Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (13 page)

And how could we do that?

We could call our favorite reporter to give him the story of a lifetime.

Being raised in a wealthy family had obvious advantages. Good schools, square meals, safe neighborhood, and access to people in high places. The members of the Breckenridge family were some of those people. They were old-money Chicago, having made their fortune in the steel industry. I’d gone to high school with Nick, one of the Breckenridge boys. I’d gone to college and grad school; he’d become a Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative journalist.

He’d also once tried to blackmail Cadogan House, but that was water under the bridge. Especially after he put me on the front page of the paper beneath the headline
PONYTAILED AVENGER
. That press had been good for the House. We’d see if it could be again.

So as I waited for Ethan, I dialed up Nick.

A woman answered. “Nick Breckenridge’s phone.”

“Is Nick there?” I asked, feeling suddenly awkward about the question.

“He’s in the shower. Just a minute.”

Her voice carried an accent—Italian or Spanish, perhaps—and I imagined a lovely and buxom brunette. And since I hadn’t known Nick was dating anyone, I couldn’t help but be curious.

“This is Nick,” he said after a moment.

“It’s Merit. Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

“I’m listening.”

“Clean Chicago is rioting again. They’ve hit Grey House.”

He paused. “That’s the one in Wrigleyville?”

“It is. They’ve asked for vampire assistance, and we’re on our way. Other vamps are heading over there as well.”

“How many rioters?” His tone was serious, journalistic. I’d hooked him; I could hear it in his voice.

“Two or three hundred.”

Nick whistled. “That’s a lot.”

“Clean Chicago is making this about humans. But it isn’t. It’s about vampires. Whatever Clean Chicago’s supposed issues, I’d put good money on the possibility they’ve never met a single member of Grey House. And it’s the Grey House vamps who will suffer. Who are suffering as we speak.”

“I’m on my way. Good luck,” he said, then ended the call.

I appreciated the sentiment, because I was afraid I was going to need it.

—

Ethan arrived a few minutes later, and he was dressed for battle. Or, rather, not in the fitted black suits he preferred for a typical night at Cadogan House. He wore jeans over boots and a black motorcycle-style jacket that was styled like mine, already zipped up against the cold. His blond hair was tied back, his katana in hand.

“You look ready for business,” I said.

“I tried to be prepared. You’re all right?” He pressed a soft kiss to my lips.

“I’m fine. Nervous. Catcher’s here; he’s going to move around the perimeter and try to thin out the crowd. How bad is this going to be?”

“I don’t know,” Ethan admitted, looking over the neighborhood. “It depends on the CPD. It depends on the mayor. It depends on whether they deem the rioters the assailants, or the victims.”

My stomach turned at the possibility the Houses would be blamed for an assault against them. Now, of course, it was Nick’s job to help them understand the full story.

“I actually hired some help in that area,” I said.

Ethan looked sharply back at me. “Oh?”

“I called Nick Breckenridge and suggested he might be interested in a human, or vampire, interest story—our oppression by hate groups.”

Ethan’s smile was sly, his magic suddenly pert. “I love the way you think.”

“Good,” I said, “because we’re waging a war against stupidity, and we’re going to need all the thinking we can get.”

“Let’s get the war under way,” Ethan said, gesturing toward an alley beside the pharmacy. “Let’s go up to the next block and take a look.”

We didn’t get far. We’d only just made it steps into the dark when we spied a trio of cops in full riot gear marching past the alley. They paused to shine flashlights into the darkness, and we pressed our backs to the brick wall, waiting until they’d passed.

Sure, we weren’t the enemies here, and they weren’t exactly looking for us. But revealing our presence wasn’t going to help anything.

For a few seconds, the beams of light danced back and forth across the passageway. Apparently satisfied it held no threat, they drew back their beams and moved on.

“Next idea?” I whispered.

Ethan looked around, then pointed above us. “There,” he said. “If we can’t go around, we go up.”

I glanced at the rusty and rickety fire escape that stopped six feet above our heads. It reached up to the roof, seven or eight floors above us, in a tangle of landings and ladders that didn’t look entirely safe.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“It’s our best option,” Ethan said ruefully. “I’ll go first. You can follow me.”

Ethan jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung, pulling until the ladder released and clanked its way to the ground. He shook it, testing its mettle and metal. It didn’t collapse, but bits of ice and rust flew to the ground like dander.

“And up we go,” he said, stepping onto the first rung and climbing to the first landing.

Since this wasn’t the best time to argue about safety, I kept my mouth shut and followed him, climbing upward, one foot over another. The climb became monotonous—climb the ladder, switchback around the landing, climb the next ladder.

I made it to the seventh floor—nearly to the top—when a
boom
shook the building and the fire escape—and the vampire upon it.

My heart stuttered, and my boot slipped on ice. My knee hit the rung below, singing out in pain, and I felt myself falling, without even time to call out Ethan’s name for help.

He saved me anyway, reaching down from the landing above me and grabbing my wrist, holding it tight. “Steady now, Sentinel.”

I nodded, ignoring the sound of the explosion and pursing my lips to slow my breathing, and felt for the rungs until I found my footing.

“I’m okay,” I said when all four limbs were once again attached to the fire escape.

Ethan climbed over the ledge, then helped me over, and we dashed to the other side of the building to look down at the scene below.

A small part of me—the part that still believed in Santa Claus—wished we’d look out upon the city to find the fires extinguished, Grey House in pristine shape, and vampires and humans shaking hands on the sidewalk.

Instead, we found a war zone.

Flames rose from the front of Grey House, two blocks north of us. The path in between was filled with a boisterous mix of rioters and the CPD units trying to control them. Like the cops we’d seen in the alley below, they were outfitted in black, with helmets and shields, and they marched in a line toward the rioters from various directions, pushing them into a smaller and smaller area. But like putting a thumb over the end of a garden hose, condensing the anger only seemed to make it worse. The rioters yelled and raised their makeshift weapons—sports equipment, tools, kitchen knives—the tension only escalating as the camps moved closer.

“Jesu Christi,”
Ethan murmured.

“There’s a lot of them,” I said.

Ethan nodded and pulled out his phone. He dialed Luc’s number, holding the phone out so I could hear. “Where are you?”

“In front of Grey House,” Luc said, crackling and noise in the background. “Fire department’s here. The fire is nearly under control.”

“We heard an explosion,” Ethan said.

“It wasn’t from the House,” Luc assured. “It must have been from somewhere else in the neighborhood. The cops have made a pretty good perimeter around the House, and Juliet and I are helping with the evacuation. It’s clear Jonah’s very good. The first wave of rioters had the firebombs, but he established a perimeter very quickly, set up a zone around the House.”

“Molotov cocktails?” Ethan asked.

“Just like the first riot, yeah. At least three made contact,” Luc said. “The fire department went through the roof to extinguish the flames; the atrium is toast. Water and glass and ash everywhere. Six vamps with severe burns, two currently unconscious. All were Novitiates; no staff.”

I closed my eyes in relief. Jonah was staff, which meant he was okay. For now.

“We’re on the roof of a building facing north,” Ethan said. “The CPD’s put a perimeter of bodies around the rioters at”—he paused to squint at the street signs—“Seminary and Cornelia, I think. The cops are trying to move them east, probably out of the residential areas.”

Suddenly, a rioter carrying a mean-looking serrated shovel emerged through the knot of rioters and toward the police, raising his shovel against the closest cop. The cop used his shield to ward off the hit but still fell to his knees from the force of the blow. More cops joined the fray, pulling the attacker away, but creating a hole in the perimeter. Before it closed again, a handful of rioters slipped through the gap, heading north toward Grey House.

“When there’s a gap in the perimeter, the rioters head for the House,” I said, glancing at Ethan. “Maybe we should give them new targets.”

He smiled, just a little. “That could work, Sentinel.”

“Liege?” Luc said. “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on over there, but I don’t think I like it.”

“There’s no time for
like
tonight, Luc,” Ethan said. “We’re going to intercept the stragglers, try to lead them on a nice little goose chase.”

“In that direction,” I said, pointing to a cruiser parked a couple of blocks to the southwest.

“Agreed,” Ethan said. “Help as you can, Luc, but keep a low profile. The GP could have spies about.”

“Will do, hoss. For what it’s worth, please be careful. Malik will have my ass if you go down in combat again.”

Ethan’s eyes shimmered with green fire. “I have every intention of staying alive.”

He put away the phone and looked at me, and I’d have sworn there was a hint of a smile in his expression.

“Sentinel, I believe this dance is ours.”

—

We decided to split up, giving us double the chance to redirect rioters away from Grey House.

Once on the street again, wearing my relatively tame leathers, I decided I needed to look a bit more dramatic. I flipped over my head and shook out my hair, giving it enough volume to add a Bride of Frankenstein vibe, then smudged some of the pink lip gloss in my coat pocket beneath my cheekbones. For the big finale, I let my eyes silver and my fangs descend. I was hoping for a “vamp on the prowl” look, with just enough ferocity to spark the rioters’ interest.

A man wielding a very large, and very pointy, chef’s knife picked that moment to dash around the corner. He stuttered when he saw me, trying to figure out if I was a full-on threat or a momentary obstacle.

His eyes stilled when his gaze reached my mouth and needle-sharp fangs; his eyes widened, the air filling with the heady scent of fear.

Of frightened prey.

“Going somewhere?” I asked.

It took only a moment for his fear to transmute into anger. He adjusted the grip on his knife, fingers flexing around the handle.

“Bitch,” he said, and ran forward.

That was my cue. I turned and took off, running down the sidewalk. After a moment, footfalls and copious swearing sounded behind me. He’d taken the bait.

“I don’t answer to ‘bitch,’” I called out, jumping over a bench to cross the empty street, leading the rioter southwest toward the CPD cruiser we’d spied earlier.

I dodged around a parked car, and, pretending the bumper tripped me up, slowed just enough to let the rioter gain ground.

“You are mine now, bitch.”

“Seriously, with the language,” I muttered, moving with a faux hobble down the block, looking back and showing my fangs until he reached out with both hands to nab me, nearly grabbing the back of my jacket.

I skipped forward, feeling victorious, when karma bit me back.

He stuck out the knife and caught the back of my jacket. The leather split, freeing me, but the stutter broke my stride . . . and I hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk.

I slipped and fell forward, hitting both knees. Before I could rise again, the rioter was against my back, smelling of tinny sweat, his arm around my body, his knife cutting through leather and fabric and opening a line of hot blood across my belly.

I screamed in pain, elbowing him in the stomach to free myself as tears filled my eyes. He grunted and tried to draw the knife again, but I bent his wrist backward until he dropped the knife. I grabbed it up, wriggled away, and held it out at him, hand shaking with fear and pain and adrenaline, and from the crimson that bloomed across my stomach. He’d cut me, and deep.

The rioter’s eyes, round and deep set, didn’t waver. They were flat, devoid of emotion, as if I were less than human, an animal he’d trapped and nearly managed to kill.

My brain clouded.
Think,
I told myself, a hand pressed against my stomach to slow the blood loss until my body began to heal, trying to slow the crazy beating of my heart.

I had been running this way . . . because there was a cop around the corner.

Without looking back, I ran. It was a slow, ugly run, an arm against my stomach, the man’s knife in my hand. I stumbled around the next corner, nearly running into the uniformed officer who stood beside his cruiser.

He looked up at the sound of the chase, caught sight of the blood on my abdomen, and put a hand on his gun. “Ma’am?”

Before I could answer, the rioter rounded the corner behind me. He saw me, and smiled—but then saw the cop and prepared to bolt again.

I stuck out a foot, and he hit the ground. The cop was on him before he could crawl away.

He put a booted foot on his back and glanced at me with concern. “Ma’am, you’re bleeding. Did he cut you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, handing over the knife. For some reason, it seemed important to get rid of it. “I don’t think this is mine.”

Stars appeared at the edges of my vision, and I managed a final thought before the world went dark.

Ethan
.

REAL HOUSEWIVES OF WRIGLEYVILLE

I
awoke hungry, greedy for blood. I knew nothing, remembered nothing, felt nothing except for the craving that clenched my stomach into knots.

“Drink,”
he said, his wrist coming into focus in front of me, two lines of crimson across pale skin. I wrapped my hands around it and pressed my lips to the cuts he’d opened, and I drank.

“Be still, Merit.” He stroked my hair.

I drank until the gnawing hunger in my belly receded, until rationality returned, until I could feel the chill in the air again. I drank until my vision cleared, until the fire across my belly was slaked. And then I pulled back from Ethan’s wrist and sucked air into my lungs. As if by magic, the wound on Ethan’s arm closed.

“I’m all right,” I assured him, trying to take in my bearings.

I was sitting on his lap in a small bus-stop shelter only a few feet away from the police car. The rioter was in the backseat, and the cop stood on the sidewalk. The shelter gave us a bit of privacy, but he still watched us like a hawk as Ethan returned me to the land of the living.

He wrapped his arms around me. “Thank God. I thought I’d lost you.”

I nodded but didn’t attempt to climb off his lap. I breathed in the scent of him, the crisp scent of his cologne a relief among the smells of smoke and blood and battle.

“You passed out,” he said. “I heard you call my name, but I couldn’t find you. Luc traced your phone.”

I rested my head against Ethan’s chest, my body sated and suddenly lethargic, like a gourmand after a Thanksgiving meal. “New phone, new way to track vampires?”

“Precisely.” He rubbed my hair again. “It was the perp?”

I nodded. “I tripped and he jumped me. He had a chef’s knife.”

“Odd choice of weapon.”

I nodded again, still woozy and using words sparingly. “How long was I out?”

“Four minutes, maybe five, likely from the blood loss. The officer called for an ambulance, but I got here first.”

When the world stopped spinning enough for me to glance down, I took a peek at my wound. My jacket was ripped, the shirt beneath a bloody ruin, but at least the wound was beginning to close, now a bright pink line across my gut.

“You’ll heal,” Ethan said.

“What about the riot?”

“Largely contained. The CPD did a solid job.”

“I only managed to distract one rioter.” I gestured toward the car, and the perp who was currently flipping us off with both hands.

“What a charming fellow.”

“Charming
felon
,” I corrected. “I kicked him off, but there’s not a doubt in my mind he’d have killed me if he’d had the chance.”

Ethan tipped my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze, and scanning my eyes as if looking for the source of the sadness in my voice. “He’s not the first with murderous intent.”

“I know. But this feels different. More of a violation.”

“Because he didn’t see
you
,” Ethan said. “He didn’t assault you because of who you are or what you stand for. He saw only that you are fanged, and that was the only motivation he needed.”

“What about you?” I scanned him for injuries. His jeans were dirty and torn in places, and there were scratches on his neck—like he’d been clawed by a set of fingernails.

“A group of rioters decided four to one odds were pretty good. I led them south and taught them otherwise.”

“A war of stupidity,” I reminded him. “This isn’t just about protests and marches. They’re willing to fight, to kill, individual vampires.”

“So it appears,” Ethan said. “Are you well enough to walk?”

Whether I was or wasn’t was irrelevant. We weren’t done here, so I would walk.

I stood and zipped up my jacket, wincing as I tightened it around my stomach. I chose pain over hypothermia.

“I could carry you?” Ethan offered.

I gave him a flat look. “I am a soldier,” I said, putting a hand on his arm. “As much as I love these guns of yours, I would prefer not to be carried to a House of athletic vampires like a damsel in distress.”

“Very well, Sentinel,” he said, taking my hand, amusement in his eyes. Since my fingers were chilled into icicles, I didn’t argue with the hand-holding.

—

Together, the cop’s gaze on our backs, we walked toward Grey House, cutting through an alley and emerging in the middle of the next block. The House sat at the end of the street, but we found our progress blocked again.

Three women stood in front of a make-do barricade formed by patio chairs, baby gates, snow fencing, and other bits of garage ephemera. The woman in front had dark hair and dark tilted eyes, and she wore a heavy down coat, jeans, and sheepskin boots.

“What’s your business here?” she asked us, crossing her arms as we approached.

“I’m sorry?” Ethan asked.

“She asked what’s your business in this neighborhood?” said the woman beside her. She was a little older and a little heavier, and her hair had been combed into a very thoroughly hair-sprayed helmet.

“We’re here to help with the folks who live in the warehouse,” I said. “And who are you?”

“Wrigleyville Association of Concerned Neighbors,” said the second woman, tapping a Cubs pin on her lapel. “We live here, we work here, we take care of our own.”

“I see,” Ethan said noncommittally. “And who, if I may ask, are ‘your own’?”

The WACN representative looked suspicious. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because we’re vampires,” Ethan said, and the ladies’ expressions suddenly changed. Instead of suspicion in their eyes, there was interest—very salacious interest in my very tall, built, and handsome vampire boyfriend. They scanned his body from snug jeans to leather jacket, stopping when they reached the eyes that shined with emerald amusement.

I guessed that explained whose side they were on.

“Ladies?” Ethan prompted.

They all blushed.

“Scott Grey and his people are our own,” said the woman in front, her chin lifting stubbornly. “We’ve never had issues with Scott or anyone else in the House. They’re good neighbors. But these rioting jackasses? We don’t know them at all. They don’t live here, but they come into our neighborhood to start trouble? No, thank you.”

“No, thank you,” agreed the woman beside her.

“Well, we thank you for your loyalty,” Ethan said. “I’m sure Scott appreciates it very much. We’re here to help him and his people. If you don’t mind, may we proceed?”

“Oh yes, yes,” they variously said, moving a baby gate and a plastic chaise lounge to let us through.

Behind them, Grey House loomed. An imposing brick building, it was a warehouse transformed into living units and offices for the Grey House vamps.

Tonight, fire engines and other emergency vehicles sat at intervals around the block. Its front doors were broken, its brick covered with dark smoke. A line of vampires—all tall, all built, mostly men—stood in front of the building, probably keeping watch to ensure the rioters didn’t make a second attempt.

I didn’t see Scott, but Jonah stood in the middle of the line. Relief filled me. There was a gash across his temple and his shirt was singed, but he was in one piece.

“You’re all right?” I asked, when we reached him.

“I’ll live to fight another night,” he said, glancing at Ethan. “But you aren’t supposed to be here. The blacklist?”

“We do not answer to Darius,” Ethan said. “But if you or Scott has an issue with our presence, we’ll go.”

“There’s no need for that.”

We turned to find Scott Grey, dark haired and somber, standing behind us. He wore one of the blue and yellow Grey House jerseys he’d selected in lieu of House medals.

Scott and Ethan shook hands—two Masters, meeting on a field of battle.

“We aren’t here to create GP trouble for you,” Ethan said cautiously.

“It’s surprising how much perspective you gain in a crisis,” Scott said. “And if the GP has a problem with our receiving necessary help in a crisis, I’d be happy to discuss that concern—very frankly—with Darius.”

There was a glimmer of appreciation in Ethan’s eyes. “Well put.”

Scott glanced at the blood on my jacket. “What happened?”

“A rioter with a chef’s knife,” I said.

He nodded. “That jacket will never be the same.”

I grimaced at the gaping hole in the front. “I know. And this was my favorite one.”

“You’ve got injured vampires?” Ethan asked.

Scott nodded. “A few. We had no warning they were coming. The first wave was only three humans. It didn’t even register with the guards that four people walking down the street in this neighborhood would be carrying Molotov cocktails.”

“It was a smart decision by the rioters,” Ethan said. “Hard to detect; easy to get close.”

“The worst injuries were during the initial explosions,” Jonah said. “The CPD got here in minutes.”

“Any sign of Robin Pope?” I asked Jonah.

“The disgruntled employee?” He glanced at Scott, and both shook their heads. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”

“Catcher and I went to her apartment. She ran when we asked her about the Bryant Industries riot. We suspect she’s wrapped up in it.”

Speaking of which, I realized we hadn’t yet seen Catcher. I pulled out my phone in case he’d left a message; to my relief, I found one waiting:
I KNOCKED OUT 32 RIOTERS. THEY’LL WAKE UP AND ONLY REMEMBER EATING BAD CHEESE. HEADING BACK TO CHUCK’S HOUSE.

I sent a note back:
GLAD YOU’RE SAFE.

“Liege,” said a breathless voice. Luc ran toward us, Juliet behind him. Their clothes were sooty, but they looked otherwise healthy and hale.

Luc and Ethan embraced like long-lost comrades, and Luc exchanged a pleasant—if tense—nod of acknowledgment with Scott.

“Merit, glad to see you took care of our Master,” Luc said.

“Unfortunately, she took the brunt of it.” Ethan pointed to the tear in my jacket, and Luc winced sympathetically.

“Katana?” he asked.

“Chef’s knife.”

Luc pursed his lips, apparently trying not to laugh.

“I didn’t get to select my attacker’s weapon,” I pointed out.

“I know, I know. It’s just not the weapon I’d have figured you’d take a hit from.”

A group in Chicago Fire Department gear stepped out of the gaping hole in the front of Grey House and walked toward us.

The fireman in front raised his visor. “It’s clear,” he said. “The fire’s out. But be careful of the glass. The ceiling took a beating.”

“Thank you again,” Scott said, shaking his hand.

“Just doing our job.” The man reached into his pocket and fished out a small card, which he handed to Scott. “Got friends in the rehab industry if you want help with the cleanup.”

“I appreciate the recommendation,” Scott said, stuffing the card into his jeans pocket.

Scott and Jonah watched the firemen walk away, but I glanced back at Grey House. The middle of the warehouse was a garden atrium, shielded by an enormous glass roof and covered by a shutter that closed automatically at sunrise. If that shutter had been damaged . . .

The roof is glass,
I silently told Ethan.
If the shutter is broken, they’re going to need shelter when the sun rises.

Ethan nodded ever so slightly and looked at Scott. “Between Navarre and Cadogan, we can house your vampires. Noah might also be able to offer some beds.”

“The blacklist?” Scott asked.

“As we discussed,” Ethan said mildly, “we came here anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott said, holding up his hands. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful that you’re here. But staying at the House would be stratospherically different than your coming here to help. The GP will be pissed, and it puts an even bigger target on your back. I don’t want to invite additional trouble to your House.”

The sound of shattering glass—a lot of it—echoed across the yard, probably more panels from the House’s roof. The sun would be rising soon; one way or the other Scott was going to have to find shelter.

“On the other hand,” Scott said, “I’m not sure we have another option.”

“It’s done,” Ethan said. “We’ll handle the Cadogan arrangements, but you might want to contact Morgan directly, considering the blacklist. I suspect burn phones are not his style.”

Ethan meant Morgan, Master of Navarre House. “Speaking of,” Ethan added, “I notice Mr. Greer is not here.”

“Neither him nor his people,” Scott said, equally unimpressed by the sound of it. “He’s taken losses lately. We presume that’s why he stood us up.”

“Losses or not, one does not avoid one’s obligations.”

“No,” Scott said. “You’re right.” He extended his hand toward Ethan. “We’re no longer part of the same European family, but you offered bodies in support. We won’t forget that. I can’t guarantee anything until the GP situation is sorted out, but we’re here if you need us.”

“I appreciate that,” Ethan said.

The momentary peace was interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice.

“Scott!” she screamed, running toward him. She was a human in her early thirties, with tan skin and long, dark hair.

Scott moved toward her, opening his arms; she ran into them. She was curvy but petite, and his embrace nearly swallowed her. She was followed by two children—a small boy and girl. They screamed with joy at the sight of him, running with as much eagerness as she had.