Blood Games

“With Mallory, hopefully tomorrow.” I leaned forward. “Did you talk to Ethan about his”—I noted the interested expressions in a few of the temps at computer stations around the room and lowered my voice—“his troubles?”



Luc’s expression flattened. “Ethan didn’t talk to you about them?”



“No. He’s decided shutting me out is a good strategy.”



Luc whistled. “All due respect to my Liege and Master, I seriously hope you blistered his hide.”



“I’m not sure really sure what that means, but I did give him a very pointed piece of my mind.”



“Good for you.”



“What happened, exactly?”



Luc frowned, clearly torn by his loyalty to his Master—and his likely promise to keep his Master’s word. “All I know is, he got a phone call. And he wasn’t thrilled about it.”



That would be “her.” “He didn’t say who called?”



Luc shook his head. “A few fierce and quietly spoken words.”



“That’s no good,” I said.



“Maybe. But it got you in a leotard again,” Luc said, winging up his brows suggestively. “He’ll come around.”



I hoped Luc was right. I hoped Ethan would come around, share with me whatever he was afraid to share.



And I hoped, when he did, it was something I could handle.



* * *



When I returned to the apartments, I found a small tray of snacks and a short vase of creamy white peonies. They put a heady floral scent in the air. Margot’s doing, undoubtedly.



Ethan stood in front of his bureau, placing watch and accoutrements into a leather valet. He watched me come in but didn’t speak. I took a quick shower, exchanged workout clothes for a tank and pajama bottoms. Brushed my teeth. Generally took my time.



When I emerged, Ethan stood beside the bed in shirtsleeves. He looked at me, eyes almost painfully green. But he didn’t move forward. He let the bed stand between us, a physical symbol of his unspecified “regrets.”



“I saw you dance.”



I sat down on the bed. “I wasn’t dancing for you.”



“No,” he said. “I suppose you weren’t. I expect you were dancing in opposition to me.”



“That sounds closer.”



His frustration was nearly palpable, his magic irritable. “I do what I do to protect you. That I trained you to fight, to bear a sword, to act with honor, doesn’t negate the fact that I would give my life for you, Merit.”



My heart softened, and I ached for him. My chest hurt with it; my stomach was raw with it. “Not telling me about your past doesn’t protect me. It doesn’t shield me from anything but the truth of who you are.”



Silence. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, his voice growing thicker, his words slower. “But the past is immutable. Only the future can be written.”



The shutters closed over the windows, and the sun rose again, as it always did. And we fell into slumber beside each other with nothing else resolved.



Chapter Thirteen



EAT YOUR HEART OUT



Ethan was gone when I rose, the remains of breakfast on the tray Margot usually left by the door at sunset. An empty bottle of blood, crumbs from a croissant. He’d left me a second bottle and pastry, and a trio of lusciously red strawberries that made me glad spring was on its way.



I sat down at the small desk in the sitting area, glanced at the folded Tribune that sat beside the tray. Samantha Ingram’s murder was the main story, and the headline was telling: WOULD-BE VAMP KILLED—SUPERNATURALS AT FAULT?



On the other hand, reading through the story, it looked like the reporter hadn’t yet made the connection between the sword and pentacle murders. Not that several cops, an Ombudsman, two vamps, a sorcerer, and a shifter had made the connection, either. It took a sorceress with a love of all things weird and witchy.



When I felt prepared to face the night, I checked my phone, found messages waiting.



Mallory had worked her particular magic. YOU’RE LUCKY, she’d said. THE MAGIC SHOPPE HAS OVERNIGHT INVENTORY TONIGHT; THEY’LL BE EXPECTING US.



I arranged to meet her in an hour, traffic depending, at her Wicker Park home.



My grandfather had also sent a message: There was, unfortunately, still no sign of Mitzy Burrows. But they had confirmed—and quickly this time—that Samantha Ingram had been given Rohypnol, just like Brett.



Both victims had been drugged, killed, laid out in very public spaces, their bodies arranged like scenes in a very particular type of tarot card. Both had been marked with small blue crosses. Those were particular, unusual, and supernatural elements. But why? Because the killer loved magic? Or hated it? Or did the killer not care either way, but wanted to take out a handful of people, and found the city’s supernaturals very convenient scapegoats?



Unfortunately, I didn’t have the answers. I did have a sword and a fast car, and no specific interest in talking to Ethan yet tonight. So I sent him and Luc a message, advised them of my travel plans, and grabbed my jacket and sword.



* * *



I headed north toward Wicker Park. Mallory and Catcher lived in the town house I’d once shared with her, a home she’d inherited when her only living relative, an aunt, had passed away. It still held her aunt’s flowery and comfy furniture, although Catcher had upgraded the audio equipment, and Catcher had transformed the musty and spider-laden basement into a spell-crafting room worthy of Martha Stewart.



I took the opportunity to call Jonah and check in.



“Hey,” he slowly said. “Thanks for calling me, Grandma. Hold on just a minute.”



I blinked at the non sequitur—and the muffled words I couldn’t make out in the interim—but kept my eyes on the road. “I’m holding and assume you’ll explain what this is momentarily.”



“Absolutely, Grandma.”



More muffled words, followed by the squeak of furniture and shuffling. The reason for the pretense belatedly occurred to me.



“You’re on a date!”



“I am sorry I missed your birthday, Grandma, and I’m glad you called so we could talk it over.”



“Is she cute? Ooh, is she human? River nymph?” It was immature, but flustering him was fun. It also helped our relationship from becoming too awkward, since he’d once expressed feelings for me.



“Uncool, Merit.”



I grinned. “You called me your grandmother. Which I take to mean you’re dating a human, since I’m not aware you have any living relatives.”



“First date,” he admitted. “I found it didn’t work so well when I told girls I was a vampire right off the bat.”



“Twilight effect?”



“Twilight effect,” he agreed. “They get bummed when I show up without brown hair, pale skin, a moody expression, and sparkles.”



“And how’s it going?”



“It’s going. And since it’s going, what can I do for you?”



“Sorry, small update: They found Rohypnol in Samantha Ingram’s system, too.”



“Another connection between the murders.”



“Yeah. I’m heading to the Magic Shoppe right now to take a look-see with Mallory.”



“Excellent. You get on that, and give me an update when you can. Go team. And I’m hanging up now, because my date is beginning to look at me suspiciously.”



“Just wait until she sees your fangs, sunshine.”



* * *



Wicker Park was technically part of the West Town neighborhood and had a main street full of quirky shops, restaurants, and bars. The streets were quiet tonight, although humans still stood outside bars, cigarettes in hand, and music still pumped from the open doorways of clubs.



Parking in Wicker Park, like in most Chicago neighborhoods, was tricky. Mallory was one of the lucky few to have a garage behind her town house, but the small drive was filled by her and Catcher’s vehicles.



I cruised for a few minutes, just in case rock-star-quality parking was available outside her town house, but gave up and parked Moneypenny a block away. The spot wasn’t ideal; I’d wedged her in between a truck and an SUV whose drivers I hoped were good at squeaking their way out of parallel spots without bumping the cars around them. But at least the piles of snow were nearly gone, and I didn’t have to climb a gray wall of ice and gravel in order to make it to the sidewalk.



I walked to the house, climbed the front steps, and knocked on the door. Catcher answered it a moment later, a frilly apron tied around his waist.



I opened my mouth, closed it again. Settled on, “There are hardly words.”



“Oh, good. Vampire humor. You should really think about doing stand-up.”



I spiraled a finger in the air, pointing at the apron. It featured cats knitting, although I wasn’t sure how they managed to hold knitting needles in their little paws. “The apron,” I said. “Let’s discuss.”



“I’m making cookies. I didn’t want to ruin my shirt. It was in a drawer.”



I bypassed the apron to focus on the more important part. “You bake?”



“Very well. Would you like a madeleine?”



“When wouldn’t I want a madeleine?”



“Fair point,” he said, turning toward the kitchen.



I followed him through the house’s dining room and into the quaint kitchen, the smells of butter and lemon wafting through the air.



“They smell amazing.”



“They are.” Catcher wasn’t one for modesty. He donned a quilted mitt and pulled a narrow aluminum tray of shell-shaped cakes from the oven. They were beautifully puffed and golden and made my stomach rumble immediately. It didn’t care that I’d had breakfast; it recognized sugar and fat.



“These need to rest,” he said, putting the pan carefully on a wire rack to cool. “But there’s more over there.” He slid another tray into the oven, then pulled off the mitt, gestured to a plastic container half-full of the small cakes.



I grabbed one, bit in, and had a new kind of respect for Catcher. He took care of my grandfather, seemed to make Mallory happy, and had taught me how to wield a sword. And he could bake.



“Amazing,” I said, leaning against the counter as I savored the small cake—buttery and sweet with the tang of fresh lemon—bite by tiny bite. “What’s the occasion?”



The oven timer beeped, and he donned the mitt again, pulled out another tray, and made room on the cooling rack for a new batch of madeleines.



“I don’t need an occasion to bake, any more than you need an occasion to eat.”



“I’ll chalk that down as ‘I enjoy it.’ Where’s your intrepid blue-haired girlfriend? We’re supposed to go to the magic store.”



“Downstairs. She’s just finishing something up with the obelisk. Looking for source. Color of magic or some such. Frankly, it’s a bit more chemistry than I’m usually into.”



Since he’d just made madeleines—with carefully measured ingredients, if the digital scale on the counter was any indication—I found that ironic.



“I’ll see myself downstairs,” I said, and grabbed two more madeleines for good measure, tossing them between my fingers to keep from boiling myself.



I took the stairs to the basement and the meticulously organized workshop that had supplanted the cobweb-infested basement. The walls had been finished, the floors redone, the ingredients for charms or hexes or whatever she worked up down here in neat jars and baskets along shelved walls.



Mallory sat cross-legged on a white stool in front of the large white table that tonight held a stack of books and an array of ingredients in white ceramic pots, the obelisk in front of them.



Her hair was pulled into two side buns that made her look like Princess Leia had been dunked in Kool-Aid. She held a yogurt container in one hand and a spoon in the other, and she’d paired jeans with a T-shirt with HONORARY OMBUDDY across the front in block letters.



“Where did you get that?” I asked as she dug around the container for the remnants of vanilla with blueberries.



“The official Ombudsman gift shop, all rights reserved.”



I offered a (single) madeleine, which she happily accepted in exchange for the empty yogurt cup, which I tossed away. “Nobody told me about a gift shop. Or brought me a T-shirt. I want to be an honorary Ombuddy.”



“I think you probably are because, you know, genetics. Your grandfather hasn’t given you one yet?”



“No,” I said, jealousy prickling. “But the last time I saw him he did have other things on his mind.”



“Murder and whatnot?” she asked.



“In fairness, yeah. Mostly the murder. Little bit of the whatnot. You working on the obelisk?”



“I am,” she said with a frown, nibbling the cookie and using a hand to push off the tabletop, rotate on her stool. “And I am getting nowhere. Except that it’s a polyglot.”



“I’m sorry—the obelisk is a polyglot?”



She rotated again. “It speaks several languages.”



“I understand the word; I don’t understand the application.”



She grabbed the table’s edge with her fingertips, pulled herself to a stop. “So, when you magick something—as this bit of alabaster has been charmed—there are different ways you apply the magic. You can do it with words; you can do it with stuff; you can do it with feeling.”



“That will of the universe stuff?” That was how Catcher had first explained his and Mallory’s magic to me—that they were able to exert their wills on the universe. I’d learned later that was one of many approaches to the magical world, which were as varied and sundry as human religions.