Some Girls Bite

CHAPTER FOUR

THE THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT . . .
ARE PROBABLY REGISTERED VOTERS
IN COOK COUNTY.
Having avoided my granddaughterly duty for two days, when I rose at sunset the next evening to an empty house, I showered, dressed in jeans and a fitted T-shirt that bore the image of a ninja (and certainly would have embarrassed Ethan), and drove to the West Side to my grandfather's house.
Unfortunately, even fight-happy Vampire Merit feared rejection, so I'd been standing on his narrow front stoop, unable to make myself knock, when the door opened with a creak. My grandfather peered out through the aluminum screen door. "You weren't going to come by and talk to your pop?"
Tears - of doubt, of relief, of love - immediately spilled over. I shrugged sheepishly at him.
"Ah, jeez, baby girl. Don't start that." He pulled open the screen door, held it open with his foot, and opened his arms. I moved into them, clenched him in a fierce hug. He coughed. "Easy now. You've got a little more push in those muscles than the last time we did this."
I released him and wiped the tears from my face. "Sorry, Grandpa."
He cupped my face in his bear-paw hands and kissed my forehead. "No worries. Come on in." I moved into the house and heard the closing of both doors behind me.
My grandfather's house - once my grandparents' house - hadn't changed in all the years I remembered it. The furniture was simple and homey, the walls adorned with family pictures of my aunts and uncles - my father's brother and two sisters and their families. My aunts and uncles had endured their upbringing with significantly more grace than my own father, and I envied their easy relationships with their children and my grandfather. No family was perfect, I knew, but I'd take imperfection over the farce of my social-climbing parents any day.
"Have a seat, honey. You want some cookies? I've got Oreos."
I grinned at him and sat down on the floral sofa. "No, thanks, Grandpa. I'm fine."
He sat on an ancient recliner positioned kitty-corner to the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Your father called me when the House called him." He paused. "You were attacked? Bitten?"
I nodded.
He looked me over. "And everything's okay now? You're okay?"
"I guess. I mean, I feel okay. I feel the same, except for the vampire part."
He chuckled, but his expression sobered fast enough. "Do you know about the attack on Jennifer Porter? That it was similar to your attack?"
I nodded again. "Mallory and I saw the press conference on television."
"Sure, sure." My grandfather started to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He was silent for a moment, the ticking of the wall clock the only sound in the house. He finally raised concerned eyes to mine. "Your father has asked that the police not be involved in your attack. But your name was in the paper, so the city will know that you were changed. That you're a vampire now."
"I know," I told him. "I've already gotten calls from reporters."
My grandfather nodded. "Of course. I would have expected that given your father's notoriety. Frankly, Merit, I'm not going to hinder a police investigation, not for crimes of this magnitude. I can't in good conscience do that, not when a killer is still out there. But I have enough pull to keep the nature of your transition under wraps but for a select few detectives. If we can limit access to that information, keep it on a need-to-know basis, you won't be called out as a potential victim of this killer. We can keep the press from hounding you about it, and you can learn to live as a vampire, not just as an attack victim. Okay?"
I nodded, tears beginning to well again. Say what you wanted about my father, but I loved this man.
"Now that said, while I'm not going to parade you through a bureau office, we still need an official interview for the record." He put a gnarly hand on my knee. "So why don't you tell me what happened in your own words?"
My grandfather, the cop.
I gave him the entire tale, from my walk across campus to my conversation with Ethan, Luc, and Malik, including their Rogue-vampire hypothesis. The general public may not know about the Rogues' existence, but I wasn't about to hide that fact from my grandfather. When I was done, he asked thoughtful questions - essentially walking me through the entire few days again, but this time pulling out details Ethan, Luc, and Malik hadn't discussed, like the fact that the attacker bailed upon seeing Ethan, apparently aware of who he was and unwilling to risk a one-on-one confrontation. When we'd walked through the events twice, he sat back in his recliner and scratched what little hair remained on the perimeter of his head. For all that his mind was impeccably sharp, he looked so much the grandpa - tucked-in flannel shirt, twill trousers, comfortable thick-soled shoes, gleaming pate.
He sat forward again, elbows on his knees. "So the Cadogan folks have concluded that Porter's death is connected to your attack?"
"I think they're willing to consider it a possibility."
After nodding thoughtfully, Grandpa rose and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, there was a manila folder in his hand. He sat down again and opened it, then flipped through some documents. "Twenty-seven-year-old white female. College educated. Brunette. Blue eyes. Slim build. She was attacked just after dusk, walking her dog through Grant Park. Her blood was drained, and she was left for dead." His pale blue eyes, which matched mine in color, watched me intently. "There are undeniable similarities."
I nodded, not thrilled that Grandpa agreed with Ethan's conclusion. But what was worse, the first vampire probably had meant to kill me. Which meant I was supposed to be his second victim and would have been - death by exsanguination in the middle of the quad - had Ethan not come along.
I really did owe Ethan for saving my life.
And I really didn't want to owe Ethan anything.
My grandfather reached out and patted my knee with a large callused hand. "I'd really like to know what you're thinking right now."
I frowned and picked a fingernail against the nubby fabric of the couch. "I'm alive. And I really do have Ethan Sullivan to thank for it, which is . . . disturbing." I looked up at my grandfather. "Someone was gunning for me. Because I look like Jennifer Porter? If so, why send the brick through my window? This guy wanted me dead, maybe for himself, maybe on someone else's behalf. And he's still out there." I shook my head. "Vampires coming out of the closet was bad enough. The city is not going to be prepared for this."
Grandpa patted my hand again, then rose from his chair and grabbed a jacket that lay across its arm. "Merit, let's go for a drive."
My grandfather, the man who cared for me for much of my childhood, announced to the family four years ago, following the death of my grandmother, that he was taking partial retirement. He told my sneering father that he was off the streets and would instead man a desk in the CPD's Detective Division, helping the active detectives with unsolved homicides.
But as we drove south in his gigantic Oldsmobile - think red velveteen upholstery - he confessed that he hadn't exactly told us the truth about his role with the CPD. He was still working for the city of Chicago, but in a wholly different capacity.
As it turned out, when vampires came out of the closet those eight months ago, my grandfather wasn't the least bit surprised.
"Chicago has had vamps for over a century," he said, hands at ten and two as he drove through the city's dark streets. "Navarre's been here since before the fire. Of course, the administration hasn't been in the know that long, only a few decades. But still, the Daleys knew about you. Tate knows about you. There aren't many in the upper echelon who don't." Eyes on the road, he leaned slightly sideways. "By the way, Mrs. O'Leary's cow had nothing to do with it."
"All that time and no one thought to tell the city that vampires were living among them? All that time, and no leaks? In Chicago? That's kind of impressive, actually."
My grandfather chuckled. "If you think that's impressive, you'll love this. Vamps aren't even the tip of the supernatural iceberg. Shape-shifters. Demons. Nymphs. Fairies. Trolls. The Windy City has pretty much every entry in the sup phone book. And that's where I come in."
I glanced over at him, brows raised. "What do you mean, that's where you come in?"
My grandfather started to speak, but stopped himself. "Let me start at the beginning?"
I nodded.
"All these supernatural contingents - they have disputes, too. Sniping between the Houses, fairy defections, boundary disputes among the River nymphs."
"Like, the Chicago River?"
My grandfather turned the car onto a quiet residential street. "How do you think they get the river green for St. Pat's?"
"I'd assumed dye."
He huffed out a sardonic sound. "If it were only that easy. Long story short, the nymphs control the branches and channels. You have River work to do, you call them first." He held up a hand. "So you see, this isn't just domestic disputes and petty theft. These are serious issues - issues the majority of the boys in blue don't have the training, the experience, to deal with. Well, Mayor Tate wanted a way to funnel these issues down to a central location, a single office. Folks who could handle the disputes, take care of things before they could affect the rest of the city. So four years ago, he created the Ombudsman's office."
I nodded, remembering Ethan's reference. "Ethan mentioned that, said something about having Mallory talk to the Ombud. They think she has magic. That she's a witch or something."
Grandpa made a sound of interest. "You don't say. Catcher will be interested to hear that."
"Catcher?" I asked. "Is he the Ombudsman?"
My grandfather chuckled. "No, baby girl. I am."
I froze, turned my head to stare at him. "What?"
"The Mayor likes to call me a 'liaison' between the regulars and the sups. Personally, I think 'liaison' is a bullshit bureaucrat word. But the Mayor asked me to serve, and I said yes. I'll admit it - I never came across any vamps or shifters when I walked the beat, and I was curious as all get out to meet these folks. I love this city, Merit, and don't mind making sure everybody gets a fair shake."
I shook my head. "I don't doubt that, but I don't know what to say about the rest of it. You were retired, Grandpa. You told us - you told me - that you were retired."
"I tried retirement," he said. "I even tried a stint in the evidence locker, a desk job. But I was a cop for thirty years. I couldn't do it. Wasn't ready to give it up. Cops have lots of skills, Merit. We mediate. We problem solve. Investigate." He shrugged. "I just do it for some slightly more complicated folks now. I started at a desk in City Hall, and now I have my own staff."
He explained that he'd hired four people. The first was Marjorie, his secretary, a fifty- year-old woman who'd become battle-hardened by twenty-five years of staffing phones in one of the city's more crime-ridden police bureaus. The second was Jeff Christopher, a twenty-one-year-old computer prodigy and, as it happened, a shape-shifter of as-of- yet-unidentified shape. The third was Catcher Bell. Catcher was twenty-nine and, my grandfather said, gruff. Warned my grandfather: "He's pretty, but he's wily. Give him a wide berth."
"That's only three," I pointed out when my grandfather paused.
Silence, then, "There's a vampire. Housed, but his colleagues don't know he works for me. He avoids the office unless absolutely necessary. They do the groundwork," my grandfather continued, "so all I have to do is step in and play good guy." I doubted he was as uninvolved as all that, but - especially in contrast with my father - the humility was refreshing. "You won't believe this," he said on a gravelly chuckle, "but I'm not as spry as I used to be."
"No!" I exclaimed, feigning shock, and he laughed in response. "I can't believe you've been keeping this from us. I can't believe you've been playing with magic for four years and didn't tell me. Me! The girl who wrote about King Arthur for a living."
He patted my hand. "It wasn't you that I was trying to keep the information from."
I nodded in understanding. My father's discovery of my grandfather's secret would have led to one of two results: arranging to have my grandfather fired, or trying to manipulate my grandfather to get closer to the Mayor. Ever scheming was my father.
"Still," I said, watching through the window as the city passed by, "you could've told me."
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm now your Ombudsman. And I'm taking you to our secret headquarters."
I looked over at him, watched him try unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Secret, huh?"
He nodded, very officially.
"Well, then," I said. "That makes all the difference."
The office of the Ombudsman was a low, unassuming brick building that stood at the end of a quiet block in a middle-class neighborhood on the city's South Side. The houses were modest but well tended, the yards surrounded with chain link fence. My grandfather parked the Olds along the curb, and I followed him up a narrow sidewalk. He tapped buttons on an alarm keypad on the wall next to the door, then unlocked the front door with a key. The interior of the building was equally unassuming, and looked like it hadn't gotten a style upgrade since the late 1960s. There was a lot of orange. A lot of orange.
"They work late," I noted, the interior well lit, even given the hours.
"Creatures of the night serving creatures of the night."
"You should put that on your business cards," I suggested.
We walked past a reception area and down a central hallway, then into a room on the right. The room housed four metal desks that were placed at intervals, two back-to-back set out from each facing wall. The front and back walls were covered by rows of gunmetal gray filing cabinets. Posters lined the white walls, most of gorgeous, scantily clad women with flowing hair. The prints looked like they were part of a series: Each featured a different woman wearing a tiny scrap of strategically placed fabric, but the "dresses" were cut in different colors, as were the pennants they held in their hands. One woman was blond, her dress blue, and she held a pennant that read "Goose Island." A second had long, raven-dark hair and was dressed in red. Her pennant read "North Branch." These, I surmised, were some of the Chicago River nymphs.
"Jeff. Catcher."
At my grandfather's voice, the men who sat at two of the desks looked up from their work. Jeff looked every bit the twenty-one-year-old computer prodigy. He was fresh- faced and cute, a tall, lanky guy with a mop of floppy brown hair. He wore trousers and a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled halfway up his lean arms, long fingers poised over an expansive set of keyboards.
Catcher had a solidly ex-military look about him - a muscular body beneath a snug olive T-shirt that read "Public Enemy Number One" and jeans. His head was shaved, his eyes pale green, his lips full and sensuous. Had it not been for the annoyed look on his face, I'd have said he was incredibly sexy. As it was, he just looked disgruntled. Wide berth, indeed.
Jeff grinned happily at my grandfather. "Hey, Chuck. Who's this?"
My grandfather put a hand at my back and led me farther into the room. "This is my granddaughter, Merit."
Jeff's blue eyes twinkled. "Merit Merit?"
"Just Merit," I said, and stuck out a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Jeff."
Rather than reaching out to take my outstretched hand, he stared at it, then looked up at me. "You want to shake? With me?"
Confused, I glanced back at my grandfather, but before he could answer, Catcher, his gaze on a thick ancient-looking book in front of him, offered, "It's because you're a vamp. Vamps and shifters aren't exactly friendly."
That was news to me. But then, up until twenty minutes ago, so were the existence of shifters and the rest of Chicago's supernatural citizens. "Why not?"
Catcher used two fingers to turn a thick yellowed page. "Aren't you the one who's supposed to know that?"
"I've been a vamp for three days. I'm not really up on the political nuances. I haven't even had blood yet."
Jeff's eyes widened. "You haven't had blood yet? Aren't you supposed to have some kind of crazy thirst after rising? Shouldn't you be, you know, seeking out willing victims for your wicked bloodlust?" His gaze made a quick detour to the stretch of T-shirt across my chest; then he grinned up at me through a lock of brown hair. "I'm O neg and completely healthy, if that matters."
I tried not to grin, but his enthusiasm over my notably un-buxom chest was endearing. "It doesn't, but thanks for the offer. I'll keep you in mind when the wicked bloodlust hits." I looked around for a chair, found an avocado green monstrosity behind one of the two empty metal desks, and sank into it. "Tell me more about this vamp-shifter animosity."
Jeff shrugged negligently and went back to tinkering with a vaguely octopus-shaped stuffed animal on his desk. A buzz sounded, and my grandfather pulled a cell phone from a hip holster, took a look at the caller ID screen, then glanced up at me. "I need to take this. Catcher and Jeff will get you started." He looked at Catcher. "She's trustworthy, and she's mine. She can know everything that's not marked Level One."
At my smile and nod, he turned and disappeared through the door.
I had no idea what Level One was, but I was pretty sure that was the stuff I'd really want to know. Or it was the stuff that would scare the crap out of me, so it was probably better not to press the point today.
"Now you can get the real scoop," Jeff said with a grin.
Catcher snorted and closed his book, then slid back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. "You met any vamps yet? Beyond Sullivan, I mean?"
I stared at him. "How did you - "
"Your name was in the paper. You're Cadogan's vamp, which mean's you're Sullivan's vamp."
My skin prickled. "I am not Sullivan's - "
But Catcher waved a hand. "Babe, not the point. The point is, and I'm guessing from that bristly tone you've met Sullivan and you understand at least the basics of vamp politics, that your people, and I use that term loosely, are a little particular."
I gave him a sly smile. "I've gotten that sense, yeah."
"Well, shifters aren't. Shifters are happy. They're people; then they're animals; then they're people again. What's not to be happy about? They live with their friends. They drink. They ride their Harleys. They party in Alaska. They have hot shifter sex."
At that revelation, Jeff winged up his eyebrows at me, an invitation in his eyes. I bit down on a grin and shook my head sternly in response. Apparently unruffled, he shrugged and turned back to his computer. Happily.
"Vampires, on the other hand," Catcher continued, "play chess with the world. Should we let people know about us, or shouldn't we? Are we friends with this House or that one? Do we bite people, or don't we bite people? Eek!" He bit down on a crooked finger dramatically.
"Wait," I said, holding up a hand, remembering something Ethan had said about Cadogan vamps. "Stop there. What's the story with the biting?"
Catcher scratched absently at his head. "Well, Merit, a long, long time ago - "
"On a continent far, far away," Jeff threw in.
Catcher chuckled, the sound low and sensual. "Way back when, Europe got pissy about its vamps. Figured out that aspen stakes and sunlight were the best treatment for an overabundance of vamps and took out most of the fanged population of Europe. Long story short, vamps eventually formed the precursor to the Greenwich Presidium, which made the survivors take an oath never to bite another unwilling human." He smirked.
"Instead, in true, manipulative vamp form, they found people who could be blackmailed, bribed, glamoured, whatever into giving it up for free."
"Why buy the cow?" I asked.
He nodded with approval. "Precisely. When the technology was developed to preserve blood, to bag it, most vamps turned away from humans. Immortality makes for long memories, and some Houses thought they'd be safer if they cut contact with humans almost completely, relied on bagged blood, or shared blood with each other." At my raised eyebrows, he added, "It happens. The vamp biology needs new blood, a new influx, so it's not a reliable source of nutrition. But it happens - sometimes ritually, sometimes to pass along strength."
Jeff's throat clearing filled the brief pause in Catcher's explanation. "And there's the other thing," he prompted, a flush coloring his cheekbones.
Catcher rolled his eyes. "And some vamps find there to be a . . . sensual component in sharing." I felt a blush cross my own cheeks and nodded studiously, trying not to think about the details of that act - or any green-eyed vamps it could be performed on.
"Anyway," Catcher continued, "as times changed, a few Houses, Cadogan included, gave their members the choice."
"To drink or not to drink," Jeff put in.
"That was the question," Catcher agreed. "Some vamps think humans are dirty and biting's a little too throwback. Cadogan takes heat on it. Not that doing it in secret is any better."
"Raves," Jeff said, with a knowing nod.
"What are raves?" I asked, leaning forward, eager to gather as much information as they were willing to pass along.
Catcher shook his head. "We'll save that sordid little chapter for another time."
"Okay, then what about vamps being particular?"
"Vamps think their politics, this House bullshit, is the biggest issue in the world. They think it outshines human concerns, world famine, whatever. And a lot of supernatural folks agree. Vamps are predators, alpha predators, and where vamps go, a lot of fey follow."
"Fey?"
"You know - sups. Supernaturals," he testily added, at my confused expression. "Anyway, angels, demons, your heavier sorcerers, they pay attention to the Houses. Who's screwing who, who's allied with who, all that crap. Shifters, on the other hand, could give a shit. They're just too laid back."
"And we're too neurotic?"
Catcher smiled. "Now you're getting the picture. Vamps don't appreciate that shifters are lackadaisical about their problems. Vamps want alliances. They collect friends they can rely on, especially the older ones that remember the European Clearings. Next time you're at Cadogan House, check the symbols above the front door. Those are alliance insignia; they show who Ethan's got signed up as allies. Really, they're backup in case humans get pissed or other Houses decide Cadogan's drinking is a little too risky. And because shifters don't play those kinds of games - Keene's never gonna post insignia over Ethan Sullivan's front door - vamps ignore them." Catcher sighed. "There are also rumors that shifters had the chance to step in during the Second Clearing, but chose not to act, not to become involved."
"Not to save lives?" I asked. Catcher nodded heavily, his expression tight, his gaze on Jeff, who looked to be working to ignore the direction of the conversation.
"I see. And who's Keene?"
"My pack leader," Jeff offered, looking up from his keyboard with a bright expression. "Gabriel Keene, Apex of the Central North American. He lives in Memphis."
"Huh." I stood up and paced from one end of the room to the other, then back again. The feast of information he'd just thrown at me - needed to be digested. "Huh."
"Verbal, this one," Catcher said. Then quickly added, "Jeff, quit staring at her ass."
There was throat clearing behind me before typing started again in earnest.
This was so much more complicated than I'd imagined. Granted, before the change, I hadn't thought much about vamps. The few thoughts I'd had - especially after watching Celina Desaulniers seduce her way through a Congressional hearing - weren't flattering. The few I'd had since - Well, they involved too much Ethan Sullivan and too little anything else.
"I'd love to know what you're thinking right now, babe."
I looked around, saw Catcher grinning knowingly, brows lifted as he waited for a response. I felt the blush to the roots of my hair, but waved a hand negligently. "Noth -  nothing. Just thinking."
His "Uh-huh" didn't sound convinced, so I turned the tables. "Where do you fit in all this?"
No response until, abruptly, Catcher sat up and began flipping through his book again. That was answer enough, I thought.
My grandfather stepped back into the office, and since Catcher was no longer broadcasting, he took the floor, giving his crew the basic facts on recent relevant events in my life - the bite, the threat, the challenge. When he'd given the full replay to Jeff and Catcher, he updated me on the investigation into Jennifer Porter's death. As a potential victim - and the three of them agreed that I'd been next in line - he thought it important to keep me informed.
Unfortunately, a lack of communication was standing in the way of progress on the investigation. Although the Navarre vamps promised to work with the CPD in solving the crime, they'd been tightlipped about their findings, if they had any. Grandpa's vampire connection helped fill in some blank spots, but in Catcher's words, the vamp was an enlisted man, not an officer, so his access to information was limited. Plus, the vamp was skittish about being labeled a traitor by his House, so he reported to the Ombud, not the CPD. That meant any information he did uncover had to be passed through channels. And even when it found its way to an investigator's desk, CPD detectives were still suspicious. Cops were old school; they didn't trust information from supernatural sources. Even my grandfather's thirty-four-year service record didn't immunize him from the prejudice. Many of the cops he worked with, served with, just thought he cavorted with phony weirdos.
More important, all the communication in the world couldn't help the fact that the only evidence recovered in Porter's death was the Cadogan medal. Detectives found no other physical evidence, no witnesses, and even the medal had been wiped clean of fingerprints. Unfortunately, with little else to go on, and plenty of prejudice in their favor, the CPD was loath to ignore Cadogan House as the source of their suspect.
By the time we'd gone over all that, I was seated at one of the empty desks, tapping a pencil absently against its top. I looked up, met Catcher's eyes. "Do we agree that he didn't do it?" I assumed I didn't need to specify who "he" was.
"He didn't do it," was Catcher's immediate response. "But that doesn't mean someone in Cadogan House wasn't involved."
Elbow on the desk, I put my chin on my hand, frowned at him. "He said he was interviewing the vamps that live in Cadogan House. He doesn't think Cadogan vamps were involved."
"Catcher didn't say a vamp from Cadogan House," my grandfather clarified. "He said someone in Cadogan House. We know a medal was taken from Cadogan. The House probably keeps extra medals on hand in case a vamp from another House defects or a pendant gets lost. And Commendation's coming up. That's when the medals are handed out to new vamps. They're there."
"And for the taking," Jeff pointed out.
Catcher stood up and stretched, his T-shirt riding up to reveal washboard abs and a circular tattoo on his stomach. Gruff was Catcher, but a little delicious.
"Vamps date out of their House," he said, dropping his arms. "And sometimes they bring their dates home. If the medals weren't properly secured, any of the visitors could have snagged one. And if Sullivan wasn't such a goddamn tight ass, he'd consider that."
"You two don't get along?" I asked.
Catcher chuckled and sat down at his desk again, the chair squeaking beneath him as he adjusted himself. "Oh, we get along fine. Sullivan and I go way back."
"How so?
He shook his head. "We don't have time for that story tonight. Suffice it to say" - he paused thoughtfully - "Sullivan appreciates my unique talents."
"Which are?"
Catcher chuckled gravelly. "Never on a first date, sunshine." He ran a hand over his buzzed skull and reopened the book on his desk. "And just because Sullivan and I are friends doesn't mean he's not a tight ass. And that doesn't mean he's willing to admit that he's wrong."
That being the most profoundly accurate statement I'd heard in days, I laughed heartily. "Oh, yeah," I said, patting my heart. "That gets me right here. Ethan said something about Rogue vampires being involved," I offered. "But it doesn't sound like they could have gotten into the House. I mean, security looked pretty tight."
"Rogues are one theory," Grandpa said. "And we've passed it along to the bureau."
"So that's your role in all this?" I asked. "Passing information along?"
"We're not investigators," Grandpa confirmed. "This office works more like a diplomatic corps. But since our vamp doesn't talk to cops, we've got access to information the cops don't have. The Mayor said to pass the info along, so we passed."
"And to be fair," Catcher added, "you and your little sorceress are involved now. That gives us incentive to pay attention and to get this wrapped up - and this psychopath off the streets - sooner rather than later."
I lifted an eyebrow, wondering how he'd learned about Mallory's secret identity, but he looked away. Sullivan, I guessed, had made a phone call.
My grandfather settled a hand on my shoulder. There were bags under his eyes I only just recognized, and I felt suddenly guilty for having waited so long to talk to him, for worrying him needlessly, even as I knew it wasn't me, but the loosed killer, who put the concern in his eyes now.
"That's all we've got," my grandfather said. "I know it isn't very satisfying, not when you've been a victim. When your life has been turned upside down."
I squeezed his hand, appreciating the validation. "Anything helps," I said, meeting each of their eyes to get my appreciation across. "It helps."
After a round of goodbyes, Grandpa walked me outside to await my cab. He locked up the building, then guided me to a wooden park bench that sat in one corner of the building's small, neatly clipped lawn.
"I still can't believe you're involved in all this," I told him. "There's so much going on in the city, and people think vamps are the sum total of it." I glanced over at him, worry in my gaze. "And you're right on the front lines."
Grandpa chuckled mirthlessly. "Let's hope it doesn't come to front lines. It's been eight months. Sure, the coming out was a little rocky, but things have been stable for months now. I wouldn't say humans have accepted vamps, but there seems to be a kind of . . . curiosity." He sighed. "Or we're in the eye of the hurricane. The lull before more rioting, chaos. And there's no telling what that might do to the balance of power. Like Catcher was saying, a lot of sups take the vamps' superiority for granted. They see them - you," he corrected, looking at me over his glasses, a move so much like my father's, it tripped my heart nervously, "as alpha predators. Sups tend to follow the vamps' lead because of that. But that loyalty, if you want to call it that, was conditioned on vamps staying out of the limelight. Keeping under the radar, keeping human eyes off the supernatural world. They've never had good PR, the vamps. And you saw those nymph posters in there?"
I nodded.
"Who's to say, if the nymphs set out to control Chicago, they couldn't?" He chuckled. "They'd have a pretty easy time getting the male population behind them. Although shifters are probably the only group with the numbers and power to take a national stand against the vamps. I don't think they're interested in that, but then again, we're dealing with unknowns." He shrugged.
"The truth is, Merit, this is the first supernatural outing in modern history, and it happened in the post-Harry Potter era. In the post-Lord of the Rings era. Humans are a little more comfortable thinking about supernatural beings, supernatural happenings, than they were in the days when witches and vampires burned. Hopefully, things will be different this time." He was quiet for a moment, giving us both the chance to consider that possibility - the possibility that we could all just, to put it tritely, get along. That was certainly better than imagining the worst-case scenario. Burnings. Lynchings. Inquisition-like proceedings. The kind of mob violence that arises when a majority fears the loss of its power, the unbalancing of the status quo.
When my grandfather began talking again, his voice was quieter. More solemn. Weighed down, maybe.
"There's just no precedent. I didn't make thirty-four years on the force by making random guesses, so I can't say what will happen or, if worse comes to worst, who would win. So we'll keep our eyes and ears open, hope the sups keep trusting us, and hope the Mayor steps in if it comes to that."
"It's a hell of a time to've been changed into a vampire." I sighed.
He laughed cheerfully - the sound sweeping away the sudden melancholy - and patted my knee. "That it is, baby girl. That it is."
The door opened behind us, and Catcher stepped outside, his boots clacking on the sidewalk. "Can I have a minute?" he asked my grandfather, inclining his head in my direction. Grandpa looked at me for permission, and I nodded. He leaned in and kissed my forehead, then put his hands on his knees and rose.
"I brought you here because I wanted you to know that you always have a safe place, Merit. If you need help or advice, if you have questions - whatever. You can always come here. We know what you're dealing with, and we'll help you if we can. Okay?"
I stood and gave him a hug. "Thanks, Grandpa. And I'm sorry it took me so long to come by."
He patted my back. "That's no problem, baby girl. I knew you'd call when you'd had a chance to come to terms."
I didn't think I'd come to terms, but I didn't argue the point.
"Give her some cards," Grandpa directed and, after a quick wave, shuffled back into the building. Catcher pulled a handful of business cards from his pocket and handed them over. They bore only a phone number with the label "OMBUD."
"Consider it a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card," Catcher explained, then sat down on one end of the slatted bench seat. He stretched out, slouching low and crossing his feet at the ankles. "So, you challenged Sullivan," he finally said.
"Not on purpose. I went to Cadogan to show him the note. I was pissed about being changed, but I didn't intend to argue with him about it."
"And what happened?"
I bent down to pluck a dandelion from the dewy grass next to the bench and twirled it in my hand, sending a cloud of ephemeral seeds into the air. "Ethan said something inordinately possessive, and it got to me. I challenged him. I think the vamp genetics were a little more eager for a fight than I was, but he offered me a deal - to release me from my obligations to the House if I landed a punch."
Catcher slid me a glance. "I take it you didn't?"
I shook my head. "I ended up on my back on the floor. But I got a few moves in. I held my own. And he didn't land a blow either. He seemed surprised that I was strong. That I was fast."
Catcher blew out a breath while he nodded. "If you held your own against Sullivan, your reflexes are better than they should be for a baby vamp. And that means, Initiate, that you're going to have some power. What about smell? Hearing? Any improvement?"
I shook my head. "Not much above normal, unless I get angry."
Catcher seemed to consider that, tilting his head to regard me. "That's . . . interesting. Could be those powers aren't online yet."
A motorcycle raced down the dark street, and we were quiet until it disappeared around the block.
"If you want to harness your power," Catcher continued, "whatever that power may be, you'll need training. Vamps have their own traditions of sword work - offensive moves, defensive patterns. You need to learn them."
Having depleted the dandelion of its seeds, I dropped the empty stem to the ground. "If I'm stronger, why do I need training?"
"You're going to be a power, Merit, but there's always someone stronger. Well, unless you're Amit Patel, but that's not the point. Trust me - there's going to be lots of vampire kiddies who want to take you for a spin. You'll invite challenges from good guys and bad guys alike. To stay healthy, merely being stronger or faster won't be enough. You need moves." He paused, nodded. "And until the CPD brings this murderer in, it'd help if you could handle yourself. It'd make Chuck feel better, and if Chuck feels better, I feel better."
I smiled collegially, appreciative that my grandfather had Catcher at his back. "Can Jeff handle himself?"
Catcher made a sarcastic sound. "Jeff's a fucking shifter. He doesn't need martial arts to get around in the world."
"And you? Do you need martial arts?"
In lieu of answering, he flicked his hand in my direction. A burst of blue light flew from his open fingers, aiming straight for my head. Immediately, I dropped into a crouch again, then angled to the side as he shot a second burst. With an electric sizzle, the bursts exploded a shower of sparks.
I snapped my gaze back to the low-slung man on the bench, muttering a string of curses that would have turned even my grandfather's ears red. "What the hell are you?"
Catcher stood and extended a hand to help me up. I took it, and he pulled me to my feet. "Not people."
"A witch?"
His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What did you just call me?"
I'd obviously offended him, so I backtracked. "Um . . . Sorry. I'm a little unclear on all the . . . right labels."
He watched me for a moment, then nodded. "Accepted. That's a pretty big insult for someone like me."
I didn't tell him that the vamps threw the word around with casual ease. "And what is that, exactly?"
"I am - was - a fourth-class sorcerer, proficient in the minor and major, greater and lesser Keys."
"Keys?"
"The divisions of power. Of magic," he added at my blank stare. "But because I made the Order's shit list" - he pointed down at the words on his T-shirt - "I've been excommunicated."
"The Order? Is that a church?"
"More like a union. I was a member."
Although I understood the words he used, I had no context in which to place anything he'd said, so none of it made sense. (I needed a guidebook. A big, thick, illustrated, tabbed, and indexed guidebook to the sups of Chicago. Did they make those?) But the part about his being excommunicated was clear enough, so I focused there. "You're a magical rogue?"
He shrugged. "Close enough. Back to you. I'll train you."
"Why?" I looked back at the building, then flicked him a suspicious glance. "You can shoot blue lightning from your hands, but you're working in a run-down building on the South Side with my grandfather. Training me will take time away from your work" - I pointed at his T-shirt - "and whatever other supernatural business you've got going on. Besides, isn't that the vamps' job?"
"Sullivan will clear it."
"Why?"
"Because he will, Nosy. Weapons, objects of power, are the second Key. That's my bag, my specialty, and Sullivan knows it."
"And why do you care who trains me?"
Catcher looked at me for a long time, long enough that crickets began to chirp around us. "Partly because Chuck asked me to. And partly because you have something of mine. And the time will come when it's up to you to protect it. I need to know you'll be ready for that."
I took my own pause. "Are you serious?"
"Very."
I stuffed my hands into my pockets, tilted my head at him. "What am I protecting?"
Catcher just shook his head. "Not the time for that."
It was "not time" for all the good stuff, I thought as my cab turned onto the block and stopped at the curb before us.
"Tomorrow at eight thirty," Catcher said, then gave me an address I guessed was in River North. I walked toward the waiting cab and opened the back door.
"Merit."
I glanced back.
"She needs training, and a lot of it. The last thing I need is another misguided neophyte screwing around with the lesser Keys."
Sullivan had definitely made a call about Mallory. "How do you know that?" I asked him.
Catcher snorted. "Knowing things is what I do."
"Well, then, you know she's not taking the news well. Maybe you should give her a call. What with the fangs and serial killer, I'm full up on supernatural drama at the moment."
He grinned at me, white teeth flashing. "Babe, you're a vampire. Deal with it."
Mallory was asleep when I got home, tucked safely into bed. And why wouldn't she be safe with a pair of armed guards outside? I headed straight for the fridge. The bags of blood still held no appeal, so I grabbed an apple and munched at the kitchen counter, flipping through the day's paper. The front page featured a picture of Mayor Tate, tall and darkly handsome, under the headline Mayor Announces New Anticrime Measures.
I snorted, wondering what the readership would think if they understood the anticrime measures being employed in a small brick building on the South Side.
After flipping through the paper, I checked the clock. It was two a.m., hours before sleep would pull me under. I was debating a hot bath when a knock sounded at the door. I headed to the living room, chucking the apple core on the way, and checked the peephole. The nose and hair were distorted by the angle, but there was no mistaking a blond, pissed-off vampire in black Armani. I flipped the locks and pulled the door open.
"Good evening, Ethan."
His gaze immediately dropped to the ninja print across my chest. I got an arched brow for the fashion choice - at least, that was how I chose to interpret the disdain - before he raised flame green eyes to mine.
"You think to bring down my House by spying on us?"
Anticipating Fight Number Two, I sighed but invited him in.