Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (28 page)

I nodded, and Jeff jogged away toward his car, which sat, untouched, at the end of the driveway.

I glanced around, refusing to look at the house, not ready to face the destruction or the loss of a place where I’d spent so much time as a child. A place where I’d grown up.

And what did I spy with my little eye? In front of the other ambulance sat a kid—no more than twenty—wearing a T-shirt that read
CLEAN CHICAGO
.

Rage coursed through me.

I picked up my sword, the handle damp with snow, and strode toward him.

“Who sent you here?”

He looked up at me and sniffed in disgust. “Nobody.”

“Who sent you here?” I pressed, placing the tip of the sword against the beating pulse of his carotid artery. It throbbed just beneath the skin, a tiny echoing heartbeat that hinted at the satiation of my hunger, and the satisfaction of my sudden lust for violence.

It was a different kind of bloodlust.

I wet my lips and looked down at him, lusting for violence in a way I’d never experienced before. I’d needed blood, sure. I was a vampire. But I hadn’t needed blood like this. I wanted to devour him, control him, sublimate him.

I wanted to end him.

I had sudden, new empathy for Mallory’s black-magic addiction, for the mind-filling supernatural wanting that she must have experienced. Humans weren’t any strangers to addiction, but this seemed almost more powerful, as if the addiction weren’t simply foisted upon you by a drug, but by a living, breathing thing.

“Merit,” Jeff said, “put the sword down.”

“No, Jeff. This is the
last time
they hurt us. This has to be the last time. We have sat around for too long and let them get away with this. I say, fuck them, fuck this little shit. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

“Retribution,” he said, more calmly than I would have. “Violence, martial law, litigation. I know you love your grandfather, Merit. I don’t doubt it, and never would. But we have to consider what will help . . . and what will hurt.”

I was a woman, a Sentinel, a vampire. A monster. But mostly . . . I was me. Irrespective of what else I might have been, I was me. I was my grandfather’s granddaughter. I was a Cadogan Novitiate, from a noble House. And I couldn’t dishonor either my grandfather or my House with murder in cold blood.

Biting was one thing. Biting bad was another.

I looked away, furious that Jeff wasn’t going to let me have my way, my violence. I was a vampire, for fuck’s sake. I wanted action. I wanted to sweat through my blinding fury, to let it find its home somewhere else, outside of me, where it couldn’t gnaw at me anymore.

I walked away and threw my sword across the yard, then fell into the snow.

There, on my knees, in the middle of my grandfather’s front yard, I looked at what had become of the home he’d shared with my grandmother. The house was virtually destroyed. The fire had spread from front to back, which was the only reason we’d managed to escape without worse injuries. The walls in the back were still standing, but the front had caved in, leaving a gaping chasm of charred wood and furnishings.

And the structure wasn’t the only thing lost. The photographs and mementos had been burned. My grandfather’s belongings had been destroyed. Even Jeff’s computer was probably a pile of smoldering plastic toast right now.

The loss and fear and grief hit me, and I began to sob. I cried until my knees were numb and my eyes burned. I cried after a fireman covered me in a silver blanket for warmth, and until I doubted there was a tear left to shed.

I opened my eyes again and looked out over the yard. The work would have to start: rebuilding, finding a place for my grandfather to live, finding a place for the Ombuddies to work.

Work.

I realized, in my haste to get inside, what I was missing. The syringe. I’d dropped the plastic bag in the snow. We had to have it—it was the only piece of real physical evidence we had.

Frantically, I crawled forward, pushing through the chunks of ice and snow with my hands, sifting through rubble as I looked for the plastic bag—not an easy venture in the dark.

“Merit?”

Startled by the sound of my name, I glanced around.

Ethan stood behind me.

“I lost the syringe, Ethan. I can’t find it.”

His gaze softened. “Don’t worry about that now, Merit. We’ll find it.”

“No, we need the syringe. It’s our evidence. We need it, Ethan.”

“Okay,” he said, gently pulling me to my feet. “I’ll look for the syringe, okay?”

I nodded, my mind still racing, my heart still racing. “It’s our evidence,” I repeated.

Ethan put his hands on my face and searched my eyes. “Merit. Breathe.”

I shook my head. I’d already been overwhelmed once. I didn’t want to be overwhelmed again. I just wanted a solution.

“I was so afraid,” I said. “I thought I’d lost my grandfather.”

Ethan smiled. “You didn’t lose him. You saved him, Merit. You rushed into a burning building to save him, and I have never been so proud or so angry. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“I’m okay,” I said. “I had to go in there. I couldn’t not go in there.”

“I know,” he said, brushing bangs from my face. “And that’s the only reason I’m not throttling you right now.”

“The house was firebombed. There were rioters. One of them is over . . . there,” I said, pointing to the second ambulance, but the rioter was gone.

“Jeff nabbed him,” Ethan said. “He’s in the back of the CPD car.”

I turned around to check that out. Sure enough, the pouty rioter was in the back of the cruiser. I couldn’t hear his words, but he appeared to be screaming at the top of his lungs, probably about the unfairness of his arrest and the injustices he was facing at the hands of vampires . . . after he’d firebombed my grandfather’s house.

“My grandfather’s house is gone,” I said.

“But your grandfather is not,” Ethan pointed out. He kissed me hard, reminding me that I had my own life to be grateful for, then wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. My tears began anew.

“I’m here,” he said. “Be still.”

—

Half an hour and one retrieved piece of evidence later, we sat in the dated waiting room of a hospital on the south side of Chicago. Grandpa was in surgery, and we were waiting for an update.

Chairs with pink tweed cushions and rounded wooden arms were grouped together in seating areas for family and friends, and televisions showing twenty-four-hour news channels played quietly in the corners. There was a small area for children to play, with a handful of wooden books and plastic toys with the decals and paint worn off. They seemed tired, and sadder for it.

I’d washed the soot from my face in the sink of the bathroom down the hall, using hand soap and brown paper towels. Soot was weirdly greasy, and it took a few tries before my skin was clean again. On the upside, I wouldn’t need an exfoliating mask any time soon.

I sat beside Ethan, our hands entwined, my head on his shoulder. The rest of the Cadogan House vampires had stayed at the house out of fear the rioters might seek another target. They clearly meant business—whatever that business might have been.

Other vampires were also absent, but Jonah sent a text message:
SOUNDS LIKE I MISSED ALL THE FUN
.

YOU DID
, I responded.
BUT YOU SHOULD STAY WHERE YOU ARE. KEEP YOUR PEOPLE SAFE.

YOU’RE ONE OF MY PEOPLE
, he messaged.
AND I’M GLAD YOU’RE OKAY. BEST WISHES TO CHUCK
.

My grandfather was well loved, and the waiting room was stuffed with people who’d been able to check in and wish him well. Catcher and Mallory sat on the chairs across from us. Catcher looked guilty, I assumed because he hadn’t been at the house when the shit went down. Not that that would have done anything.

Jeff and Marjorie were there, as were a handful of supernaturals I knew only through vague acquaintance—a couple of the snub-nosed River trolls and a small gaggle of River nymphs—but they kept to themselves.

Detective Jacobs and some of my grandfather’s friends from the CPD were there. Ethan had passed the syringe over to Catcher, who in turn gave it to Detective Jacobs. He promised to have the lab take a look as soon as he could.

Gabriel, Tanya, and Connor even dropped by to wish my grandfather well. Connor was asleep in his father’s arms, and Tanya looked sleepy, too. I hadn’t realized how late it was—only a couple of hours from dawn, I thought.

“You’re all right?” Gabriel asked, giving me a half hug and pressing a kiss to my cheek. That act of kindness, so personal and so unusual for Gabe, nearly made me break into tears again.

“I’m okay,” I said. “Hanging in there.”

“Only thing you can do,” he said, shaking Ethan’s hand.

“Your compatriot was a brave man tonight,” Ethan said. “Jeff helped rescue him.”

We glanced at Jeff, who was now cradling Connor in his unbandaged arm, Tanya looking over them both with a smile.

“He’s a good man,” Gabriel said. “And a good member of our Pack.”

“Any word on my car?” I asked. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome with the Mercedes, I mean.”

Gabriel and Ethan shared a look I couldn’t decipher, but I bet it was related to the car’s history—and the fact that Ethan wanted it.

“As it turns out,” Gabe said, “they’re having trouble tracking down a windshield.”

I frowned. “I thought Mallory had said it was repaired?”

“Only the hood,” Gabe clarified. “That was easy enough to find. Intact glass for a Volvo that was manufactured before you were born is trickier. And don’t worry about the car. You have bigger things to think about. Family things. That comes first.”

“Agreed,” Ethan said, slipping his hand into mine.

The Keenes didn’t stay long, begging off in order get Connor home and safely tucked in. They were quickly replaced by my parents, who were the last to arrive. Both were formally dressed; she in sequins, he in a tux. They probably hadn’t learned about the fire until after whatever event they’d been attending.

My mother was teary eyed. My father looked haunted, as if he’d suddenly been reminded of his own mortality.

We rose when they came in. My mother practically ran to me, embracing me in a hug strong enough to leave sequin imprints on my arms.

“You’ve talked to the doctor?” my father asked.

“Not yet,” Ethan said. “He’s still in surgery.”

My father looked at me, and for the first time that I could remember, there was fear in his eyes. The man who’d bought his way through life had discovered that death always had a card to play and rarely lost a hand.

He wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. “You could have gotten yourself killed, Merit. You could have gotten yourself killed.”

It was tragedy’s unique ability to cross rifts between people, even deep crevasses between family members.

“I’m all right,” I said, patting him on the back. I appreciated the hug, but that didn’t make it any less awkward, considering our history. “I’m fine.”

“How did it happen?” my mother asked.

“Rioters,” Ethan said. “The same ones who attacked the vampire business and House earlier this week.”

“What could they have against Charles?” she asked.

“I presume it’s related to his work as a police officer?” my father asked.

“Possibly,” Ethan vaguely agreed. “We aren’t entirely sure. Why don’t we sit down? It could be a bit of time yet.”

Because he was right, we sat down in the chairs, and we waited some more.

I tried to rest, but my mind kept spinning with questions. Why had my grandfather been targeted? Because he’d supported vampires as Ombudsman? Because he was on our side? He’d been a cop for years; there seemed little doubt he’d made enemies along the way. Had those enemies become wrapped up in riots and anti-vampire hatred?

Most frighteningly, had he been targeted because he was my grandfather? Was I now a liability to my family?

Grief weighed on me, and I rested my head on Ethan’s shoulder.

Be still,
Ethan silently told me.
Be still.

I locked away the fear and the grief, and I did as I was told.

—

Every time the hallway door opened, I jumped, anxious for news, good or bad. But we were an hour in when a tall man with a head of thick dark hair and dressed in turquoise scrubs stepped into the room.

“Merit family?” he asked, his accent thick but the origin unknown.

“That’s us,” my father said, standing.

The doctor nodded and walked over, then sat down in an empty chair across from us.

“Dr. Berenson,” he said. “I was Mr. Merit’s surgeon. The surgery went very well, and we’ve moved him back into his room.”

I closed my eyes in relief.

“What’s his prognosis?” my father asked.

“Good. He took a pretty good fall. Shattered his pelvis and broke a few ribs. It was internal injuries from the beam’s landing on top of him that did most of the internal damage. He has sensation in his legs, which is great, but his pelvis took a beating.”

“He’ll be ambulatory?” Ethan asked.

“He’s not a spring chicken, and he’s going to need some pretty extensive physical therapy. But, barring complications, we have every expectation he’ll be able to walk again. We’ll keep him until we’re sure he’s stable and healing, and then you can decide on a rehab facility or home-health nurse.”

Jeff whistled. “Chuck is not going to like either of those options.”

“Like is irrelevant,” my father said quietly. “He’ll stay with us.”

Chuck isn’t going to like that, either,
I silently told Ethan.

I suspect you are right. But your father has room and resources to ensure he’s well cared for. He’ll adapt, as we all must do.

The doctor nodded. “You’ve got some time to make those decisions. He’ll say in intensive care for tonight, and as soon as he’s awake and stable, we’ll move him to a room.” He rose. “I think that’s about it for tonight. You can check with the nurse anytime you have questions. And visiting hours are posted on the wall.”

“I’ll stay tonight,” my father said, to the surprise of all of us. “He’s my father, and I wasn’t there when he was injured. It’s the least I can do. I’ll stay.” He glanced at me. “Go home. Get a shower and some sleep. You look like you need both.”