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"And officially enemies with humans again. Some of them, anyway."
As we moved down the street and finally began to gain speed, our escort of shape-shifters beside us, I turned back to the road and sighed.
"Let the good times roll."
Chapter Three
SCIENCE FRICTION
Creeley Creek was a Prairie-style building - low and horizontal, with lots of long windows, overhanging eaves, and bare, honeyed wood. It was bigger than the average Prairie-style home, built at the turn of the twentieth century by an architect with a renowned ego. When the original owner died, his estate donated the house to the city of Chicago, which deemed it the official residence of the mayor. It was to Chicago what Gracie Mansion was to New York City.
Currently living there was the politician Chicago had always wanted. Handsome. Popular.
A master orator with friends on both sides of the aisle. Whether or not you liked the slant of his politics, he was very, very good at his job.
The gate opened when we arrived, the guard who stood inside the glass box at the edge of the street waving us onto the grounds. Ethan circled the Mercedes around the drive and pulled into a small parking area beside the house.
"From a House of vampires to a house of politicians," he muttered as we walked to the front door.
"Said the most political of vampires," I reminded him, and got a growl in response. But I stood my ground. He was the one who'd traded a relationship with me for political considerations.
"I look forward," he said as we walked across the tidy brick driveway, "to your turn at the helm."
I assumed he meant the day I'd become a Master vampire. It wasn't exactly something I looked forward to, but it would get me out of Cadogan House.
"You look forward to it because we'll be equally matched? Politically, I mean?"
He slid me a dry glance. "Because I'll enjoy watching you squirm under the pressure."
"Charming," I muttered.
A woman in a snug navy blue suit stood in front of the double front doors beneath a low overhanging stone eave. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. They were quite a contrast to the patent platform heels.
Was she going for sexy librarian, maybe?
"Mr. Sullivan. Merit. I'm Tabitha Bentley, the mayor's assistant. The mayor is ready to see you, but I understand there are some preliminaries we need to address?" She lifted her gaze to the threshold above us.
The old wives' tale was that vampires couldn't enter a house if they hadn't been invited in. But like lots of other fang-related myths, that was less about magic and more about rules. Vampires loved rules - what to drink, where to stand, how to address higherranking vampires, and so on.
"We would appreciate the mayor's official invitation into his house," Ethan said, without detailing the reasons for the request.
She nodded primly. "I have been authorized to extend an invitation to you and Merit to Creeley Creek."
Ethan smiled politely. "We thank you for your hospitality and accept your invitation."
The deal struck, Ms. Bentley opened the doors and waited while we walked into the hallway.
It wasn't my first time in the mansion. My father (being well moneyed) and Tate (being well connected) were acquaintances, and my father had occasionally dragged me to Creeley Creek for some fund-raiser or other. I looked around and concluded it hadn't changed much since the last time I'd visited. The floors were gleaming stone, the walls horizontal planks of dark wood.
The house was cool and dark, the hallway illuminated with golden light cast down from wall-mounted sconces.
The smell of vanilla cookies permeated the air.
That smell - of bright lemons and sugar - reminded me of Tate. It was the same scent I'd caught the last time I'd seen him. Maybe he had a favorite snack, and the Creeley Creek staff obliged.
But the man in the hallway wasn't one I'd expected to see. My father, dapper in a sharp black suit, walked toward us. He didn't offer a handshake; the arrogance was typical Joshua Merit.
"Ethan, Merit."
"Joshua," Ethan said with a nod. "Meeting with the mayor this evening?"
"I was," my father said. "You're both well?"
Sadly, I was surprised that he cared. "We're fine," I told him. "What brings you here?"
"Business council issues," my father said. He was a member of the Chicago Growth Council, a group geared toward bringing new businesses to the city.
"I also put in a good word about your House,"
he added, "about the strides you've taken with the city's supernatural populations. Your grandfather keeps me apprised."
"That was . . . very magnanimous of you,"
Ethan said, his confusion matching my own.
My father smiled pleasantly, then glanced from us to Tabitha. "I see that you're heading in.
Don't let me keep you. Good to see you both."
Tabitha stepped in front of us, heels clacking on the floor as she marched deeper into the mansion. "Follow me," she called back.
Ethan and I exchanged a glance.
"What just happened?" I asked.
"For some unknown reason, your father has suddenly become friendly?"
There was undoubtedly a business-related reason for that, which I assumed we'd find out soon enough. In the meantime, we did as we were told, and followed Tabitha down the hallway.
Seth Tate had the look of a playboy who'd never quite reformed. Tousled, coal black hair, blue eyes under long, dark brows. He had a face women swooned over and, as a second-term mayor, the political chops to back up the looks.
That explained why he'd been named one of Chicago's most eligible bachelors, and one of the country's sexiest politicians.
He met us in his office, a long, low room that was paneled floor to ceiling in wood. A gigantic desk sat at one end of the room in front of a tufted, red leather chair that could have doubled as a throne.
Both the desk and throne stood beneath an ominous five-foot-wide painting. Most of the canvas was dark, but the outlines of a group of suspicious-looking men were visible. They stood around a man positioned near the center of the painting, his arms above his head, cowering as they pointed down at him. It looked like they were condemning him for something. It wasn't exactly an inspiring painting.
Tate, who stood in the middle of the room, reached out a hand toward Ethan, no hesitation in the movement. "Ethan."
"Mr. Mayor." They shared a manly handshake.
"How are things at the House?"
"I'd say the mood is . . . anticipatory. With protesters at the gate, one tends to wait for the other shoe to drop."
