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He hadn’t done any of those things yet, and the silence was more unnerving than an outright attack would have been. In the interim, Ethan called the Masters of the Houses that allied with Cadogan—whose insignia were mounted above the Cadogan House door—shoring up his support.
We’d decided to move forward with the race, but we were certainly, obviously keeping a close eye on Ethan. Because I was Sentinel of the House, his safety was one of my priorities. And I had allies in the crowd: my grandfather’s employees—Catcher Bell, a sorcerer, and Jeff Christopher, a shifter—as well as the undercover members of the Red Guard, an organization of vampires created to keep watch on the GP and the twelve American vampire Masters.
Catcher’s girlfriend and my non-vampire best pal, Mallory Carmichael—a sorceress in her own right—stood with Jeff and Catcher, her blue ombré hair in a high topknot, a small Cadogan pennant in her hand. She waved the pennant at me, her blue eyes smiling, and gave me a very enthusiastic thumbs-up.
The RG members wore Midnight High School T-shirts to indicate their affiliation. They included my tall, handsome, and auburn-haired RG partner, Jonah, who stood near a woman vigorously shaking her décolletage at Ethan as he signed autographs. I gave the woman the stink eye, but her gaze skimmed right over me. I wasn’t the object of her affection.
“They just pretend we aren’t here.”
I chuckled at the vampire beside me, a woman with a blond ponytail, hot pink shirt, and black running tights that skimmed her long legs. She was Lindsey, one of Cadogan’s guards and Luc’s sweetheart. And Luc had plenty of fans of his own, men and women who giggled each time he flipped his tousled curls out of his eyes. From the cheeky grin on his face, he didn’t seem to mind the attention.
“The humans or the vampires?” I said.
Lindsey snorted. “Good question. I’m not sure Luc could pick me out of a lineup right now. Especially not when she’s showing off the kids.” She nodded toward a woman with pendulous cle**age and Luclicious tattooed in black script across her chest.
“He’s never going to stop talking about that,” I agreed.
“At least you have your own fans. There’s one very delectable man who hasn’t taken his eyes off you. Your two o’clock,” she said, and I glanced casually over.
He had dark skin and a shaved head, a sprinkling of goatee beneath his generous mouth. His eyes were wide set and deeply brown. There was a small crescent-shaped tattoo near the corner of his left eye.
His gaze was direct, curious, and focused on me.
I looked back at Lindsey, mouth open. “He is stunning.”
She nodded. “See? Fans of your own. As long as Ethan doesn’t see him and beat him to a bloody pulp for staring at you, we’re good. And even if he does,” Lindsey said with a grin, stretching out one calf, then the other, “your backup fan club is right over there.” She gestured to the Ombuddies, as we called Jeff and Catcher.
“They aren’t fans; they’re family.” Maybe not genetically, but certainly in spirit. And, considering Catcher’s YES, I HATE EVERYBODY T-shirt, despite their personality quirks.
“Besides. They’re on the job.”
“Speaking of, any twinges?”
Vampires preferred to fight with katanas, and my own weapon had been tempered with my blood, giving me the ability to sense other weapons nearby. I’d mentally calibrated my senses to ignore the hidden blades carried by the RG members, and thus far, the crowd was clean.
“Nope,” I said, scanning the bystanders, who smiled and snapped pictures. “All’s well so far. Hopefully it will stay that way.”
Lindsey snorted. “Darling, we’re vampires. It will definitely not stay that way.”
An unfortunate but valid point.
“All right, runners,” said the race director through his bullhorn. “We’re less than a minute away from the start. Please get ready.”
“Good luck,” Lindsey said, squeezing my arm. “We’ll be right behind you.”
I nodded. “You, too. Keep a sharp eye.”
She winked. “The sharpest.”
Ethan joined us, retying his hair with a bit of leather cord, and we moved to the front of the pack of runners, who were stretching their hamstrings and turning at the waist to loosen up.
He smiled at me, and I pushed down a bolt of lust that speared through me—and kicked up my heart rate better than any warm-up session.
Ethan leaned forward, elbows and knees bent. “Ready, Sentinel?”
“Always,” I said with my own cocky grin. I rolled my shoulders, mirrored his stance, and prepared to move.
“Get set!”
“Dinner will be poulet à la bretonne,” Ethan said, an obvious threat that I think involved French chicken.
“Hot wings,” I countered, and Ethan shuddered.
“Go!” said the race director, and the shrill blare of an air horn filled the air.
I pulled up every ounce of strength I could manage and jumped off the line, inching out steps ahead of Ethan and trucking it down the street. Vampire strength varied. Some vamps were superstrong and superfast; others were barely stronger than humans. Fortunately, I was both. And so was Ethan.
I’d decided to make an aggressive start, to push out and try to get an early lead on him. I had to hope I could keep up the pace and wouldn’t run out of steam before the finish line.
Two blocks down the road, I realized that might have been wishful thinking. He was taller than me, with longer legs, and as strong and fast as they came. He matched my pace, sidling alongside me with determined eyes and an easy smile.
Boeuf bourguignon, Ethan silently said, activating the mental link between us.
Tater Tot casserole, I challenged. He wouldn’t beat me at that game. I was tall and trim from years of ballet and my vampire metabolism, but I knew food the way Ethan knew investments and European shoes. I could match him threat for threat without breaking a sweat.
A good thing, as the run was accomplishing that pretty well. We moved like machines, each joint and muscle moving precisely and so quickly our bodies blurred.
I couldn’t see the rest of the pack, but I could hear them behind me—the front-runners bunched a few yards behind us, apparently content to let Ethan and me battle for the lead.
And battle we did. He wasn’t going to give me this win, or submit to a dinner of chip-laden casseroles or meats on sticks. But he hadn’t made a weak vampire; I wasn’t one to give up, either. I glanced at him, saw the sweat that beaded on his forehead, tightened my core, and moved. Even as I scanned the dark street for threats, I pushed forward.
