Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires 1)

"Top of the line."

Not really surprising given the fireworks display. A little scary, but not surprising. "Gotcha."

When we reached the warehouse district, we found parking in front of the brick building bearing the address Catcher had provided. The building was four squat stories tall and ringed at the top with equally spaced square windows, like a coronet of glass. A substantial red door sat in the middle of the facade. We dodged raindrops to reach it, then pushed it open, revealing an impressive atrium that stretched the full height of the building. The room itself was shaped like an inverted T, with a long hallway punched through the middle. An empty demilune reception desk stood in the juncture.

Having gotten no instructions beyond the time and address, I gave Mallory a shrug, and we ventured toward the hallway. Doors marked both walls, but there was no sign of our sorcerer or a gym. Rather than testing each door, which felt a little too Alice in Wonderland, we decided to wait and hope that someone would eventually come looking for us. We debated whether they'd come from the right or the left.

"Left side?" I offered.

Mallory shook her head. "Right. Loser buys dinner."

"Done," I agreed, seconds too early. Mallory nailed it - a door opened on the right, and Jeff's head popped out of the doorway. He grinned at me, waved, and widened his eyes when he saw Mallory.

"You brought magic," he said, his voice a little dreamy, and beckoned us in. Mallory grumbled a few choice words about "magic," but we followed obediently.

The room was enormous. The walls were concrete, the floor dominated by blue gymnastics mats. A gauntlet of punching and speed bags hung in one corner. The contrast between this room - sterile, equipped for precision training - and the Cadogan sparring room - ceremonial, equipped for flashy moves - was easily apparent. This place lacked the gravitas, but it also lacked the ego. There, you showed off. Here, you worked out. You prepared. The music, though, was weirdly mellow - John Lee Hooker's "You Talk Too Much" flowed through the space.

"I'm Jeff," he said, sticking out a hand toward Mallory. She shook it.

"Mallory Carmichael."

"I'm a shifter," he said. "And you're magic."

"That's what I hear," she flatly said.

"Have you joined the Order yet?"

Mallory shook her head.

Jeff nodded. "Talk to Catcher. But don't let him blind you to the benefits of being unionized."

As if on cue, a door on the far side of the room opened with a metallic scrape. Catcher emerged, stalking toward us in bare feet, jeans, and a T-shirt that read Real Men Use Keys. It was a good look for him - sexy, rough, a little dangerous. It was the look of a man who'd just crawled out of bed, leaving a very satisfied woman beneath the sheets.

I watched his eyes survey the room, saw his gaze move from Jeff, to me, to Mallory. And that was when I saw the blink, the tiny hitch in his composure when he took in the petite frame, the blue hair, the gorgeous face. I turned, saw the same awestruck expression on her face, and watched them stare at each other. The force of the attraction seemed to warm the air. I grinned.

"You're late," Catcher said when he reached us, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jeff, the sweetheart, defended my honor. "She was here on time. I found 'em standing in the hallway, staring at the architecture."

"It's a great building," I said.

"Thanks," Catcher replied, his gaze on Mallory. "I don't have time to deal with you tonight." I guessed introductions were unnecessary.

Mallory huffed. "I don't recall asking you for help."

The air seemed to prickle around us, drawing goose bumps along my arms. Jeff took a couple of steps backward. Since he undoubtedly knew more than I did, I followed suit.

"You don't have to ask," Catcher said. "You're practically drenched in power, and you obviously have no clue what to do with it."

Mallory rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're a fourth-grade," Catcher said, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. "And I know you know what that means. I know you put in a call. But Merit doesn't have magic, and I need to make sure, first and foremost, that she can handle what's coming. So not now, okay?"

Mal's eyes flared, blazed. But after a moment, she nodded.

Catcher inclined his head, then looked me over. He pinched the sleeve of my fleece jacket. "This won't work. You're wearing too many clothes. You need to watch your body move, learn how your muscles work." He crooked a thumb toward the door in the back of the room. "Head back. There're clothes in the locker room. And lose the shoes."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Do you want a speech, too?"

I didn't, but I was a little sick of being bossed around by supernatural boys with ego problems, so I satisfied myself by muttering a few choice curses on my way back.

The locker room was bright, empty, and clean, but like all locker rooms, it carried the ubiquitous scent of sweat and cleaning products. There were two pieces of black fabric on a bench. I picked them up.

Catcher had been serious about watching my muscles work. The "clothes" were barely scraps - an eight-inch band of spandex to cover my br**sts and a pair of spandex shorts that would just reach the tops of my thighs. It looked like a beach volleyball uniform, although I think even Gabrielle Reese got more clothing than this.

"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered, but stripped and pulled on the workout gear. They fit well, at least the little skin they covered. I folded and piled my clothes, placed my shoes on top, then pulled my hair into a ponytail. A quick survey in the mirror above a slate of sinks revealed a lot of pale vampy skin, but the effect wasn't bad, actually. I'd always been lean, but my muscles seemed more defined now, vampire genetics doing more for my body than miles on the treadmill. I blew the bangs out of my face, wished myself luck, and walked back into the training room.

For my trouble, I got catcalls from Mallory and Jeff, who grinned at each other in delight. I rolled my eyes, but curtsied to both of them, then walked to where Catcher stood, arms folded across his chest, a glower on his face, in the middle of the mats.

"Push-ups," he said, pointing at the floor. "Start now."

As commanded, I went to the floor, extended my arms and legs, and started lifting my body. The move was nearly effortless; while I certainly couldn't do push-ups indefinitely, I had noticeably more upper body strength. I felt muscles clench and flex as I moved, and reveled in the sensation of blood flowing faster than before. I saw feet come into view, then circle me.