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The bus turned and disappeared, taking him with it.
* * *
I stared, openmouthed, at the empty street for a full minute before pulling out my phone, sending Ethan and Catcher the information, hoping they’d be able to intercept the vehicle and give us back our lead. Because I was going to feel pretty crappy if I’d managed to let him, our only connection to the Circle, get away from me.
I cursed again, circled back to grab my dagger off the ground. I opted not to wipe off the blood, thinking the CPD might be able to process it for DNA, and tried to carefully conceal it inside my jacket. Uniforms would be circling soon, if they weren’t already, to track down the source of the gunfire—uniforms who probably didn’t know me or my grandfather. No point in exacerbating the situation with a visible and bloody blade.
There were still cabs to be had, but I decided to walk back to Navarre and steam off some of my irritation.
“Halfway across downtown Chicago and he hops a motherloving bus,” I muttered to the horror of a human couple who walked past as I turned back onto Michigan. At least they’d head back to Eau Claire with a good story.
Foot and car traffic lightened as I moved north, the streets quieting as I hit the Gold Coast again. Humans done with the day’s work enjoyed walks in the warm spring night, heading to a late dinner, to the river for a boat ride, or to the lake for a boat tour of the skyline.
What if I had that kind of life now? What if life became peaceful for Cadogan, and Ethan and I could settle down and become domesticated vampires, with a library full of books, a House of Novitiates, and possibly a child? After all the battles, the terror, the injuries, the grief, would we enjoy that life without drama? Hell, Balthasar was even older than Ethan, and he still wasn’t ready to settle down.
Since there was no end in sight to the current drama, the questions were purely rhetorical. But someday they might be. Could I go back to that quiet life—what Ethan had once called my small life—and be happy again?
As I turned toward Navarre House, I saw the city’s three Masters—Ethan, Morgan, and Scott—in front of Navarre House with Jonah, and my grandfather the Ombudsman’s van parked in front.
Yeah, I thought, and walked back into angst, political and otherwise. I could probably deal with a quieter life. As long as I got to keep my katana.
Chapter Fifteen
A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER
Grey House had an amenity for sports of all kinds and varieties, and its heavily male population, including Scott Grey, looked the part. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short dark hair and a matching soul patch beneath his bottom lip. Jonah, tall and auburn-haired, with generous lips and knife-edge cheekbones, stood beside him. They both wore jeans and Cubs T-shirts in lieu of the Grey House jerseys Scott had favored over medals.
Jonah glanced at me, nodded a silent greeting. There was a hint of sadness in his blue eyes, disappointment, probably, that we were still on the outs. Or maybe that I hadn’t yet given in to the RG’s demands.
I was sad, too. He was my partner, and he’d become an important part of my life—and dealing with the drama vampires in Chicago seemed to frequently face. But what could I do? I was certain I could help the RG without sacrificing my relationship with Ethan. Love hadn’t taken my honor. But since I wouldn’t concede that love could make me blind or stupid, I supposed we were at a standstill.
“You appear to have injured yourself, Sentinel,” Ethan said, his gaze on the tender spot beneath my eye.
“He kicked me in the face, so I stabbed him. Is it bruised?”
He angled me for better lighting, frowned at my face. “It’s swollen and purpling but doesn’t look broken. You should heal. You’re all right otherwise?”
“I’m fine. How’s Nadia? And Malik and Juliet?”
“Nadia’s resting,” Morgan said.
“And Malik and Juliet are in the House with Irina,” Ethan said. “We thought it best for them to keep untangling the knot, such as it is.”
I nodded.
“The perp ran?” Scott prompted.
I nodded. “Down Michigan, into Streeterville. He pulled a gun and used it,” I said, glancing at my grandfather. “I can give you the details of the route if you want the bullets for forensics. And there’s this,” I added, sliding the dagger from my sleeve, and extended it with two fingers to my grandfather.
“Blood?” he asked, scanning me for injuries.
“His, if you’ve got an evidence bag.”
He nodded, pulled a plastic baggie from the pocket of his jacket. “Just in case,” he said with a light smile, and opened it so I could slip the knife inside. Then he closed it, sealed it, wrote the information on the outside with a felt-tip pen he’d pulled from the other pocket.
“Any word on the bus?” I asked.
“Uniforms stopped it,” my grandfather said. “He wasn’t on it.”
