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"Whatever the source, Sentinel, we have the information now. Let's use it, shall we?"
I bit back a grin, amused that I'd reverted back to "Sentinel." I was "Merit" when Ethan needed something, "Sentinel" when he was responding to my snark. Admittedly, that was frequently.
"They're going to be suspicious that Merit wants back in," Luc pointed out. "Which means she's going to need a cover story."
"And not just a cover story," Ethan said, "but a cover story that can make it past her father."
We pondered that one silently. As head of Merit Properties, one of the city's biggest real estate management companies, my father was enough of a salesman to know when he was being conned.
"How about a little familial gloating?" Luc finally asked.
Ethan and I both looked at him. "Explain," Ethan ordered.
Luc frowned, scratched absently at his cheek, and relaxed back into the sofa. "Well, I think you laid it out earlier. She's a member of a key Chicago family, and now Sentinel of one of the oldest American Houses. So she plays the youngest daughter making her triumphant return to the society that once scorned her. You start with her father - approach him first. She plays cool, confident, standoffish, like she's finally come into that famed Merit attitude." He clapped, apparently for emphasis. "Boom. The patriarch welcomes her back into the fold."
Ethan opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "That's an interesting analysis."
"Dynasty reruns have been rolling nonstop on cable," Luc said.
Huh.
That was an interesting bit of information about our guard captain.
Ethan stared at him for a moment before offering, "Pop culture notwithstanding, your plan would require some considerable acting on Merit's part." He slid me an appraising (and none too flattering) glance. "I'm not sure she's equipped."
"Hey." With a chuckle, and without thinking of who he was or the authority he held over me, I punched Ethan lightly on the arm. Fortunately he didn't jump out of his seat and pound me, although he did stare at the spot on his tidy black suit jacket where I'd made contact.
"Look, I know acting isn't exactly my background, but I'm pretty sure I can fake being pretentious." I did have one hell of a teacher. "But I actually have a better idea."
Ethan arched his eyebrows. "We're all ears, Sentinel."
"Robert," I said. "He's our cover story."
Despite our ongoing estrangement, or maybe because of it, my father had approached me a few weeks ago, on the evening of my twenty-eighth birthday no less, to ask that I help my brother Robert, who was poised to take over Merit Properties, make inroads with the city's supernaturally endowed population. I'd declined for a number of reasons, the speed with which Ethan would punish what he imagined to be my pro-human treachery first among them. My dislike for my father, though, ran a real close second.
I'd corrected my father's assumptions about what I "owed" my family in strong enough terms that he would wonder why I was coming back. But if he thought I was willing to help Robert make connections with sups, my guess was that he'd bypass wondering and move right into gloating.
"That's not bad," Ethan said. "And when you secure an audience with your father, which you can work on this evening, you'll be delivering him one hell of a connection."
It was my turn to lift sardonic brows. "And that would be?"
"Me, of course."
Yeah. That was exactly the pretension I was referring to earlier.
Luc looked at me. "You'll want to call the family as soon as you have a chance. Let them know you want to return to the fold. Ask them if there's anything on the social calendar that looks interesting."
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"Well, now that we've arranged a strategy," Ethan said, slapping his knees and rising from his seat, "you're dismissed. Luc, make the arrangements we discussed."
The arrangements they'd discussed? As in, past tense?
"Wait a minute," I said, lifting a finger as Ethan walked back to his desk. "How much of this little plan had you two already decided on before I walked in?"
He offered Luc a thoughtful look. "What, Lucas, all of it?"
"Pretty much," Luc said, nodding.
"Never underestimate the power of staff buy-in," Ethan said, glowing with Gordon Gecko-worthy smugness. I humphed.
Luc, the traitor, grabbed a celery stick from our spread, then rose from the couch, patting my shoulder as he walked past, a gesture that was equal parts camaraderie and condescension. "But thanks for coming to the party, Sentinel. We appreciate you sparing us some of your time."
Ethan's chair squeaking, he situated himself behind his desk, then ran hands through his hair and squinted at his computer monitor.
"If we're done," I said, "I'm going back upstairs."
Luc settled into the chair in front of Ethan's desk while Ethan attended to his e-mail, or whatever business electronically preoccupied him. He poised his fingers above the keyboard, and like a pianist's, they flew across the keys. "Do that, Sentinel. Do that."
Luc munched the end of his celery stick, then waved the stalk of it at me. "Have a great evening, Sunshine."
I left them to their gloating.
Chapter Five
TALKIN' 'BOUT FREEDOM
I'd never been much for chatting on the phone. I'd been obsessed with books and ballet growing up and wasn't the kind of teenager who spent an evening at home, cordless pressed to my ear. That meant I'd never really gotten used to it. Sure, I occasionally called my older brother and sister, Robert and Charlotte, to check in, and when I was still in school, I called Mallory to arrange lunch dates in the Loop, but chatting up Joshua and Meredith Merit was a bird of an altogether different feather. Of course, it was nearly midnight, so there was at least a chance that my parents were asleep, prepping for another day in the upper echelon of Chicago society.
That debate - were they asleep, or weren't they - was why I spent the first hour after returning to my room with a granola bar and book in hand. It was only when I didn't think I could put it off any longer that I sat cross-legged on my bed, staring at the phone in my hand, cursing the loyalty oaths I'd sworn to one Ethan Sullivan.
I took a breath, steeled myself, dialed my parents' number, and was pleasantly surprised to get a crisp and carefully scripted answering machine message.
"You have reached the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Merit," my mother said. "I'm afraid we're unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message following the tone."
