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“Sure,” he’d said with a grin, sitting upright and clasping his hands between his knees. “You going to get that for me?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
He’d actually clucked his tongue. “That’s poor vampire hospitality. And before you can interrogate me, Mini Sentinel, my dad’s talking to yours. I’m waiting.”
“Not interested enough in the Pack to join in?”
That had hit the mark, and something flashed in his eyes. But before he could answer, the front door had opened and Lulu had walked inside.
“What’s up, other brat?”
“What’s up, Labradoodle?” She dropped her bag on the floor with a resounding thud.
Connor had hated that name, which is exactly why Lulu used it. But his expression stayed the same—lazily confident.
“What will you two maniacs be doing tonight? Alphabetizing the books in the library?”
“At least we know how to alphabetize.”
Gabriel had walked into the foyer, smiled when he’d seen us. Connor sat up straight, which had had me biting back a grin. “Elisa. Lulu.”
I’d offered a wave. “Hey, Mr. Keene.”
He’d given me a wink, then looked at this son. “Let’s go, Con.”
Connor had risen from the bench, offering us a salute as he’d followed his father outside again.
“At least you get ‘brat,’” Lulu had said when the door closed again. “You’re the original. I’m the other.”
She walked to one of the windows that flanked the door, watched the pair walk down the sidewalk. “It’s a damn shame he’s such a punk. Because he would be stupid hot if it wasn’t for the attitude.”
“Maybe,” I’d said. That Connor Keene was gorgeous was undeniable. “But he’ll always be a punk.”
Seven years later, I ran my fingers along the table, then headed for the staircase that led to the third floor.
He was still hot. And maybe, surprisingly, a little less of a punk.
• • •
The apartments—our home within Cadogan House—opened into a pretty sitting room. My parents’ bedroom was to the left. To the right was the smaller suite they’d created for me: a bedroom, bathroom, and closet I’d learned later had been carved out of the House’s “consort” suite. TMI, but there you go.
I walked toward my bedroom, wondered if it would feel the same to be surrounded with stuff from another part of my life, or if everything would feel distant, strange.
There was nothing pink, no photographs under the mirror, no freeze-dried roses or trophies. Striped bedspread, matching lamps on the nightstand, and a desk with everything arranged just so, which is how I’d liked it. A small table held the turntable I’d saved my allowance to buy, the vinyl organized alphabetically beneath it.
A bookshelf held a few books and a lot of coffee mugs from my favorite spots in Chicago. There were mementos, but they were organized in the scrapbooks on the second shelf. Plenty of photos of Lulu in those, occasional shots of Connor. Family trips toamusement parks and cities with enough nightlife to give us something to do when the sun was down.
I walked back into the sitting room. And that’s when I felt it.
The katana, pulsing with magic, was only a few yards away.
I knew it would be in the House, had hoped the fact that I hadn’t sensed it the moment I’d walked in the door meant the calm I’d managed at the hotel was giving me the cushion I’d needed. But just like that first step into Chicago, I’d guessed wrong again. I was susceptible. Vulnerable.
And I didn’t like being either.
I moved closer, walking toward my parents’ bedroom, and the magic pounded harder, so it felt like concert-worthy bass rattling the floor to a song I couldn’t hear. But everything was still—the frames on the wall, the vase of flowers on the table, the inkwell on the secretary in the corner.
I stepped over the threshold. The walls here were pale blue, the wood dark brown, the accents white and silver.
