Chloe Neill - Blood Games

“We’ve decided you’re the biggest pain in our ass,” Luc said.

“Oh, good!” I glanced at Ethan. “Now, if you’re done fighting and making up, can we please get to work?”

Ethan glanced at Luc, shared a long-suffering look. Which was fine by me, as long as they weren’t sniping at each other. The world outside the doors of Cadogan House was chaos enough; we didn’t need chaos inside.

“Phones on, and stay alert,” Luc said. “And tell Jonah we said hello.”

“Lucas,” Ethan politely said, “kiss my ass.”

And they were back.

We drove Lindsey’s SUV to north Michigan Avenue—Chicago’s Magnificent Mile. Parking, as usual, was ridiculously limited, but we found a spot a few blocks west of Michigan and hiked back to the church.

I was no country mouse, and I normally thrived on the energy of downtown Chicago. But this time my senses were on high alert: Every shadow got a second glance, every bystander a double look. Ethan was under my protection, and I wasn’t about to lose him on my watch.

Jonah stood on the corner of Michigan and Chestnut, his auburn hair blowing in the light breeze. With his tall, rangy build and chiseled features, he was movie-star handsome. Considering his great personality and sense of humor, he had no business being single. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had much luck in the dating arena.

“Merit, Ethan,” he said with a nod.

“Jonah,” Ethan said. His tone was unerringly polite, but he still wasn’t one hundred percent certain of the handsome guard captain—particularly since Jonah and I, as RG partners, were tied together in a way that Ethan and I weren’t. And Ethan was alpha enough to find those ties a little too binding.

“You haven’t seen anything yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. I waited for you since you sent the invite. Too many vampires spoil a party.” He gestured to the church, which was surrounded by official vehicles and ambulances. “Lot of cops around. I think the chance of a replay of the Cadogan Dash drama is slim. You drive Moneypenny?”

“Lindsey’s SUV,” I said.

“Good. Decreases the odds he’d follow you here—assuming he was looking.”

“No evidence of that so far,” I said as we walked together up Michigan. “But we’re still looking.”

“Show like that, you expect a second round.”

“We’re expecting it,” Ethan agreed. “We’ll be prepared.”

I hoped he was right but didn’t discount the risk. The cost was simply too great.

The Fourth Presbyterian Church property was nestled between shops and high-rises in Chicago’s bustling tourist sector. There was a sanctuary and separate parish buildings, and the space between them created a courtyard separated from Michigan Avenue by an arched, covered walkway.

Tonight, that courtyard was bounded by yellow police tape, that immediate indicator that something bad had gone down. Gawkers were gathered along the tape, cell phones extended to photograph the scene.

My grandfather moved toward us in brown shoes with thick soles, a plaid shirt tucked into brown slacks. There wasn’t much hair left on his head, and his face was comfortably lived-in. I loved him ridiculously.

He walked with a cane these days, his body still healing from an unfortunate run-in with the man who’d formerly held his position. But he moved quickly and, although his expression was dour, offered me a hug.

I tried to thread the needle between showing affection for my grandfather (with an affectionate hug) and keeping him safe (with an affectionate hug that didn’t rebreak his ribs, which were only just healing). He didn’t grunt in pain, so I considered that a victory. He smelled like the mentholated rubs he preferred for sore muscles, a scent I’d forever associate with weekend sleepovers at my grandparents’ house.

“I’m sorry to bring you out again after the evening you’ve had already,” he said, releasing me and offering Ethan a hand. “Ethan.”

“Chuck,” Ethan said. “No apologies necessary.” He motioned toward the cane. “It appears you’re getting around.”

“Not as well as I used to,” he said, “but better than I was, certainly.”

“And you remember Jonah, Grandpa. Guard captain at Grey House.”

“Of course,” my grandfather said, and they shook on it. “Nice to see you again.”

I took a look at his face, saw lines of grief etched around his eyes. He stood Ombudsman now instead of homicide detective, but there was no mistaking the cop in his eyes.

“We’re so sorry to hear of Detective Jacobs’s loss,” I said. “Did you know his son very well?”

“Not very,” my grandfather admitted. “Brett was twenty-five, already out on his own, but I’d met him a time or two at Arthur’s house for dinner. Good kid, by all accounts. No reason to believe he’d done anything that would make him anyone’s target.”

“I suppose they’ll wait until after an autopsy for funeral arrangements?”

“I expect so. Could be several days before they’re ready to release his body. He’s taking some time off in the meantime, keeping his family close.”

“Please offer our condolences,” Ethan said.

“I will,” my grandfather said. “Let’s do our part for Brett and take a look.”

We dipped under the tape and moved through the passageway and into the courtyard, a large grassy rectangle bordered by buildings and hedges. A fountain stood in the middle. The area bustled with cops and investigators—and no one I’d recently seen aiming a handgun at my person. A forensic unit surveyed the grass, sweeping flashlights back and forth across the ground.

Between the fountain and one of the buildings was a tall, square enclosure of yellow plastic. A bit of privacy for Brett, I presumed. A stand of temporary lights had been placed inside, the bulbs visible above the plastic, which crackled stiffly in the breeze. The smell of blood—and much, much worse—stained the air.

Steady? Ethan asked.

Vampires were innately attracted to the scent of blood, but there was nothing attractive about this scent, mixed as it was with the unmistakable odor of death.

Fine, I promised. And hoping to keep my dinner down.

We followed my grandfather toward the barrier. He stopped a few feet away, gestured to a brunette in a classic black suit. She was handsomely pretty, with strong features and a wide mouth, her hair waving over her shoulders. Midthirties, I’d have guessed, with hard eyes unmistakably belonging to a cop.

“Detective Bernadette Stowe,” my grandfather said. “Ethan Sullivan, Merit, Jonah.”

She nodded, held up gloved hands. “I’d shake, but I’m already prepped. You’re our vampire experts?”

“No one better,” my grandfather said. I wasn’t sure about that, but we certainly had the practical expertise.

We reached the barrier and Stowe pushed it aside, allowing us to enter. I went in last, taking a final glance around the courtyard, making sure I didn’t recognize the driver among the men and women who surveyed the scene.

Catcher already stood inside the plastic, looking down at Brett Jacobs, who lay on the new spring grass. He nodded at us, moved aside to let us enter.

Brett’s hair was short and dark, and his eyes were deeply brown and stared up, empty. He wore jeans and a navy T-shirt, but his feet were bare, and there was a blue mark on the back of one hand, a small, square cross. Beneath it, his dark skin had a gray cast: the pallor of death.

His body was posed as if he’d been crucified: arms outstretched, his palms flat on the grass, legs straight. His careful positioning was strange, but that’s not why they’d called us.