Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (6 page)

I tossed her the keys. “Get in the car!” I yelled out, and as she unlocked her door and climbed in, I used my door like a blunt object, slamming it against the guy’s knees until he crumpled to the ground.

My predatory senses now on full alert, I heard the
whip
of a bat behind me and ducked just in time. But it was already moving, and it smashed right through the driver’s side window.

“Damn it, I just washed the road salt off this thing,” I gritted out, grabbing the middle of the bat and thrusting it backward into the gut of the woman who’d tried to take my head off.

The woman grunted and fell to her knees. I dropped the bat, climbed into the car, started it up, and gunned it. Most of the mob dropped away to avoid getting run over; some were braver and made a run at us, one final attempt at violence. I put the accelerator to the floor to gain speed and hightailed it down Division past another set of screaming police cruisers.

We’d gotten away. But what were we heading into?

SWEET AND LOW DOWN

T
he car was freezing. The driver’s side window was gone, and the windshield, while still in place, was marred by a web of cracks. Fortunately, Little Red wasn’t far away. The bar was located on a corner in Ukrainian Village, which was only a hop and a skip—and in this case, a freezing car ride—away from Wicker Park.

When I’d put a few blocks between us and the riot, I glanced over at Mallory. Her knit cap was in place once again, and her arms were crossed, hands tucked into her sides. She’d banked her magic again, only a whisper of energy flowing around her, and all of it melancholy.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded but didn’t speak.

“You only used it for a second,” I said, assuming she was upset because she’d used her power.

“I used it to damage property in front of humans. They’re not even supposed to know sorcerers exist, much less see me threaten them.”

Sorcerers were among the last of the supernaturals still unknown to humans.

“You were protecting me,” I pointed out. “And it’s not like you shot a lightning bolt into the streetlight. They probably think it was a coincidence.”

Mallory sighed and rubbed her temples. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. Either way, I’m not sure Gabriel will care. I broke. That’s what it comes down to. I broke, and he’ll know it.”

“And you have to tell him?”

She gave me a flat look. “You want me to try to hide something from the Apex predator of the North American Central Pack? He’s a werewolf, for God’s sake. He could sniff out the lie, even if I didn’t tell him, no pun intended.”

“I’m sorry, Mal. But thanks for sticking up for me. And for the car.”

“Don’t thank me for that. It’s not exactly in one piece.” Mallory leaned forward and looked through the cracked window at the dented hood of the car. “The assholes took their toll.”

“Assholes often do.”

“That’s a Billboard Top Forty song waiting to happen.”

“Sung to the tune of ‘There’ll Be Sad Songs,’” I suggested, then offered up a lyric. “‘There’ll be assholes, to make you cry.’”

“‘Assholes often
dooo
,’” Mallory sang. “You’re right. That’s not bad.” She sighed and pulled up her knees, resting her forehead on them. “My life sucks.”

“It sucks because you’re trying to do the right thing, but the result isn’t showing it. You’re at the stage where good intentions meet crappy abilities. Welcome to my first eleven months as a vampire.”

“You’ve only been a vampire for ten months.”

“My point exactly.”

She chuckled a bit, which had been my motive.

“It gets easier,” I said.

“You didn’t have to adjust under the watchful eye of Gabriel Keene.”

“You’re right. I only had to adjust under the watchful eye of Ethan Sullivan. That was an utter cakewalk.”

“You’re really going to try to outdo me on this one?”

“You’re the one who coined the term ‘Darth Sullivan,’” I reminded her. “Besides, I wouldn’t have let you slide a year ago, before you got your magic. I figure I probably shouldn’t let you slide now.”

She looked at me and smiled, just a little. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” I said.

We reached Ukrainian Village. My ears and fingers aching with cold, I gratefully pulled the Volvo into a parking spot in front of the brick building that housed Little Red.

The shifters must have had enough of cold, as the parking spots in front of the bar were empty of expensive, custom motorcycles.

“Closed down for the winter?” I wondered aloud.

“Only the transpo,” Mallory said. “Shifters don’t care to ride in icy wind and below-zero temps.”

Having driven without a window for the last few minutes, I understood the sentiment.

I turned off the engine, but we sat in the car for a moment. “Are you ready?”

“Not really,” she said. “But a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, and all that idiomatic bullshit.”

She blew out a breath and opened the car door, and I wished her the best.

—

The bar was a classic dive, with scuffed floors, beat-up tables, and hard-bitten customers. A low, sad tune played on the jukebox—a crooning country music song from the seventies or eighties, when buckles were big and hair was bigger.

The bar wasn’t exactly easy on the eyes or the ears, but tonight it smelled deliciously of sweet and spicy tomatoes, probably the sauce for the Pack’s signature barbecue, the pride of its new catering operation.

Gabriel Keene, who stood in front of the bar’s large plate-glass window, was a predator personified. He was tall and square shouldered, with tawny, shoulder-length hair and amber eyes that gleamed when they caught the light. He wore jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and black boots that looked like they could do some damage. Not that he needed the accessories. There was power in the sweep of his shoulders and his wide-legged stance.

Shifters were an odd breed. They were tough, and they loved fine whiskey and chromed-out bikes. But they also had a strong connection to nature. They were the hippies of the supernatural world—if hippies wore biker boots and rode asphalt-pounding Harleys.

Gabe carried his infant son, Connor, in the crook of his arm. Connor was beautifully angelic, with bright blue eyes and a ruff of soft, dark hair, and he blinked at me and Mallory with a child’s innocence. God willing, he could keep that innocence as long as possible.

“Ladies,” Gabe said, glancing at us. “I hear there’s trouble afoot.”

“Rioters,” I said. “They firebombed a Blood4You distribution center and then headed down Division.”

Gabe gestured toward the car. “I take it you got caught in the cross fire?”

I nodded. “We tried to leave and avoid the dramatics, but we caught their attention. The car took some damage, but we made it out. They’re still rioting. Marching down Division with sticks and bats.”

My report given, Gabriel turned his gaze on Mallory. The amber eyes swirled with quiet power. “You’re quiet.”

“I used magic,” she said.

“Should we talk about it?”

Mallory nodded, and without being asked, walked toward the red leather door that led to the back room.

“A moment, Kitten,” Gabriel said, readjusting Connor and following her.

While I waited, I took the opportunity to call Ethan.

“Sentinel? You made it out okay?”

“We’re at Little Red. The Volvo took some damage, and Mallory used her magic, but we’re fine otherwise.”

“Did she?” Ethan asked.

“She did. We were surrounded by rioters, and she knocked out a streetlight to distract them and give us time to get into the car.”

“Clever,” Ethan said.

“Very,” I said, glancing over at the red leather door. “Gabe and Mallory are talking. I doubt he’ll be thrilled.”

“He’s not opposed to the controlled use of magic,” Ethan said. “Whether her use tonight qualifies will be up to him. At any rate, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Me, too. The rioters were still out there when we left, but we saw a couple more CPD units heading in.”

“Most reports say the riot’s been contained to an area, but not entirely quelled. The fire at the distribution center’s been extinguished.”

“How bad’s the damage?”

“I haven’t yet heard, but Scott and Morgan are preparing for shortages.”

Cadogan House was one of the few American Houses that actually allowed its vampires to drink from people or vampires. Most other Houses used bagged blood in the hopes that tamping down on their biting instincts would help them assimilate with humans. A shortage of bagged blood might change that analysis.

“Speaking of rioters,” I said, “their mantra was ‘Clean Chicago.’ I don’t know if that’s the name of the group or just a slogan, but Luc might want to start the opp research.”

Opposition research was one of our key tactics. If you couldn’t beat ’em, at least learn as much about ’em as you could.

“I’ll advise him. Is the Volvo drivable? Will you be able to get home before the sun rises?”

“It will be a cold ride, but yeah. I should be home shortly.”

“Be careful, Sentinel.”

“Promise,” I said, and hung up the phone.

With Mallory and Gabriel still ensconced in the back, I headed over to the bar that lined one side of the room.

Berna leaned over the bar, reading a book, her chin propped on her hand.

“Off-season for shifters?” I wondered aloud, taking a seat.

“Is cold,” she said in her thick eastern European accent, not looking up from her book. “Is hibernate.”

“Shifters hibernate?” I asked. Gabriel certainly seemed awake, and I’d spoken with Jeff only a few nights ago.

“Not in cave. But we feel the cold.” She made a fake shiver that set her impressive bosom swinging. “We stay home. We cook. We have oatmeal and bubbles baths. Thick socks for feet.”

“Bubbles baths, eh? The Keenes don’t seem much like the bubble-bath type.” Although I could pretty easily imagine Gabriel soaking in a tub. Bare chested. Maybe a few damp curls. Truth be told, it wasn’t a miserable image.

Berna narrowed her eyes at me, and for a moment I was afraid she’d caught the lascivious direction of my thoughts. Sure, I was taken, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate a fine—and happily married—shifter.

But that was not what she wondered. “You could be fatter.”

Berna was a constant critic of my weight; she thought me too thin, which had less to do with what I ate, which was plenty, than with my vampiric metabolism, which was fast. Had I not been a vampire and a lover of all things chocolate dipped and baconated, she probably would have given me a complex.

“I eat plenty,” I said. Although in this case, I hadn’t eaten in hours, and dinner had been interrupted.

Berna pursed her lips in obvious suspicion and stared down at me with a motherly look Mallory had probably seen a time or two.

“Fine. I guess I wouldn’t mind a bite before I hit the road again.”

There was a gleam of victory in her eyes.

Berna disappeared into the back room, and before the door shut fully again, I caught a few of Gabriel’s words.

“Think, Mallory,” he was telling her.

His tone didn’t sound complimentary.

I worried my lip for a moment and decided to do something I rarely did—except in emergencies. I dropped the barriers that usually separated my working mind from my supersharp vampire senses, and I eavesdropped.

“. . . it was the right thing to do,” Mallory was saying.

“You think this is unusual?” Gabriel asked. “You think there won’t come another time when you’re driven to the breaking point, when you know using magic is the right thing to do? That’s exactly what you said to yourself last time, Mallory, and that’s the entire fucking point of this exercise.”

“It’s different this time,” Mallory said.

“Is what the addict always says,” Gabriel said. “Look, I’m not your father. I’m not even your warden, not really. You’ve got power; you could use it. I know that. You’re here because you want your life to change. Because you want things to be better.”

“How can they get better if I keep replaying the same scenario over and over and over again?” There was franticness in her voice, real and abiding fear. “That I’m going to fuck up everything again. That I’m going to fuck over everyone—again.”

Gabriel paused. “That, Mallory, is the question you have to ask yourself. That’s your work. Your struggle. Figure—”

Before I heard him finish the thought, the door opened and Berna emerged, a steaming bowl in her hands. I feigned interest in a soiled paper menu on the bar. What was a “Wolf Popper,” anyway?

Berna placed the bowl on the bar in front of me, along with a spoon and paper napkin.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Stew,” she said. “Eat.”

I poked the spoon in. Although the bowl’s chunky contents didn’t look entirely familiar, they smelled delicious. I blew gently on a spoonful and took a bite, savoring the salty, smoky, tomatoey flavor.

“Tongue good for you,” she said. “Much protein. You grow strong. Like oxen.”

Of course it was tongue stew, and of course she wanted me to be an ox.

Fortunately, the stew
was
delicious, and I downed half the bowl before the door opened again. I expected to see Mallory, but Gabriel entered with Connor still in his arms.

Berna’s expression softened, showing that hint of the motherly worry that was driving Mallory crazy. “She is good?”

“She’ll be fine. I sent her back to the kitchen. The meat guys asked if they could come early today. They want to talk to you about the brisket order.”

Berna murmured something in a language I didn’t understand and slipped into the back room.

Gabriel took the stool beside me, Connor cooing between us.

“Is she in a lot of trouble?” I asked.

“I’m not her jailer.”

“I know. And you did her a lot of good by bringing her here after Nebraska. I know she appreciates that.”

“She’s coming along. The routine, the manual labor, the monotony, keeps her from ignoring her magic, from pushing it to the back of her mind like she did for all those years.”

That explained the chores he usually had her doing. “Before we figured out she had magic, you mean?”