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We drove to Ukrainian Village in silence. When we arrived, Ethan pulled the Mercedes into a slot on the street. We were early for ConPack, but it was still late on a Friday night for the rest of the neighborhood, which was quiet and mostly empty of traffic. We got out of the car, buckled on our katanas, and walked toward St. Bridget's, which was well lit by streetlights and spotlights in the landscaping.
I stopped for a moment to gaze up at the cathedral.
"Cathedral" was definitely an appropriate moniker. St. Bridget's was a gorgeous building, with peach-colored stone and a handful of towers topped by turquoise domes that looked like ski hats. A giant stained-glass window was set into the front of the building, its three rectangular panels showing a pastoral scene of trees and butterflies, a fawn reclining peacefully in the middle.
The church was an architectural jewel in the midst of the working-class neighborhood, like a lost remnant from an ancient fairy tale - a page that history forgot to turn, transported from the deep woods of Eastern Europe to the west side of Chicago.
It was, however, very much like the neighborhood around it in one respect - it was very, very quiet. It's not that I expected picketers and protests, but from what we'd seen before, shifters weren't the type to go gently into that good night.
"I maintain it's weird they're meeting at a church," I said.
"It is unusual," Ethan said beside me, "but it wasn't our call to make."
We stood there in silence for a moment, long enough that I glanced over at him. I found his gaze on me.
"What?" I asked.
He gave me a flat look.
"We're here on business."
"I want the air to be clear."
"The air is as clear as it's going to get. We made a mistake. We've both since remedied it, so let's move on, shall we?"
"A mistake." He actually had the gall to sound surprised at my answer, but I didn't buy it. He hadn't used the word "mistake" in his post-Breckenridge guilt party, but that was pretty much what he'd said.
"A mistake," I repeated. "Can we get to work?"
"Merit - ," he began, regret in his voice, but I held up a hand. His guilt wasn't going to make me feel any better.
"Let's get to work."
We took the stairs to the slate of doors that spanned the front of the church. I assumed this was where people gathered after services, maybe shaking hands with the clergy, maybe making plans for dinner or lunch.
The doors were unlocked and opened into a small receiving room, the walls of which bore signs directing parishioners toward children's care rooms and morning coffees.
We pushed through a second set of doors, and I gaped at the sight before us, walking inside past Ethan to take in the full view. The church's exterior was impressive, but that was nothing compared to the interior. The sanctuary was like a treasure chest, with floors of gleaming stone, walls of stained glass, gold-framed icons, gilded alcoves and frescoes. Gleaming columns and ornate brass latticework marked the church aisles. Robin, Jason, Gabriel, and Adam stood at the front of the sanctuary, but it was Berna who first got our attention.
"You will eat," she said, stepping in front of us, a disposable aluminum pan in her outstretched arms. The pan was covered with foil, but it steamed with heat, and I could smell what was inside: meat, cabbage, spices - Eastern European deliciousness.
"You take," she said, and shoved the pan, still hot, into my arms.
"I appreciate the sentiment, but you didn't have to keep feeding me." She clucked her tongue. "Too thin," she said, then reached out two knobby fingers and pinched my arm.
Hard.
"Ow."
"No meat," she said, disapproval in her voice. "No meat on bones, you don't find man." Then she cast an appraising glance at Ethan, one bottle-blond eyebrow raised. "You are . . . man." Not that I disagreed, but she was making the wrong match.
"Thank you, Berna," I said, hoping to draw her attention back to me and distract her from her love connecting. Slowly, as if guessing my game, she glanced back at me, then gave me an up-and-down appraisal that was none too flattering. After clucking her tongue again, she walked around us and disappeared into the lobby.
I glanced over at Ethan and proffered the cabbage rolls. "Should I just put this in your car while we're here?"
He blanched, apparently not crazy about the idea that his Mercedes would smell like the back room of a Ukrainian pub.
"Good evening, vampires." I turned to find Adam grinning at the pan in my hands. He was dressed simply - plaid button-up over gray T-shirt, and jeans over heavy black boots - but that didn't diminish the wolfish appeal.
"Good evening." I held out the pan. "She keeps pushing food at me."
"That's Berna. It's her way of showing affection."
Not for my physique, apparently. That notwithstanding, I still had a steaming pan to deal with. "Is there somewhere I could put this for a few hours?"
"You think holding a pan of cabbage rolls will interrupt your vampire mojo?"
"It will make it a little harder to swing my sword."
"Well, we wouldn't want that," he said coyly. "I'll take you to the kitchen and you can drop it off there.
Also gives you a chance to see a little more of the church."
"Thanks."
I'll wait here, Ethan silently said. I'd like to talk to Gabriel about Tony.
Good luck, I offered back, wondering whether the fight at the Brecks' was truly water under the bridge or whether Gabe was going to hold it against us. On the other hand, he hadn't changed his mind about our providing security, so he must have been comfortable enough. Keep your guard up.
Liege, I dutifully answered back.
I followed Adam down the aisle on the left side of the church, offering Gabriel and Jason a wave as I passed. He moved through a door and into the side wing Luc had showed us earlier. It was obvious we'd moved from the original architecture to the 1970s renovation. Where the chapel was luxurious, the side wing was straight-lined and kind of sterile. Function had won out over form here, from the industrially carpeted floors to the cinder block walls. But as we passed the nursery rooms, it became clear that the parishioners were less concerned about what the church looked like than what went on there. I stopped at an open door and glanced inside. Drawings and educational posters decorated the walls. Toddler-sized tables and chairs dotted the room, and worn stuffed animals and wooden blocks were stacked neatly on a windowsill.
"They're a tight community," Adam said beside me.
