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He made a Master-vampire-worthy huff. "As Master of the House - "
" - it's your duty to give me the benefit of the doubt," I finished for him. "And to motivate me when you can." I glanced at him. "Challenge me, Ethan, if you need to. I understand a challenge; I can rise to it. But work from the assumption that I'm trying, that I'm doing my best." I glanced out the window. "That's what I need to hear."
He was quiet so long I thought I'd angered him. "You are so young," he finally said, poignancy in his voice. "Still so very human."
"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."
"Frankly, Merit, neither am I."
Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the circle drive in front of my parents' blocky Oak Park home. The house was a stylistic orphan, completely different from the Prairie-style,
Wright-homage houses around it. But my parents had had enough sway over Chicago's political administration to get the plans approved. So here it sat, a rectangular box of pasty gray concrete in the middle of picturesque Oak Park.
Ethan stopped the Mercedes in front of the door and handed the keys to one of the ubiquitous valets that apparently haunted these kinds of galas.
"The architecture is... interesting," he said.
"It's atrocious," I replied. "But the food's usually pretty good."
I didn't bother knocking at the front door, nor did I wait to get an invitation into the house. Like it or not, this was my ancestral home; I figured I didn't need an invitation.
More importantly, I hadn't bothered on my first trip back to the house shortly after I'd been changed. And here I was, the prodigal daughter, making her return.
Pennebaker, the butler, stood just inside the concrete-and-glass foyer, his skinny, stiff frame bowing at each passing guest. His nose lifted indignantly when I approached him.
"Peabody," I said in greeting. I loved faking him out.
"Pennebaker," he corrected in a growl. "Your father is currently in a meeting. Mrs. Merit and Mrs. Corkburger are entertaining the guests." He slid his steely gaze to Ethan and arched an eyebrow.
"This is Ethan Sullivan," I interjected. "My guest. He's welcome."
Pennebaker nodded dismissively, then looked back to the guests behind us.
That hurdle passed, I led Ethan away and began the trek toward the long concrete space at the back of the first floor where my parents entertained. Along the way, bare, angular hallways terminated in dead ends. Steel mesh blinds covered not windows but bare concrete walls. One stairway led to nothing but an alcove showcasing a single piece of modern art that would have been well suited to the living room of a maniacal serial killer. My parents called the design "thought-provoking," and claimed it was a challenge to the architectural mainstream, to people's expectations of what "stairways" and "windows" were supposed to be.
I called the design "contemporary psychopath." The space was packed with people in black-and-white clothing, and a jazz quintet provided a sound track from one of the room's corners. I glanced around, looking for targets. There were no Breckenridges in sight, and my father was equally absent. Not that that was a bad thing. But I found something just as interesting near the bank of windows that edged one side of the room.
"Prepare yourself," I warned him with a grin, and led him into the fray.
They stood together, my mother and sister, eyes scanning the crowd before them, heads together as they gossiped. And there was no doubt they gossiped. My mother was one of the ruling matrons of Chicago society, my sister an up-and-coming princess.
Gossip was their bread and butter.
My mother wore a conservative gown of pale gold, a sheath and bolero jacket well suited for her trim frame. My sister, her hair as dark as mine, wore a pale blue sleeveless cocktail dress. Her hair was pulled back, a thin, glossy black headband keeping every dark strand in place. And in her arms, currently chewing on her tiny, pudgy fist, was one of the lights of my life. My niece, Olivia.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
My mother turned, frowned and touched fingers to my cheek. "You look thin. Are you eating?"
"More than I've ever eaten in my life. It's glorious." I gave Charlotte a half hug. "Mrs.Corkburger."
"If you think having my daughter in my arms will prevent me from swearing at you,"
Charlotte said, "you are sorely mistaken." Without batting an eyelash - and without explaining why she planned on swearing at me - she passed over my eighteen-month-old niece and the nubby burp cloth that rested on her shoulder.
" Mehw, mehw, mehw," Olivia gleefully sang, hands clapping as I took her in my arms. I was pretty sure she was singing my name. Olivia, having missed out on the dark-haired Merit gene, was as blond as her father, Major Corkburger, with a halo of curls around her angelic face and bright blue eyes. She was wearing her party best, a sleeveless pale blue dress the same color as Charlotte's, with a wide blue satin ribbon around the waist.
And by the way, yes. My brother-in-law's given name really was Major Corkburger. But for the fact that he was a blond-haired, blue-eyed former college quarterback, I'd have assumed he got the crap beat out of him in high school on a daily basis for that one.
Nevertheless, I rarely failed to remind him that he was, in fact, a major Corkburger. I don't think he thought that was funny.
"Why are you going to swear at me?" I asked Charlotte, once I'd arranged Olivia and placed the cloth prophylactically on my shoulder.
"First things first," she said, eyes on Ethan. "We haven't been introduced."
"Oh. Mom, Charlotte, this is Ethan Sullivan."
"Mrs. Merit," Ethan said, kissing my mother's hand. "Mrs. Corkburger." He did the same to my sister, who nibbled the edge of her lip, one eyebrow arched in obvious pleasure.
"It is just... lovely to meet you," Charlotte intoned, then crossed her arms. "And how have you been treating my little sister?"
Ethan snuck a glance my way.
Don't look at me, I silently told him, assuming he could hear me. This was your idea.
You got yourself into it, so you can get yourself out. I couldn't hold back a grin.
Ethan rolled his eyes, but seemed amused. "Merit is a very unique vampire. She has a certain..."
We all leaned forward a little, eager to catch the verdict.
"... star quality."
He looked at me when he said it, a hint of pride in his emerald green eyes.
I was stunned enough that I couldn't quite manage to get out a thank-you, but there must have been sufficient shock in my eyes that he couldn't have missed it.
