Blood Games

A purple-and-gold SpringCon banner hung across the road, and men, women, and children in superhero T-shirts and costumes walked toward the convention center beneath the glowing streetlights.



“Preview night,” Jonah said, as we parked the car in a lot a couple of blocks away. “Have you ever been to a big con?”



“I have not. I’ve been conned. But I don’t think that’s what you meant.”



He clucked his tongue. “You’re going to need better lines than that if you want to survive this gauntlet.”



I began to unbelt my katana, but Jonah shook his head. “No need,” he said, belting on his own weapon. “They’ll think it’s part of your costume.”



I looked up at him. “What costume?”



He grinned knowingly. “This is going to be even more fun than I thought.”



Belted and ready, we slipped into the throng of orcs, browncoats, robots, superheroes, and elves heading toward the front doors.



I didn’t think we’d make much headway; the line to get into the convention center extended nearly the entire sidewalk to the parking area. But when we reached the end of the line, Jonah kept walking.



Nerves and excitement spilled off the line of humans—and the occasional pop of magic sprang from a supernatural. They spanned all shapes, sizes, colors, genres. From anime baby dolls to hairy cryptomonsters, the line had it all.



I followed Jonah into the ticket area of the convention center, weaving through and toward a small booth with a VIP sign. I straightened my shoulders, excitement building, and leaned toward him.



“Are we VIPs?”



“Not yet. Friend owes me a favor.”



The friend had bulging triceps, a gleaming dome, and dark sideburns cut into neat lightning bolts. His eyes were brown, and he wore a well-loved Hulk T-shirt.



“Jonah,” he said, half rising from his perch on a stool for a complicated hand-to-wrist-to-biceps handshake.



“Tyler,” Jonah said. “My friend Merit.”



I offered a wave.



“Good costume,” he said, and when I opened my mouth to object, I caught Jonah’s warning glance and shut it again.



“Thanks, I think.”



“Tyler’s a comics artist,” Jonah said, as Tyler flipped through a small metal cash box on the counter of his booth.



I nodded encouragingly and smiled as Tyler pulled out two laminated cards attached to woven lanyards. “Your passes, my friend.”



“Appreciate it,” Jonah said, taking one, draping it around his neck, and handing the other to me. It was an eye-searing shade of yellow and featured the SpringCon logo—flowers entwined in a hazardous-materials logo.



“You got some time next week?” Tyler asked.



When a faint blush appeared on Jonah’s cheeks, my curiosity grew. “Sure, man. Get in touch.”



“Five by five,” Tyler said, and turned to the next person in line.



“Five by five?” I wondered aloud, as I pulled on my pass and walked to the doors that led into the convention center.



“It means he understands. Military term.”



I added that to my mental list of phrases to use with Luc. “And what does he want your time for?”



He diverted to a poster that bore a map of the convention center floor. “Oh, I just consult,” he said offhandedly.



“Consult? With a comics artist?”



He looked back at me, sheer embarrassment on his face, and realization struck.



“You don’t consult with him,” I said with a dawning grin. “You pose for him.”



Jonah rolled his eyes dramatically. “He wants to get the body right. The anatomy. He’s a perfectionist.”



The options for teasing him were legion. Truly numerous. But Jonah—tall and gorgeous and auburn haired in the way of an Irish prince—looked absolutely mortified. And besides, he’d been doing a favor for a friend.



“Good,” I said with a smile. “Good. You’ve got a good build for that.”



He looked back at me with obvious suspicion as folks in SpringCon T-shirts flowed onto the floor. “Okay,” he cautiously said. “That’s all you’re going to say?”



“You got us in here to help my grandfather. I’m giving you a pass.”



He looked utterly relieved and led the way onto the main convention floor.



Yes, I was in love and committed. But I still snuck a peek at the guard-slash-model’s assets . . . and made a mental note to find out which comics Tyler worked on.



Chapter Six



SENTINEL SQUARED



The line outside, as eclectic as it had been, was nothing compared to the convention center’s main hall.



Artists, writers, and stars of sci-fi movies and television shows sat at dozens of rows of tables, and men, women, and children moved through the rows with excited expressions. Animated screens, movie posters, and spinning video-game signs reached fifteen feet into the air. Fans funneled in and out of giant rooms that seemed to be built entirely of rolled-up T-shirts, and inflatable characters roamed the narrow pathways like video-game monsters. Scantily clad women and men in loincloths posed for photographs. Music blared from all directions, and fans chatted over the cacophony, excitedly showing their treasures from the corners of the floor. Posters. Bags. Plushies.



It was an assault on all five senses, and probably a couple I hadn’t even known I had.



Jonah and I strolled across the floor dodging zombies, caped superheroes, anime princesses, and an awful lot of Wookies.



“This is a lot to take in,” I said, dodging a child in a small, pink Darth Vader costume who ran to her father with an autographed picture in hand. Actors from various sci-fi shows sat at long tables behind her, signing photographs and posing for pictures, pressing cheeks with fans willing to shell out the cash.



“I love a con,” he said over the din. “The energy. The love. The geekery. Where else do you get so many people passionate about so many different things in one place?”



“There is definitely a lot of energy here,” I said, as we passed a bevy of fans at the “Vampire Arts” table. I only barely glanced at it, expecting to see photos of Buffy, prints of Dracula and Edward, posters of Selena and Blade in battle mode.



I did not expect to catch sight of a plastic-wrapped print of a watercolor featuring a woman with dark hair, fangs, and familiar blue eyes.



I pulled Jonah to a stop, then yanked him toward it. Goggling, I picked it up, stared at the drawing of me.



I recognized the image—it was modeled after a photograph that had appeared in the paper above the headline “Ponytailed Avenger.” And that, by the look of it, was the title of the artwork, scrawled in thin, scratching strokes across the bottom right of the picture.



“It’s nicely done,” Jonah said.



“Archival paper,” said the young guy manning the table. He hadn’t yet looked up and was busily penning another drawing, this time of Lindsey with sunglasses and tight jeans. “Suitable for framing.”



And according to the tiny sticker in the bottom corner, very affordable. For thirty-five dollars you could take home your own Sentinel.



The artist, whose index and middle fingers were smeared with ink, looked up. “Nice costume.”



“I think you’re going to want to see this.”



I heard Jonah speak but was so flabbergasted and creeped out—and, yeah, a little flattered—by the assortment of drawings that I didn’t really hear it. Not until he said my name again, then took me by the shoulders, turned me around to face a table dotted entirely with photographs and swag featuring “Chicago’s Hunkiest Vampires.”



Photographs, prints, T-shirts, mugs, sweatshirts, blankets, and underwear, all featuring the smiling face of Ethan Sullivan.



“Dear God,” I said, dodging a pair of zombie cheerleaders to cross the busy pathway to the “Hunkiest” table, staring down at the assortment of pink, white, and pale blue panties, Ethan’s green eyes staring out from the front triangle.



I had no argument with their appreciation of Ethan; he was a miraculous specimen of vampire. A blond genetic gift. And I understood the women who’d cheered him on at the Cadogan Dash. Hot guy running? Sure, I’ll show up for that. I did show up for that. I knew there were Web sites devoted to Ethan. I might, in a moment of curious weakness, have visited Ethan SullivanIsMyMaster.net and smiled at the bloggers’ obvious adoration.



But underwear? Underwear!



“Pretty hot, isn’t he?” asked the clerk.



I was bewildered. Of course he was hot. But he was my hot. “Yes?”



“Handsome? He is utterly and completely en fuego. But I hear he’s taken. My loss, right?”



“Probably dating some skanky vampire,” said one of two girls who clutched “Master of My House” nightshirt and panty sets.



It seemed this entire episode was designed to test my grace under pressure.



“He’s dating me, actually.” The words slipped out before I thought better of it.



But they didn’t faze the shopper. She looked at me, cocked her head. “Oh, I get it. You’re doing the girlfriend—what’s her name? Megan?”



“Merit,” answered the girl at the table. “And it’s a pretty good costume.”



I opened my mouth to object, to proclaim that I wasn’t doing Ethan’s girlfriend, I was Ethan’s girlfriend, and I was doing Ethan. But I got a pinch on the arm from Jonah for my trouble. I glanced back at him, could feel my eyes silvering in irritation, caught the warning look in his expression.



“Investigation,” he quietly said. “We’re keeping it low-key.”



Oh, I’d keep it low-key, I thought, imagining for a moment the pummeling I could give these mere mortals. I’d keep it real low-key.



But that was not what Jonah had meant, so I sucked it up.



“Yeah, I’m wearing a Merit costume,” I said, with a forced smile, and strode away.



“You knew he had fans,” Jonah said when he caught up with me.



“There are fans, and there are fans. Fans buying underwear with my boyfriend’s face on them.”



“You’re awfully young to be a prude.”



“I’m not a prude. I’m just—it’s underwear.” I glanced at him. “Would you want your face on underwear?”



“No. But then again, I’m not Master of the House, dating one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelorettes, and constantly in the news.”



My expression and tone were bland. “So he asked for it?”



“I’m just saying. He’s pretty famous, and he doesn’t seem to mind it. But he obviously only has eyes for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”



“I’m not worried about anything. It’s just . . . weird. They don’t know him.”



“They’ll know him intimately pretty soon.”



“You can stop now.”



“I’m not sure that I can,” Jonah said, with a cheeky grin. “I’m having entirely too much fun. I may not ever stop. I wonder if they make blow-up Ethan Sullivan dolls.”



“I am not having this conversation with you. But I am going to find those comic books you pose for. I’m going to find them, and I’m going to display them on easels in the foyer of Grey House.”



He stopped short near a fourteen-foot-tall plastic Godzilla with waggling, inflatable arms.



“I won’t mention your ‘costume’; you don’t mention the comics gig.”



“We get to work, and we never mention this again.”



“Agreed,” he said, and, both of us mortified, we looked around the floor to get our bearings.



“Who are we seeing today?” I asked.



“Them, actually,” Jonah said, nodding to a nearby vendor stocked with weapons.



The scrolled wooden sign read FAIREMAKERS and listed an address in Schaumburg. A man and a woman worked the booth. The man, who sat at the table, had short hair and a precisely trimmed goatee, and he wore a tunic, brown pants, and soft brown boots. The woman, who stood behind him, flipping through an old-fashioned ledger, had a mass of wavy strawberry blond hair that reached halfway down her back and wore a wide circle skirt and linen peasant’s blouse. Her breasts were ample, and a round pendant lay nestled between them.



As we walked to the table, the man moved toward us with a wide grin. “Good evening. How can I help you on this lovely spring night? We have all variety of weaponry,” he said, gesturing toward the wall. There were maces, daggers, a couple of replica katanas, and several two-handled swords. Some of them looked like good replicas; some looked like well-worn antiques.



“Actually,” Jonah said, pointing at the woman behind him, “we need to talk to her.”



“Nan,” the clerk said, touching her shoulder to get her attention.



Nan turned back to us, her round face brightening at the sight of my RG partner. “Jonah! Such a pleasure. I haven’t seen you in forever.”



“It’s been a while,” he agreed, then put a hand at my back. “Nan, this is Merit, Sentinel of Cadogan House.”



“Namaste,” Nan said, pressing her hands together and bowing just a little.



“Hi.” I offered a little wave.



“Nan helps source our katanas and practice weapons,” Jonah said. And since he was captain of Grey’s guards, I bet he was responsible for purchasing and arranging all those weapons.



“Nice to meet you,” I said.



She looked between us. “Are you looking to buy something? We only have replicas today, but perhaps there’s something . . .” She gestured to three katanas that hung behind her, their blades shining like chrome.