Some Girls Bite (18 page)

“Read the
Canon
,” Catcher answered, interrupting my meat reverie. “It’s your best source for information on sups, including all the shit you’re already supposed to know about vampires. There’s a reason they give those out, you know.”

I drummed fingers on the table—well on my mental way through a Hackneyburger with bleu cheese—and made a face. “Yeah, well, I’ve been busy—getting death threats, kicking my Master’s ass, getting training.”

“You finally have an excuse to buy that BlackBerry,” Mallory pointed out, sipping at her diamond-patterned plastic tumbler of orange juice. I scowled at her, then batted my eyelashes at Catcher. “So, what’s the story with Mallory?”

Mallory growled. Catcher ignored her. “Now that she’s been identified, the Order will contact her. She’ll get her training, be assigned a mentor—not me,” he clarified, giving her a look, “and will be asked to swear never to use her magic for the forces of evil”—he crossed a hand over his heart—“but only for good.”

“Is that what you did?” I asked him. “Used magic for evil instead of good?”

“Nope,” was all he said, tossing his napkin onto his plate.

“Why now?” Mallory asked. “If I’m so powerful, why the interest only now? Why wasn’t I identified before?”

“Puberty,” Catcher said, relaxing back into the booth. “You’ve just come into your powers.”

I snorted out a laugh. “And you thought the weird body hair and pimples were the end of it.”

Mallory elbowed me in the gut. “What powers? It’s not like I’m out there waving a magic wand or something.”

“A sorcerer’s power doesn’t work like that. We’re not spell casters—no charms, no recipes, no cauldrons. We don’t have to invoke it or ask for it. We don’t draw it through a wand or the combination of words and ingredients. We pull it through our bodies, merely by the strength of our own will.” Catcher crooked a thumb at me. “She’s a predator, a genetically altered human, tempered by magic. Her magic is accidental; vamps notice it more than humans, have a greater awareness of it than humans, but can’t control it. We are vessels of magic. We keep it. Channel it. Protect it.”

At Mallory’s blank expression, Catcher said, “Look, have you recently decided that you wanted something, and then got it? Something unexpected?”

Mallory frowned and nibbled on the end of a sausage link, a move I noted was watched with avidity by Jeff.

“Not that I can think of.” She looked at me. “Something I wanted and got?”

That was when it hit me. “Your job,” I answered. “You told Alec you wanted the job—next day, you had it.”

Mallory paled, and turned to Catcher. “Is that right?” There was sadness in her expression, probably dismay at the possibility that she hadn’t gotten the job at McGettrick because of her qualifications or creativity, but because she’d made it happen, the result of some supernatural force she could flick on like a light switch.

“Maybe,” Catcher said. “What else?”

We frowned, considered. “Helen,” Mallory said. “I wanted her out of the House—virulently. I opened the door, told her to get out, and poof, she’s on the stoop.” She gazed up at Catcher. “I thought if you revoked a vampire’s invitation they got sucked out?”

Catcher shook his head, his expression radiating quiet concern. They’d be good for each other, I decided. Her energy, expressiveness, impulsiveness, creativity, matched against his smart-ass solidity.

“They leave by rule, by paradigm. Not by magic. That was your doing.”

Mallory nodded and let the sausage fall back to her plate.

“You can try it, if you want. Right now, while I’m here.” Catcher’s voice was soft, thoughtful. Mallory’s gaze on the table, she wet her lips. Finally, after a long silence, she looked up.

“What do I do?”

Catcher nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, reaching back into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a beaten black leather wallet, then slipped cash from the center fold and laid it on the table. After he’d leaned forward to push the wallet back in, he rose from the booth and held his hand out to Mallory. She paused, looked at it, but let him help her up and out. They headed for the door.

Jeff swallowed the remaining inch of his orange juice, then put the empty tumbler back on the table, and we both followed.

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. Catcher led Mallory, her hand still in his, around the restaurant. Jeff and I exchanged a glance, but hurried to keep up.

Catcher walked a block or so until he and Mallory stood directly beneath the El, then positioned her body so they stood facing each other. Jeff stopped five yards from them and put a hand on my arm to stop me, too.

“Close enough,” he whispered. “Give them room.”

“Give me your hands,” I heard Catcher tell her, “and keep your eyes on me.”

She hesitated, but held out her hands, palms up.

“You’re a channel,” he said. “A conduit for the energy, the power.” He held out his own hands, palms down, over hers, a little space between them.

For a second, there was nothing but the sounds of the city. Traffic. Conversation down the street. The thud of a hip-hop bass line. The drip of water from the tracks above us.

“Wait for it,” Jeff whispered. “Watch their hands.”

It happened simultaneously, the roar of the train overhead and the glow that began to gather in the space between their outstretched fingers.

Mallory’s eyes widened; then Catcher mouthed something and her eyes lifted. They gazed at each other, Catcher telling her things I couldn’t hear over the grate and rumble of the El.

The glow built, grew into a sphere, a golden orb of light between them.

The train completed its pass, the sudden silence a vacuum of sound.

“I can feel it,” Mallory said, gaze dropping to her hands and the light between them.

“What do you feel?” Catcher asked.

She looked up at him, their faces illuminated by the glow.

Chemistry, I thought, my lips tilting into a smile at the mix of joy and surprise on her face.

“Magic,” Jeff whispered beside me.

“Everything,” Mallory answered.

“Close your eyes,” Catcher told her. “Breathe it in.”

She gave a hesitant nod. Her lids fell, and then she smiled. The orb grew, engulfed their hands, arms, torsos until it was a yellow bubble of light encasing them both. The air electrified, the breeze of magic fluttering my bangs and Jeff’s floppy hair.

And then with a
pop
, it was gone, a plane of yellow mist dissipating into the air around them.

Mallory and Catcher, arms still outstretched, stared at each other.

He lifted his gaze. “Not bad at all.”

“As if you’ve had better, Bell.”

I grinned. That was my girl, magic funnel or not. She’d be okay, I decided.

They dropped their arms and rejoined us.

“So, what the hell was that, exactly?”

Catcher looked my way. “Need-to-know basis, vamp. And you do not need to know right now.”

The magic demonstration concluded, we headed back to the block on which we’d left our cars, my chunky Volvo, Catcher’s hipster sedan, and Jeff’s old hatchback.

“Plans?” Catcher asked.

Jeff grinned. “It’s a Friday night, I’m off work early, and I’m gonna chat with this cute kid from Buffalo. She’s blond and curvy in all the right places, so I need to get home and get online.” He elbowed Catcher. “Right, C.B.?”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“It’s, you know, so we have a thing, the two of us. You know.”

Catcher gazed at Jeff. “I don’t know, Jeff. I really, really don’t.” But when Jeff began to explain, Catcher held up a hand. “Nor am I interested.” He looked at Mallory and me. “Plans?”

We shook our heads.

“There’s a club in River North that looks cool.” Catcher pulled a flyer from his pocket. It was similar to the one that had been left beneath my wipers when my car was parked outside Cadogan, advertising Red. “It’s not too far from the gym.”

I pointed at it. “I got one of those, too. They must be papering the city.”

Catcher shrugged, refolded the paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. “Anyone wanna dance?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Mallory muttered.

“Dance?” I asked. “I could dance. I need to change, but I can dance.” I could always dance. My hips didn’t lie.

Mallory tucked her tongue into her cheek, then gave Catcher a look of mock irritation. “Nice going, Gandalf. You’ll rile her up, and I’ll never get her tucked in. You wanna give her candy and caffeine while you’re at it?”

Catcher smiled at her, and even though the smile wasn’t for me, it was hot enough to curl my toes. “Sorcerer, not wizard. Yes?”

After a beat, she nodded, a flush high on her cheeks.

I’d have nodded, too, if I was her. Probably even thrown in an eyelash batting for good measure.

“I’ll let you two deal with him,” Jeff said, and unlocked the doors of his hatchback. “Have fun dancing. And if you get bored later”—he winged up his eyebrows—“you give me a call.” He winked, then climbed into the car and drove away.

“One of these days, I’m going to kiss him just for the principle of the thing,” I told Mallory as we walked toward the Volvo.

“You should have done it just then. You’d have made his weekend.”

I walked around and unlocked the door. “But his cute blonde would have missed out. Can’t have that.”

Mallory nodded solemnly. “True. You’re so munificent.”

I slid into the car, unlocked the passenger door, and waited while Mallory and Catcher argued over something. Issue apparently decided, Mallory slid inside, blushing furiously. I nearly asked what they’d argued about, but the subconscious way she touched her fingers to her lips answered the question. I stifled a laugh, pulled the car out of the parking lot, and headed home.

 

Catcher, who’d followed us to Wicker Park, camped on the couch in front of the television while Mallory and I switched outfits. We both came downstairs in trendy jeans and heels and cute, club-worthy tops. Mine was black with tiny white dots and cap sleeves—a bargain vintage find. Mallory wore a sleeveless, high-collared top with a long tie at the neck that glinted silver in the light.

“Great shirt,” she told me, fingering a sleeve as we strode down the stairs. “It’s like you’ve blossomed style overnight.”

I was taking serious hits on my fashion choices this week, probably not surprising for a girl whose dressing decision was usually between colors of layered T-shirts. I wasn’t a shopper, much to my mother’s (and Mallory’s . . . and Ethan’s) chagrin.

But I thanked Mallory anyway and had the satisfaction of watching her flick fingers self-consciously through her shoulder-length hair as we neared the living room.

“I’m sure he’ll like your hair,” I poked, then grabbed keys and stuffed my wallet into a small black clutch purse. Mallory stuck out her tongue. We gathered up Catcher—who guiltily flipped off a Lifetime movie—and headed out.

 

Red was located in a stand-alone building, a three-story brick structure that looked, architecturally, like it might house a design studio. The facade was dominated by three rows of high, arched windows, each topped with an intricately carved relief. We parked the car on a side street and approached the door, bass thumping through the walls. We were headed for the back of the short waiting line, but the guard at the door—bald, clad in a black T-shirt and fatigues, and wearing a headset—waved a clipboard at us.

“We aren’t on the list,” Catcher told him.

“Names?” he asked anyway, his voice flat and deep.

“Catcher Bell, Mallory Carmichael, and Merit,” Catcher told him. Face bunched, the bouncer flipped through the sheath of paper clipped to his board. But then his gaze rose, and he stared blankly ahead and nodded as, I imagined, he listened to someone on the other end of the headset. Then he stepped back from the door and waved us inside.

Weird, but who were we to argue with VIP service?

We entered to the rhythmic thump of a slow bass beat that carried enough power to vibrate my core. But while the music was raucously loud, the decor was chic. Elegant. Drinks were served from an enormous mirror-backed bar that was tucked against the building’s front wall, while the side walls were lined in curtain-edged mirrors and red leather booths, tables in front of them. Tiny lamps lit the tables and reflected against the mirrors, giving the club the look of a European coffeehouse. A wrought-iron spiral staircase was positioned near the bar, and a small but completely filled dance floor dominated the back of the room. The clientele was as classy as the decor—chicly dressed couples in the booths along the wall, chatting over martinis and cosmopolitans. They were all oddly attractive—lots of Louis Vuitton bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes, carefully coiffed hair and perfectly tailored clothes.

Some, I knew, were vampires. I’m not sure how I knew that—although the fact that they were all, to a one, weirdly attractive was a sure tip-off. They just had a different vibe, a different sense about them. And here they were, sipping ten-dollar drinks, flirting, and swaying to the music just like people.

Catcher took our drink orders—vodka tonic for Mal, gin and tonic for me—while we headed for the last available mirror-backed table. We slid against the wall, leaving the outside seat for Catcher.

“Gorgeous place,” Mallory yelled over the din, surveying the room. “I can’t believe we haven’t been here before.”

I nodded, watching the dancers move, taking the drinks Catcher handed us when he returned. One song ended and a second began instantaneously, the opening beats of Muse’s “Hysteria” ringing through the club. Eager to dance, I took a quick sip of my drink and grabbed Mallory’s hand, pulling her to the dance floor. We shuffled through the throng, finding a gap in the crush of designer-clad bodies, and danced. We shifted, moved, swayed hips and arms, and let the music overtake us, swallow us, beat the worries from our minds in time to the raging synthesizer. We stayed on the dance floor through that song and another, and another, and another, before tunneling back through the bodies for a break, a seat, a drink. (And we’d left Catcher guarding our purses, so we felt a little duty-bound to go back.)