Хлоя Нейл: Hard Bitten

“That was . . . very magnanimous of you,” Ethan said, his confusion matching my own.

My father smiled pleasantly, then glanced from us to Tabitha. “I see that you’re heading in.

Don’t let me keep you. Good to see you both.”

Tabitha stepped in front of us, heels clacking on the floor as she marched deeper into the mansion. “Follow me,” she called back.

Ethan and I exchanged a glance.

“What just happened?” I asked.

“For some unknown reason, your father has suddenly become friendly?”

There was undoubtedly a business-related reason for that, which I assumed we’d find out soon enough. In the meantime, we did as we were told, and followed Tabitha down the hallway.

Seth Tate had the look of a playboy who’d never quite reformed. Tousled, coal black hair, blue eyes under long, dark brows. He had a face women swooned over and, as a second-term mayor, the political chops to back up the looks.

That explained why he’d been named one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelors, and one of the country’s sexiest politicians.

He met us in his office, a long, low room that was paneled floor to ceiling in wood. A gigantic desk sat at one end of the room in front of a tufted, red leather chair that could have doubled as a throne.

Both the desk and throne stood beneath an ominous five-foot-wide painting. Most of the canvas was dark, but the outlines of a group of suspicious-looking men were visible. They stood around a man positioned near the center of the painting, his arms above his head, cowering as they pointed down at him. It looked like they were condemning him for something. It wasn’t exactly an inspiring painting.

Tate, who stood in the middle of the room, reached out a hand toward Ethan, no hesitation in the movement. “Ethan.”

“Mr. Mayor.” They shared a manly handshake.

“How are things at the House?”

“I’d say the mood is . . . anticipatory. With protesters at the gate, one tends to wait for the other shoe to drop.”

After they’d shared a knowing look, Tate turned to me, a smile blossoming. “Merit,” he said, voice softer. He took both my hands and leaned toward me, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, the scent of sugared lemon floating around him. “I just met with your father.”

“We saw him on the way out.”

He released me and smiled, but as he looked me over, the smile faded. “Are you all right?”

I must have looked shaken; being held at gunpoint could do that to a girl. But before I could speak, Ethan sent a warning.

Don’t mention McKetrick, he said. Not until we know more about his alliances.

“There was a protest outside the House,” I obediently told Tate. “It was unnerving. A lot of prejudice was thrown around.”

Tate offered an apologetic look.

“Unfortunately, we can’t deny the protesters their permits for First Amendment reasons, but we can always step in if matters escalate.”

“We had things well in hand,” I assured him.

“Gabriel Keene’s announcement that shape-shifters exist hasn’t done much for your popularity.”

“No, it hasn’t,” Ethan admitted. “But he came to the fight at the House when our backs were against the wall. Going public—getting his side of the story out there—was the best of a bad set of options for protecting his people.”

“I don’t necessarily disagree,” Tate said. “He doesn’t make the announcement, and we end up having to arrest every shifter there for assault and disturbing the peace. We couldn’t just let them off without some justification. The announcement gave us that reason, helped the public understand why they’d joined the fight and why we weren’t arresting them on sight.”

“I’m sure they appreciate your understanding.”

Tate offered a sardonic look. “I doubt that kind of thing interests them. Shifters don’t strike me as the most political types.”

“They aren’t,” Ethan agreed. “But Gabriel is savvy enough to understand when a favor’s been done, and when a favor needs to be returned. He wasn’t happy about making the announcement, and he has even less interest in his people getting pulled into the public’s fear of vampires. He’s working on that now, keeping his people out of the public’s notice.”

“That’s actually the reason I’ve asked you to meet with me,” Tate said. “I realize it’s an unusual request, and I appreciate your coming on such short notice.”

He sat down in the throne behind his desk, the onlookers in the portrait now pointing down at him. Tate gestured toward two smaller chairs that sat in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Ethan took a chair. I took point behind him, Sentinel at the ready.

Mayor Tate’s eyes widened at the gesture, but his expression turned back to business fast enough. He flipped open a folder and uncapped an expensive-looking fountain pen.

Ethan crossed one leg over the other. The signal: he was moving into political-chat position.

“What can we do for you?” he asked, his voice oh-so-casual.

“You said the mood at the House was anticipatory. That’s the concern I have about the city more broadly. The attack on Cadogan has reactivated the city’s fear of the supernatural, of the other . We had four days of riots the first time around, Ethan. I’m sure you’ll understand the tricky position that puts me in—keeping the citizenry calm while trying to be understanding toward your challenges, including Adam Keene’s attack.”

“Of course,” Ethan graciously said.

“But humans are nervous. Increasingly so.

And that nervousness is leading to an uptick in crime. In the last two weeks, we’ve seen marked increases in assaults, in batteries, in arson, in the use of firearms. I’ve worked hard to get those numbers down since my first election, and I think the city’s better for it. I’d hate to see us slide backward.”

“I think we’d all agree with that,” Ethan said aloud, but that was just the precursor to the silent conversation between us as Ethan activated our telepathic link. What’s he building toward?

Your guess is as good as mine, I answered.

Tate frowned and glanced down at the folder on his desk. He scanned whatever information he found there, then lifted a document from it and extended it toward Ethan. “Humans, it seems, are not the only increasingly violent folk in our city.”

Ethan took the document, staring silently down at it until his shoulders tensed into a flat line.

Ethan? What is it? I asked. Without bothering to answer, Ethan handed the paper over his shoulder. I took it from him. It looked like part of a police transcript.

Q: Tell me what you saw, Mr.

Jackson.

A: There were dozens of them.

Vampires, you know? Fangs and that ability to get inside your mind. And they was blood-crazy.

All of them. Everywhere you looked—vampire, vampire, vampire. Bam! Vampire. And they were all over us. No escape.

Q: Who couldn’t escape?

A: Humans. Not when the vampires wanted you. Not when they wanted to take you down and pull that blood right out of you.

All of ’em were on you and the music was so loud and it was pounding like a hammer against your heart. They were crazed with it. Crazy with it.

Q: With what?

A: With the blood. With the lust for it. The hunger. You could see it in their crazy eyes. They were silver, just like the eyes of the devil. You get only one look at those eyes before the devil himself pulls you down into the abyss.

Q: And then what happened, Mr.

Jackson?

A: [ Shaking his head. ] The hunger, the lust, it got them.

Drove them. They killed three girls. Three of them. They drank until there was no life left.