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“I’m immortal.”
“Strong fangs,” Ethan said, walking inside and stepping up to the counter.
* * *
Fortunately, he was willing to compromise. He’d try the triple meat I selected, and I’d try his beet, carrot, and mortadella concoction. Being the gentleman that he was, Ethan offered to carry the boxes back to Navarre House.
The night was beautiful—a light breeze, white clouds moving across the darkened sky, humans walking dogs or chatting with neighbors in the small, gated entryways that characterized the houses in the Gold Coast. It was a neighborhood of wealth, of luxury and relative safety. No turf wars, no abandoned lots, very little crime. Those who lived there were lucky, at least materially.
We were two blocks from Navarre when Ethan’s phone beeped. He pulled it out and stopped short, his magic filling the air. Even the flavor of Ethan’s fear and hatred for his maker was becoming recognizable.
“Where is he?” I asked, my stomach knotting with nerves.
He handed me the phone. Luc had messaged him a photograph—a grainy black-and-white of Balthasar standing on the sidewalk across the street from Cadogan, his coat billowing around his ankles as he stared at the House.
I handed Ethan the phone again, my buoyant mood suddenly deflated. “He’s showing us that he can get to us. That he’s here and he isn’t leaving.”
“And, as you mentioned, that he’s waiting for my response.” Ethan looked at the phone, which beeped as more messages arrived. “He left an obvious trail, and Kelley and Tara are on him again.”
“He wants to be found. Wants you to know where he is. Wants you to be able to find him.” Dread settled low in my belly. “He’ll try to find me again, Ethan. Try to get to me again while I sleep.”
“Mallory and Catcher will figure something out. They won’t let him get to you. I won’t let him get to you.”
I looked up at him, let him see the fear in my eyes. There wasn’t much these nights that scared me, other than losing him or Grandpa or Mallory, or someone else I loved, but Balthasar had scared me, and badly.
There was nothing equivocal in his gaze, in the steadiness of his green eyes. “He was my nightmare, Merit. You are my miracle. He will not touch you again. Yes?”
When I nodded, he smiled.
“We have pizza, each other, and a very good accountant. Let’s go back to Navarre House and get this job done.”
Just another fun evening for the vampires of Cadogan House.
* * *
We turned the corner on Navarre’s street, the hulking white building glowing beneath streetlights and spotlights in the careful landscape.
Nadia stood on the lawn talking to a tall and well-built man with ruddy skin and reddish hair that fell in tousled curls around his square face. He wore jeans and a bright yellow T-shirt beneath a bulky leather jacket.
I thought, at first, they were embracing. That Nadia had a new lover, and they were sharing a quiet moment on a spring night in Chicago outside the confines of her House. And when they hit the ground, I first thought they’d fallen into a sordid coupling there on the narrow strip of grass, and nearly at the feet of her former lover.
It took me precious seconds to realize they were fighting—grappling like MMA fighters in the final round of battle. Her legs were twined around his waist, and he’d pulled her arm at an awkward angle as she spat out phrases in quick, staccato Russian. I didn’t recognize the words, but it didn’t take a genius to figure them out—or that she needed help.
“Get away from her!” I yelled, and took off toward them. At the sound of my voice, the man looked up, spotted us, and stood. Then he pulled something from his jacket, which he pointed at Nadia.
“Stop!” Ethan called out, at the same time the man hit the trigger. And then the Taser’s darts were in the air and Nadia’s body was convulsing, jerking stiffly on the ground as she screamed in pain.
He’d Tased her, shot her with bolts of electric current and smiled like a psychopath as she writhed on the ground. His quarry addressed, he looked up at us, dropped the weapon, and bolted.
Take care of Nadia, I told Ethan silently, and hauled ass after her attacker.
I was fast, but shorter; his strides were longer, and he seemed to gain ground with each step.
He ran toward the lake, took a sharp right toward downtown when he reached inner Lake Shore Drive. For a moment, he disappeared from view, and my heart stuttered with fear that I’d lost him. I pushed for more speed, forcing my feet to move faster, lengthening my stride, trying to make up the distance between us.
I took the turn sharply, nearly barreled into a group of teenagers on skateboards, ignored their complaints as I scanned the street ahead of me for a sign of him, finally glimpsed his yellow T-shirt and red hair ahead of me.
Faster, I demanded. Just a little faster. I reached down deep for any bit of energy I could find, promised myself Mallocakes and deep dish for the effort. Exhaustion was irrelevant. The pounding of my feet in high-heeled boots—and that had been a mistake—was irrelevant. The only relevant thing was the man in front of me, the human who’d Tased a vampire in front of her House.
