Chloe Neill - Blood Games

“I tried. But I’d rather have stopped him here than know he’s still out there, whoever he is, waiting to cause trouble.”

“You know how these things go, Merit. He’ll probably cause trouble again, and you’ll get your chance to square off again.”

That was exactly what I was afraid of.

Catcher, Jeff, and I stayed until the vampires had gone back to their Houses and the humans who’d been injured—six of them—had been taken care of. And then we answered the CPD’s questions. The detectives who interviewed us were polite but wary; they knew my grandfather, respected him and his long career in the CPD, but weren’t thrilled about supernatural violence spilling onto their streets.

Not that I could blame them. I was relieved to be back in my car and on my way back to the House.

Cadogan House was three stories of white stone, plus a basement of offices and training rooms. It sat in the midst of lush grounds in Chicago’s Hyde Park neighborhood, and the décor was as fancy as the vampires who filled it. Subtle colors, fine fabrics, gorgeous wood.

I parked in the basement—a gift I’d earned for driving a silver confection of a car—then headed upstairs to Ethan’s office. I found him waiting with Luc and Malik, the House’s three senior staff. Ethan and Luc still wore their running clothes and race medals. Malik, tall with pale green eyes that offset his dark skin and closely cropped hair, was the only one dressed in the Cadogan House uniform: a slim-fitting black suit, crisp button-down, no tie.

Luc and Malik were seated in the office’s sitting area. Arms crossed, Ethan was in the middle of the room, pacing its length. His gaze flashed back to mine, body stiffening as he looked me over, checked me for injuries. He exhaled when he realized I was whole, but that didn’t stop the imperious arch of his eyebrow or the burst of magic that lit through the room.

I guessed he’d seen my standoff.

“I’m fine,” I assured him, stepping inside the office and closing the door. “He drove off, led the CPD on a chase. Abandoned the car and got away on foot.”

He walked toward me, clamped his hands on my arms. I saw the battle in his eyes—fear warring with fury, pride with concern.

I’m fine, I silently assured him. I’m worried about you.

Christ, Merit . He moved his hands to the nape of my neck, pulling our bodies together, touching his lips to my forehead. We’ll discuss this at length when we don’t have an audience.

So I had that to look forward to.

He kissed me again, released me. When I realized my sudden dizziness wasn’t just the result of adrenaline and magic, I walked to the bar inset in the long wall of bookshelves and grabbed a bottle of Blood4You. I’d earned it.

I popped the cap, drank the blood in seconds. It wasn’t until I’d finished it that I realized the blood had a strange, piney aftertaste.

I glanced at the bottle, brows lifted when I saw that I’d just imbibed a bottle of Cantina Lime blood. Who was coming up with these flavors? Not a vampire with good taste, certainly.

I put the bottle in the recycling bin and glanced back at the group, which watched me with anticipation.

“Big night, Sentinel?” Luc asked with a smile.

“Long night,” I agreed, and sat in one of the empty chairs. I glanced at Ethan, who still watched me warily. “Six humans injured, half of those when people rushed to avoid the gunshots. Most of the injuries were minor. And as it turns out, the driver was a vampire with words to say—and a message to pass along to you.”

Ethan’s eyes widened, and he moved closer. “Oh?”

“You should stay in Chicago. Give up your plans for London. Otherwise, you’ll regret it.”

Fury flashed in Ethan’s eyes again. He wouldn’t have appreciated the message or the delivery.

“Someone doesn’t want you to challenge Darius,” Malik said.

“That list is undoubtedly long and distinguished,” Ethan said, but his voice was tight.

“Darius himself?” Malik asked, and Ethan shook his head.

“Darius is many things, but cowardly is not one of them. And only a coward would attack unarmed civilians in order to get to me.”

“In fairness,” I said, “I think he tried to get to you.”

Ethan’s look was bland. He wasn’t pleased by the reminder—or the fact that I’d been the one to step between them. “You’re likely correct,” he said. “And strategy or not, a phone call would have sufficed.”

“Any idea of the source?” Malik asked, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands linked in front of him.

Ethan made a vague sound. “Beyond the long and distinguished list? No.” He glanced at me. “No mention of specifics? Of who was sending the message?”

“None. Someone in Chicago, maybe, since they had someone on the ground, knew about the race?”

Ethan frowned. “Scott wouldn’t care. Morgan might, but this isn’t his style.”

Morgan Greer was the newish Master of Navarre House. Scott Grey was the Master of Grey House, and Jonah’s boss.

“I’d tend to agree,” Luc said, then glanced at me. “The driver look familiar?”

“No. He’s not a Master, or anybody I recognized.” I gave them the basic physical description, and he wasn’t familiar to them, either. “He did have a tattoo—small crescent moon near one eye. Does that ring a bell?”

Ethan and Malik shook their heads, looked to Luc. “No, but we can search for it. Maybe it signifies something. Group symbol, maybe.”

“Do that,” Ethan said. “And check the tapes. See if the car—or the driver—has been near the House.”

Luc nodded, and a heavy silence fell. “Do you want to make a response to the threat?”

The unspoken question was easy enough to catch: Are you sure you want to go through with this? Stay on this path, which is clearly fraught with danger?

“No response,” Ethan said. “We do not, as they say, negotiate with terrorists.”

Luc stood, resignation in his features, and scrubbed his hands through his curly locks. He’d been supportive of his Master’s candidacy, but less thrilled that his colleague, his friend, was putting himself in danger to lead an organization no one respected. But that, I guessed, was part of the reason Ethan was doing it: to make it the organization it could be.

“You’ll need a guard when you leave the House.”

Ethan didn’t turn around. “No.” His tone brooked no argument. “We knew there was a possibility someone would make an attempt.”

“And now they have,” Luc said. “So we step up our game.”

“This won’t be the first or the last threat against me.”

“No,” Luc said, “but most of those threats don’t involve gunshots in public places and playing chicken with our Sentinel.”

Magic rose in the room, peppery with anger. Ethan turned back, his eyes as cold as emerald ice. He got testy when faced with fears he couldn’t manage, couldn’t handle with strength, intelligence, political savvy. “You think I’m not cognizant of her welfare?”

Luc fixed his gaze on Ethan. “I know you’re cognizant of her welfare. And I trust that she could handle herself because of the above-referenced chicken playing. We weren’t sure if the GP was paying attention. It looks like they are. We have to be more careful. You have to be more careful.”

“I’m still in the room,” I pointed out. “Let’s not discuss me in the third person.” But they were too absorbed in their own struggles to notice.

“Merit is usually with me when I leave the House,” Ethan said.

“Then you’ll usually have nothing to complain about.” Luc’s voice, usually full of humor, was tight with concern.