Хлоя Нейл - Twice Bitten

The third, however, had met a more gruesome end. She’d been the victim of an old-fashioned torture. A crazed human attacker—one of the deceased —weakened her with an ill-placed stake and removed her heart.

In honor of her sacrifice, her body had been placed in the garden behind the House, to be given to the sun when it finally breached the sky.

As for Cadogan itself, the marauders had worked to bring down the House around us. While the sturdy stone construction had thwarted the worst of the damage, the furnishings and woodwork on the first and second floors had been damaged, some of the rooms rendered uninhabitable. Helen and Malik had been working the phones, making arrangements with Grey, Navarre, and the other Cadogan vamps in Chicago to find temporary homes for vamps whose rooms had been torched or were too wet and smoky to stay in. My room, in a back corridor of the second floor, had fortunately been spared.

As Ombudsman, my grandfather had jurisdiction over the city’s response to the chaos. He helped sort out the good shifters from the bad, explaining the politics to any CPD cop he could corral long enough. He managed to keep them from arresting every shifter and vampire in sight; given the destruction and chaos, I called that a victory.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to keep the paparazzi from snapping pictures. They didn’t venture into Cadogan House, but they hadn’t needed to—one of Adam’s shifters had been so grievously wounded in human form that he’d shifted in the middle of the front lawn to heal himself.

I might have been the first vampire to witness the shifting of a Pack member, but I hadn’t been the last . . . and the paparazzi wouldn’t be the last, either.

They’d reportedly snapped pictures of the biker turned coyote—and the biker turning into a coyote. Having seen the transformation myself, I doubted the final photographs would show much more than lights and colors.

Regardless, it was obvious to the reporters that something supernatural had happened, something they hadn’t seen before, and that set off a journalistic feeding frenzy. That’s why my grandfather, at Gabriel’s request, had cordoned the reporters into an area in front of the House. He stood behind a make-shift podium, Gabriel at his side, a bevy of uniformed cops surrounding them.

Waiting.

Gabriel raised his hands, and the crowd of reporters quieted just as the shifters had the night before.

“I have something to say,” he announced, then used the back of his hand to push a trail of blood from his eyes.

He paused, the weight of the looming confession in his eyes. I knew what he was going to say, but I also knew what it would cost him—emotionally and politically.

“You’ll soon see pictures that tell quite a tale. That prove that vampires are not the only supernatural beings in the world. We are shape-shifters,” he said, “beings who can take animal or human form.”

Ethan stood beside me, and at the mention of the magic word, slid his fingers into mine. I squeezed back.

The area erupted into a cacophony of camera flashes and questions. Gabriel ignored them, holding up a hand again so that he could continue speaking.

“We are shifters, and some of my number are responsible for this attack on Cadogan House—an attack on a band of citizens who have done nothing but assist and protect us. This attack was unjustified. We have already submitted the organizer of this attack into the custody of the Chicago Police Department. As he has violated the trust between our peoples, you may deal with him as you deem fit.”

He paused, letting the weight of that statement sink in.

And when he was ready, he looked into the crowd and found Ethan and me. “And may God have mercy on us all.”

A few minutes before dawn, I found Ethan in his office, poking through rubble. The ruined curtains had already been replaced by shabbier models, the switch necessary to block the coming sunlight.

He glanced up when I walked in, then scanned my face and body. “You’re all right?”

I nodded. “As much as anyone can be. I’m sorry about the Novitiates you lost today.”

Ethan nodded, then righted a chair that had been flipped onto its side. “It’s not unforeseen that we would face violence. But that doesn’t make the violent act any less shocking.” He put one hand on his hip, then rubbed his temple with the fingers of his free hand. “I spoke with your grandfather about the events at the bar. Nick filled him in.”

I waited for the inevitable lecture about leaving campus, or engaging in shifter-vampire dialogue without permission, or putting the House at risk.

“Well,” he philosophically said, “Adam isn’t the first narcissist to have put us in a bind. Has everyone been resettled?”

It took me a moment to realize I hadn’t been chastised. “Scott and Morgan sent buses to pick up everyone. There’s about a dozen vampires at each House. The rest of them are tucked in and accounted for. The front wing of the second floor needs airing out, but the fairies have agreed to keep guard so workmen can get started at dawn.”

He nodded officially, but didn’t meet my eyes. It was clear he had more to say, but he hadn’t quite gotten around to it.

“Is there anything else?” I asked, giving him the chance to voice his thoughts.

Ethan opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut again. “We can talk tomorrow. Find a spot to rest. Get some sleep.”

I nodded. “Good night, Sullivan.”

“Good night, Sentinel.”

My evenings were beginning to have the same endings, it seemed.

EPILOGUE THE BEST OFFENSE ISN’T A GOOD DEFENSE—IT’S A GOOD OFFENSE When I woke the next evening, my assorted cuts and scrapes were gone.

But the House, I knew, would still wear scars.

I got up and showered, scrubbing off soot and dried blood I’d been too exhausted to clean at dawn. Expecting to help rehab and reorganize the House, I dressed down—jeans, T-shirt, and Pumas; my hair in a ponytail; the ever-present Cadogan medal around my neck.

In case I suddenly forgot whom my allegiances were to.

But there was no chance of that. Whatever our personal issues, Ethan and I had proven we worked well together. We even fought well together. I’d had enough jobs—and glimpses of my father butting heads with his staff—that I knew what a rarity that was. Our personal issues notwithstanding, we were good colleagues. And just as he had chosen not to risk the professional by dabbling in the personal, I had my own sacrifice to make.

I couldn’t leave my House without a Sentinel in the middle of a war.

So I found Noah’s phone number and dialed. He answered after two rings.

“Beck.”

“It’s Merit.”

“Sentinel,” he said, his voice gravelly, “how are things at the House?”

“We’re pulling things back together.”

“I’m glad to hear it. It’s going to take time, but I’m glad to hear it.”

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did last night. For showing up, for sacrificing your anonymity. For helping us fight.”

“The time comes when we all have to sacrifice.”

He was almost too right. “About your offer—I’m declining.”

There was silence for a moment. “I’ll be honest—I’m surprised to hear that.”

“My loyalty is to the House,” I explained. I’d chosen, as my grandmother once taught me, to dance with the one who brought me.

“Things can always change,” Noah said. “But we may not have a slot if you wait.”

“I understand the risk,” I assured him. “And thank you for making the offer, even if I have to say no.”

“Well, it would have been interesting. Good luck with the renovations.”

“Good evening, Noah.” I hung up the phone, then squeezed it in my hand. “Well,” I murmured, “I suppose that’s that.”