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DRINK WITH ME
At dusk, the dragon was back, perching on the Chicago Lighthouse, where the Red Guards that inhabited it stayed silent and monitored its activities.
The mayor and governor were eager to move. But we were waiting on our sorcerers and their magic.
Mallory’s text messages, which she sent me throughout the day when she should have been sleeping, and the rest of us were allayed by the sun, told quite a story:
BEGINNING WORK ON WEAPON MAGIC.
WEAPON MAGIC IS WEIRD.
SNACK BREAK! CREAM CHEESE DOUBLE BACON!
CB NEEDS “BACKGROUND NOISE.” TV MOVED INTO BASEMENT 4 LIFETIME MOVIES. HE IS ALSO WEIRD.
MINORISH BASEMENT FIRE.
. . . IS NOW BIGGISH BASEMENT FIRE.
FIRE CONTAINED. WE DIDN’T NEED THOSE NAT’L GEOGRAPHICS ANYWAY.
*YAWN*
I’D LIKE TO SEE ICELAND.
PROGRESS!
APPEARANCE BY MINORISH BASEMENT FIRE’S ANGRIER, MORE FIREY COUSIN.
FIRE CONTAINED TO CHAGRIN OF FIRE.
WEAPON MAGIC IS STILL WEIRD.
The later it got, the loopier the messages. Mallory and Catcher had been awake for thirty-six hours, refusing to sleep so they could figure out the binding magic.
They were still going at dusk. Being that we were vampires, and because we were headed into battle, there were of course ceremonies to be had while we waited.
According to the Canon of the North American Houses, Desk Reference, it was a tradition of Cadogan House, a tradition established long ago by Peter Cadogan, the House’s first Master, at dusk before a big battle. All the vampires of the House would gather together with mutton and ale, and the Master would give a rousing speech that called the House to victory.
The cafeteria was full, each space at each table taken, and vampires shoehorned into corners wherever room enough for a plate could be had. Someone had brought in folding chairs from the storage room, and the rest stood around the edge of the room, yawning and waiting for the ceremony to begin.
We’d been ready to go into battle before, when we thought we’d be facing down Sorcha, getting an opportunity to knock the smug smile from her face and close that particular chapter of our lives. Tonight, the mood was somber.
Ethan sat beside me at the table, a pewter stein in front of him.
“The Master’s chalice?” I asked.
Ethan smiled, reached out, turned the mug so I could see the neat inscription on the opposite side: CADOGAN HOUSE BOWLING LEAGUE, FIRST PLACE, 1979.
“Why haven’t we had a bowling league since I’ve been here? I can bowl.”
“You’re the social chair,” Ethan pointed out. “So that’s technically your fault.”
Tough, but fair. “I didn’t know you bowled.”
“I don’t,” he said with a smile. “But it’s my House, and to the sponsor goes the spoils.” He pushed back his chair and rose, buttoning the top button of his impeccable suit. Even before battle, Ethan would lead his people. He would Master them, and then soldier them.
