Biting Bad

MERITORIOUS



Gabriel 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."



"Appreciate it."



"Jeff, Mr. Merit," Ethan said, "I think we're done with you for the moment. Thank you for the information, and let us know if you need anything else."



"Roger that," Jeff said, and the phone clicked off.



Ethan looked at Luc. "If they start with Molotov cocktails, they probably won't stop any time soon. This is now our war room. Get as much information and background as you can on the rioters. Maybe we can tease from their backgrounds information about where they're organized. It would not sadden me to identify a principal location we can report to Homeland Security as a hotbed of domestic terrorism."



Luc leaned back in his chair, obviously pleased. "That's a mean little idea, hoss, but I like it." He grinned wickedly at me. "Keep doing whatever you're doing."



"Lucas," Lindsey said, elbowing him in the ribs while the rest of the Ops Room twittered in amusement and my face turned crimson. "Inside voice."



Our business is our business, Ethan silently told me, activating the telepathic link between us, but he's not wrong. Keep doing it.



I was torn between melting from the heat of his words and crawling under the table in embarrassment. Fortunately, Ethan took the stage - and the attention off me.



"In the event this is not the first of the riots, talk to Margot," he told Luc. "Have her ensure our emergency food supply is stocked. Check the tunnels. Ensure access is available if we need it."



Margot was the House chef. Evacuation tunnels ran beneath the House to provide an exit in the event of an emergency.



"You got it," Luc said.



"What's the city's position on the riots?" Ethan asked.



"How pissed off do you want to be?" Luc asked.



Ethan's lip curled, and he sent out a burst of irritated magic. "What are my options?"



"Well, we can show you the video of the mayor's press conference, or McKetrick's."



Ethan's angry expression only stiffened further. John McKetrick was a particular sore spot.



We'd been assembling information about him on a whiteboard on the other side of the Ops Room. The most compelling item on the board was his picture. He'd had a military look about him, and a background, we'd learned, in military special ops. Square jaw, dark hair, piercing eyes. But he'd been horribly scarred when a weapon he'd tried to use against me backfired, leaving tracks and craters in his skin and costing him an eye. He was angry and bitter, and he blamed those emotions - and his injuries - on me.



So far, our research hadn't produced much. We knew he was employed by the city of Chicago as head of the Office of Human Liaisons. We suspected he had a secret facility, but we hadn't found anything yet. As far as the city and county were concerned, his home in Lincoln Park was the only property he owned.



"McKetrick," Ethan decided, and Luc hit Play.



McKetrick's shocking visage filled the screen, a flag waving in the breeze behind him. He wore a suit and sat behind a desk like a politician, hands linked on the desktop.



"Good evening," he said, voice carefully modulated. "A tragedy has befallen our city, violence caused by the very thing that tonight's demonstration railed against - the destruction of the American way of life by supernaturals who do not care for our culture, our traditions, our values. We cannot condone the violence that has marred a neighborhood tonight. But we can fight back against the supernaturals' attempt to undermine our country. I am here for you. That's a promise, and I'll be making good on it. Beginning tomorrow, I'll be embarking on a series of town hall meetings across Chicago to get your thoughts on how we can make it the country's First City."



"The Star-Spangled Banner" began to play in the background. Luc paused the video, and McKetrick stared back at the camera, frozen in time.



"The supernatural threat is my boot up his ass," Lindsey muttered.



"He deserves it," Luc said. "That entire speech is nothing but a call to arms. He's going to incite another riot."



"He's blaming the rioters for the violence," I said, "all the while telling them the violence was worth it because we're a real and present threat."



"And hosting town hall meetings is only going to exacerbate things," Ethan said.



I squinted at the paused image of McKetrick, staring into his gaze as if I could find and eradicate the anti-vampire sentiment that had rooted in his brain. If his words were honest, he was truly afraid we were ruining things. Destroying things.



Frankly, there were bad seeds out there. Michael Donovan hadn't been a walk in the park, nor were half the members of the GP. But humans weren't immune to committing heinous acts, either; the riot was a perfect example of that.



So what drove McKetrick? What drove a human - strong, politically powerful, clearly well connected - to hate us so uniformly?



"There must be something to this," I said. My gaze was still on the screen, but I could feel the guards' eyes on me.



"What something?" Luc asked.



I looked over at him. "I'm not sure." I pointed at the screen. "But look at his expression, his gaze. He wasn't just reading words off a teleprompter. He was speaking from the heart. He doesn't just hate us," I concluded. "He hates us for a reason."



"We've checked his background," Luc said. "There's nothing out of the ordinary. No run-ins with the law, no obvious tragedies, no sudden disappearances."



"Exactly," I said. "We think he was in the military until he suddenly wasn't anymore, and there's nothing even mildly notable in his history after that. So maybe the tragedy happened while he was in the military."



Lindsey cocked her head. "You think he had a bad vampire experience while he was serving?"



"I don't know. But I think it's worth investigating."



"It might be," Luc said. "But we only confirmed his military background at all because Chuck called in a favor. That's probably all we're likely to get."



All we were likely to get aboveboard? Maybe. But Jeff always had a few computer tricks up his sleeve. I sent him a quick message and asked him about it.



"What about the mayor's press conference?" Ethan asked.



"It's largely the same," Luc said, flipping the screen over to a photograph of Mayor Diane Kowalcyzk with a Photoshopped Godzilla, werewolf, and cartoonish Dracula behind her.



"I see it was a well-attended event," Ethan said with the smallest of grins. Because if you couldn't find the humor in the drama, you only had the drama.



"According to Diane," Luc said, "the end of the world is coming, and we are the harbingers of all that evil. Not in so many words, of course, because that would cause public panic, leading to violence and riots against vampires." His voice was bone-dry. "And, to put a cherry on it, she doubts the riot was actually perpetrated by humans because they hate vampires, and suspects this was gang activity or an isolated incident."



"The woman is na?ve beyond all measure," Ethan said. "And we are a political minority without an advocate."



"It may be time to discuss lobbyists and our friends in Washington," Luc said.



Ethan nodded. "Let's put that on the agenda." He put his hands flat on the tabletop. "I think that's it for now, unless anyone has anything else?"



Luc shook his head. "I'd like a hot shower and a bowl of predawn soup, but that's not really in your wheelhouse."



"No," Ethan said, rising from his chair. "Nor my jurisdiction."



My phone rang, displaying a number I didn't recognize. Curious, I stepped away from the table and accepted the call.



"Hello?"



"Merit, it's Jonah. Sorry - this is the first chance I've had to call you."



"Hey, I tried to text you earlier, but it didn't go through. Are you all right? I assume you heard about the riot. Did you get a new phone?"



"I didn't, actually," he said, a strange hitch in his voice. "I'm using a burn phone. That's why I'm calling you." He paused, which made my stomach knot with foreboding.



"You might want to give Ethan a heads-up - the GP has blacklisted Cadogan House."