Authors: Chloe Neill
Drink Deep (39 page)
“They won’t let me look for her,” Catcher said. “The Order doesn’t want me involved. And if she’s truly using black magic, they’re afraid to allow sorcerers to get mixed up in it.”
Honestly, I didn’t disagree with the sentiment.
“I considered secreting her away,” he confessed.
“I failed her. I should have known. I thought . . . I thought Simon was trying to turn her against me because of the Order. I thought that’s why she was acting so strangely. I was blind. Blinded by my own fear.”
“You knew when the rest of us knew,” I said. “And you’re the one who saved her and the rest of the city tonight. Never forget that.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Do you remember when I told you that you had something of mine—something you had to protect?”
Tears immediately sprang to my eyes. “I remember.”
“This is the time,” he said. “I need you to protect it.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll find her, Catcher, and I’ll bring her back to you, safe and sound.” The promise made, I hung up the phone and glanced over at Ethan, worry in my heart.
“So,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “When do we leave?”
An hour later, we met in the foyer of Cadogan House, each of us carrying a duffel bag and a sheathed sword. Helen had replaced my Cadogan medal, and a thoughtful someone had collected my car from Wrigleyville. That didn’t sway Ethan, though, who insisted we drive his convertible Mercedes to find Mallory. And really, who was I to argue?
Ethan’s hair was tied at the nape of his neck, and he wore the SAVE OUR NAME T-shirt—an homage to Wrigley Field—that he’d once let me wear.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
Vampires began to funnel into the foyer, now cleared of Frank’s rules, Malik in the lead. He stepped up to Ethan and me and stretched out a hand. He shook Ethan’s, and then mine.
Luc, Lindsey, and Juliet stepped behind Malik, and Ethan’s gaze moved to each in turn, then back to Malik. “You have enough coverage to protect the House?”
Malik nodded. “Kelley is confirming temporary replacements as we speak. And in the meantime, we are here if you need us. And when you return.”
“Thank you,” Ethan said, and after another round of hugs and tears, for the last time in God knew how long, we walked out of Cadogan House together, with a map and a plan.
Unfortunately, I barely made it three feet without stopping short.
Jonah stood at the gate, hands in his pockets, expression blank but for the solemn eyes that shifted between me and Ethan. My heart skipped a beat, anticipation building as I wondered why he was here . . . and what he would say.
We met him at the gate, Ethan’s expression shifting between me and Jonah.
“On behalf of Grey House,” Jonah said, “welcome back to Chicago.” He glanced between me and Ethan. “You’re going to find Mallory.”
“We are,” I said, and we stood there awkwardly for a moment. Time to see how far that trust extended. “Ethan, could you excuse us for a moment?”
“Of course,” he said, but raised my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss there before moving toward the Mercedes.
“I suppose you’ve gotten your partner back,” Jonah sak,="3"“Wid.
“I agreed to join the RG,” I quietly reminded him. “And I don’t take that lightly.”
Jonah looked at me for a long time, and I could read the deliberation in his eyes: Was I committed now that Ethan was back?
He must have found merit in my honesty, as he finally
nodded. And then he spoke his piece: “We have moved in and out of each others’ lives. Twice now, we’ve crossed each others’ paths—for you, both as a human and a vampire. Relationships have been built on less.”
nodded. And then he spoke his piece: “We have moved in and out of each others’ lives. Twice now, we’ve crossed each others’ paths—for you, both as a human and a vampire. Relationships have been built on less.”
I rolled my eyes. “And Ethan would end you for suggesting it.”
He smiled. “Ethan would appreciate a man who knows what he wants—as long as I don’t interfere. And I don’t plan on doing that. You and I are partners. I know where the lines are, Merit, and I can respect them. I have no interest in breaking up a relationship.”
I made my good-byes and walked back to where Ethan was loading our bags into the car. I expected suspicion and vitriol in his mood and tone. I did not expect to see the smile on his face.
“Your partner while I was away?” he asked.
I nodded, still unsure of my steps.
“You can relax,” he said with a canny grin, then tweaked my chin. “I trust you.” And then he tossed something in the air. Instinctively, I reached out and caught it, then glanced down at my open palm—and back up at him.
He smiled cannily. “Omaha’s a long drive. You can take the first shift.” True to his word, he opened the passenger side door and climbed inside.
I was going to have to learn this man all over again.
I guess all journeys begin with a single step . . . or an $80,000 convertible Mercedes. God willing, it would move fast enough, and we could find Mallory in time.
Want more Chloe Neill?
Read on for the opening chapter ofFIRESPELL,the first book in her Dark Elite series.
Available now!
T
hey were gathered around a conference table in a high-rise, eight men and women, no one under the age of sixty-five, all of them wealthy beyond measure. And they were here, in the middle of Manhattan, to decide my fate.
hey were gathered around a conference table in a high-rise, eight men and women, no one under the age of sixty-five, all of them wealthy beyond measure. And they were here, in the middle of Manhattan, to decide my fate.
I was not quite sixteen and only one month out of my sophomore year of high school. My parents, philosophy professors, had been offered a two-year-long academic sabbatical at a university in Munich, Germany. That’s right—two years out of the country, which only really mattered because they’d decided I’d be better off staying in the United States.
They’d passed along that little nugget one Saturday in June. I’d been preparing to head to my best friend Ashley’s house when my parents came into my room and sat down on my bed.
“Lily,” Mom said, “we need to talk.”
I don’t think I’m ruining the surprise by pointing out that nothing good happens when someone starts a speech like that.
My first thought was that something horrible had happened to Ashley. Turned out she was fine; the trauma hit a little closer to home. My parents told me they’d been accepted into the sabbk,="ed tatical program, and that the chance to work in Germany for two years was an amazing opportunity for them.
Then they got quiet and exchanged one of those long, meaningful looks that really didn’t bode well for me. They said they didn’t want to drag me to Germany with them, that they’d be busy while they were there, and that they wanted me to stay in an American school to have the best chance of going to a great college here. So they’d decided that while they were away, I’d be staying in the States.
I was equal parts bummed and thrilled. Bummed, of course, because they’d be an ocean away while I passed all the big milestones—SAT prep, college visits, prom, completing my vinyl collection of every Smashing Pumpkins track ever released.
Thrilled, because I figured I’d get to stay with Ashley and her parents.
Unfortunately, I was only right about the first part.
My parents had decided it would be best for me to finish high school in Chicago, in a boarding school stuck in the middle of high-rise buildings and concrete—not in Sagamore, my hometown in Upstate New York; not in our tree-lined neighborhood, with my friends and the people and places I knew.
I protested with every argument I could think of.
Flash forward two weeks and 240 miles to the conference table where I sat in a button-up cardigan and pencil skirt I’d never have worn under normal circumstances, the members of the Board of Trustees of St. Sophia’s School for Girls staring back at me. They interviewed every girl who wanted to walk their hallowed halls—after all, heaven forbid they let in a girl who didn’t meet their standards. But that they had traveled to New York to see me seemed a little out of the ordinary.
“I hope you’re aware,” said one of them, a silver-haired man with tiny round glasses, “that St. Sophia’s is a famed academic institution. The school itself has a long and storied history in Chicago, and the Ivy Leagues recruit from its halls.”
A woman with a pile of hair atop her head looked at me and said slowly, as if talking to a child, “You’ll have any secondary institution in this country or beyond at your feet, Lily, if you’re accepted at St. Sophia’s. If you become a St. Sophia’s girl.”
Okay, but what if I didn’t want to be a St. Sophia’s girl? What if I wanted to stay home in Sagamore with my friends, not a thousand miles away in some freezing Midwestern city, surrounded by private-school girls who dressed the same, talked the same, bragged about their money?
I didn’t want to be a St. Sophia’s girl. I wanted to be me, Lily Parker, of the dark hair and eyeliner and fabulous fashion sense.
The powers that be of St. Sophia’s were apparently less hesitant. Two weeks after the interview, I got the letter in the mail.
“Congratulations,” it said. “We are pleased to inform you that the members of the board of trustees have voted favorably regarding your admission to St. Sophia’s School for Girls.”
I was less than pleased, but short of running away, which wasn’t my style, I was out of options. So two months later, my parents and I trekked to Albany International.
Mom had booked us on the same airline, so we sat in the concourse together, with me between the two of them. Mom wore a shirt and trim trousers, her long dark hair in a low ponytail. My father wore a button-up shirt and khakis, his auburn hair waving over the glasseser t my on his nose. They were heading to JFK to connect to their international flight; I was heading to O’Hare.
We sat silently until they called my plane. Too nervous for tears, I stood and put on my messenger bag. My parents stood, as well, and my mom reached out to put a hand on my cheek. “We love you, Lil. You know that? And that this is what’s best?”
I most certainly didn’t know this was best. And the weird thing was, I wasn’t sure even she believed it, considering how nervous she sounded when she said it. Looking back, I think they both had doubts about the whole thing. They didn’t actually say that, of course, but their body language told a different story. When they first told me about their plan, my dad kept touching my mom’s knee—not romantically or anything, but like he needed reassurance, like he needed to remind himself that she was there and that things were going to be okay. It made me wonder. I mean, they were headed to Germany for a two-year research sabbatical they’d spent months applying for, but despite what they’d said about the great “opportunity,” they didn’t seem thrilled about going.
The whole thing was very, very strange.
Anyway, my mom’s throwing out, “It’s for the best,” at the airport wasn’t a new thing. She and dad had both been repeating that phrase over the last few weeks like a mantra. I didn’t know that it was for the best, but I didn’t want a bratty comment to be the last thing I said to them, so I nodded at my mom and faked a smile, and let my dad pull me into a rib-breaking hug.
“You can call us anytime,” he said. “Anytime, day or night. Or e-mail. Or text us.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “You’re our light, Lils,” he whispered. “Our light.”
I wasn’t sure whether I loved him more, or hated him a little, for caring so much and still sending me away.
We said our good-byes, and I traversed the concourse and took my seat on the plane, with a credit card for emergencies in my wallet, a duffel bag bearing my name in the belly of the jet, and my palm pressed to the window as New York fell behind me.
Good-bye, “New York State of Mind.”
Pete Wentz said it best in his song title: “Chicago Is So Two Years Ago.”
Two hours and a tiny bag of peanuts later, I was in the 312, greeted by a wind that was fierce and much too cold for an afternoon in early September, Windy City or not. My knee-length skirt, part of my new St. Sophia’s uniform, didn’t help much against the chill.
I glanced back at the black-and-white cab that had dropped me off in front of the school’s enclave on East Erie. The driver pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic, leaving me there on the sidewalk, giant duffel bag in my hands, messenger bag across my shoulder, and downtown Chicago around me.
What stood before me, I thought as I gazed up at St. Sophia’s School for Girls, wasn’t exactly welcoming.
The board members had told me that St. Sophia’s had been a convent in its former life, but it could have just as easily been the setting for a gothic horror movie. Dismal gray stone. Lots of tall, skinny windows, and one giant round one in the middle. Fanged, grinning gargoyles perched at each corner of the steep roof.
I tilted my head as I surveyed the statues. Was it weird that nuns had been guarded by tiny stone monsters? And were they supposed to keep people out . . . or in?
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