by Хлоя Нейл
I lifted my eyebrows. “And what agreement do you intend on forming?”
“I want a kiss. One kiss,” he added, before I could question him, “and I’ll keep the declarations to myself. One kiss, and then I’ll cease all flirting, as you call it, unless and until you come to me with your own declarations.”
I slid him a glance to check his expression.
Reverse psychology wasn’t beyond him, and the deal didn’t make much sense otherwise. I wouldn’t deny the attraction between us, but I felt pretty confident I could manage not to make sexual overtures to my boss.
“One kiss?” I reiterated.
“One kiss.”
“Deal,” I said. Hoping to jump the gun, I closed my eyes and offered puckered lips. Ethan chuckled, but ignored me long enough that I opened one eye.
“Don’t think you’re going to get by that easily.” The hand on my neck slid down, his thumb resting in the hollow at the base of my neck, the rest of his fingers splayed across my collarbone. His eerily green eyes stayed trained on mine, at least until his tangled lashes dropped and he moved in.
But he didn’t kiss me.
His mouth hovered just beyond mine, out of reach only so long as I refused to make that plunge forward—and he refused to execute the bargain.
“You’re cheating,” I murmured. I was torn about whether I was glad of it or not. I was afraid that if his lips touched mine, I’d lose the will to resist, and I was afraid that if I gave in, I’d lose my heart again.
Ethan shook his head. “I said one kiss, and I meant it. One kiss, my terms, to be claimed when the time is right.”
Suddenly, he shifted his mouth to my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. I shuddered at the spark that trilled down my spine, my eyes rolling back at the ridiculous pleasure of it.
“This isn’t a kiss,” he whispered, his lips at my ear.
“Nor is it in the spirit of the bargain.”
“Let’s not focus on the formalities, Merit.”
And then his lips were back again, hovering against my jaw, teasing me with the possibility of what he might do.
With the anticipation of it.
I fought back the urge to step forward, to push my lips against his to be done with it. To push my lips against his because he’d incited me to it.
“I’ll have you in my bed again, Sentinel. And at my side. That is a promise.”
“You mean to tease me into a seduction?”
“Is it working?”
My answer was less a word than a frustrated grumble. I was self-aware enough to know that the only thing I enjoyed more than getting what I wanted was not getting what I wanted. In my experience, wanting was often more fun than having.
On the other hand, this was a game that could easily be played by two.
I lifted a hand and pushed a lock of hair behind his ear, then traced the line of his eyebrow and jaw with a fingertip, my gaze drinking in each part of his face, from perfect cheekbones to long lips.
This time, he froze.
Flushed with feminine power, I traced the line of his neck, then curled a fist into the top of his shirt and tugged him forward.
His eyes widened; I bit back a smile.
This time, I tortured him, skimming my lips along the line of his jaw, and then to his ear. I bit him delicately, just enough to hear his heavy sigh. I wasn’t sure if I meant it, if I was torturing him because I thought he deserved to be teased just like he’d teased me, or if I wanted the joy of doing it on my own.
My heart pounded, the rhythm sped by fear and trepidation and simple desire.
“Do you like being teased?” I whispered.
“I enjoy previews,” he said, the words confident, but his voice rough with arousal.
I took the gravelly edge to his voice as my cue.
I wanted to tease him, not push us both past the point of no return. I put my hand flat against Ethan’s chest and pushed him backward. He rose unsteadily to his feet, looking down with me with frustration in his eyes.
A taste of his own medicine, I thought . To be so close to something you wanted . . . and yet so far away.
I stood up and walked around my chair and toward the door, then blew out a breath and straightened my ponytail.
“That’s it?”
My heart was beating like a timpani drum, the blood rushing through my veins faster than it should have. “One kiss, you told me. You had your chance to take it.”
Ethan wet his lips, straightened his collar, and moved back to his desk. He sat down in his chair, then looked up at me, something soft in his eyes.
“One kiss,” he promised. “And after that, the next time we touch, it will be because you ask me.”
I wasn’t naïve enough to tell him I wouldn’t ask, to deny that I’d ever seek him out again. I knew better; we both knew better.
“I’m afraid,” I finally confessed.
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “I know, and it kills me that I put that fear into your eyes.”
We were both silent for a moment.
“Next steps?” I asked, turning him back to business once again.
“A stiff drink?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then something occurred to me. I thought about what Sarah had said, and then gestured toward his shiny new furniture. “You know, a stiff drink may not be such a bad idea.”
“Have I finally driven you to alcohol, Sentinel?”
I grinned back at him, a sparkle in my eyes.
“We’re nearing the end of the construction.
Maybe I should round up some Novitiates for a drink at Temple Bar.”
His eyes widened appreciatively. “Offering an opportunity to casually investigate whether someone is using my bar to recruit human victims. Good thought, Sentinel.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sullivan. I’m just talking about a few drinks with my girlfriends.”
We sat quietly for a moment, the new deal between us solidifying. I was Ethan’s eyes and ears, his tool to solve the problem Tate had presented. But in order to keep him safe, he couldn’t have any more information than necessary. I wasn’t crazy about taking on the GP, and I hadn’t had much experience playing Sentinel without Ethan at my side, but I did like the idea of playing Sentinel without constantly fighting the chemistry between me and Ethan and the danger that brought with it.
He glanced down at his watch. “In case you’re vaguely curious, Darius will undoubtedly be back for additional threats, but he’ll eventually retire to the Trump. Some combination of jet and vampire lag. If you were to head to the bar at, let’s say, three o’clock, you’d probably miss him entirely.”
“How unfortunate.” The deal struck, I headed for the door. “I’ll keep you posted on any pertinent drink specials.”
“Sentinel?”
I glanced back.
“Next time you’re feeling chatty, don’t forget to check the room first.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PARTY GIRLS
It wasn’t healthy, I could admit. I knew sponge cake and marshmallow cream weren’t the cure for physical frustration, that a long run through Hyde Park or a training session with Luc would have cured me better than calories might have.
But that didn’t make my fourth Mallocake—a processed and hydrogenated log of chocolate sponge cake filled with marshmallow cream so sugary it left your teeth gritty—any less delicious than the third had been.
Mallory had discovered Mallocakes one night at a convenience store in Bucktown. There were only a few stores in Chicago that sold them, which made her burgeoning love for the things —sparked in part because of the similarities in their names—that much more inconvenient.
Mallocakes were made by a mom-and-pop bakery in Indiana that shipped them out only once a month, which made them harder to find.
But pain in the rear that they were to acquire, I couldn’t fault her taste.
They were ridiculously good.
The chocolate sponge cak
e was just the right balance of tangy chocolate and not-too-sweet cake, which matched up perfectly against a cream filling that reeked of sugar. There were a few hundred calories in a single dose, and each box boasted half a dozen cellophane-wrapped cakes. They were a self-pity sesh just waiting to happen.
On the other hand, I was a vampire. They couldn’t hurt me. Whatever criticisms you might level against Ethan for making me a vampire, I had a crazy-fast metabolism and no obvious means of weight gain.
A smarter vampire might have tried blood, satiated the need with a bag or two of type O or AB. But Mallocakes were so very human. And sometimes a girl needed to stay in touch with her humanity. Sometimes a girl needed breakfast that didn’t involve flax or wheatgrass or organic free-range cruelty-free whole grains. Besides, we were the only beings alive who could eat processed sugar and carbs with impunity—why not go for it, right?
Mallocakes, it was.
Really, it was a celebration prompted by the fact that the day’s paper didn’t reveal word one about last night’s rave. Things may not have gone smoothly in the House when I’d returned, but a quiet press was still a victory we needed.
And so, one small victory and two thousand calories later, I stuffed empty cellophane wrappers into the trash and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I’d had my snack, so it was time to get back to work.
Jeff answered before the first ring was complete. “Merit!”
“Talk to me, Jeff. Any news on that phone number?”
“Not a damn thing. It was assigned to a disposable phone, and the account has no other outgoing messages or calls. Just the one text. And I didn’t find any record of purchase in my merchant-data file for the minutes or the phone itself, so it was probably cash on both those transactions.”
“Hmm. That’s a bummer. And for the record, I’m very disturbed you’ve got merchant-data records.”
“It’s only mildly illegal. Hey, you want me to make you disappear from the financial system? I can do that. Even the Fed couldn’t find you.
They are such noobs over there.”
There was too much enthusiasm in his voice for my comfort. I was the granddaughter of a cop, after all. On the other hand, Jeff worked for that cop.
“No, thanks. And if you’re committing felonies, let’s make sure it’s for the good of the city.”
“You’re no fun,” Jeff complained.
“Aw, that’s not true. I’m plenty fun.”
“Vamps are really only like ten percent fun at any given time. The other ninety percent is largely fretting. And bloodletting.”
“You’ve been spending way too much time with Mr. Bell. Hey, while I’ve got you on the phone, can I talk to him? I’ve got a question.”
“Absotively,” he said, and then I heard his request. “Catch, the grandkid’s on the phone.”
I heard shuffling, which I imagined was the sound of Jeff carrying his phone to Catcher. That gave me time to adjust to the fact that I’d been deemed “the grandkid.” So much for my vampire suaveness.
“Yo gabba gabba,” Catcher said. “What’s up?”
“Drugs.”
“We’re in the third-biggest city in the country.
You’re going to need to be more specific.”
I picked up the envelope and looked it over.
“White tablets. Dose is maybe two at a time, and they’re delivered in a little white envelope.
There’s a V on the pill and also on the outside of the package.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I’ll have to check the database, but it doesn’t sound familiar. Why do you ask?”
I gave him the rundown, substituting Noah’s name for Jonah’s again, and hating that the lies were beginning to layer on top of one another.
Pretty soon I was going to need an app just to keep everything straight.
“Is there a chance humans were being doped with it?” I wondered aloud. “To make them more susceptible to glamour?”
“So they’d be more willing to give blood at a party? That doesn’t ring for me.” I imagined him leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, ready to dish out some wisdom. “Kind of a lot of trouble to do something glamour would do anyway. I mean, that is the point of glamour, after all.”
“True.”
“And besides, I don’t want to blame the victim here, but if they’re showing up at a vamp party, they probably have some idea that bloodletting’s going to happen. That doesn’t mean they’re consenting to it happening to them—playing pro-vamp at a party isn’t the same thing as sitting down and offering up a vein—but the point is they may not need a double dose of convincing.
You know about the wristbands?”
“The red ones? Yeah, I saw them. There were a few there.”
“Then it doesn’t sound like the vamps needed to convince anyone. And, frankly, humans sitting down and presenting a vein doesn’t exactly offer much challenge. I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing testosterone-laced vamps would even enjoy.”
“This one doesn’t,” I confirmed. “There was a lot of magic floating around. Any chance the magic was external? Not vampire, I mean?”
His voice went flat. “You’re asking if a sorcerer would knock out a human so a vampire could go at her? Even if there were Order schlubs in Chicago other than Mallory and her tutor, which there aren’t, no. There’s no way a sorcerer would do that.”
“What about aggression? Would a sorcerer be interested in making vamps more aggressive, giving them a hair-trigger temper, that kind of thing?”
“I hate to dash your dreams, Merit, but your testosterone levels aren’t really of interest to the Order.”
So much for Jonah’s sorcerer idea, not that I’d been a big fan of it anyway. “Then I’m flummoxed. I was hoping you’d have insights.”
“I always have insights. You said there were violence, glamour, and drugs, right?”
“It was Ghouls Gone Wild in there. The biters had fangs out, and I saw a lot of really silvered eyes. Not the usual irises-turned-silver bit. There was enough magic, enough glamour, enough blood floating around, that their pupils were narrowed down to nothing.” I nearly outed Jonah, and had to remind myself to use his cover—“Noah created a distraction with some blood, and the vamps went batshit crazy.”
“It’s blood. You’re vampires. Batshit crazy is pretty basic math.”
“Not just First Hunger bloodlust. More, I don’t know, angry?” I thought about what Ethan had said. “It was like the whole event wasn’t about sensuality; it was about fighting. Aggression.
Adrenaline. We’re not talking a few vamps drinking in some hole-in-the-wall hiding place.
We’re talking a big party with a lot of magic, a lot of glamour, a lot of susceptible humans, and a lot of very angry vampires ready for a fight.”
Catcher sighed. “I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news, but maybe that’s just a side effect of the popularity. Maybe that’s just how vamps are partying these days.”
“If so, they’re doing the recruiting at Temple Bar. And the phone that received the text was found at Benson’s.”
I heard the creak of his chair.
“They’re recruiting at House bars?” he asked.
“From what we’ve heard. Word is, the recruits at Temple were a short guy and a woman. We think her name was Marie. Did I ever tell you Celina’s given name? Marie Collette Navarre,” I said, without waiting for his answer.
“Now, that is interesting. It’s shitty evidence, but it’s interesting.”
“I live to infotain.”
“I don’t suppose you have plans to head to Temple Bar and investigate?”
“I’m leaving within the hour.”
“Good girl. In the meantime, I’ll talk to our vamp source and see if I can find out anything about the recruiters. Besides, I owe you a favor.”
“You do?”
“I do.” He cleared his throat a little nervously.
“Mallory and I talked last night.”<
br />
“Is she okay?”
“She’s not her best. But she’s feeling a lot better after a little conscience clearing. You did good by her, Merit, and I appreciate it. A lot. I talked her down,” he assured me. “The rest will come with time.”
My eyes welled a little at the corners.
“Thanks, Chief. I was worried. I love her, too, you know. Just not in the grotesquely physical way that you do.”
“The sex is phenomenal.”
I made a faux gagging sound. “Spare me the details and call me if you learn anything.”
“On it,” he said, and the line went dead.
I hung up the phone and stared at the receiver for a minute, not quite ready to make the next connection in tonight’s callathon.
Ethan might not have bought my argument, but I still suspected Celina had some part in this: at a minimum, hiring vamps—or perhaps a short guy—to do her dirty work. It was too much of a coincidence that “Marie” was running around inciting vamps to treat humans like disposable convenience food.
I made myself a promise—whatever it took, she was mine. She’d caused me trouble, she’d caused Ethan trouble, and she was lining up trouble for the House and the city. Even if I had to hide it from Ethan and the GP, I was going to bring her down.
Of course, I still needed evidence. I could admit the use of an old alias wasn’t exactly strong support for my theory. And if I wanted to confirm whether she’d been involved, who had the best access to Celina?
Morgan Greer. Newish Master of Navarre House, former (brief) boyfriend, and former Celina booster. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the call. But he’d been Celina’s Second, and that made him my best source for info about her current whereabouts. I couldn’t trust he’d voluntarily call up Scott and Ethan and offer them information.
I punched in Morgan’s number—which was still in my phone just waiting for a drunk dial—and hung on for the ring.
“Greer,” he threw out. There was something pretentious about his answering with his last name. He’d gained it back when he became Master of Navarre House; apparently he wanted to remind callers about that change in position.