Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (29 page)

This time, I found I couldn’t disagree with him.

—

We drove home in silence. Jeff and Catcher volunteered to get Moneypenny back to the House, which was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, and in no shape to drive.

When we arrived at the House, less than an hour before dawn, we found security tight. Luc, Malik, Lindsey, and Margot met us in the foyer when we arrived.

“How is he?” Malik asked.

“He’s okay,” I said. “Long road to recovery, but he’s alive. And that’s something.”

“That is something,” Luc said, pulling me into a bear hug. It was definitely the night for unexpected shows of affection. “Glad you’re safe, Sentinel.”

“Thanks. Me, too.”

“This is life,” Ethan said. “This is Valentine’s Day. Do not rue the tragedies; celebrate the victories.”

“That sounds like something Merit’s grandfather would say,” Malik said with a smile.

“Are you hungry?” Margot asked. “Have you had time to eat?”

Not lately, considering my second effectively failed attempt at arranging a meal for Valentine’s Day. I knew I’d be ravenous tomorrow, but for tonight, my appetite was gone.

“I’m not especially hungry,” Ethan said. “But perhaps blood and wine?”

Margot nodded. “Absolutely, Liege. I’ll get that ready for you and send it to your apartments.”

That was at least a small relief—with the Grey House vampires installed at the King George, we could get our apartments and bed back. My body was going to need the rest, and I was pretty sure I’d be sleeping hard tonight.

And speaking of the new Grey House digs, “Any update on Brooklyn?” I asked Luc.

“Last we heard, she was stable,” he said. “I don’t have any more information.”

Ethan put a hand on my back. “I think that’s a sufficient update for now,” he said. “It’s been a very long night. Let’s get ready for dawn, and we’ll start fresh at dusk.”

I couldn’t have agreed with that more.

—

Upstairs, once again in Ethan’s apartments, I dumped my ruined leathers on the floor and climbed into the shower without preface. I showered until my skin was pink, then pulled on the softest pajamas I could find. They were pink fleece, not exactly the sexiest ensemble, but they were comforting in a way that I needed.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Ethan in the sitting room. He wore nothing but silk green pajama bottoms that rode low on his hips, and he gazed down at a folded newspaper on the side table in front of him. Margot’s tray was on the table beside it. Thinking both were worth a closer look, I padded across the room in my fuzzy pajamas, my hair still damp from the shower.

Ethan looked up with amusement. “Your coziest sleepwear?”

“Exactly. What did Margot bring?”

“Blood, wine, croissants.”

I hadn’t intended to eat, but my stomach growled ominously. “How long until dawn?”

Ethan glanced at his phone, which lay on the table. “Eighteen minutes.”

“Croissant it is,” I said. I bit into one while holding out my empty wineglass, waiting while he filled it with white wine from the carafe.

“Sometimes,” Ethan said, filling his own glass when I took a sip of mine, “I think we’re fortunate to make it through the night.”

The wine was crisp and fresh, and it provided a nice, sharp contrast to the flaky, buttery croissant.

“You aren’t wrong,” I said, nibbling the edge of it.

“Here,” Ethan said, holding out a hand for my glass. “Let’s have a seat by the fire.”

I glanced back at the onyx fireplace in one corner of the room, which I’d rarely seen lit. “I don’t think we have time to get a fire going.”

“Of course we do,” he said. He walked to the corner of the room and flipped a switch behind one of the curtains. The fireplace roared to life, and Ethan looked back at me with a grin.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” I said, joining him and sitting cross-legged on the floor. He handed my wineglass back, then did the same.

For the second time tonight, I watched a fire rage. But this time, I was safe at home, with guards outside to keep the monsters away. And, best of all, Ethan was beside me.

“Tell me more about this Scottish estate of ours,” I said.

It took him a moment to remember the conversation we’d had earlier. “Ah, yes. Well, there would be much old wood and tall windows. And maybe a hound or two. We’d watch the wind race across the moors like Catherine and Heathcliff might have.”

“But with a happier ending, I hope?”

“Absolutely. And without your Sentinel duties to attend to, you could learn to knit. Or embroider. Or perhaps tatting.”

“I’ll stick to reading, thank you very much. You could learn those things. Or how to cook.”

“I can cook, Sentinel.”

I looked at him, obviously suspicious. “You’ve never cooked for me.”

“I’ve not yet done a number of things for you. That doesn’t mean I’m not capable of doing them.” He put an arm around me.

“We’ve many years to go yet, Sentinel. And many things to learn about each other. He clinked his glass against mine. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Ethan,” I said.

ALL THE NEWS THAT’S FANGED TO PRINT

I
was awakened by the shifting of weight in the bed; Ethan took a seat on the edge as he finagled cuff links into shirtsleeves. He was forever adjusting cuff links. Maybe that was a potential belated Valentine’s Day gift. Monogrammed hearts? Tiny silver katanas? Little male figures with tiny arched eyebrows?

“Good evening, Merit,” he said.

“Grbarfulgorph,”
I said, pulling the covers over my head. “I’m not leaving this room tonight.”

“That’s unfortunate, as I think you’d get an inspirational kick in the ass.”

I pulled down the blanket just enough to peek out with one eye. Ethan looked back at me with mild amusement.

“How so?” I asked.

“Your father just called. Your grandfather is out of intensive care and in a regular room. He’s awake—sore, but awake—and they expect he’s got a solid chance at a good recovery.”

I closed my eyes in relief and put my hands on my face, shielding the tears that I knew would inevitably come. My eyes already ached from the anticipation, so it was almost a relief when they began coursing down my cheeks.

Ethan looked utterly flummoxed. “Isn’t this good news?”

I wiped the tears away and smiled at him. “It’s the best news.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“Because sometimes women cry when there’s good news. Tears of relief. You know, catharsis.”

His expression was utterly blank.

“Haven’t you ever cried when you, I don’t know, you get a new batch of that fancy stationery you like with the watermarks on it?”

He looked bewildered. “That’s what you think I’d cry tears of relief about?”

“You do like your office supplies.”

Ethan closed his eyes and shook his head. “This conversation has taken an indecipherable turn. Nevertheless, I actually have more good news. Nick managed to get his story finished and online during the day, and it’s been picked up by media outlets across the country.” He reached out and picked up a folded
Tribune
from the nightstand. “They issued a special edition on the Houses.”

I accepted it from him and flipped open the paper, which was sized like a magazine but on newsprint paper.
VAMPIRES: THE COST OF OUR IGNORANCE
read the headline, a shot of Grey House burning beneath it. I flipped it open and found the interior pages full of discussions about our financial and other benefits to the city.

“This is quite a coup,” I said, folding it up and handing it back to him.

Ethan nodded. “I’ve no idea how much of it he actually believes, but it helps us either way. Perhaps he still feels guilty about the blackmail.”

“Or he still has feelings for me,” I said, putting a hand on my chest. “Ours was a forbidden love. . . .”

Ethan rolled his eyes and swatted me playfully on the leg with the newspaper. “That’s enough egotism for you today. Get up. It’s another night, which means another riot is possible, and we’re running out of Houses to burn. Call Catcher. See if Detective Jacobs found out anything about that syringe. And follow up again with Charla Bryant and the videos of the facility. I want this solved!”

There was a knock at the door. Ethan and I looked at each other.

“They usually don’t start rioting this early,” I said.

“I was serious about the ‘solving’ bit, Sherlock,” he said, and walked to the door.

While Ethan chatted with the visitor, I climbed out of bed and gathered up clothes. After a moment, Ethan closed the door again.

“Who was it?”

“Helen,” he said. And when he stepped around the wall again, he looked confused.

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Charla Bryant is downstairs, and Helen says she’s inconsolable.”

I stood up straight. “Inconsolable? About what?”

“I don’t know. Apparently she waited outside on the portico until the sun went down, then started knocking until Margot opened the door. She’s waiting for us in my office. Perhaps you’ll want to get dressed.”

“On it,” I said, grabbing the pile of clothes and heading to the bathroom. “I apologize for the ensemble ahead of time,” I yelled from the bathroom. “My leathers are toast.”

When Ethan didn’t respond, I assumed he’d decided to deal with it.

—

Eight minutes later, I was in jeans, boots, a black shirt, and the black jacket from my official Cadogan House suit. It seemed likely I’d have to leave the House for some ornery errand or other, and while I’d put on the suit jacket to make a good show while I was still here, I wasn’t going to investigate crimes in a suit.

Only fifteen minutes had passed since dusk, and I already missed my leathers. They fit perfectly, and obviously had saved my skin in a number of battles.

But immortal, they weren’t.

After nabbing water from Margot’s dusk leavings—I decided against the blood until I learned precisely what Charla was crying about—we headed downstairs to Ethan’s office.

Charla stood in the middle of the room. Instead of her usual suit, she wore jeans, snow boots, a sweater, and a parka. Like so many of us over the last few days, she looked like she’d been crying.

“Your grandfather?” she asked, rushing toward us. “He’s all right?”

“He’s in the hospital, safely out of surgery, and beginning the recovery process,” Ethan said. “Are you all right?”

She shook her head and handed him a manila envelope. “The security tapes. I just watched earlier, and came over here as soon as I could. I waited outside.” She looked at us. “This is our fault.”

Ethan stilled, then gestured toward the couch. “Why don’t you sit down,” he said, “and we can talk this through. Could we get you some tea?”

She shook her head but walked over to the couch. Clearly troubled, she sat nervously on the edge of the seat, as if waiting for a bad verdict.

Ethan opened the envelope and pulled out a disk in its jewel case. While Ethan moved to the inset television on the opposite wall and futzed with the electronics, I took a seat by Charla.

“I could get you some water?”

She shook her head, tears gathering at her lashes again. “I’m fine. Let’s just—get through this.”

Ethan queued up the video, then moved aside so we could see the screen.

The video was in color and showed a clean, white facility that looked a lot like a kitchen. The tape moved haltingly, more like stuttering time-lapse photography than a video, but it was bright and clear, which made for a nice change. We didn’t usually get high-fidelity evidence.

“What’s this?” Ethan asked.

“The lab,” Charla said. “The room where Alan does his research and we test samples. This is the two days before the riot. When I was at the spa.”

A figure walked into the room. It was Alan Bryant, Charla’s brother. He walked to a counter and reached beneath it, feeling around for something. After a moment, he pulled out a brown envelope that had apparently been stashed there. Another man approached him.

Ethan cursed in Swedish, his native language, an affectation he usually saved for big developments . . . like the fact that Alan Bryant and John McKetrick were chatting in the middle of the Bryant Industries lab.

I guessed that explained why Alan had taken so long to get the tapes to us.

According to the time stamp, they talked for four minutes, at which time Alan handed the envelope to McKetrick. They argued for a moment, until McKetrick handed a smaller one to Alan.

Their business done, both men walked out of the room.

The tape went to black.

“Keep watching,” Charla said.

After a moment, another scene appeared. The lab was in the picture again, but the color had shifted, like the sun was at a different angle.

“When?” Ethan asked.

“Right before the riot.”

McKetrick walked into the lab and began opening cabinets. He flipped through folders and papers, tossed aside beakers and flats of test tubes, clearly looking for something.

But what?

Ethan answered my unspoken question. “He’s looking for the thing he and Alan were arguing about,” he mused, eyes glued to the screen.

And he found it. With a grin we could read even on a security video, McKetrick pulled a blue folder from an open drawer he’d rifled through. He tucked the folder beneath his arm, pulled out a silver lighter, lit a cigarette, took a puff, and tossed the cigarette into the pile of papers.

The fire started immediately.

“Oh my God,” I said. “McKetrick was covering his ass. He arranged the riot to cover up his attempt to burn down the lab.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Charla said.

Ethan looked back at Charla. “What was in the envelope? What did your brother give him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think I know what McKetrick gave him.” She cleared her throat nervously. “You may have learned in your research that our parents’ divorce was messy. They were ready to retire, so Alan and I got the business to share. Alan wasn’t thrilled about that. He wanted to buy me out, and I said no. His offer was ridiculously low, but that wasn’t the real issue. I’d worked at my parents’ business since I was sixteen; I wasn’t going to just give it up.

“He started pressing me again a few months ago. I said no again, but he kept pushing and his offer was still too low. He wants to make the business international,” she said. “Send the production overseas, rebrand, become the only global distributor of blood for vampires . . .” She trailed off and sat quietly for a moment. Ethan and I exchanged a glance but waited her out.

“After I watched the tape, I checked our accounts. There was an unscheduled deposit in our operating account two days ago.”

“How much?” Ethan asked.

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

I glanced at Ethan.
McKetrick paid Alan Bryant half a million dollars. For what?

That is the question,
he silently agreed. “Charla, you have no idea what he might have given McKetrick?”

She shook her head. “Alan is a talented researcher, but I have no idea what McKetrick would want from us. We’re trying to help vampires—to keep them fed and healthy. Those certainly aren’t McKetrick’s goals.”

“Is it possible he wanted to adulterate the blood somehow?” Ethan asked.

“To be frank, if Alan wanted to adulterate the blood, he could do it. He has the access.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, but information about the Houses, that he has.” She glanced between us. “All three Houses buy blood from us. We have their account numbers, delivery dates—do you think McKetrick wanted that?”

That was a frightening possibility, but it didn’t read for McKetrick, I thought. “McKetrick wouldn’t pay money for information he could easily get,” I said. “He’s part of the city admin. If he wanted information about the Houses, he could get a warrant, comb tax records. He’s got sources he wouldn’t have to pay for,” I said.

“I would tend to agree,” Ethan said.

I glanced at Ethan. “Alan knows blood. McKetrick wants to wipe us out. Maybe McKetrick thinks Alan’s got the information he needs to accomplish that with blood.”

“Oh my God,” Charla said, putting a hand over her mouth. “You think he’s going to use us—our business—to hurt you?”

Ethan frowned. “We don’t know enough right now. But it’s clear McKetrick wanted information that Alan had. Information he was willing to pay for.”

“Charla, why didn’t Alan wipe the tapes?” I wondered aloud. “He’s in charge of building security, right?”

“He thought he did,” Charla said. “Our hard drive was clean, as was the backup we stored on-site. But when Celina announced your existence, I retained a backup service to store copies of the videos off-line, just in case things deteriorated. It was nearly a year ago. He must have forgotten.”

She looked away for a moment, shaking her head ruefully. “He told me he watched the tapes, that there was nothing on them. That the inspection was just like normal, the same inspectors, the standard questions about packaging and quality control. He lied to my face about this. My own brother.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

Ethan shook his head. “There is nothing to feel guilty about, Charla. You didn’t create this problem, or this drama. You undertook to do something we don’t see others doing very often. Grieve for your family, for your brother. But know that you are the reason we will close this loop. Because you took the time to care.”

Ethan knew how to make a speech, and he knew how to motivate. And by the sudden change in Charla’s posture, he’d done the job effectively.

“That helps,” she said.

“I’m glad, but I didn’t say it to help. I meant it. Your family has provided for ours for decades, even when others would not. And now you’ve come to us with information you could have easily ignored. We need more people like you. Chicago would be better for it.”

Charla’s eyes welled again, but these were clearly the good kind of tears.

“Sorry,” she said, waving a hand. “I’m just really emotional today.”

“No apologies necessary,” Ethan said. “Merit has told me about cathartic tears.”

She looked at Ethan for a moment the way a person might inspect a beautiful, but confusing, piece of artwork. Then she burst out laughing.