Хлоя Нейл - Twice Bitten

On the other hand, he was a vampire, and immortal. He very well might have been a member of a World War II battalion.

Sean crossed his arms and looked us over with amusement. “And what brings Cadogan’s finest to our little neck of the woods tonight?”

Everyone pointed at me. My cheeks heated.

“Ahhh,” he said, then glanced over at me. “So our Sentinel has finally escaped the confines?”

“She has,” Lindsey said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “She’s done her duty with the shifters, and now she’s working on a little oblivion. What would you recommend?”

“Hmm,” he said, looking me over. “Girly or manly?”

I blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

He moved around to my side of the table, then crouched down on one knee, one hand on the back of my chair.

“Women who drink socially tend to fall into two categories,” he said with the confidence of a sociologist or purveyor of spirits, the jobs probably having a lot in common. “Women who drink girly: women who stick to colorful things in martini glasses, white wine, frozen drinks; and women who drink manly: women who aren’t afraid to sip at a good Irish whiskey, or a bit of stiff Scotch. Which type of woman are you, Sentinel o’ mine?”

I smiled back at him from beneath my bangs. “Why don’t you decide?”

He winked. “I do like a girl with moxie.”

Well, he was definitely going to like me.

Sean apparently deemed me worthy of a manly drink. He brought back a chubby glass half filled with ice and golden liquid. “You can handle this,” he advised in a whisper, then moved on to put drinks in front of everyone else.

Cautiously, I lifted the glass and took a sniff. I’d never been much of a drinker, and this smelled only slightly more palatable than diesel fuel. But I liked the idea of being the girl who ordered a Scotch on the rocks—assuming that was what this was. There was something kick-ass about it, like being the girl who drove a Wrangler, the girl who wore her boyfriend’s jeans, the girl who played flag football with the guys on a cool fall day . . . and won.

I lifted the glass and took a cautious sip . . . then spent the next few seconds coughing.

Margot, laughing beside me, patted me on the back. “How’s that drink, Sentinel?”

I shook my head, a fist at my mouth as I tried to catch my breath. “Rocket fuel,” I wheezed out.

“Did you let him choose your drink?”

I nodded.

“Yep, that’s your mistake. Never let Sean or Colin choose the drink, Merit. They have a sadistic side. But they do the same thing to everyone, if that makes you feel better. She lifted her glass. “Welcome to the club.”

“Speaking of the club,” I asked her, motioning to the partygoers around us, “where did all these people come from? There must be a hundred vampires in here.”

“Remember, there are still three hundred and something vamps affiliated with Cadogan, even if they don’t live in the House. For some strange reason, those couple hundred have no desire to play vampire sorority girls and hang out with the rest of us.”

Given the week I’d had so far, I didn’t think there was much mystery as to why.

We spent the next hour chatting, me holding the drink in my hands as if it were providing necessary warmth, and taking a sip only when my throat had cooled down sufficiently from each previous drink. The vampires around me regaled me with stories of life in Cadogan House—from the time the fire alarm sounded during the 2007 Commendation, to the 1979 boycott of Blood4You, to the breaching of the gate by a fusty Hyde Park resident who was convinced the House was the site of secret occult rituals.

Suddenly, Margot put down her drink, pushed back her chair, then stood up on it. When she was standing, she motioned to the bar. Sean grinned back, and rang a brass bell that hung from a short post behind the bar.

The entire room erupted into raucous applause.

“What’s going on?” I murmured to Lindsey, but she lifted a hand.

“Just keep listening. You’ll get it.”

“Cadogan vampires,” Sean yelled, as every vampire in the bar quieted again. “It is now time to partake of a proud Temple Bar tradition. Not that the tradition is proud, but Temple Bar certainly is.”

“Long live Temple Bar!” shouted the vampires in unison.

Sean offered a kingly bow, then gestured toward Margot.

There was hooting in the crowd, then the squeak of wood on wood as chairs were turned to face her. She raised her hands.

“Ladies and vampires,” she shouted, “it’s time for a round of drinks honoring the various and sundry personality tics of the Master with the mostest—Ethan Sullivan!”

I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face.

“Tonight, we welcome into the sacred covenant . . . our Sentinel!” She lifted her glass to me, as every other vampire in the room did the same. Cheeks flushed, I raised my still mostly full glass to the rest of them, bobbing my head in acknowledgment.

Margot looked at me, glass still raised, and winked. “And may Lacey Sheridan, God bless her soul, choke on it.”

The room burst into applause. My cheeks ached from the smile on my face. Lindsey leaned over and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

“I so told you that you needed this.”

“I very definitely needed this,” I agreed.

“Everyone have fun,” Margot said. “Everyone drink within reason. And afterward, everyone make use of Chicago’s greatest attraction—public transportation!”

With the help of the vampire beside her, Margot stepped down and took her seat again. Everyone at our table set down their glasses and moved their chairs in a bit closer together.

“All right,” I said, shyness gone. “So what exactly are we doing here?”

“Well, Sentinel,” Margot said, “may I call you Sentinel?”

I grinned, and nodded.

She nodded back. “I don’t think we’re giving anything away by saying that our dear Master and liege, Ethan Sullivan, is a little bit—”

“Particular,” Lindsey finished. “He’s very, very particular.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly, “I had a sense.”

“He’s also a creature of routine,” Margot explained. “Of personality tics and habits. Quirks, you might say, that can grate on the nerves.”

“Like the tag in the back of a really scratchy sweater,” Lindsey suggested.

Margot winked at her. “Every so often, we gather together. We take a little time—a little cathartic time—to vent about those quirks that drive us crazy.”

Elbows on the table, I leaned forward. “So, which of the quirks are we talking about?”

“First item on the list—the raising of the eyebrow.” To demonstrate, she arched a carefully sculpted black brow of her own, then peered around at each of us.

“Drink!” Lindsey yelled, and we all took a sip.

“I hate it when he does that,” Michelle said, gesturing with her drink. “And he does it constantly.”

“It’s like the world’s most irritating nervous twitch,” I agreed.

“Nervous my ass,” Margo said. “He thinks it’s intimidating. It’s the gesture of the Master vampire speaking to a lowly Novitiate.” Her voice had deepened into an obnoxiously crisp imitation of the perfectly condescending Master vampire tone. Maybe she had a little Master in her, as well.

“So what’s number two?” I asked.

“I got this one,” Lindsey said. “Number two—when Ethan refers to you not by your name, but by your title.” She dipped her chin and looked at me through hooded eyes. “Sentinel,” she growled out.

I snorted. “I always thought you looked familiar.”

“Drink!” Margot yelled, and we raised our glasses again.

The next hour and a half continued in pretty much the same fashion—Ethan, maybe not surprisingly, had a lot of tics and quirks. That meant a lot of drinks.