Хлоя Нейл: Some Girls Bite

He grumbled, cursed. “Where?”

“Ombud’s office. The Mercedes is out front. I’m assuming there’s no guard in there with him?”

“We don’t force guards on him,” Luc testily responded, and I heard the snapping of papers through the phone. “Normally, I can trust him not to behave like an idiot and go off alone when there’s a psychopath on the loose, Rogues up in arms.”

Speaking of which, I sheepishly asked, “Any additional progress made last night?”

Luc sighed, and I imagined him settling into a slouch, crossing his booted ankles on the Ops Room table. “Morgan was damn near chipper when he finally left, but that’s probably your doing. I’m not sure how productive it was. Nobody’s got answers, the clues point everywhere. No evidence at the murder scenes except for the trinkets someone’s leaving. But they know Ethan wouldn’t do it, certainly wouldn’t condone it. It’s not the way he operates.”

I understood that. If Ethan wanted something done, taken care of, he’d make damn sure you knew it was coming from him.

“Listen,” I said, “while we’re on the phone.” I paused, had to brace myself for the apology. “I’m sorry I bailed last night. After the thing with Morgan-”

“Forgiven,” Luc quickly answered. “You handled yourself, you stepped in when you needed to, and you gave Morgan a peaceful out. You did your job. I’m fine with that. That said, the fucking look on your face when he went down on one knee.” He burst into raucous laughter. “Oh, sweet Jesus, Merit,” he said, hiccup-ping with laughter. “It was priceless. Deer in headlights.”

I made a face he couldn’t see, double-checked the office door to look for movement, of which there was none. “I’m glad I can be a source of amusement for you, Luc.”

“Consider it your hazing ritual. Your other one, anyway.”

I chuckled. “Commendation, you mean? That was more of a hazing for Ethan than for me, unfortunately.”

“No-your change.”

I froze in the process of flipping up the visor, my hand still on it, and frowned at the phone. “The Change? How does that count as hazing?”

His voice changed to something graver. “What do you mean, how does that count?”

“I mean, I don’t remember much of it. Pain, cold, I guess.”

He was quiet so long I called his name, and even then it took a moment for him to come back. “I remember every second,” he finally said. “Three days of pain, of cold, of heat, of cramps. Sweating through blankets, shivering so hard I thought my heart would stop, drinking blood before I was psychologically ready to accept it. How do you not remember that?”

I played back the memory in my mind, trying to cup my hands around the fleeting images that ghosted at the edges of my vision, tried to replay the mental video of it. I got nothing more than those select memories, until the ride home, the dizziness I’d felt when I’d stepped from the car, the sluggishness, the fuzziness.

Drugs?

Had I been drugged? Spared the experience of some portion of the Change?

I was saved offering that theory to Luc, a little disconcerted by the questions it raised-who’d drugged me? and why was I spared the misery?-by Ethan emerging from the front door, the light spilling in a trapezoid on the sidewalk in front of him. Catcher stepped out behind him. “Luc, he’s out.”

“Keep an eye on him.”

I promised I would and snapped shut the phone, then waited until Ethan and Catcher had shaken hands. Ethan walked to the Mercedes, cast a glance down the darkened street, then unlocked the door and slipped inside. Catcher stayed on the sidewalk, watched as Ethan’s car pulled away. When he was a block down the road, I turned the ignition and drove forward to where Catcher stood. Motioning me to follow Ethan, Catcher raised his cell phone, then flipped it open. My phone rang almost immediately.

“What’s he up to?”

“He’s going to Lincoln Park,” Catcher said, frustration in his voice.

“Lincoln Park? Why?”

“He got a note, same paper, same handwriting, as the ones left for you and Celina. It asked to meet him there, promised information about the murders. He had to agree to go alone.”

“They won’t know I’m there,” I promised.

“Stay a few cars behind him. It’ll help that it’s night, but your car sticks out like a sore thumb.”

“He doesn’t know what I drive.”

“I doubt that’s true, but do it all the same.” He explained where Ethan expected to meet his source-near the small pagoda on the west side of North Pond-which at least gave me a chance to be surreptitious. I could take another route, get there without having to keep too close a tail on the Master vampire in front of me.

“You have your sword?”

“Yes, oh captain, my captain, I have my sword. I have learned to follow orders.”

“Do your job, then,” he said, and the line went dead.

If Ethan knew I was tailing him, he didn’t act like it. I stayed three cars behind, grateful there was enough traffic in the early evening to keep a shield between his car and mine. Ethan drove methodically, carefully, slowly. That shouldn’t surprise me-it was in keeping with the way he lived his life, orchestrated his other moves. But in the Mercedes, it disappointed me. Cars like that should be driven .

I found the Mercedes parked on Stockton, the only car in the vicinity. I drove past it, parked, then got out of the car, belted the katana, and in a moment of uncharacteristic forethought, grabbed an aspen stake from the bag Jeff had given me, still stuffed behind the front seat. I stuck the needle-sharp stake in my belt, quietly closed the door, and began to hike back. I crept through the grass, between the trees, until I was close enough to see him, tall and lean, standing just outside the pagoda. His hands were in his pockets, his expression alert, his body relaxed.

I stopped, stared at him. Why, in God’s name, would he have come here alone? Why would he have agreed to meet a source in the middle of an empty park, after dark, without a guard?

I stayed in the shadows. I could leap out if necessary, come to his rescue (again), but if his goal was to glean information from whoever had asked him to meet, I wasn’t about to ruin that.

The scritch of footsteps on the path broke the silence. A tall form appeared. A woman. Red hair.

Amber.

Wait. Amber?

I saw the jolt of recognition in Ethan’s face, the shock, the sudden wash of humiliation. I sympathized, felt the flash of it in the pit of my stomach.

He approached her, head snapping as he looked around him, and reached out an arm, taking hers just above the elbow. “What are you doing here?”

She looked down at his hand on her arm, blinked up at him, then pulled his fingers away. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“Frankly, I’ve no idea, Amber. But I’ve got business-”

“Ethan, really.” Her voice was flat.

He stopped, stared at her, understanding dawning, and offered the conclusion I’d reached seconds before. I knew I didn’t like the little tramp. Voice defeated, he said, “You took the medals. You were in my apartments, and you took the medals.”

She shrugged standoffishly.

He took her arm again, this time his grip fierce enough to make her grimace. “You took House property from my apartments. You took from me . Did you”-he spit out a curse-“did you kill those girls?”

Amber grunted, yanked her arm away, and took a couple of steps, put space between them. She rubbed her arm, where the red marks of his fingers-even in the dark-were obvious.

“You’re-” Ethan shook his head, fisted his hands on his hips, and whipped aside his jacket in the process. “How could you do this? You had everything. I gave you everything .”