Hard Bitten (4 page)

“Continue on our way? That’s truly rich. As if your kind are merely going to continue on your way without bringing this city into all-out supernatural war?” He shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr. Sullivan. You and yours need to pack, leave, and be done with it.”

“I’m from Chicago,” I said, drawing his attention to me. “Born and raised.”

He lifted a finger. “Born and raised human until you switched sides.”

I almost corrected him, told him that Ethan had saved me from a killer hired by Celina, brought me back to life after I’d been attacked. I could also have told him that no matter the challenges I faced as a vampire, Ethan was the reason I still drew breath. But I didn’t think McKetrick would be thrilled to learn that I’d been nearly killed by one vampire—and changed without consent by another.

“No response?” McKetrick asked. “Not surprising. Given the havoc your ‘House’ has already wreaked in Chicago, I’m not sure I’d object, either.”

“We did not precipitate the strike on our House,” I told him. “We were attacked.”

McKetrick tilted his head at us, a confused smile on his face. “But you must recognize that you prompted it. Without you, there would have been no violence.”

“All we want is to go about our business.”

McKetrick smiled magnanimously. He wasn’t an unattractive man, but that smile—so calm and self-assured—was terrifying in its confidence.

“That fits me fine. Simply take your business elsewhere. As should be clear now, Chicago doesn’t want you.”

Ethan steeled his features. “You haven’t been elected. You haven’t been appointed. You have no right to speak on behalf of the city.”

“A city that had fallen under your spell? A city finally waking up to your deviance? Sometimes, Mr. Sullivan, the world needs a prophet. A man who can look beyond the now, see the future, and understand what’s necessary.”

“What do you want?”

He chuckled. “We want our city back, of course. We want the departure of all vampires in Chicago. We don’t care where you go—we just don’t want you here. I hope that’s understood?”

“Fuck you,” Ethan said. “Fuck you, and your prejudice.”

McKetrick looked disappointed, as if he truly expected Ethan to see the error of his ways.

He opened his mouth to retort, but before he could answer, I heard it: cutting through the night like roaring thunder, the sound of rumbling exhaust. I glanced behind me and saw the headlights—a dozen in all—moving like an arrow toward us.

Motorcycles.

I began to grin, now knowing whom Ethan had contacted on his cell phone. These weren’t just motorcycles; they were shifters. The cavalry had arrived.

The troops looked back to their leader, not sure of the next step.

They cut through the darkness like sharks on chrome. Twelve giant, gleaming, low-riding bikes, one shifter on each—brawny and leather-clad, ready for battle. And I could attest to the battle part. I’d seen them fight, I knew they were capable, and the tingle that lifted the hair at the back of my neck proved they were well armed.

Correction—eleven of them were brawny and leather-clad. The twelfth was a petite brunette with a mass of long, curly hair, currently pulled back beneath a Cardinals ball cap. Fallon Keene, the only sister among six Keene brothers, named alphabetically from Gabriel down to Adam, who’d been removed from the NAC and sent into the loving arms of a rival Pack after he took out their leader. No one had heard from Adam since that exchange had taken place. Given his crime, I assumed that wasn’t a good sign.

I nodded at Fallon, and when she offered back a quick salute, I decided I could live with her poor choice of baseball allegiances.

Gabriel Keene, Pack Apex, rode the bike in front, his sunkissed brown hair pulled into a queue at the nape of his neck, his amber eyes scanning the scene with what looked like malicious intent. But I knew better. Gabriel eschewed violence unless absolutely necessary.

He wasn’t afraid of it, but he didn’t seek it out.

Gabriel revved his bike with a flick of his wrist, and like magic, McKetrick’s men stepped back toward their SUVs.

Gabe turned his gaze on me. “Problems, Kitten?”

I looked over at McKetrick, who was scanning the bikes and their riders with a nervous expression. I guess his anti-vamp bravado didn’t extend to shifters. After a moment he seemed to regain his composure and made eye contact with us again.

“I look forward to continuing this conversation at a more appropriate time,” McKetrick said.

“We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.” With that, he slipped back into the SUV, and the rest of his troops followed him.

I bit back disappointment. I’d almost wished they’d been naïve enough to make a move, just so I could enjoy watching the Keenes pummel them into oblivion.

With a roar from custom mufflers, the SUVs squealed into action and drove away. Pity it wasn’t forever. I checked the license plates, but they were blank. Either they were driving around without registrations or they’d taken off the plates for their little introductory chat.

Gabe glanced at Ethan. “Who’s G.I. Joe?”

“He said his name was McKetrick. He imagines himself to be an anti-vampire vigilante.

He wants all vamps out of the city.”

Gabe clucked his tongue. “He’s probably not the only one,” he said, glancing at me. “Trouble does seem to find you, Kitten.”

“As Ethan can verify, I had nothing to do with it. We were driving toward Creeley Creek when we hit the roadblock. They popped out with guns.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Only vampires would find that a limitation instead of a challenge. You are immortal, after all.”

“And we prefer to keep it that way,” Ethan said. “The weapons looked custom.”

“Anti-vamp rounds?” Gabriel asked.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. McKetrick seemed like the type.”

“And my sword is at the House,” I pointed out to Gabe. “You give me thirty-two inches of folded steel, and I’ll take on anyone you want.”

He rolled his eyes, then revved his bike and glanced over at Ethan. “You’re headed to Creeley Creek?”

“We are.”

“Then we’re your escorts. Hop in the car and we’ll get you there.”

“We owe you one.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Consider it one more notch off the tab I owe Merit.”

He’d mentioned that debt before. I still had no idea what he thought he owed me, but I nodded anyway and jogged back to the Mercedes.

I slid inside the car. “You said the fairies detested humans. Right now, I feel like ‘detest’ is hardly a strong enough word. And it looks like we can add one more problem to the punch list.”

“That would appear to be the case,” he said, turning on the engine.

“At least we’re still friends with the shifters,” I said as we zoomed through the stop sign ahead of us, the shifters making a shieldlike V of bikes around the car.

“And officially enemies with humans again.

Some of them, anyway.”

As we moved down the street and finally began to gain speed, our escort of shape-shifters beside us, I turned back to the road and sighed.

“Let the good times roll.”

C
reeley Creek was a Prairie-style building—low and horizontal, with lots of long windows, overhanging eaves, and bare, honeyed wood. It was bigger than the average Prairie-style home, built at the turn of the twentieth century by an architect with a renowned ego. When the original owner died, his estate donated the house to the city of Chicago, which deemed it the official residence of the mayor. It was to Chicago what Gracie Mansion was to New York City.

Currently living there was the politician Chicago had always wanted. Handsome. Popular.

A master orator with friends on both sides of the aisle. Whether or not you liked the slant of his politics, he was very, very good at his job.

The gate opened when we arrived, the guard who stood inside the glass box at the edge of the street waving us onto the grounds. Ethan circled the Mercedes around the drive and pulled into a small parking area beside the house.

“From a House of vampires to a house of politicians,” he muttered as we walked to the front door.

“Said the most political of vampires,” I reminded him, and got a growl in response. But I stood my ground. He was the one who’d traded a relationship with me for political considerations.

“I look forward,” he said as we walked across the tidy brick driveway, “to your turn at the helm.”

I assumed he meant the day I’d become a Master vampire. It wasn’t exactly something I looked forward to, but it would get me out of Cadogan House.

“You look forward to it because we’ll be equally matched? Politically, I mean?”

He slid me a dry glance. “Because I’ll enjoy watching you squirm under the pressure.”

“Charming,” I muttered.

A woman in a snug navy blue suit stood in front of the double front doors beneath a low overhanging stone eave. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. They were quite a contrast to the patent platform heels.

Was she going for sexy librarian, maybe?

“Mr. Sullivan. Merit. I’m Tabitha Bentley, the mayor’s assistant. The mayor is ready to see you, but I understand there are some preliminaries we need to address?” She lifted her gaze to the threshold above us.

The old wives’ tale was that vampires couldn’t enter a house if they hadn’t been invited in. But like lots of other fang-related myths, that was less about magic and more about rules. Vampires
loved
rules—what to drink, where to stand, how to address higherranking vampires, and so on.

“We would appreciate the mayor’s official invitation into his house,” Ethan said, without detailing the reasons for the request.

She nodded primly. “I have been authorized to extend an invitation to you and Merit to Creeley Creek.”

Ethan smiled politely. “We thank you for your hospitality and accept your invitation.”

The deal struck, Ms. Bentley opened the doors and waited while we walked into the hallway.

It wasn’t my first time in the mansion. My father (being well moneyed) and Tate (being well connected) were acquaintances, and my father had occasionally dragged me to Creeley Creek for some fund-raiser or other. I looked around and concluded it hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d visited. The floors were gleaming stone, the walls horizontal planks of dark wood.

The house was cool and dark, the hallway illuminated with golden light cast down from wall-mounted sconces.

The smell of vanilla cookies permeated the air.

That smell—of bright lemons and sugar—

reminded me of Tate. It was the same scent I’d caught the last time I’d seen him. Maybe he had a favorite snack, and the Creeley Creek staff obliged.

But the man in the hallway wasn’t one I’d expected to see. My father, dapper in a sharp black suit, walked toward us. He didn’t offer a handshake; the arrogance was typical Joshua Merit.

“Ethan, Merit.”

“Joshua,” Ethan said with a nod. “Meeting with the mayor this evening?”

“I was,” my father said. “You’re both well?”

Sadly, I was surprised that he cared. “We’re fine,” I told him. “What brings you here?”

“Business council issues,” my father said. He was a member of the Chicago Growth Council, a group geared toward bringing new businesses to the city.

“I also put in a good word about your House,”

he added, “about the strides you’ve taken with the city’s supernatural populations. Your grandfather keeps me apprised.”

“That was . . . very magnanimous of you,”

Ethan said, his confusion matching my own.

My father smiled pleasantly, then glanced from us to Tabitha. “I see that you’re heading in.

Don’t let me keep you. Good to see you both.”

Tabitha stepped in front of us, heels clacking on the floor as she marched deeper into the mansion. “Follow me,” she called back.

Ethan and I exchanged a glance.

“What just happened?” I asked.

“For some unknown reason, your father has suddenly become friendly?”

There was undoubtedly a business-related reason for that, which I assumed we’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, we did as we were told, and followed Tabitha down the hallway.

Seth Tate had the look of a playboy who’d never quite reformed. Tousled, coal black hair, blue eyes under long, dark brows. He had a face women swooned over and, as a second-term mayor, the political chops to back up the looks.

That explained why he’d been named one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelors, and one of the country’s sexiest politicians.

He met us in his office, a long, low room that was paneled floor to ceiling in wood. A gigantic desk sat at one end of the room in front of a tufted, red leather chair that could have doubled as a throne.

Both the desk and throne stood beneath an ominous five-foot-wide painting. Most of the canvas was dark, but the outlines of a group of suspicious-looking men were visible. They stood around a man positioned near the center of the painting, his arms above his head, cowering as they pointed down at him. It looked like they were condemning him for something. It wasn’t exactly an inspiring painting.

Tate, who stood in the middle of the room, reached out a hand toward Ethan, no hesitation in the movement. “Ethan.”

“Mr. Mayor.” They shared a manly

handshake.

“How are things at the House?”

“I’d say the mood is . . . anticipatory. With protesters at the gate, one tends to wait for the other shoe to drop.”

After they’d shared a knowing look, Tate turned to me, a smile blossoming. “Merit,” he said, voice softer. He took both my hands and leaned toward me, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, the scent of sugared lemon floating around him. “I just met with your father.”

“We saw him on the way out.”

He released me and smiled, but as he looked me over, the smile faded. “Are you all right?”

I must have looked shaken; being held at gunpoint could do that to a girl. But before I could speak, Ethan sent a warning.

Don’t mention McKetrick,
he said.
Not until
we know more about his alliances.