Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (3 page)

I gave him a sly smile, because I happened to have anticipated his request.

“I agree completely,” I said. “Which is why I’ve made dinner reservations on Friday at Tuscan Terrace, Chicago’s finest Italian bistro. Homemade pasta. Fine champagne. Truffles. These little dessert cakes that are nearly better than Mallocakes. We’ll celebrate in style.”

Tuscan Terrace was an old-school Chicago restaurant, where waiters spoke mostly Italian, the rooms were dark, and privacy was guaranteed. It was delicious and expensive, the type of place you saved for a special occasion.

Ethan furrowed his brow. “To celebrate what?”

“You don’t remember what Friday is?”

His stare went blank, and his expression had a decidedly deer-in-headlights look about it. I’d stumped him.

“Friday is February fourteenth,” I said. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

I’d been single for so much of my adult life that Valentine’s Day hadn’t, in context, meant much. Sure, I’d occasionally been given tired roses in a green vase, or a heart-shaped box of mediocre chocolates. But those gifts had been few and far between.

This relationship was real, which meant I could—for the first time—experience a meaningful Valentine’s Day. Not because of pink roses or nougat-filled chocolates, but because of
us
. Because I’d found someone who made me better, stronger, and because, at least I liked to think, I did the same for him. That was worth celebrating, treasuring, being grateful for.

It was worth tuxedoed waiters and delicate champagne flutes.

“
Saint
Valentine’s Day, you mean,” Ethan said with a chuckle. “I’m surprised you want to celebrate such a bloody day in Chicago’s history.”

He meant the massacre on Valentine’s Day in 1929, when Al Capone took out several men from a rival gang in a Lincoln Park garage.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” I picked a bit of lint from one of his lapels. “Like you said, we deserve some quality time together, just the two of us. A few minutes of peace and quiet away from the House, where it won’t matter if we’re vampires.”

“That does sound inviting,” Ethan admitted. “A bit tempting of fate, perhaps, but inviting all the same. I look forward to it.”

He smiled at me wickedly, suggesting it wasn’t so much the dinner he looked forward to, but what he hoped might happen afterward.

Since imagining that scenario wasn’t going to help us meet our obligations for the evening, I pressed a kiss to his lips. “I need to run.”

Ethan’s expression fell. Putting a hand on his chest, I could feel his heart thumping—steady and sound—beneath.

“I’ll be careful,” I promised. “I’ll have my sword and my phone. And besides, I’ll be dining with one of the most powerful sorceresses in the world.”

His eyes flattened. “I know,” he said. “That’s precisely what worries me.”

THE EVENING STAR

T
he night air was cold, crisp, and fresh, but the streets and sidewalks were coated in a layer of dirty, frozen-solid snow that wouldn’t fully melt for months. I headed to my car, parked on the sidewalk in a spot I’d circled the block three times to obtain, waving at the humans who guarded the fence surrounding the House.

Tonight, the gate was closed, a rare sight in my ten months as a vampire. But we’d seen enough violence lately—from supernaturals hired by the GP, from the assassin hired by McKetrick—that we’d tightened security all the way around.

When they saw me approach, one of the humans, a gun at his side, pushed open one of the slatted steel doors just wide enough to allow my exit.

The guard tipped her black ball cap as I walked through, acknowledging me, then closed the gate again when I was through, shutting off Cadogan House from Hyde Park—and the rest of the world—once again.

I climbed into my car, immediately turning the heat to full blast, not that it helped. My new coat was warm, but this was still February in Chicago. When the vent began to knock like a card in a bicycle spoke, I turned down the heat, deciding an insufficient but functioning heater was better than a broken one.

Now that I was out of the House, I also decided it was safe to call Jonah to get an update on the latest in GP-affiliated House news. Since Ethan was the only Cadogan vampire who knew about my RG affiliation, and our training hadn’t exactly been private, I’d kept our in-House discussions to a minimum.

I put my shiny new phone—a replacement for the beepers we’d once carried—on speakerphone and dialed him up.

He answered on the first ring, the buzz of noise behind him. “Jonah.”

“It’s Merit. What’s new?”

“Since I last saw you an hour ago? Nothing. You’re bored and driving, aren’t you?”

“Not bored. Just interested in your thoughts and wisdom. And a training room full of vampires wasn’t exactly conducive to conversation.”

“I do have a life, you know.”

“Do you?” I teased. “I find that surprising.”

“Actually, I have a date tonight.”

I blinked. The news, admittedly, hit me a little weird. I was very much in love with Ethan, but as partners, Jonah and I had a separate, unique relationship, one that required a different kind of trust and intimacy. I just found odd the possibility that another woman was going to figure into it.

But I could suck it up. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“A Rogue,” he said. “Noah introduced us. I’m not sure if it will go anywhere, but I like her style. And her figure.”

“And I’d like it if you kept the details to yourself.”

“Merit,” he teased, “are you jealous?”

I wasn’t, not really. Just a bit weirded out. But I wasn’t going to admit that aloud. “Not in the slightest. I just don’t need the gory details. Be careful out there.”

“I intend to. And I’d say the same to you.”

“Nothing weird should happen, but in case it does . . .”

“You want me to come save you so Ethan doesn’t drop a sizable ‘I told you so’ into your lap?”

“I don’t need saving. But yes, please.”

He chuckled. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and you’ll see McKetrick breaking into a car or something. It wouldn’t be the most satisfying tag, but at least we could put him away.”

I could hardly agree more. McKetrick had been playing the desk-bound bureaucrat, but in reality, he had a nasty hatred of vampires and the willingness to act on it. Four murders later, we still had no evidence to pin on him, and no idea what he might do next.

“We’ve found nothing,” I said. “Maybe Michael Donovan was lying about McKetrick hiring him.” Michael Donovan was the vampire assassin who’d been hired by McKetrick.

“That we haven’t caught him doesn’t mean he isn’t doing anything,” Jonah noted. “If he’s smart, he’s lying low right now.”

“Lying low, or planning?” I wondered aloud.

“We won’t know until we know,” Jonah said, clearing his throat as if preparing for something. “If you want to speed things up, we could bug his house.”

That had been a common refrain by Luc and Jonah. They were convinced they could get in, bug McKetrick’s Lincoln Park house, and get out. Considering the regularity of McKetrick’s schedule—he was a city employee, after all—there was merit to the idea. But the risk? Considerable, which was why Ethan and Noah, the head of the Red Guard, rejected the idea.

“We aren’t the CIA,” I reminded him. “And if we got caught, the city would turn against us Watergate style. There’s too much risk.”

“So we wait,” Jonah said. “Which is awesome, because you’re such a patient person.”

I wasn’t, and he really knew me too well. “He won’t stay silent forever. He has too much ego for that.”

The cars in front of me had slowed to a virtual standstill, and I knew better than to chat about supernatural drama while navigating gridlock. “Jonah, traffic’s picking up. I’m gonna run. I’ll keep you posted on any excitement with Mallory.”

“Do that,” he said. “But I will not be advising you on any excitement on my end.”

Thank God for small miracles.

—

Wicker Park was northwest of Hyde Park, and the traffic didn’t ease up again even as I pulled into the neighborhood. Even in the dark of February, Division Street, Wicker Park’s main drag, was hopping. Chicagoans moved between bars and restaurants, climbing over and around the mountains of snow piled high by snowplows, darkened with street grit, and thickened by freezing temps.

I drove around a bit to find a parking space—a task that probably consumed twenty to thirty percent of a Chicagoan’s waking hours—and nudged the Volvo into it.

I looked for a moment at the katana in the passenger’s seat. I didn’t like the idea of leaving it in the car, but nor did I think it would be welcome in the mecca of Chicago-style deep-dish I was heading to.

“I can always come back for you,” I murmured, slipping the sword between the center console and the passenger seat to make its presence a little less obvious. I took a final calming breath, then climbed out of the car and locked it behind me.

Compacted snow crunched beneath my feet as I walked toward Saul’s, my favorite pizza spot in Chicago or outside it. I’d done my time in New York, and although I could appreciate the depth of New Yorkers’ love for floppy pizza, I didn’t understand it.

Bells attached to a red leather strap hung on the door, and they jingled when I opened it, a gust of wind sneaking in behind. I pushed the door shut again, shrinking back a bit from the growly expression on the face of the man behind the counter.

“You tryin’ to let winter in here?”

I pushed off the door and headed across worn linoleum to the counter, which had been covered in the 1970s by faux-wood-grain plastic, presumably to add an “authentic” pizzeria feel.

“If I was trying,” I said, “you’d know it.” I put my elbows on the counter and took a good, hard look at the man behind it. He was older, late sixties, with a thick head of black hair and eyes that sparkled mischievously. He wore a heather gray sweatshirt with
SAUL’S PIZZA
across the front in faded red letters.

He was the only person in the small room—which served as the way station for orders and pickups, and led to the small dining room beyond.

He scowled, caterpillar eyebrows drawing together. “You got a smart mouth.”

“Always,” I said, smiling back at him. “It’s good to see you, Saul. How’s business?”

His expression softened. “Don’t get nearly as many orders for cream cheese and double bacon as I used to.” He looked me over. “You look good, kid.”

My eyes cramped uncomfortably, the warning signal that sentimental tears were about to flow. But I held them back. “You look good, too.”

“Things change, don’t they?”

I glanced around at the restaurant, with its dusty décor and hanging menu board slatted with movable plastic letters. Mismatched plastic chairs with metal legs sat along one wall. The counter was worn from thousands of hands, elbows, credit cards, and pizza boxes, and the room smelled like dust, plastic, and garlic.

“Do they change?” I wondered aloud with a grin. “I’m pretty sure that poster for
Cool Hand Luke
’s been there since the movie came out.”

Saul’s eyes narrowed. This was always dangerous territory. “
Cool Hand Luke
is a classic piece of American cinema, Ms. Know It All. It was nominated for five—”

“Academy Awards, I know.” I smiled at him—it was nice to hear that familiar nickname again and listen to the familiar argument—and gestured toward the dining room. “Is Ms. Blue Hair in?”

“She’s at your booth,” he said, then checked the old Schlitz clock on the wall behind him. “Pizza should be up in ten.”

“Thank you, Saul. It’s nice to be back.”

“Shouldn’t have waited so long in the first place,” he grumbled, and headed into the kitchen.

—

Mallory Delancey Carmichael, recently designated and discredited sorceress, sat in a plastic booth, the kind with molded seat depressions. She wore a knitted cap with earflaps and a pouf of yarn at the top. The cap was pulled down low over her blue hair, which darkened to a deep indigo at the bottom of the complicated braid that sat on her shoulder. She wore a jacket over a sweater over a button-down top; the sleeves of the sweater ending in bell-like shapes that nearly reached the tips of her fingers.

She looked up when I walked in, and I was relieved to see she was looking more and more like her old self. Mallory was pink cheeked, with classically pretty features. Her eyes were big and blue, and her lips were a perfect cupid’s bow.

The restaurant was packed, so I was lucky she’d nabbed a seat. I climbed into the booth across from her, pulling off my gloves and putting them on the seat beside me.

“Cold out there tonight.”

“Freezing,” she agreed. “I like your coat.”

“Thanks,” I said, unbuttoning it, then adding it to the stack on the seat. “It was a gift.” And since I was proud of them, I stuck out a leg beside the booth and showed off my boots.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Mallory quietly said, sliding a finger along one leathered shin. “If he’s buying you gear like that, I certainly hope you’re sleeping with him.”

She looked back at me and grinned, and I saw—for a moment—the old Mallory in her eyes. Relief rushed through my chest.

“He didn’t buy them, but he has no complaints.” I cleared my throat nervously, preparing for the confession I hadn’t yet made to her. “I don’t know if you heard, but we’re actually living together. I moved into his apartments.”

Her eyes widened. “And I thought we’d start with some awkward ‘How’s your family’ type stuff.” She paused, looked down at the table, then up at me again. “You’re living together?”

I nodded, waiting while she processed the information and reached a conclusion. Honestly, her deliberation made me nervous. She’d been there from the beginning; she had been in the room the first time I’d confronted Ethan. She knew our potential—and limitations—as well as anyone else.

After a moment, she linked her fingers together and gazed at me with motherly concern. “You don’t think you’re moving too quickly with him?”

“I’ve moved one flight of stairs.”

“Yeah, into the Master’s suite. That’s the vampire version of a penthouse.”

“It’s also approximately ten times larger and more luxe than my former room,” I reminded her. “Relationship or not, you shouldn’t deny me fine linens and turndown service.”

Mallory narrowed her eyes. “Darth Sullivan does not get turndown service.”

“He does,” I said. “With drinks and truffles.”

“How very . . .
Sullivan
,” she said with an amused smile. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Sullivan. I think he’s good for you in his way. And you two certainly have a vibe. A strong one.”

“Strong enough that it could have become hatred as easily as love,” I agreed.

“I think you did hate him for a time,” Mallory said. “And love and hate are both strong emotions. Flip sides of the same coin. The thin
g is, he’s just so . . .”

“Stodgy?” I offered, thinking of my earlier accusation.

“Old,”
she said. “Four hundred years old, or something? I just don’t want you to rush anything.”

“We aren’t,” I assured her. “For once, we’re actually both on the same page about our relationship. What about you? How are things with Catcher?”

Catcher, Mallory’s boyfriend, had moved into her town house right before I moved into Cadogan House, but they’d been off and on since her recent escapades. Understandably, he hadn’t taken her magical betrayal lightly.

“They’re developing,” she shyly said, picking at a thread on one of her sleeves. Her hands still bore the faint scars of her attempt to unleash powerful black magic on the world.

A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have pushed her to elaborate, mostly because I didn’t want to raise uncomfortable subjects. But if we were going to root ourselves in friend territory once again, we were going to have to stop dancing around the tough issues.

“I’m going to need more information than that,” I said.

She shrugged, but there was a hint of a smile in her eyes. “We’re seeing each other. I wouldn’t say we’re back to where we were—he still doesn’t trust me, and I understand that—but I think we’re better.”