Dark Debt
They were a sociological sample: a variety of shapes, sizes, colors, nationalities, finances. Among them, a very tall, broad-shouldered woman with short hair and a square face. A man of average height with dark skin and darker hair, casual clothes, and a worried expression. A blond woman I’d have described as handsome in a sleek blouse and pencil skirt. Their reasons for waiting were probably also different, but they were unified in the hope that Ethan could solve their problems.
They began to rise when they realized Ethan was approaching, but he held up a hand. “No need. Please stay seated. Unfortunately, I have an engagement this evening, so my availability will be limited. But if I cannot see you tonight, Juliet will help you find shelter.”
A few looked worried or perturbed by the delay; the rest seemed to be in awe of Ethan.
“Sire,” they said in more or less unison, and Ethan smiled in acknowledgment before turning toward his office. That was where we’d have parted ways had we not seen Helen waiting in the doorway of Ethan’s office, two garment bags in hand.
She was surveying Ethan’s office when we reached her, her gaze stopping at the broken bookshelves. “I hadn’t noticed these last night. It seems Malik did not exaggerate.”
“Balthasar did not employ his best manners,” Ethan said.
Helen placed the garment bags carefully across the couch, then stood ramrod straight again and looked at Ethan.
“You know that I normally do not speak out of turn. But with him in town, and sorcerers in the House, that seems a recipe for trouble.”
“And if I told you the sorcerers were helping keep the House safe from Balthasar’s tantrums?”
She paused. “Then I’ll get the staff started on the repairs.”
“I appreciate it.” When she left the room, Ethan glanced at his watch. “I’m going to do what I can with the supplicants before getting dressed. You wanted to check in with Luc?”
I nodded. “I’ll go downstairs, give him a few minutes to harass me about being overly fancy and missing tonight’s training.” That brought a smile to my face. “Oh, I forgot about that. No Luc90X tonight. Maybe dating a big shot does have its privileges.”
“Since I am the big shot, and you’re Sentinel, you could probably skip that training altogether.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Don’t tell Luc that. He likes to play boss, and you’d break his heart.” I shrugged. “The training’s good for me, and it does give me a chance to hang out with Lindsey.”
It was much more fun to be part of the guard group, even if not quite one of them, than to stand alone as Sentinel.
“In that case, talk to him, and make it snappy. Our interlude this morning put us behind.”
That interlude had been his idea, but considering how much I’d enjoyed it, I let it go. “I can read a clock. I’ll meet you in the apartments.”
Unless I came up with a really good reason to avoid the thing altogether.
* * *
Cadogan House had four floors—three aboveground, which held offices, gathering spaces, the library, and the vampires’ individual rooms; and a basement, which held the training room, the arsenal, and the Operations Room. The latter was Luc’s personal kingdom, a high-tech room with security monitors, computers, a giant conference table, and several vampires at his disposal.
Tonight, it also held a giant tin of popcorn with the seals of the three Chicago vampire Houses stamped in gold on an azure background.
“Nice,” I said, reaching over the table and grabbing a handful. “I hope we’re getting licensing fees for this.”
“But of course,” Luc said. While the guards sat at computer stations along the edges of the room, monitoring security, doing research, Luc sat at the end of the table in jeans and cowboy boots—like Helen, an exemption from Cadogan’s black-suit policy—his ankles crossed on the table as he perused the day’s Tribune.
The headline on the front page, which faced out, was jarring: MASTER MEETS MAKER above a photograph of Ethan and Balthasar facing each other. The opportunism was clear in Balthasar’s eyes. The concern clear in Ethan’s.
“Glad to see they aren’t encouraging him.”
Luc grunted, folded the paper lengthwise, then horizontally, and set it on the table. “Reporters love a good story.” He tapped the folded paper. “That’s a damned evocative one.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. Too evocative—too emotional—for my tastes. “Did every outlet pick it up?”
Luc gestured back to his desk, where a pile of folded papers had already been reviewed. “Across the world. We’re the hot new dysfunctional family.”
Lindsey rolled her office chair toward us, used red nails on the tabletop to pull herself to a stop. Her blond hair was pulled into a high bun, and she’d paired her suit with eyeglasses with trendy black frames that she didn’t actually need. But she pulled off the “saucy librarian” look.
“Babe,” she said to Luc, “you sound whiny.”
“I’m entitled to be whiny,” Luc said. “And don’t call me ‘babe’ on duty.”
Lindsey gave me a long-suffering look. “If I had a quarter, am I right?”
“Always.” I pointed toward the glasses, the hairdo. “What’s this?”
She smiled, shrugged. “Just trying something a little different. I’m going for intellectual femme fatale.”