We went, jogging back toward Grand and the tall man with blond hair who waited for us in front of a glossy black Range Rover with a license plate that read CADOGAN. He wore a trim black suit and a sleek black tie, hands clasped in front of him.
“Sire,” he said, bowing his head. Brody was a Cadogan House guard who’d been appointed Ethan’s official driver. Luc had outfitted Ethan with all the necessary perks, including the car, which was equipped with a complete security system, a small arsenal, and a comm center.
“Luc called,” Brody said, pivoting smoothly to open the door, one hand on his tie as he waited for Ethan and me to climb into the backseat. He closed the door with a solid thud, then rounded the car and slid inside onto the driver’s seat.
The car was comfortable, and I appreciated that Ethan had extra security, but I missed Moneypenny, my vintage Mercedes convertible. She was currently parked in the basement of Cadogan House, weeping from neglect. I missed the freedom, the quiet, the solitude of a good long drive—as most drives anywhere in Chicago tended to be.
Unless Brody was driving.
“May I?” he asked, meeting Ethan’s gaze in the rearview mirror, not doing a very good job of fighting back a smile. Brody had been a new guard, and he was still pink around the edges. But he did have one particularly enviable skill.
The boy could handle a car.
He was Chicago’s version of the Transporter—master of the smooth ride, but equally adept at weaving and dodging through Chicago’s gnarly traffic. Luc had given Brody a dressing-down the first time he’d ridden with him. But when the time came to assign Ethan a driver, he turned to Brody first.
“If you can get us there in one piece,” Ethan said, and managed not to flinch when Brody dashed into traffic like a cheetah in pursuit.
Brody just avoided nicking a cab, then slipped smoothly into a gap in the other lane.
I’m not sure when I’m going to get used to this, Ethan said silently, using the telepathic connection between us.
You’re just irritated you aren’t the one driving.
I have a Ferrari for just such occasions. And speaking of occasions, what was Mallory’s and Catcher’s production about? She’d looked upset.
I’m not sure, I admitted. But if it was really bad news, I don’t think she’d have arranged a picnic. There were plenty of milestones that might merit a picnic, but I wasn’t sure they’d put that look on her face.
I’ll call her, I promised, and ferret out the truth. But for now, let’s deal with vampires.
Chapter Two
DEAD SPIN
Fifteen minutes later, a miraculous amount of time for Chicago, Brody turned off Woodlawn, tires squealing as he veered toward the House, its white stone glowing beneath heavy moonlight.
Media vans clustered outside the tall iron fence that bounded the House’s large grounds, their antennas extended, reporters and cameramen on the sidewalk with equipment in hand.
The gate in the fence was closed—something I’d rarely seen—the black-clad human guards we hired out to protect the House staring down the reporters with open malice that made me appreciate them even more.
Our wealthy Hyde Park neighbors stood on their stoops or porches and stared grimly at the activity, probably already composing their letters to the editor—or to Ethan—protesting late-night vampiric shenanigans.
I sent Luc a message, advising him we’d reached our destination, as Brody pulled the car to a stop beside the nearest van.
Ethan was out of the car before we could stop him. As I followed him, scabbarded katana in hand, a red bus with VAMPIRE TOURS OF CHICAGO in white letters across the side rolled slowly down the street, tourists gawking out of windows, the driver’s narration ringing through the darkness.
“. . . Cadogan House, the city’s second-oldest House, behind Navarre. And, ladies and gentlemen, grab your cameras, because that’s Ethan Sullivan and Merit right there on the street!”
I waved politely for the camera flashes and shouts from tourists—no point in making things worse—but muttered a curse as soon as my back was turned. “Keep the bus moving,” I told Brody when he met me on the sidewalk. “Let’s not drag the tourists into whatever this is.”
Brody nodded, jogged toward the bus, and directed it down the street.
The reporters ignored the onlookers—they were too busy with Ethan. Like sharks in the water, they’d scented blood, begun to circle.
“Ethan! Ethan! Who is Balthasar? What’s he to you?”
“Is he in Chicago to cause trouble? Is Cadogan House in danger? Or Hyde Park?”
“Tell us about the reunion he has planned!”
Ethan, eyes silver with emotion, focused his dangerous gaze on the reporter closest to him. There was nothing kind in his expression, and very little that was human. “What did you say?”
I had to give the reporter credit. The smell of his fear soured the air, but he kept his knees locked and his eyes on Ethan, and didn’t step back even beneath Ethan’s withering glare. And what’s worse, he must have seen something in Ethan’s eyes, some hint of dismay that triggered his own instincts. His lips turned up in a hungry smile.
“Who is Balthasar?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why are you avoiding the question?”
Ethan took another step forward, magic rising in an invisible cloud behind him. Dread settled low in my belly, both at the fiasco someone had arranged, and Ethan’s potentially explosive reaction to it.
I positioned myself behind Ethan.
I caught sight of movement to my left, found Brody, Luc, and Lindsey (Luc’s girlfriend, one of the House’s guards, and my best House buddy) moving cautiously toward us.
“I am not avoiding the question,” Ethan said quietly, every word bathed in rage. “I’m wondering why so many members of the media have come to my home and are disrupting the neighborhood with inquiries about a vampire who’s been dead for centuries.”
“Dead?” the reporter asked, his gaze searching Ethan’s as if for weak spots. “That’s not the information we’ve received.”
Ethan’s lip curled, and I took a careful step forward, just in case I needed to haul him back.
“Balthasar is dead. Any information you received to the contrary is mistaken.”
All heads turned when a sleek black limousine raced up the street and pulled to a stop outside the House. While the reporters redirected their cameras, a liveried driver climbed out and opened the back door.