned attack. But I’ll bet your ass and mine that she’s got a hand in it, and she knows how to stop it.”

Catcher stood up and rebuttoned his coat.

“Where are you heading?” I asked.

“I can’t use magic in the middle of the riot,” he said. “Too many witnesses. But I can manage the perimeter. Pick off the stragglers now and again.”

“Pick them off?” I asked. I assumed he didn’t mean it literally, but I thought I should perform the due diligence.

“I’m not going to kill them,” Catcher said. “Incapacitating them will be enough. And it’s a creative venture that I’m going to enjoy. With gusto.”

“I haven’t seen you this excited about magic in a long time.”

“The world is changing,” he said. “The old ways don’t work anymore. For better or worse, Mallory’s been a good reminder of that.”

I nodded. “Then good luck, and thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck at the House. And I wouldn’t be a friend of your grandfather’s if I didn’t ask you to please be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” I promised. “It’s other people I can’t be sure about.”

—

Ethan sent me the address of the rendezvous spot—a pharmacy a few blocks away from Grey House. From there, we’d get a sense of the scene from the other end of the riot, then plan our approach and how best we could divert the rioters from the House. Luc and Juliet would drop him off, then proceed to the House, or as close as they could get.

Wrigleyville wasn’t terribly far from Wicker Park. I arrived at the rendezvous point before Ethan and got out of the car, belting on my katana and ensuring the fit was perfect. With an imperfect fit, I wouldn’t be able to draw the sword cleanly from its scabbard.

The street was quiet, but I could hear the now-familiar sounds of the riot—chanting, glass breaking, rhythmic drumming—a few blocks away. A gut-wrenching column of smoke lifted into the sky, visible even blocks away from Grey House.

I was seeing only the margin of the violence, and it was still enough to make me nervous. After all, I was immortal, not invincible. But my fear was irrelevant. This was battle, and I was Sentinel of my House. Being brave meant fighting through fear.

It was unfortunate Mayor Kowalcyzk didn’t see this for what it was—domestic terrorism at its finest. But she’d already decided we weren’t the protagonists of this particular story.

“This story,” I murmured, a plan beginning to form.

Maybe, if we wanted to combat Kowalcyzk and McKetrick and Clean Chicago, we had to write our own story. We had to remind the city we were hardworking Chicagoans who were out to make lives for ourselves, not to harm anyone else. We had to show Chicago what the violence was doing to us, and to the rest of the city.