Some Girls Bite

THERE'S NOT MUCH WRONG THAT



CHUNKY MONKEY CAN'T FIX.



I thought I was in a coffin. I thought I was the brunt of some horrible Navarre joke, or some horrible Cadogan hazing ritual, and I'd been stuffed into a pine box like the dead girl I'd once thought I was. Starting to hyperventilate, I clawed at the blankets around me, then pounded on the walls, screaming for someone to let me out.



I fell forward when Mallory pulled the door open, landing face-first in her poofy slippers. Face flush with embarrassment, I rose to my elbows, spitting out bits of pink polyester fuzz. So much for the hard-ass vamp.



Mallory's voice was strangled, and I could tell she was working hard not to laugh. "What. The. Hell."



"Bad night. Really bad night." I sat down on the floor, tucking my legs beneath me, and checked the status of my arm. It was lobster red from fingers to elbow, but the blisters were gone. Supernatural healing was a handy trick for an absentminded vampire, although it would make my enemies harder to kill. Tit for tat, I guess.



Mallory crouched beside me. "Jesus, Mer. What happened to your arm?"



I sighed and spent a few seconds wallowing in self-pity. "Vampire. Sunlight. Poof." I waved my arms in the shape of a mushroom cloud. "Third-degree burns."



"Dare I ask why you were sleeping in the closet?"



I didn't want to embarrass her with a replay of her late-night antics, so I shrugged off the question. "Fell asleep, got too close to the sun, hunkered down."



"Come on," she said, taking my free elbow and helping me to my feet. "Let's at least put some aloe on your arm. Does it hurt a lot? Never mind. Don't answer that. You've got a master's degree in English and you've yet to string a subject and predicate together. I'll draw my own conclusions."



"Mallory!" Catcher's voice boomed down the stairs.



Mallory fixed her mouth into a tight line and walked me into the kitchen. "Ignore it," she advised. "Much like the bubonic plague, it'll go away if you give it enough time."



"Mallory! You weren't finished! Get back in here!"



I glanced up the stairway. "You didn't leave him handcuffed to the bed or something, did you?"



"Jesus, no." I incrementally relaxed, until she continued. "My headboard's a single piece of wood. There's nothing to handcuff him to."



I groaned and tried to wipe the image of a naked, bound Catcher writhing on the bed from my mind. Not that it was a bad image, but still . . .



Mallory kept us moving toward the kitchen. "He's pissed because he doesn't think I'm paying attention to his incessant goddamn lectures on magic." Her voice went lower, and she mimicked, "Mallory Delancey Carmichael, you're a fourth-class sorcerer with duties and obligations, blah blah blah. I think I understand now why the Order kicked him out; he was too bossy, even for them."



We went into the kitchen, and I took a seat while Mallory pulled a tube from a drawer next to the sink. She slathered cream on my arm with careful attention, then recapped the tube and set it aside. "I wonder if you need blood today."



I frowned, partly from the thought of drinking blood, partly from the realization that Mallory had become my predatory den mother. Since when had I become so needy? "I'm fine, I think."



"It's just that sometimes in the literature" - and by that she meant the occult fanzines that appeared in our mailbox with surprising frequency - "when vamps are injured, they need extra blood to supplement the healing process." Her gaze flashed up. "You are healing, aren't you?"



I nodded. "The blisters are gone."



"Good." She went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bag, and my stomach began to grumble immediately.



"I need it," I sheepishly admitted, a little ashamed that I still had so little knowledge about the workings of my post-change body. I rubbed at a crick in my neck, no doubt the result of my having slept hunkered in a ball on the closet floor. "The fact is, for all this talk about how strong I am, I'm really not very good at being a vampire."



Mallory warmed the blood, poured it into a glass, and handed it to me. But she held up a hand before I could lift it to my mouth, went back to the refrigerator, and pulled out a celery stalk and bottle of Tabasco. She dotted some pepper sauce into the glass, then slipped in the celery. "Bloody Bloody Mary."



I took a sip and nodded. "Not bad. It could use vodka and tomato juice, but not bad for all that."



Mallory snickered, but her grin faded when Catcher stomped into the kitchen. In his hands was the thick leather-bound book I'd seen him looking through the night I'd visited my grandfather's office. He was half naked, a pair of jeans that rode low on his sculpted hips the only visible bit of clothing. The man had a body to die for - all curves and angles and little delicious hollows of sculpted muscle and flesh.



While I took in the view, Mallory yelled, "Will you quit following me around? It's not even your house!"



"Someone has to follow you around! You're a danger to the goddamn city!"



A little thrilled that this piece of supernatural drama had nothing to do with me, I gave up the pretense of politely ignoring their fight, put down the glass, and gave them my full attention.



Catcher stalked through the kitchen, practically threw the book down on the kitchen counter, then pushed Mallory onto a stool. He pointed at the book. "Read!"



Mallory popped up and stared at him for a long time, her mouth drawn into a tight line, her hands fisted so tightly together her knuckles were white. "Who the hell do you think you are that you can order me around?"



Tension and magic rose and spiraled around the room, tangible enough to raise the hair on my arms and neck. Eddies of it dipped and flowed, the ends of Mallory's hair lifting around her face like she'd stepped into a strong breeze.



"Jesus," I muttered, staring at the two of them.



Without warning, there was a crack of light. My glass, thankfully empty of blood, shattered on the counter.



"Mallory," Catcher warned, a half growl.



"No, Catcher."



The overhead light flickered as they stared at each other, a strobe lighting the battle of the wills.



Finally, Catcher sighed, power dissipating from the room with a tangible whoosh. Without words or hesitation, he grabbed her arms and pulled her against the line of his body. Then he lowered his head to hers, and kissed her. She squealed and twitched, but as his mouth worked at hers, she stilled. When, moments later, he pulled back, he looked at her expectantly.



For a heartbeat, then two, she just stared at him. "I told you we were done."



"Sure you did." He kissed the top of her forehead, turned her body, and pushed her shoulders so she dropped onto the stool. Then he raised her chin to meet his gaze. "I have to get to work. Read the Key."



He walked out of the kitchen. The front door shut seconds later.



For a good five minutes, neither one of us said anything. Mallory, hands in her lap, stared blankly at the book. When I'd shaken myself out of the drama-induced stupor, I went to the freezer and grabbed the carton of Chunky Monkey. I pulled off the top, found a spoon, handed them both to Mallory, then took the stool next to hers. Reciprocal ice-cream therapy, I decided. "So. That happened."



Mallory nodded absently and chewed a giant spoonful of ice cream. "I hate him."



"Yeah."



Mallory dropped the spoon into the container and put her head in her hands. "How does someone that arrogant look that good? It's unfair. It's a crime against nature. He should be . . . punished for being pretentious with pockmarks and hairy warts or something."



I took up the spoon and picked through the ice cream for a square of white chocolate. "He spending the night again?"



"Probably. Not that I have anything to say about it."



I bit back a smile. There were many things I'd come to learn about Mallory. Number one among them was the fact that she rarely did anything by halves. Whatever she was involved in, be it boyfriend or career, she gave a near-obsessive level of attention. So that fake nonchalance heralded something very interesting about one Catcher Bell.



"In love with him, are you?"



"Little bit," she said, nodding. She rubbed her arms, then stared down at the table. "The thing is, Mer, he doesn't let me order him around. Like Mark - if I told Mark to climb the Matterhorn, he'd hop the next plane to Europe. Catcher stands up to me." A corner of her mouth tipped up. "I didn't realize how attractive a quality that was in a man."



Her gaze found mine, and her bright blue eyes were moist. "He doesn't give a shit if I've got a kick-ass job in the best ad firm in town, or if I've got blue hair, or if I'm pretty underneath it. He just likes me."



I stood and gathered her into a hug. "Too bad he's a pretentious asshole."



Mallory gave a watery laugh. "Yeah, it is. But he's hung like a horse, so that kinda helps."



I pulled away, grimacing, and walked toward the kitchen door. "This house is getting too small for the three of us. Seriously."



Mallory laughed, but I wasn't sure I was kidding.



After showering and dressing in an outfit I knew wouldn't meet Ethan's approval - jeans, Pumas, and a couple of layered tank tops - I decided to head for my grandfather's office. I wanted an update about the investigation, and I was also working to avoid thinking about tomorrow. Day Seven. The Commendation Ceremony, during which I'd be assigned a position in Cadogan House, would take my oaths to Ethan, and would probably be hazed within an inch of my newfound immortality.



I wasn't sure of my welcome at the Ombud's office, or even if anyone would be staffing the building on a Sunday night, so I decided to bring a bribe a la fast-food chicken. After I made the pickup, I parked in front of the Ombud's office, I took my bribe to the front door, hit the buzzer, and waited.



Minutes passed before Catcher strolled down the hall, this time having paired a black Ramones shirt with boots and jeans. He looked surprised to see me, but punched in the code to unlock the door and opened it, his gaze on the paper bucket I cradled in the crook of one arm.



"I brought chicken," I pointed out.



"I can see that. Did she kick you out, too, or is this a humanitarian visit?"



"Neither. I wanted to check on the investigation - "



"And you're scared shitless about tomorrow night."



"And I'm scared shitless about tomorrow night."



Catcher cast a wary glance at the street, then moved aside to let me in. I waited while he relocked and coded the door and grabbed a drumstick from the buckets. Then I followed him back down the hallway and into the office. Catcher immediately moved to his desk, leaning over it to press the button on a Charlie's Angels-era intercom system.



"Merit's here," he said into it.



Jeff jumped out of his chair and made for the bucket that I placed on one of the empty desks after pulling out a piece for myself. Apparently lacking the gene for subtlety, he grabbed a breast, eating it only after he'd pointed at the chicken to point out the symbolism. I couldn't help but laugh, even knowing he didn't need the encouragement.



"Hello, baby girl." My grandfather shuffled into the room, a grand smile on his face. It was nice to be loved, I thought, and basked in the glow of it. "What are you doing here?"



Catcher pulled a chunk of meat from his drumstick. "She's hiding out. Commendation's tomorrow."



"Oh yeah?" Grandpa asked, picking through the bucket until he found a choice piece, then nudging a hip onto the edge of the desk. "Are you nervous?"



Jeff kicked back in his chair and crossed his ankles on his desktop next to his mutant keyboard. "Do they still make the Initiates eat a raw chicken?"



I swallowed hard and, having lost anything resembling my appetite, dropped the piece of chicken I'd selected back into the bucket.



"I think it's only half a chicken nowadays," my grandfather solemnly corrected. "They start with a whole one, but they'll stick two Initiates on it and make them tear it apart. No hands allowed. Just fangs."



"Bloody and awesome," Jeff said with approval, tearing into the breast he held between two hands.



That was nauseating, but having not yet experienced the Commendation, I didn't get the joke until Grandpa winked at me. I should have known. Two vampires fighting over a raw chicken wasn't very Ethan-esque - it wasn't nearly dignified enough. His style was a little more European, a little less sports entertainment. He was, I imagined with a grin, more likely to make the recruits recite the English monarchs or play a complicated Chopin piece.



"Quit mooning over Sullivan," Catcher muttered, bending around me to get to the chicken bucket. He continued before I could argue the assumption. "The Commendation's gonna go fine. It's mostly ceremonial, except for the oaths. In fact," he began, before hopping onto the desk beside my grandfather, "if anything, I bet Sullivan gets a big surprise."



I frowned at him. "How so?"



Catcher shrugged. "I'm just saying. You're strong. He's strong. Should make for an interesting ceremony."



I took an empty seat. "Describe interesting."



Catcher shook his head. "You're a smart girl. You should be doing your homework. What have you learned about the ceremony so far?"



I frowned, tried to recall what I'd seen in the Canon. "All the vamps who live in Cadogan will be there, like witnesses. Ethan will call me forward, say my name or something, and I'm supposed to take two oaths - fealty and homage. To serve the House and be loyal to it."



"Not just the House," Catcher said, reaching over to pull more chicken from the bucket. "To the Master himself." He nibbled the edge of his drumstick, then glanced up at me. "Are you ready for that?"



How could I possibly be ready for that? I'd be twenty-eight years old in a matter of days, and hadn't even recited the Pledge of Allegiance in ten years. How could I be prepared to swear my loyalty and service to a community I'd joined as the alternative to death or to a man who didn't find me capable of loyalty, worthy of trust?



On the other hand: "Is it an option - not to take the oaths?"



"Not unless you want to live separately from them," Catcher said, picking a chunk of chicken from the bone. "Pretend you weren't made by him. Pretend you aren't what he made you."



You are what I made you, Ethan had told me. Hard to pretend otherwise.



"If you came at this vampire thing on your own, found your own way to it, what would you do?"



"I wouldn't have come to it," I countered. "I'm not like them, not into the vampire mystique."



His expression softened. "So, because things aren't exactly the way you want them, you're going to bail? Believe me, Merit - exile is a lonely way to live."



"Sometimes," my grandfather put in, "even if you can't be what you want, making the most of what you can be isn't a bad second choice. You have a chance to remake yourself, baby girl."



"But in whose image?" I drily asked.



"That's your decision," Catcher said. "You were made a vampire by Sullivan, sure, but the oaths are still yours to take. And you haven't taken them yet."



My grandfather nodded at me. "You'll know what to do when the time comes."



I hoped he was right. "Anything new in the Porter investigation?"



"Not much," he admitted, swinging a leg. "In terms of evidence, we've gathered nothing else."



"But we did get some interesting gossip," Jeff said, pausing to swallow a bite. He inclined his head toward my grandfather. "Chuck's vampire says Celina Desaulniers met with Mayor Tate this week. Apparently, she was trying to reassure the mayor that the murders couldn't have been perpetrated by a House vamp."



"Morgan told me she thinks Cadogan's innocent, that Rogues are behind her murder." I explained my newly formed friendship with the Navarre vamp.



Grandpa seemed amused and nodded, then began to tell me what little they knew about Rogue vamps in the Windy City - mainly that they were a couple dozen strong -  when his cell phone rang. He slid off the desk, unclipped and opened it, and frowned at the display before raising it to his ear.



"Chuck Merit . . . When?" He made a writing motion with his hand, and Jeff passed over a pen and pad of paper. My grandfather began scribbling quickly, occasionally throwing in an "Okay" or "Yes, sir."



Mayor, Catcher mouthed to me. I nodded.



The call continued for a few minutes, my grandfather closing the phone after assuring Mayor Tate he'd make some calls. He stared down at it, a chunk of silver plastic in his hand, and when he raised his head, worry was etched on his face.



"Another murder," was all he said.



Her name was Patricia Long. We sat quietly, without jokes or sarcasm, our eyes downcast, as he passed along the details. She was twenty-seven years old. A tallish brunette. An attorney at an international firm that officed on Michigan Avenue. She'd been found in Lincoln Park this time, an anonymous phone call directing the CPD to the scene. The cause of her death had been the same - exsanguination due to the wounds on her neck and throat.



But there was an additional bit of information with this one. The caller said he'd seen a vampire leaving the scene - a man wearing a blue-and-yellow baseball jersey, fangs bared, mouth covered in blood.



Catcher swore. "The jersey's probably a Grey House shirt. It's one of Scott's signatures." He slid me a glance, explaining, "Grey's a sports fan. Doesn't do the medals like Cadogan and Navarre - they've got jerseys instead."



Grandpa nodded. "Unfortunately, you're right. Sounds like Grey House. They haven't found anything else at the scene - no medals or detritus that would link this to anyone else - but they're still processing." He reclipped the phone to his belt, his knobby fingers working to join the plastic components. "This takes the heat off Cadogan, slides it right over to Grey. Anybody wanna put money on whether there'd have been something from Navarre at the scene of Merit's attack?"



The three of them looked at me, their expressions gloomy.



"You can ask Ethan," I said. "But he didn't mention anything to me." Not that he necessarily would. He still wasn't sure of my loyalties.



"Even if there'd been something," Catcher put in, "that doesn't mean it's related to the assaults. I'll eat my right hand if Scott Grey, or anyone from Grey House, had something to do with this one. They're a tight squad and completely harmless."



"It's unlikely," my grandfather agreed.



"But there's no evidence that points specifically to a Rogue vamp, either," I pointed out.



"Actually, that's not entirely true," Grandpa said. "CPD knew the jersey linked to Grey House, so they sent a couple of uniforms over. When they got there, they found a note tacked to the front door. Scott hadn't seen it yet - they don't have guards outside, probably think the House is new enough not to have created enemies. It's barely three years old."



Catcher frowned and crossed his arms. "What did the note say?"



"It was an attempt at a rhyme: 'Blue, yellow, Grey/Who wants to pay?/The Devil is Due/The system is, too.' "



I winced. "That's truly, truly awful."



"By saying 'system' - that's a knock at the Houses?" Jeff asked. "The attacks are staged to look like House crimes, but the notes definitely read 'Rogue.' "



"Or," I suggested, "if the theory is that Rogues are responsible, the murders are for the cops, and the threats are for the House vampires."



My grandfather nodded thoughtfully. "It does play that way."



Catcher pulled over the pad, glanced at the notes my grandfather had written, and frowned. "I don't like this. It's too tidy. I never liked the medal plant, and I like this jersey thing even less. But for a Rogue to leave a note - isn't that a little suspect? They'd have to know the notes connect the Rogues, not the Houses, to the murder. Why go to all the trouble to set up the Houses in the attacks, then stab yourself in the foot with a note that pins the thing on you?"



"Depends on the Rogues," my grandfather suggested. "If the murders are supposed to be a slap at the system, the notes say, 'Hey, look what I pulled off right under your nose, affiliation or not.' Maybe they didn't think the vamps would share the notes with cops."



Catcher brushed a hand over his closely shaven head. "Whatever the fuck is going on out there, Sullivan needs to get on this. The Houses need to call the city's Rogues together, figure out who might be behind this, offer sanctions or rewards for information. They love that bargaining shit - I don't understand why they're not doing it now."



"Because talking to the Rogues would be an admission that the Rogues have power," Jeff offered. "The House vamps would have to acknowledge vamps who've bucked the system, and ask for their help. No way is Ethan or Celina going to do that. Grey maybe, but not the other two. Their memories are too long."



Grandpa picked up the notepad again and rose, then walked to the door. "You're right -  they need to talk, if for no other reason than the timing of this thing. There was a week between Porter's death and Merit's attack, nine days between Merit and this girl's death. It's not a huge sample, but. . . ."



"We don't have much time," I quietly concluded. "Which means we could see another in the next ten days?"



My grandfather blew out a slow breath, then linked his hands above his head. "Maybe so, kid. I don't envy the CPD on this one." He looked over at me, gave me a sad smile. "I'm sorry to run you off, but we need to start making phone calls. Cadogan and Navarre need to be notified, and I need to talk to my source."



"Thanks for dinner," Jeff said.



"Sure." I peeked in the bucket, looked over a handful of pieces, decided I still had no appetite for fowl. "Enjoy the rest," I said. "I'll leave it here."



"Oh, before you go," Jeff said, burrowing beneath this desk, "I got you something." He dug around underneath there for a minute making clanging and banging noises, before crawling out with an Army green canvas bag in his hands. He held it out to me, and I took it, and peeked inside.



"Are you trying to tell me something, Jeff?" I asked, peering into the sack of sharpened wooden stakes.



"Just that I'd prefer you alive."



I hitched the bag over my shoulder, gave him a jaunty wink. "Then thanks."



He smiled endearingly. Jeff was a kid, but a good kid.



Catcher rose. "I'll walk you out."



I gave Grandpa a hug, and passed a final wave and smile to Jeff, then let Catcher guide me back to the front door. He uncoded it and held it open so I could walk through. "Stay close to the guards this week. Could be this maniac's going to try to finish you off, take a swipe at hit number three."



I shivered and hitched the bag of stakes a little tighter at my shoulder. "Thanks for the comfort."



"I'm not here to comfort you, babe. I'm here to keep you alive."



"And screw my roommate."



He smiled grandly, a dimple peeking from the left side of his upturned lips. "And that, assuming I can get her to see it my way."



I left him with a smile, glad that, whatever the supernatural drama, I'd found friends to help me through it. A new family, for all the genetic differences.



I got into the car and drove home with the windows down, trying to hold on to that smile, that comfort, trying to let the spring breeze and a soft tune carry away my uncertainty.



Have you ever had a moment where you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were in the right place? That you were on the right journey? Maybe the sense that you'd crossed a boundary, jumped a hurdle, and somehow, after facing some unconquerable mountain, found yourself suddenly on the other side of it? When the night was warm, and the wind was cool, and a song carried through the quiet streets around you. When you felt the entire world around you, and you were part of it - of the hum of it - and everything was good.



Contentment, I suppose, is the simple explanation for it. But it seems more than that, thicker than that, some unity of purpose, some sense of being truly, honestly, for that moment, at home.



Those moments never seem to last long enough. The song ends, the breeze stills, the worries and fears creep in again and you're left trying to move forward, but glancing back at the mountain behind you, wondering how you managed to cross it, afraid you really didn't - that the bulk and shadow over your shoulder might evaporate and re-form before you, and you'd be faced with the burden of crossing it again.



The song ends, and you stare at the quiet, dark house in front of you, and you grasp the doorknob, and walk back into your life.