Authors: Chloe Neill
Drink Deep (12 page)
“What is it?” I asked.
“We call it ‘worry wood,’ ” my grandfather said. “It’s a kind of magic blocker. We aren’t entirely sure what magic Tate might be working. But added to your immunity to glamour, this should keep you safe from whatever tricks he might try to pull.”
“The fairies carry them, as well,” Catcher said.
My grandfather extended his hand, and I plucked the worry wood from the silk. It was warmer than I expected it to be, and softer to the touch. The wood had been carefully sanded, leaving the grain only just rough enough that it still felt like wood—not plastic. It fit perfectly in the palm of my hand, the curves situated so they left a soothing depression for my thumb.
In a strange way, it was reassuring, tangibly comforting in the same way prayer beads might be. I slid the wood into my pocket, thinking it might behoove me to keep Tate unaware of it for as long as possible.
My grandfather nodded at the gesture, then refolded and rep-ocketed the square of silk. With a hand at my back, he escorted me to the door, where the fairy looked me over.
“We’ll be right outside if you need us,” my grandfather reminded me.
“Okay,” I said, blowing out a breath. “I’m ready.”
Only the first step will suck
, I reminded myself, and headed inside.
, I reminded myself, and headed inside.
There were plenty of beautiful people who’d been successful—actors, rock stars, models. But there were probably just as many who’d squandered their genetic gifts on drugs, crime, lust, greed, and various other deadly sins.
Tate, unfortunately, fell into the latter category.
He’d been swiftly climbing the political ladder, his brooding good looks helping him woo Chicago voters. But he hadn’t been satisfied with a meteoric political career. He’d traded it all in for the chance to control the city’s vampires, and he’d wound up in an orange jumpsuit that wasn’t nearly as flattering as his Armani had been.
But for all that, Seth Tate still looked good.
He sat at an aluminum table, one leg crossed over the other, one elbow back on the chair, his eyes alert and scanning the room . . . and me when I walked in.
He looked a bit leaner than he had when I’d last seen him, his cheekbones a bit more hewn. But his hair was still dark and perfectly arranged, his eyes still piercingly blue, his body still lean and mean. Seth Tate was the kind of handsome that packed a punch, and it was a shame all that pretty was going to waste in a lonely part of town.
Except for the part about him being a murderous bastard.
There was also a faint scent of lemon and sugar in [andmean.the air, which always seemed to be the case around Tate. It wasn’t unpleasant—quite the contrary. It just wasn’t the kind of scent you expected from a man as cold-blooded as Tate.
The prickle of magic in the air, however, seemed very appropriate. This was only the second time I’d been able to detect Tate’s magic; he’d done a bang-up job of hiding it before. I hated the feel of it: oily, heavy, and old, like the incense you’d find in the sanctuary of a Gothic church.
“Ballerina,” Tate said.
I’d danced when I was younger, and Tate had seen me in toe shoes and tutus. He’d decided on “Ballerina” as a nickname. Of course, since he was the man responsible for the death of my lover and Master, I wasn’t keen on his use of the familiar.
“I prefer Merit,” I said, taking the seat across from him. The aluminum chair was cold, and I crossed my arms over my chest, as much from the chill as protection against the magic in the air.
As I took a seat, the room’s steel door closed with a resounding
thunk
that shook the room a bit. My stomach jumped with nerves.
thunk
that shook the room a bit. My stomach jumped with nerves.
We sat quietly for a moment, Tate gazing at me with concentration.
The pressure in the room suddenly thickened, and the smell became stronger, both cloyingly sweet and sour enough to make my mouth water. The room seemed to sway back and forth. It wasn’t like any other magic I’d felt. This was magic of a different caliber. Of a different age, maybe. Like magic that had been born in a different time. In an ancient era.
I put one hand on the chair beneath me to keep from falling over and another on the bit of worry wood in my pocket. I kept my gaze trained on Tate, like a ballerina spotting during a pirouette to keep from getting dizzy, and squeezed the wood so hard I feared it would splinter beneath my fingers.
After a few seconds, the swaying stopped and the room stilled again.
Tate sat heavily back in his chair again and frowned at me. That’s when I realized what he’d been trying to do. “Did you just try to glamour me?”
“Ineffectively, it seems. Worry wood?”
I smiled demurely and focused on keeping my cool. I wasn’t sure if it was the wood or my natural resistance to glamour, but I wasn’t about to give that away to him. I slid my hand from my pocket again. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”
“Hmph,” he said, shuffling in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked back at me, head tilted, studying me. Each time he moved, a bit of magic sifted through the air. However he’d hidden it before, he didn’t seem to be bothering now. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.
“I wondered when you’d pay me a visit.”
“I’m sure you did. But to be honest, I’ve had a difficult time deciding what to do with you.” I leaned forward and crossed my hands on the table. “Should I start by blaming you for Ethan’s death? Or for your blaming Ethan’s death on me and telling the GP I was aiming to become head of Cadogan House? Or maybe for lying to me about my father? You told me he paid Ethan to make me a vampire.”
“I had that on very good authority.”
I lifted my brows in question.
“Granted,” he allowed, “she was under the influence at the time . . .”
Tate rolled his eyes. “Did we have to jump into this? How about asking how I’ve been? Or what life is like on the inside? Are we so common we don’t bother with the polite formalities?”
“You manufactured drugs, hooked vamps on them, and facilitated the deaths of two vampires. Not to mention blaming me for all the above. Why should I be polite to you?”
“That was a very bad week,” was all he said.
The remark was callous, but the tone was sincere. I had a sense he wasn’t kidding. Maybe he had magical drama of his own.
“You told the GP I orchestrated Celina’s and Ethan’s deaths so I could take over the House,” I said. “They’re looking for an excuse to kick me out, and you’re giving them the ammunition.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered what Cadogan House might be like if you were in charge? And I didn’t say you orchestrated their deaths,” Tate matter-of-factly said. “I said you were responsible for them. And you were. If Celina hadn’t hated you, she wouldn’t have thrown the stake. If Ethan hadn’t tried to save you, he’d still be alive. And if you hadn’t thrown the stake, Celina would still be alive. Ergo, you are responsible for their deaths.”
His voice was so matter-of-fact, it was difficult to tell if he believed what he was saying or was trying to bait me to anger. But I forced myself to stay calm.
“That analysis ignores your role, of course. If it hadn’t been for your machinations, none of it would have happened.”
He lifted a shoulder. “You have your truth; I have mine.”
“There’s only one truth.”
“That’s naïve, isn’t it? Merit, there’s no harm to me in insinuating you were involved in their deaths. And if it creates reasonable doubt supporting my release, so be it.” Tate leaned forward. “The real question, of course, is why you’re here. Because I can’t imagine you traveled to this part of town in the middle of the night just to vent in my general direction or complain that I’d tattletaled.”
He had a point. It wasn’t as if I could convince him to call the GP and recant his story; he wouldn’t do it, and they wouldn’t believe him anyway. So why was I here? What had I hoped to accomplish? Did I want to confront him about that night?
Maybe this had nothing to do with the GP. Maybe this was about me. Maybe I feared Tate was right, that the blame for their deaths hadn’t all been attributable to him.
“I can hear you thinking from across the table,” Tate said. “If silent mea culpas are the best you can do, then you aren’t nearly as interesting as I’d imagined.”
“Two vampires are dead.”
“Do you know how many beings have lived and died since the origins of this world, Merit? Billions. Many billions. And yet, you give little regard to the preciousness of their lives, only because you happened not to know them. But two vampires who’ve lived more than their share of years die, and you mourn them into the ground, so to speak?” He clucked his tongue. “Who’s being illogical now?”
I stood up and pushed back my chair. “You’re right,” I said. “Maybe it’s selfish to grieve. But I’m not going to apologize for it.”
I walked to the door, then turned back and looked at him, the playboy in convict orange. “Maybe, deep down, I wanted you to admit to me what you’d done and that you’d lied to the GP. Maybe I wanted you to take responsibility for their deaths.”
“You cannot obtain absolution from me.”
“I know.” And I did. I knew that railing at Tate wasn’t going to change anything, and it wasn’t going to assuage my secret fear that I’d been the cause of Ethan’s death. After all, if it hadn’t been for me . . .
There were many truths about the events of that night, and Tate couldn’t relieve me of the burden of my own guilt. But I knew—as sure as I knew anything else—that I’d gone into his office to stop the spread of drugs, to help the Houses, and to help the city’s vampires. Whatever the GP may ultimately decide, I knew what had gone down in that room, and I wasn’t going to stand trial for a crime I hadn’t committed.
I looked back at Tate, and felt a little of the weight in my chest ease.
He beamed. “There we are,” he said, his voice a bit deeper, his cold blue eyes gleaming with pleasure. “Now we’re back to interesting again. You came because you aren’t afraid to. Because as much as you believe you relied on Sullivan, you are your own person. I’ve always known that about you. For better or worse, your father made you the woman you are today. Maybe he was cold. But you are self-reliant because of it.”
A wave of magic thickened the air again as he spoke the words, sounding a lot like a mentor imparting wisdom to a student. That only confused me more.
“What do you want from me?”
His eyes gleamed. “Nothing at all, Merit, except for you to be who you are.”
“Which is?”
“A fitting adversary.” Perhaps at the chilled expression on my face, he sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his. “And I do think I’ll enjoy this particular round.”
I had the distinct impression I wouldn’t.
“I’m not engaging in games with you, Tate.”
He clucked his tongue. “Don’t you see, Merit? The games have already begun. And I believe it’s my move.”
There was something comforting about the scratchy gravel beneath my feet and the cool fall air. The air in the room had been heavy, Tate’s magic unnerving. I sucked in a few deep breaths and tried to slow my racing heart again.
Catcher and my grandfather stood a few feet away from the building and walked toward me as I exited.
“You’re all right?” my grandfather asked.
We stopped together thirty or so feet from the building. I glanced back at it. From the distance, it looked so completely innocuous—just a small brick building that had once upon a time housed time cards and invoices. And now—it held a supernatural being of unknown origin.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Glad to be outside again. There was a lot of magic in there.”
“Insidious magic,” Catcher explained. “You rarely feel it until it’s too late. Did you learn anything helpful?”
“No. He played coy, although he seems to truly believe I was responsible for wha [sibhing het happened that night.”
That seemed to be enough to satisfy the both of them. Silently, we climbed back into the golf cart and made our way back to the gate. A breeze was picking up. I huddled into my jacket, not sure if it was the looming winter, or the experience, that had chilled me to the bone.
As it happened, I’d previously been to the heliport where my grandfather directed me to meet the helicopter for the flight to Lorelei’s island.
My father, a member of the Chicago Growth Council, had fought for two years to get a heliport installed in Streeterville, an area north of downtown Chicago along the lakefront, despite concerns that that part of the city was too thick with skyscrapers to safely provide helicopter service. That heliport was breaking news for the four months it took politicians to decide whether it was electorally riskier to veto the heliport or allow it. As was often the case when money was involved, the CGC won out, and the heliport was installed.
Other books
Keeping Kaitlyn by Anya Bast
Unscripted by Jayne Denker
Hours to Cherish by Heather Graham
Avoiding Amy Jackson by N. A. Alcorn
Pharmageddon by David Healy
Hot Springs by Stephen Hunter
Trophy Hunt by C. J. Box
Terratoratan by Mac Park
Nekropolis by Maureen F. McHugh
The Billionaire’s Mistress by Somers, Georgia