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 á 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.”