Хлоя Нейл: Hard Bitten

Gabriel revved his bike with a flick of his wrist, and like magic, McKetrick’s men stepped back toward their SUVs.

Gabe turned his gaze on me. “Problems, Kitten?”

I looked over at McKetrick, who was scanning the bikes and their riders with a nervous expression. I guess his anti-vamp bravado didn’t extend to shifters. After a moment he seemed to regain his composure and made eye contact with us again.

“I look forward to continuing this conversation at a more appropriate time,” McKetrick said.

“We’ll be in touch. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.” With that, he slipped back into the SUV, and the rest of his troops followed him.

I bit back disappointment. I’d almost wished they’d been naïve enough to make a move, just so I could enjoy watching the Keenes pummel them into oblivion.

With a roar from custom mufflers, the SUVs squealed into action and drove away. Pity it wasn’t forever. I checked the license plates, but they were blank. Either they were driving around without registrations or they’d taken off the plates for their little introductory chat.

Gabe glanced at Ethan. “Who’s G.I. Joe?”

“He said his name was McKetrick. He imagines himself to be an anti-vampire vigilante.

He wants all vamps out of the city.”

Gabe clucked his tongue. “He’s probably not the only one,” he said, glancing at me. “Trouble does seem to find you, Kitten.”

“As Ethan can verify, I had nothing to do with it. We were driving toward Creeley Creek when we hit the roadblock. They popped out with guns.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. “Only vampires would find that a limitation instead of a challenge. You are immortal, after all.”

“And we prefer to keep it that way,” Ethan said. “The weapons looked custom.”

“Anti-vamp rounds?” Gabriel asked.

“It wouldn’t surprise me. McKetrick seemed like the type.”

“And my sword is at the House,” I pointed out to Gabe. “You give me thirty-two inches of folded steel, and I’ll take on anyone you want.”

He rolled his eyes, then revved his bike and glanced over at Ethan. “You’re headed to Creeley Creek?”

“We are.”

“Then we’re your escorts. Hop in the car and we’ll get you there.”

“We owe you one.”

Gabriel shook his head. “Consider it one more notch off the tab I owe Merit.”

He’d mentioned that debt before. I still had no idea what he thought he owed me, but I nodded anyway and jogged back to the Mercedes.

I slid inside the car. “You said the fairies detested humans. Right now, I feel like ‘detest’ is hardly a strong enough word. And it looks like we can add one more problem to the punch list.”

“That would appear to be the case,” he said, turning on the engine.

“At least we’re still friends with the shifters,” I said as we zoomed through the stop sign ahead of us, the shifters making a shieldlike V of bikes around the car.

“And officially enemies with humans again.

Some of them, anyway.”

As we moved down the street and finally began to gain speed, our escort of shape-shifters beside us, I turned back to the road and sighed.

“Let the good times roll.”

Creeley Creek was a Prairie-style building—low and horizontal, with lots of long windows, overhanging eaves, and bare, honeyed wood. It was bigger than the average Prairie-style home, built at the turn of the twentieth century by an architect with a renowned ego. When the original owner died, his estate donated the house to the city of Chicago, which deemed it the official residence of the mayor. It was to Chicago what Gracie Mansion was to New York City.

Currently living there was the politician Chicago had always wanted. Handsome. Popular.

A master orator with friends on both sides of the aisle. Whether or not you liked the slant of his politics, he was very, very good at his job.

The gate opened when we arrived, the guard who stood inside the glass box at the edge of the street waving us onto the grounds. Ethan circled the Mercedes around the drive and pulled into a small parking area beside the house.

“From a House of vampires to a house of politicians,” he muttered as we walked to the front door.

“Said the most political of vampires,” I reminded him, and got a growl in response. But I stood my ground. He was the one who’d traded a relationship with me for political considerations.

“I look forward,” he said as we walked across the tidy brick driveway, “to your turn at the helm.”

I assumed he meant the day I’d become a Master vampire. It wasn’t exactly something I looked forward to, but it would get me out of Cadogan House.

“You look forward to it because we’ll be equally matched? Politically, I mean?”

He slid me a dry glance. “Because I’ll enjoy watching you squirm under the pressure.”

“Charming,” I muttered.

A woman in a snug navy blue suit stood in front of the double front doors beneath a low overhanging stone eave. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. They were quite a contrast to the patent platform heels.

Was she going for sexy librarian, maybe?

“Mr. Sullivan. Merit. I’m Tabitha Bentley, the mayor’s assistant. The mayor is ready to see you, but I understand there are some preliminaries we need to address?” She lifted her gaze to the threshold above us.

The old wives’ tale was that vampires couldn’t enter a house if they hadn’t been invited in. But like lots of other fang-related myths, that was less about magic and more about rules. Vampires loved rules—what to drink, where to stand, how to address higherranking vampires, and so on.

“We would appreciate the mayor’s official invitation into his house,” Ethan said, without detailing the reasons for the request.

She nodded primly. “I have been authorized to extend an invitation to you and Merit to Creeley Creek.”

Ethan smiled politely. “We thank you for your hospitality and accept your invitation.”

The deal struck, Ms. Bentley opened the doors and waited while we walked into the hallway.

It wasn’t my first time in the mansion. My father (being well moneyed) and Tate (being well connected) were acquaintances, and my father had occasionally dragged me to Creeley Creek for some fund-raiser or other. I looked around and concluded it hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d visited. The floors were gleaming stone, the walls horizontal planks of dark wood.

The house was cool and dark, the hallway illuminated with golden light cast down from wall-mounted sconces.

The smell of vanilla cookies permeated the air.

That smell—of bright lemons and sugarreminded me of Tate. It was the same scent I’d caught the last time I’d seen him. Maybe he had a favorite snack, and the Creeley Creek staff obliged.

But the man in the hallway wasn’t one I’d expected to see. My father, dapper in a sharp black suit, walked toward us. He didn’t offer a handshake; the arrogance was typical Joshua Merit.

“Ethan, Merit.”

“Joshua,” Ethan said with a nod. “Meeting with the mayor this evening?”

“I was,” my father said. “You’re both well?”

Sadly, I was surprised that he cared. “We’re fine,” I told him. “What brings you here?”

“Business council issues,” my father said. He was a member of the Chicago Growth Council, a group geared toward bringing new businesses to the city.

“I also put in a good word about your House,” he added, “about the strides you’ve taken with the city’s supernatural populations. Your grandfather keeps me apprised.”