Lucky Break (11 page)

Unless Brody was driving.

“May I?” he asked, meeting Ethan's gaze in the rearview mirror, not doing a very good job of fighting back a smile. Brody had been a new guard, and he was still pink around the edges. But he did have one particularly enviable skill.

The boy could handle a car.

He was Chicago's version of the Transporter—master of the smooth ride, but equally adept at weaving and dodging through Chicago's gnarly traffic. Luc had given Brody a dressing-down the first time he rode with him. But when the time came to assign Ethan a driver, he turned to Brody first.

“If you can get us there in one piece,” Ethan said, and managed not to flinch when Brody dashed into traffic like a cheetah in pursuit.

Brody just avoided nicking a cab, then slipped smoothly into a gap in the other lane.

I'm not sure when I'm going to get used to this,
Ethan said silently, using the telepathic connection between us.

You're just irritated you aren't the one driving.

I have a Ferrari for just such occasions. And speaking of occasions, what was Mallory's and Catcher's production about?
She looked upset.

I'm not sure,
I admitted.
But if it was really bad news, I don't think she'd have arranged a picnic.
There were plenty of milestones that might merit a picnic, but I wasn't sure they'd put that look on her face.

I'll call her,
I promised,
and ferret out the truth.
But for now, let's deal with vampires.

Dead Spin

Fifteen minutes later, miraculous timing for Chicago, Brody turned off Woodlawn, tires squealing as he veered toward the House, its white stone glowing beneath heavy moonlight.

Media vans clustered outside the tall iron fence that bounded the House's large grounds, their antennas extended, reporters and cameramen on the sidewalk with equipment in hand.

The gate in the fence was closed—something I'd rarely seen—the black-clad human guards we hired out to protect the House staring down the reporters with open malice that made me appreciate them even more.

Our wealthy Hyde Park neighbors stood on their stoops or porches and stared grimly at the activity, probably already composing their letters to the editor—or to Ethan—protesting late-night vampiric shenanigans.

I sent Luc a message, advising him we'd reached our destination, as Brody pulled the car to a stop beside the nearest van.

Ethan was out of the car before we could stop him. As I followed him, scabbarded katana in hand, a red bus with V
AMPIRE
T
OURS OF
C
HIC
AGO
in white letters across the side rolled slowly down the street, tourists gawking out of windows, the driver's narration ringing through the darkness.

“. . . Cadogan House, the city's second oldest House behind Navarre. And, ladies and gentlemen, grab your cameras, because that's Ethan Sullivan and Merit right there on the street!”

I waved politely for the camera flashes and shouts from tourists—no point in making things worse—but muttered a curse as soon as my back was turned. “Keep the bus moving,” I told Brody, when he met me on the sidewalk. “Let's not drag the tourists into whatever this is.”

Brody nodded, jogged toward the bus, and directed it down the street.

The reporters ignored the onlookers—they were too busy with Ethan. Like sharks in the water, they'd scented blood, begun to circle.

“Ethan! Ethan! Who is Balthasar? What's he to you?”

“Is he in Chicago to cause trouble? Is Cadogan House in danger? Or Hyde Park?”

“Tell us about the reunion he has planned!”

Ethan, eyes silver with emotion, focused his dangerous gaze on the reporter closest to him. There was nothing kind in his expression, and very little that was human. “What did you say?”

I had to give the reporter credit. The smell of his fear soured the air, but he kept his knees locked and his eyes on Ethan, and didn't step back even beneath Ethan's withering glare. And what's worse, he must have seem something in Ethan's eyes, some hint of dismay that triggered his own instincts. His lips turned up in a hungry smile.

“Who is Balthasar?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why are you avoiding the question?”

Ethan took another step forward, magic rising in an invisible cloud behind him. Dread settled low in my belly, both at the fiasco someone had arranged, and Ethan's potentially explosive reaction to it.

I positioned myself behind Ethan.

I caught sight of movement to my left, found Brody, Luc, and Lindsey (Luc's girlfriend, one of the House's guards, and my best House buddy) moving cautiously toward us.

“I am not avoiding the question,” Ethan said quietly, every word bathed in rage. “I'm wondering why so many members of the media have come to my home and are disrupting the neighborhood with inquiries about a vampire who's been dead for centuries.”

“Dead?” the reporter asked, his gaze searching Ethan's as if for weak spots. “That's not the information we've received.”

Ethan's lip curled, and I took a careful step forward, just in case I needed to haul him back.

“Balthasar is dead. Any information you received to the contrary is mistaken.”

All heads turned when a sleek black limousine raced up the street and pulled to a stop outside the House. While the reporters redirected their cameras, a liveried driver climbed out and opened the back door.

As I unsheathed my katana, a vampire stepped out.

Ethan had kept a miniature portrait in a drawer in his office, an oval painting barely two inches across, its frame delicately gilded. The man in the frame had straight dark hair, pale skin, almost preternaturally symmetrical features. Straight, long nose, dark eyes, lips pulled into a near smirk.

Then the man in the portrait had worn a white cravat and a vest and coat in regal crimson, and his hair had been straight and dark, pulled into a queue at the back of his neck.

Now his hair was different—shorter around the sides and back, longer in front, so dark locks fell dramatically across his face. He'd exchanged the period clothing for black pants and a long coat, and there were scars across his neck, a web of crisscrossing lines that rose just above the coat's mandarin collar and told of something harsh and ugly . . . but something he'd clearly survived.

He was attractive, undeniably so, with the look and bearing of a dark prince, a man used to having the attention of men and women, and reveling in it. And he was undeniably the same vampire as the one in Ethan's portrait.

The entire crowd around us—reporters, cameramen, guards, vampires—went eerily silent as he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Ethan. A mourning dove cooed from a nearby rooftop—once, twice, three times, as if calling a warning. A cold sweat inched down my spine, despite the chill in the new spring air.

The vampire let his gaze drift from Luc, to me, before settling on Ethan. There was much in his expression—anger, regret, fear. All of that tempered with hope.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, evaluating, watching, preparing.

I took cautious steps forward, one after another, until I stood beside Ethan with my katana extended, ready to strike.

The vampire's eyes suddenly changed. They narrowed, darkness peeking through them like a demon at the door. The color turned, blue darkening and shifting to swimming quicksilver.

And then his magic—warm, heady, and spicy; whiskey spiked with cloves—burst through the air like lightning. He bared his fangs, longer than any I'd seen, thin and dangerous as needles, and that trickle of sweat became a cold slick that matched the wave that rolled through my abdomen.

Ethan's eyes widened with amazement, with horror.

My first instinct was to move, to protect. But magic had thickened the air like molasses; merely lifting a hand through it brought beads of sweat to my brow. I glanced around, found the other vampires around us similarly still.

Once upon a time, vampire glamour had been a crucial skill for luring and seducing humans. Master vampires also used the psychic skill to call the vampires they'd turned, to psychically pull them to the Master's side. By stroke of luck, or the unusual circumstances of my turning, I could feel glamour, but I was largely immune to the effects. So why was this magic affecting me?

Hold,
Ethan said silently, the word heavy and lumbering as if he'd had to force it out through a syrup of magic.

And then Ethan uttered one word aloud. A word that would change everything.

“Balthasar.”

Ethan said the name with utter conviction, equal to his previous certainty that Balthasar had been dead. I wanted to demand this vampire produce his bona fides. But Ethan seemed to need no further convincing.

The word was like a charm, a key that unlocked the viscous magic. In the space of a blink, it dissipated, pouring across us like a northern wind. And just as quickly, now freed of our magical bonds, the world erupted with movement, with noise. Reporters, apparently unaware of the delay, rushed forward, shouted questions, microphones and cameras pointed like weapons.

Ethan took a step backward, shock etched in his face, in his eyes.

I lifted my sword, moved between them, putting my body and blade between Ethan and the vampire he now stared at. The vampire he apparently believed was the one who had made him.

Luc, Brody, and Lindsey moved behind us, katanas drawn, a steel shield against the horde of reporters.

Balthasar cast a mild glance at me and my sword before shifting his gaze to Ethan again.

“It has been a long time,” he said, his accent faintly French, his words softly lyrical. But that demon still lurked behind his eyes. He was a Master from a different time, a man who demanded loyalty, who defined the world for his vampires.

Ethan's internal struggle was clear on his face—he was torn between biological loyalty to the vampire who'd made him and hatred of the monster he'd been and tried to make of Ethan.

“A very long time,” Ethan cautiously agreed.

“There is much to say.”

“So it appears,” Ethan said. He gestured toward the reporters around him. “You arranged all this?”

“I believed it was the only way to secure an audience with you.”

“For what purpose?”

“To give voice to long-unspoken things. To make amends. There is . . .” Balthasar paused, obviously selecting his words carefully. ”. . . a void when one of your children is separated from you, as we have been for so long. At this time in my life, I find that void more painful.”

Ethan just watched him, as one predator might watch another, with careful consideration. “We have been apart for a very long time. I believed you were dead.”

“And there is a very long story to tell.” He let his gaze slip back to the House. “Perhaps we can discuss it?”

Another long moment passed as Ethan looked at Balthasar, his expression blank but his energy suddenly hot, as if centuries of anger and frustration had finally ignited.

Step back, Merit
. Ethan's order was contrary to my mission. But before I could argue, he repeated it again.

Step back, Sentinel.

The second I moved, Ethan's fist was up. With a sickening crunch of cartilage, he slammed it into Balthasar's face, and the scent of blood filled the air.

The crowd erupted again, magic flaring from the Cadogan vampires. I stepped closer to Ethan, and Luc did the same, both of us ready to move should Balthasar attempt a response.

Slowly, he shifted his gaze back to Ethan, pressed the back of a hand to his nose. His eyes sparked with obvious shock that someone would dare to challenge him, much less a vampire to whom he'd gifted immortality.

“Comme tu as changé, mon ami
.
”

“Oui c'est vrai. La vie m'a changé,”
Ethan said, in perfect French I hadn't known he spoke. His voice was low and threatening, and utterly Masterly.

Balthasar pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing genteelly at the cut.
“Ça va
.
Je comprends.”

“And let us be clear,” Ethan continued in English. “I am no longer a human, nor a boy, nor the child you once knew. Don't
ever
call me again.”

Luc stepped forward, put a hand on Ethan's arm. “Perhaps we should take this inside, away from the paparazzi? I think we've given them enough for one night.”

Is it safe to let him in the House?
I asked Ethan silently.

And where else would we put him, Sentinel? I'd rather have him under watch than roaming the city.

“Get everyone inside,” Ethan said as camera shutters winked open and closed around us. “Take him to my office.”

I knew Ethan was right, but couldn't help thinking of the fox in our proverbial henhouse.

Luc nodded, gestured Balthasar toward the House. Balthasar nodded regally, as if he were being shown to the king's own chambers, and stepped forward as the guards opened the gate.

I slid my katana back in its scabbard and stood quietly with Ethan in the rain of flashes.

He sighed, ran his hands through his hair. “Of all the gin joints in all the world.”

“And he walks into yours,” I finished for him.

Ethan glanced back at me, and I saw the dread in his eyes. He'd confessed to me some of the things he'd done, the way he and Balthasar had worked their way across Europe, the women and blood they'd taken, until Balthasar had finally gone too far. But it had taken time for him to tell me. He'd been concerned my feelings would change if I knew who he'd been and what he'd done.

But didn't that make him
more
? The fact that he could have continued to follow Balthasar, to debauch his way across Europe, and hadn't. That he'd worked to free himself from a vampire whose psychic powers were undeniably strong. That he'd become a different kind of vampire, a true Master.

I couldn't change the fact that Balthasar waited inside the House. But I could give him comfort. A reminder. So as cameras flashed around us, I took his hand.

He is your past,
I said silently, and nodded toward the House that glowed warmly beyond the gate.
We are your present and future. Face him on your territory, and let the reckoning take place there.
And if he gets out of line, use that right cross and lay him out.

Ethan smiled with obvious reluctance. “It may get ugly. Likely will before all is said and done.”

I squeezed his hand. “Unfortunately, I think that's guaranteed. But if things get too ugly, I'll lay you both out.”

***

Ethan's office was spacious and as beautifully decorated as the rest of the House. There was a desk on one side, a sitting area across from it, and a conference table that spanned the back wall.

Balthasar stood in the middle of the room, taking in the furniture, décor, mementos of Ethan's life. Was he evaluating what he'd lost in Ethan's revolution, or what he stood to gain if he could bring Ethan into the fold once again?

Luc stood in the sitting area, arms crossed and expression suspicious, beside Malik, Ethan's second-in-command.

Malik was tall and lean, with thoughtful pale green eyes that set off dark skin. His stance mirrored Luc's, and he was the only one in the room who wore the official Cadogan House uniform—slim-cut black suit, white button-down shirt. A silver teardrop, the Cadogan House medal, was suspended at the base of his throat.