Friday Night Bites (7 page)

“You called the Ombud’s office,” I concluded. “They had the info on file, or they did the research. That’s the stuff I brought you earlier.”

Silence. Then, “We did.” Ethan’s answer was as clipped as his tone. Although he apparently wasn’t too proud to beg for information, and despite the fact that he and Catcher were friends (of their peculiar sort), Ethan wasn’t a big fan of the Ombud’s office. He thought they were tied a little too closely to Mayor Tate, whose position regarding “the vampire problem” was less than clear. Tate had all but refused to talk to the House Masters even after we became public, despite the fact that the city administration had known about our existence for decades.

The Celina fiasco hadn’t helped Cadogan-Ombud relations. The Greenwich Presidium didn’t recognize Chicago’s authority over Celina, no matter how heinous her acts. Since she was a member of the GP, the GP believed she was entitled to certain accommodations, including not serving an eternal sentence in the Cook County jail. It had taken no little diplomacy on my grandfather’s part to secure the administration’s support for her extradition to Europe. That meant my grandfather, who’d made his own oath to serve and protect Chicago, had been forced to release the vampire who’d tried to have his granddaughter killed. Needless to say, he felt a little conflicted. Ethan, on the
other hand, was bound by his loyalties to the GP. Awkwardness, thy name is vampire.

“Whatever the source, Sentinel, we have the information now. Let’s use it, shall we?”

I bit back a grin, amused that I’d reverted back to “Sentinel.” I was “Merit” when Ethan needed something, “Sentinel” when he was responding to my snark. Admittedly, that was frequently.

“They’re going to be suspicious that Merit wants back in,” Luc pointed out. “Which means she’s going to need a cover story.”

“And not just a cover story,” Ethan said, “but a cover story that can make it past her father.”

We pondered that one silently. As head of Merit Properties, one of the city’s biggest real estate management companies, my father was enough of a salesman to know when he was being conned.

“How about a little familial gloating?” Luc finally asked.

Ethan and I both looked at him. “Explain,” Ethan ordered.

Luc frowned, scratched absently at his cheek, and relaxed back into the sofa. “Well, I think you laid it out earlier. She’s a member of a key Chicago family, and now Sentinel of one of the oldest American Houses. So she plays the youngest daughter making her triumphant return to the society that once scorned her. You start with her father—approach him first. She plays cool, confident, standoffish, like she’s finally come into that famed Merit attitude.” He clapped, apparently for emphasis. “Boom. The patriarch welcomes her back into the fold.”

Ethan opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “That’s an interesting analysis.”

“
Dynasty
reruns have been rolling nonstop on cable,” Luc said.

Huh.

That was an interesting bit of information about our guard captain.

Ethan stared at him for a moment before offering, “Pop culture
notwithstanding, your plan would require some considerable acting on Merit’s part.” He slid me an appraising (and none too flattering) glance. “I’m not sure she’s equipped.”

“Hey.” With a chuckle, and without thinking of who he was or the authority he held over me, I punched Ethan lightly on the arm. Fortunately he didn’t jump out of his seat and pound me, although he did stare at the spot on his tidy black suit jacket where I’d made contact.

“Look, I know acting isn’t exactly my background, but I’m pretty sure I can fake being pretentious.” I did have one hell of a teacher. “But I actually have a better idea.”

Ethan arched his eyebrows. “We’re all ears, Sentinel.”

“Robert,” I said. “He’s our cover story.”

Despite our ongoing estrangement, or maybe because of it, my father had approached me a few weeks ago, on the evening of my twenty-eighth birthday no less, to ask that I help my brother Robert, who was poised to take over Merit Properties, make inroads with the city’s supernaturally endowed population. I’d declined for a number of reasons, the speed with which Ethan would punish what he imagined to be my pro-human treachery first among them. My dislike for my father, though, ran a real close second.

I’d corrected my father’s assumptions about what I “owed” my family in strong enough terms that he would wonder why I was coming back. But if he thought I was willing to help Robert make connections with sups, my guess was that he’d bypass wondering and move right into gloating.

“That’s not bad,” Ethan said. “And when you secure an audience with your father, which you can work on this evening, you’ll be delivering him one hell of a connection.”

It was my turn to lift sardonic brows. “And that would be?”

“Me, of course.”

Yeah. That was exactly the pretension I was referring to earlier.

Luc looked at me. “You’ll want to call the family as soon as you have a chance. Let them know you want to return to the fold. Ask them if there’s anything on the social calendar that looks interesting.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Well, now that we’ve arranged a strategy,” Ethan said, slapping his knees and rising from his seat, “you’re dismissed. Luc, make the arrangements we discussed.”

The arrangements they’d
discussed
? As in, past tense?

“Wait a minute,” I said, lifting a finger as Ethan walked back to his desk. “How much of this little plan had you two already decided on before I walked in?”

He offered Luc a thoughtful look. “What, Lucas, all of it?”

“Pretty much,” Luc said, nodding.

“Never underestimate the power of staff buy-in,” Ethan said, glowing with Gordon Gecko-worthy smugness. I humphed.

Luc, the traitor, grabbed a celery stick from our spread, then rose from the couch, patting my shoulder as he walked past, a gesture that was equal parts camaraderie and condescension. “But thanks for coming to the party, Sentinel. We appreciate you sparing us some of your time.”

Ethan’s chair squeaking, he situated himself behind his desk, then ran hands through his hair and squinted at his computer monitor.

“If we’re done,” I said, “I’m going back upstairs.”

Luc settled into the chair in front of Ethan’s desk while Ethan attended to his e-mail, or whatever business electronically preoccupied him. He poised his fingers above the keyboard, and like a pianist’s, they flew across the keys. “Do that, Sentinel. Do that.”

Luc munched the end of his celery stick, then waved the stalk of it at me. “Have a great evening, Sunshine.”

I left them to their gloating.

I’d never been much for chatting on the phone. I’d been obsessed with books and ballet growing up and wasn’t the kind of teenager who spent an evening at home, cordless pressed to my ear. That meant I’d never really gotten used to it. Sure, I occasionally called my older brother and sister, Robert and Charlotte, to check in, and when I was still in school, I called Mallory to arrange lunch dates in the Loop, but chatting up Joshua and Meredith Merit was a bird of an altogether different feather. Of course, it was nearly midnight, so there was at least a chance that my parents were asleep, prepping for another day in the upper echelon of Chicago society.

That debate—were they asleep, or weren’t they—was why I spent the first hour after returning to my room with a granola bar and book in hand. It was only when I didn’t think I could put it off any longer that I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the phone in my hand, cursing the loyalty oaths I’d sworn to one Ethan Sullivan.

I took a breath, steeled myself, dialed my parents’ number, and was pleasantly surprised to get a crisp and carefully scripted answering machine message.

“You have reached the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Merit,” my mother said. “I’m afraid we’re unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message following the tone.”

There was a digital beep. I closed my eyes and faked the nonchalant self-confidence that Ethan, Luc, and I had discussed. “Hello, it’s Merit. I wanted to talk to you both. In short, now that things have . . . changed, now that
I’ve
changed, I think it’s a good idea that I rebuild some relationships.” I cringed, and continued. “That I start spending time with the
right
kinds of people—”

I was interrupted by a clicking sound—the sound of a phone receiver being picked up. I silently cursed. I’d been
so
close.

“Well, darling,” my mother said, apparently awake regardless of the time, “your call couldn’t be more timely. The Breckenridges are hosting an event Friday night—cocktails for the Harvest Coalition—in Loring Park.” The Breckenridge estate was located in Loring Park, a suburb in the Illinois countryside. “I won’t be there,” she continued. “I have an auxiliary meeting. But your father will. And, of course, the Breckenridges. You should come, say hello to the Breck boys.”

The Harvest Coalition was a Chicago food bank. And while the cause was obviously laudable, I wasn’t thrilled about being in the same house with my father. On the other hand, my first gala out the door and I was headed right into the Breckenridges’ backyard. Or maybe more accurately, right into the Breckenridge henhouse, a vampire in tow. God forgive me.

“That sounds great, Mom.”

“Wonderful. Black tie, cocktails at eight o’clock,” she said, repeating the stats of the rich and famous. “I’ll have Pennebaker”—that was my parents’ fusty butler—“call the Breckenridges and messenger over an invitation. You’re still living with that Carmichael girl, I take it?”

If only. “Actually, Mom, I moved into Cadogan House today.
With the rest of the vampires,” I added, in case that wasn’t obvious.

“Well,” my mother said, intrigue in her voice. “Isn’t that quite the development? I’ll be sure to pass that along to your father.” I had no doubt she would, my father being a dealer of information—and the connections that this specific information would signal.

“Thank you, Mom.”

“Of course, dear.”

That’s when I had a brainstorm. I might not have my grandfather’s secret source, but I had a Meredith Merit. “Mom, one thing before you go. I hear Jamie’s working now. Maybe at a newspaper?”

“Newspaper, newspaper,” she absently repeated. “No, I don’t recall anything about a newspaper. Everyone knows Nick is the journalist in the Breck family, anyway. Unless you’ve heard something different?” Her voice had dropped an octave; she’d moved directly into gossip mode and was waiting for me to pass along some juicy detail. But my job was to investigate, not fan the flames.

“Nope,” I said. “Just thought I remembered hearing something.”

“Oh, well. God willing, he’ll find a place of his own at some point. Something to keep him occupied.”

She paused, then asked, a little too loudly, “What, dear?” Silence again, then, “Darling, your father’s calling me. I’ll arrange for an invitation. You enjoy your Cadogan House.”

“Sure, Mom. Thanks.”

I pressed the END CALL button and snapped the phone shut in my palm.

“Damn,” I muttered. I’d made headway on Ethan’s assignment, and I’d gotten us an in at the Breckenridge estate. My ego swollen by my minor suggest, however questionable (I had just
signed to hang out with my father), I decided to attend to my remaining House business for the evening—filling Ethan in on the phone call.

I rebelted my katana, then made my way down to his office. When I reached the first floor, I passed Malik, Ethan’s vice president, as he walked away from Ethan’s office. Malik’s expression was grave, and he made no move to acknowledge me as we passed.

That did not bode well.

This time, Ethan’s door was open. That was strange, but worse was the fact that he stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, gaze on the floor, that line of worry between his eyes. And he’d changed clothes, too—his tidy black suit jacket was gone. He was in shirtsleeves, no tie, only the glint of the gold Cadogan medal around his neck breaking the expanse of pristine white shirt that hugged his torso. He’d even changed his hair; it was now pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. The kind of move a girl might make when she had to get down to business.

My stomach knotted uncomfortably. In the time that I’d gone up to my room and returned to the first floor again, something had happened.

I rapped my knuckles against the threshold.

Ethan glanced up. “I was about to page you,” he said. “Come in and shut the door.”

I did as ordered, then figured I might as well get the good news out first. “I called my mother. There’s a charity cocktail thing at the Breckenridge estate Friday night. She’s going to messenger over an invitation.”

Ethan lifted approving brows. “Well done. Two birds with one stone, and all that.”

“FYI, she also said she hasn’t heard about Jamie being involved in any kind of journalism work. I didn’t tell her anything,”
I added, when Ethan’s gaze snapped up. “I just asked a very vague question. If he was working, especially in Nick’s field, she’d have heard. Mrs. Breck would have been thrilled. She wouldn’t have kept that kind of thing from my mom.”

He paused, looking perplexed. “Hmm. Well, be that as it may,” he said, walking around his desk and taking a seat, “given the nature of the damage a story could cause, we’re going to err on the side of caution on this one. There’s undoubtedly some kernel of truth to the information we’ve received, specific as it is.” He gazed down at his desktop for a moment before lifting clouded eyes to me. “Have a seat, Merit.”

There was concern in his tone. My heart thumped disconcertingly, but I did as directed, holding my katana aside and slipping into one of the chairs in front of Ethan’s desk.

“The Presidium has released Celina.”