Biting Bad: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (7 page)

He nodded. “Before she can learn to use it consciously, she needs to learn to
have
it. To just
be
with it, even if it’s uncomfortable. Even if it feels wrong and ill-fitting.”

“It seems like she’s making progress. She said it was different for her this time. I think she was right.”

“Is it different,” he asked, “or is it exactly the same? She accessed the book because she was uncomfortable. Because she wanted to reunite good and evil. But isn’t that also exactly why she acted tonight?”

“The rule can’t be that she can’t use her magic if she’s motivated to use her magic. That’s completely illogical.”

Gabriel made a doubt-expressing sound. “Do you remember when Chicago burned?”

“Quite well,” I said. “I helped put out the fire. I’m not defending her actions. You let her use magic with the Tates. You know she can help. We can’t let her waste all that potential. What kind of life is that?”

Gabriel’s expression softened. “It’s a life where she doesn’t destroy anyone else, including herself. She knew, even while she was crossing the boundaries between good and evil, that what she was doing was wrong. She knew the same thing tonight—that she shouldn’t have used her magic to threaten a human you could have easily handled.”

“Then when can she use it on her own terms?”

“I don’t know. She has to be able to control herself before she can control the magic. That’s her journey, and it’s not gonna be a quick one. When she can use her magic and be at peace with it, she’ll be getting somewhere.”

I nodded and pushed around some chunks of unidentifiable vegetable—cauliflower, maybe?—with my spoon, my appetite gone again. Maybe Berna was right; magical stress didn’t do much for the appetite.

What food couldn’t fix, a certain boy could. I was ready to go back to the House, to go home to the familiar. I put down my spoon and pushed back the bowl. “I should probably get back. Can you tell Mallory I said good-bye? And thank Berna for the grub?”

“I can.”

I stood up, but paused before heading to the door. “I’m not entirely sure why you took her on. Or me, I guess, since I come with her. For whatever reason you’re doing it, in case she doesn’t say it, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Merit.”

I walked to the door, catching a glance of the parking spots outside. My Volvo, beaten and weathered . . . was gone. Had the missing window given a thief easy access? Or had a rioter followed me here and stolen her as a final punishment?

I looked back at Gabriel. “My car’s gone.”

He rose and walked toward me. “Yeah. I’m having someone look at it. See if it’s worth fixing.”

My Volvo was undeniably “worth” fixing, since it was my primary mode of transportation. Still . . . “You’re having someone look at it? Who?”

He smiled slyly. “I’ve got a guy.”

Okay, so he had a guy, and his guy was looking at my car. What was the appropriate response here? Shape-shifter car repair etiquette was definitely not covered in the
Canon
, the code of vampiric law.

“Your katana’s on the table there,” he said, gesturing to a booth by the door. I walked over and picked it up, wrapping the loose belt around the crimson scabbard.

“Thank you, I guess,” I said. But I still had to get back to Cadogan House. “Isn’t there an El stop on Damen? I think I can get to the Loop, then catch a bus to get back to Hyde Park?” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually ridden the El or worried about bus schedules. I was woefully out of touch.

“No need,” Gabe said. “I’ve got a loaner.”

“A loaner? Should I give you some money?” I asked, but Gabriel shook his head.

“It’s on the house, Kitten. I’m doing a favor for myself, really.”

My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How so?”

“I’ll get to hear about Ethan’s reaction when he sees you in that.”

He pointed at the window . . . and the curvy, silver roadster that now sat in the spot my Volvo had once filled, a shifter emerging from the driver’s side. It was small and loaded with chrome, and a Mercedes logo sat neatly between its round front lights.

“What is that?” I asked, just managing not to press my nose to the glass like an anxious puppy.

“That, Merit, is a 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300SL with a brand-new V8 and about 350 horsepower. It is the car Ethan would stake a vamp to drive, pardon the expression. And I’m going to let you borrow it.”

Ethan’s prized possession, a sleek, black Mercedes convertible, had been the victim of a supernatural attack by the former mayor of Chicago. He’d attempted to replace it with a series of vehicles: an Aston Martin, a Bentley, and currently, a black Ferrari FF coupe. He was still looking for the “right” car, and I had a feeling this particular gem would come pretty close.

Still, actively trying to rile up a vampire wasn’t exactly a shifter thing to do. “You want Ethan to be jealous of a car?”

“No,” he said, rocking Connor a bit as he stirred. “I just think you’ll enjoy his reaction. And I’ll enjoy hearing about it.”

Connor gurgled happily. Even he liked the idea of riling Ethan up.

“Where do you even keep a car like that?” I glanced back at the bar. “Surely there’s no garage here?”

Gabriel nodded at the shifter who walked into the bar and dropped the keys into Gabe’s palm. “We don’t sleep here. We have a compound outside the city. Grass. Trees. Space to roam.”

“Space to run?”

Gabriel nodded gravely. Apparently that was no small concern to a pack of wolves. “I like project cars,” he added. “It’s a weakness. It lets me kick back, enjoy a fine brew, and lose myself in the mousetrap of the engine.”

He offered the keys, but I glanced up at him, worry in my heart.

“Are you sure about this? That car must be insanely expensive, and it’s winter in Chicago. The streets are a mess with the salt and the snow—”

“Kitten, have you ever known me to do something accidentally?”

No, I guess I hadn’t. With his confirming nod, I curled my fingers around the key, itching to walk outside and run a finger along the car’s curves. The ride back to the House was going to be something.

Gabriel jerked his head down as Connor fisted his hands and began to screw up his face. I knew that expression. Trouble was coming, and Connor was going to be loud about it.

“And it’s dinnertime,” Gabriel concluded. “That means it’s time for us to get going. Drive carefully, Kitten? I don’t want to find out you’ve destroyed another Mercedes this year.”

I actually hadn’t destroyed the last one, but considering his generosity, I decided not to argue. Instead, keys in hand, I walked outside and climbed into the sexiest car I’d ever seen.

—

The Mercedes had the curves of a midcentury roadster, but it handled like a Grand Prix racer. A bare flick of the accelerator sent the car flying, and it hugged the curves like, to use the cliché, I was driving on a rail. The car was so responsive, it seemed to anticipate my moves before I made them. Hands clenched around the braided leather steering wheel, I felt like the heroine of a spy thriller, as if I were racing through Chicago on my way to a dead drop rather than returning home after a failed attempt at pizza, a riot, tongue stew, and my best friend’s trip to the supernatural principal’s office.

Maybe the damage to the Volvo had been a mixed blessing. It would get some much-needed TLC . . . and I had a roadster to drive.

M
ERITORIOUS

G
abriel trusted me with the car, but I wasn’t about to trust it to the residents of Chicago, not where parking was concerned. The risk of an errant snowplow, gravel truck, or ice-related fender bender was too high for my comfort, so I rolled up to the gated entrance to the House’s basement.

“Ma’am,” said the guard through the speaker, “you don’t have a basement parking pass.”

I might have been sleeping with the Master, but there were some prizes even that couldn’t win me.

“I know,” I said. “My car was damaged, and I’m driving a loaner from the NAC Pack. I don’t want to leave it on the street. If you can contact Ethan or Luc, I think they’ll make an exception for the night.”

The speaker went silent, and after a moment the gate rolled back and the basement door rolled up. I drove the Mercedes down the ramp and into the single visitor spot.

Ethan and Luc, curly haired and cowboyish, walked into the basement just as I got out of the car. Their curiosity must have been piqued by my request, and for good reason.

They took in the Mercedes, eyes glazing over in manly appreciation. I bit back a smile as Ethan fumbled for words.

“What—where—how did you?” he asked as he circled the car.

In his black suit, hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, Ethan looked like the double agent who might have ridden with me to the dead drop.

Gabe’s car was giving me illusions of grandeur. And spy fiction.

“Gabriel,” I said. “The Volvo was beat up, and he offered to have a friend take a look at it. This was his loaner.”

Slowly, Ethan looked back at me, eyebrow raised in shock. “He gave you
this
car as a loaner?”

I nodded and tried hard not to grin, and not altogether successfully.
He wanted to tweak you,
I thought. And he’d managed it very effectively.

“Is this the car?” Luc asked.

“This is the car,” Ethan said. He put his hands on his hips and completed his circle, green eyes poring over every detail, just as a man might peruse the curves of a beautiful woman.

“Wait,” I said. “
The
car? You know about this car?”

“We knew her once upon a time,” Luc said, walking closer. He reached out as if to caress her, but then pulled back, perhaps loathe to mar her finish with fingerprints.

Ethan glanced back at me. “Gabriel won this car in a game of poker from Sonny DiCaprio.”

I frowned. “I don’t know the name.”

“Sonny DiCaprio was what you might call a well-connected man,” Luc said. “He had a pretty nice establishment in Chicago in the eighties. Larceny with a side of protection racket. He also ran an illegal poker game downtown.”

“Gabriel wasn’t yet in charge of the Pack,” Ethan said, moving to stand beside me. “His father was, and he was friends with Lou Martinelli, Sonny’s arch enemy. Gabriel thought he’d show his old man a thing or two and arranged to join Sonny’s game one night. He was just about out—having lost a lot of money and some of his father’s territory—when he went all in on the final hand. He came away with a lot of money and Sonny DiCaprio’s 1957 Mercedes.”

“DiCaprio let him walk away with it?” I wondered aloud.

“They called DiCaprio the ‘Gentleman’s Mobster’ for a reason,” Luc said. “And that’s probably why he didn’t last much longer. He was taken out in a turf war a few months later.”

Whatever I thought I knew about Chicago—or its supernaturals—there was always more to the story. Of course, having seen Gabriel shuffle and deal, I wasn’t surprised to learn he was a cardsharp.

“That’s quite a history,” I said.

“Mm-hmm,” Ethan agreed. “Did he mention why he’s letting you drive this particular car?”

“Because we’re friends?”

Ethan made a sarcastic sound. “You may be. But that’s not why he’s letting you drive it.” He leaned forward and flicked a bit of dust from the clear coat. “He’s doing it to piss me off, because I’ve been trying to buy this car from him for ten years.”

Luc whistled. “That’s quite a burn.”

“Indeed,” Ethan said, glancing at me with a dubiously cocked brow. “But I’m sure Merit had no knowledge of that, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t,” I said. “Not of the specifics, anyway.”

Ethan gave the car one last, long look before gesturing toward the door. “Now that we’ve ogled, shall we get back to work?”

“Are you sure you can leave her here unattended?” I asked.

Ethan grinned. “I have no intention of leaving her here unattended . . . or letting her leave this House again.”

“Let the battle begin,” Luc said, clapping Ethan on the back, both of them clearly thrilled to have a different kind of battle to wage.

Boys and their toys,
I thought, and followed them back into the House. But before we got to the Ops Room, Ethan stopped me in the hallway, a hand on my wrist. I glanced back at him.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

I smiled up at him, and at the sweet concern in his expression. “I’m fine. Mallory, I’m less sure about, but I’m good. They didn’t get that close.”

Unless you considered “close” to be two supernaturals surrounded by humans with chips on their shoulders and weapons in hand. In which case it was significantly closer. But that would only worry him.

Ethan didn’t seem to buy the lie, but he nodded anyway and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Good. I was worried.”

“It’s your job to be worried,” I said lightly, squeezing his hand. “That’s why we pay you the big bucks. Which you are apparently going to hand over to the NAC in order to keep that car in the garage.”

“Never fear, Sentinel. I will still be able to keep you in bacon.”

“Damn right,” I said. “You know your priorities.”

Ethan rolled his eyes and slapped me on the butt.

—

The Ops Room, along with the training room and weapons storage, was located in the House’s basement. Luc already sat at the end of the room’s giant conference table, his booted feet propped up and a mug of coffee in hand.

The room’s border was marked by vampires working at computer stations, mostly temps he’d hired to fill out the staff after our ranks thinned—and the first round of interviews produced really crappy candidates.

The official guards—Kelley, Lindsey, Juliet—were assembled around the table. Together, they looked like models from a beauty ad: Kelley had thick, dark hair and exotically slanted eyes; Lindsey was blond and wore a stylish ruffled coat; Juliet, a redhead, was delicate and dreamy.

Ethan and I took seats beside them.

“We’ve got the Ombud’s office on the phone,” Luc said. “Ombuddies—saddle up.”

“It’s Chuck and Jeff,” my grandfather said. “Catcher is seeing to Mallory.”

He must have gone to Little Red to check in on her.

“Hi, Grandpa,” I offered.

“You’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Things got a little heavy, but Mallory and I were both fine.” At least until I left her with the shifters. I didn’t think Gabriel would do her any harm, but given the closed-door conversation, I also wasn’t privy to everything between them.

“And just when we thought it was safe to go back in the water,” Lindsey said.

“As safe as it ever is, anyway,” Luc said. He leaned over to tap a tablet in front of him and pop images up on the overhead screen. Pictures of the rioters with weapons aloft competed with the charred remains of a building.

“Forty-seven rioters,” Luc said. “The Bryant Industries building sustained damage to sixteen percent of its square footage, including damage to its electrical and HVAC systems. They’ve got backups for the utilities, but the physical repairs are expected to take a few weeks.”

“I’ve spoken with Detective Jacobs,” my grandfather said. Arthur Jacobs was a well-respected CPD detective, and one of the few city officials who didn’t have a vendetta against us.

“They’ve arrested twenty-three rioters, but no one’s talking. They all asked for lawyers.”

Luc looked at me. “Do you want to press charges for the damage to your car?”

“There was damage to your car?” my grandfather asked. I guess he hadn’t gotten all the details from Catcher.

“Relatively minor. Gabriel’s got a guy, and he offered to arrange for the repairs when I dropped Mallory off. And I definitely don’t want to press charges. That would make Cadogan House a specific target. There’s no need to make it personal. The rioters were chanting ‘Clean Chicago,’ and they made it pretty clear they believe we’re the thing that needs cleaning.”

“As if there’s anything clean about hatred,” Lindsey said. “But that gives us a place to begin the mocking. What rhymes with clean? Jean? Green? Scene? Bean?”

“‘Mean Chicago’ works intellectually,” Jeff said. “But it’s not that snappy.”

“Nope,” Lindsey agreed. “And we need something snappy to put the little shits in their places.” She chortled. “Can you imagine how pissed they’d be if they knew vampires were sitting around mocking them?”

“Very pissed, I imagine,” I said.

“And this conversation is no longer productive,” Luc ruled. “Moving on.”

“They went very violent very quickly,” Ethan said. “I find it unusual we hadn’t heard anything about this Clean Chicago group before today.”

“Have we seen anything on the Web?” I asked, looking around at the vampires at the table.

“Not that we’ve found so far,” Kelley said. “If they’ve got a Web presence, it’s pretty well hidden.”

“Point of order,” Jeff said. “There’s no such thing as ‘well hidden’ on the Web. If you put something on the Web, it’s out there and it’s available. ‘Hidden’ is just an issue of skill.”

“We’re all aware of your particular prowess, Mr. Christopher,” Ethan said with a smirk.

“Damn right,” Jeff said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Anyway, I looked, too, and I didn’t find anything else. Which says to me they’re new, or they’re insular. They stay off the Web and keep to themselves.”

“Staying private isn’t necessarily unusual for hate groups,” Luc said. “It depends on how unpopular they think their hatred will be. But there’s usually some effort made to get new members and spread the word. Remember that organization in Alabama a few months ago?”

Lindsey nodded. “We’ve seen hatred and protestors before. But Molotov cocktails? That steps it up a bit.”

“Molotovs are a hell-raiser’s best friend,” Luc said. “Not that I have any experience with anything like that.”

“Chicago ’twenty-four?” Ethan asked dryly.

“That was a long time ago,” Luc said, “if I was to admit I did anything in 1924, which I am not so admitting.”

“They planned ahead enough to pick a vamp-related target and assemble bombs,” I said.

“Maybe it wasn’t just the vampire connection,” Juliet said. Her hair was down today, waving softly across her shoulders, and she pushed it behind her ears with her fingertips. “Maybe there was something in the Bryant Industries building? Or some personal animosity against the owners?”

Lindsey nodded. “Maybe they’ve got enemies. Someone who wanted to put a little hurt on.”

“Actually, I’ve got something,” Jeff said. “We got an employee list from Bryant Industries.”

“That was fast,” I remarked.

“They were very cooperative,” Jeff said. “I’ve got a hit on one of the women who works there. Does the name Robin Pope ring a bell?”

We all looked around the room, but no one offered anything.

“Not to us, Jeff,” Luc said. “Who is she?”

“Former employee. She filed a grievance against the company a few months ago for”—he paused, and we could hear the clicking of keys—“the violation of her rights as a whistle-blower.”

“That’s interesting,” Luc said. “What did they think she was tattling about?”

“Looking . . . looking . . . Okay, so her complaint says she believed the company was illegally assisting supernaturals.”

Luc pursed his lips. “That’s not a bad lead. She thinks supernaturals have it too good at Bryant Industries, maybe she’s willing to put her money where her mouth is with a Molotov cocktail or baseball bat.”

“Agreed,” Ethan put in.

“Was she arrested with the rioters?” I asked.

“She’s not on the list,” Jeff said. “I’m running her pic against the videos and photos of the riots on the Web. That will take a little time.”

“Even if she wasn’t there, she could have a hand in it,” my grandfather said. “Could be she’s an officer, not a soldier.”

“We should talk to her,” Lindsey said. “We should also pay a visit to Bryant Industries.”

“Good thoughts,” Luc said, then looked at me. “Merit, you’re the roaming guard. Assuming our liege here approves, those sound like assignments for you.”

They also sounded like chances to drive the car I’d decided to name “Moneypenny” because it was James Bond–level cool.

I glanced at Ethan. He checked his watch. “We’re an hour before sunrise. First thing tomorrow night, check out the facility and see what you can find out. If nothing else, we can improve relations with our suppliers.” He smiled. “I’ll give you a raise if you can get a discount for the House.”

“One problem at a time,” I said. “Jeff, would you or Catcher be up for a ride-along tomorrow night?”

“Quite possibly,” Jeff said. “Let me check my sched and float the idea to Catcher, and I’ll let you know.”