Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires 1)

He cut off two healthy slices of bread, then went to work on the tomato, slicing as he talked. "They throw out some gruel between the indoctrination sessions and propaganda films. Then we're off for a good marching around the grounds and the recitation of sonnets to Celina's loveliness."

I chuckled and tore off a couple of lettuce leaves, then held them up for his approval. He nodded, then began the very careful process of layering meats, cheeses, vegetables, and condiments on his Dagwood.

"They put out healthy stuff in the cafeteria - I just don't usually have a chance to make a sandwich my own way, you know?"

Having grown up with too much brie and foie gras and too few processed carbs, I knew very well. That was why I stopped him before he added the final piece of bread. I grabbed the bag of tortilla chips from the other end of the counter and handed them to him.

"Layer of chips," I solemnly explained. "Adds a good crunch."

"Genius," he said, then squished a layer of tortilla chips into his sandwich. We both looked down at it for a moment, four vertical inches of deliciousness.

"Should we take a picture?"

"It's pretty damn impressive."

He cocked his head at it. "I almost hate to ruin it by biting in, but I'm starving, so. . . ." Regrets spoken, he picked it up with two hands and bit in. His eyes closed as he crunched through the first bite. "That's a damn good sandwich."

"Told you," I said, leaning against the counter and pulling the bag of chips toward me.

"Tell me about yourself," he said between bites.

The bag crinkled noisily as I reached for a chip. "What do you want to know?"

"Origins. Interests. Why the daughter of one of the most powerful men in Chicago decided to become a vampire."

I watched him for a minute, a little disappointed that he'd asked, and wondering if the fact that my parents had money was the lodestone of his interest in me. And since he'd known, I wondered if news of my changing and my family connections was circulating through the Houses. Of course, since he thought the decision was mine, he clearly didn't know everything.

"Does it matter who my father is?"

Morgan shrugged lightly. "Not to me. To some, maybe. I wonder if Ethan cares."

He had, I ruefully thought, but that was not how I answered. "He saved my life."

Morgan's gaze shot up. "How?"

I debated what to tell him, but opted for the truth. If he really knew nothing, all the better. If he knew something, maybe the boundaries of his knowledge could help signal the guilty parties. "I was attacked. Ethan saved my life."

Morgan stared at me, then wiped his mouth with a napkin he'd taken from the stainless steel holder on the counter. "You're kidding."

I shook my head. "Someone assaulted me when I was walking across campus. He nearly tore out my throat. Ethan found me, and started the change."

Morgan's gaze narrowed. "How do you know Ethan didn't set it up?"

An uncomfortable twitch arced through my stomach. I didn't know that, not for sure. I was relying on instinct and Ethan's explanation, his professions of innocence. I still wondered why he'd happened to be in that spot in the middle of the night, and his answer - something about luck - hadn't been satisfying. I didn't think he'd purposefully hurt me, not physically anyway. Emotionally, though, was a different matter, and all the more reason for me to steer clear of him. He was my boss, and I'd acquiesce as far as necessary to get my job done, whatever that might be. But he was off-limits for anything else, his (conflicted) interest beside the point.

"Merit?"

I blinked back to my kitchen, to Morgan staring at me across the countertop. "Sorry," I said. "Just thinking. I know he didn't set it up. He saved my life." I crossed my fingers under the table, hoped that it was true.

Morgan frowned. "Huh. They found that Cadogan medal at the scene of Jennifer Porter's death."

"Anyone with access to the House could have planted it there - even a Rogue trying to make the House system look bad."

He nodded. "That's a theory. Actually, it's what Celina thinks."

"She doesn't think Ethan did it? Or someone from Cadogan?"

Morgan watched me for a careful moment, then shrugged and finished the final bites of his sandwich. "It would be more accurate to say that we fear people's responses to Cadogan, not the vamps themselves. Peace is fragile."

So I'd heard, but somehow the sentiment didn't ring as true coming from Morgan as it did from Ethan.

"What did you do - before?" he asked.

Having finished the first soda, I moved back to the refrigerator and grabbed another one, popped open the top, and returned to our spot at the counter. "I was a graduate student. English lit."

"Here in Chicago?"

I nodded. "University of Chicago."

"So you wanted to, what, teach?"

"At the college level, yeah. I wanted to be a professor. Romantic medieval literature was my specialty. The Arthurian sagas, Tristan and Isolde, that kind of thing."

"Tristan and Isolde. That's interesting."

I dug into the chip bag for a single whole chip, found one, and crunched into it. "Is it? What did you do before?"

"My dad owned Red, or at least the bar it was before I rehabbed it. He died a few years before I switched, and I took it over."

"Why did you decide to become a vampire?"

Morgan frowned, rubbed the back of his neck. "I had a girlfriend. She was sick, and she was approached by someone in Navarre. We made some overtures to Carlos - he was

Celina's Second at the time - and they approved our becoming Initiates. She was bright, strong, would have made a great vampire."

He paused and stared blankly at the counter, and the volume of his voice dropped. "The night came for the change. They changed me, but she couldn't go through with it. She died about a year later."

"I'm sorry."

"She said she didn't want to live forever. I was young and stupid, felt immortal anyway -  who doesn't at that age? I was with her when she died. She wasn't afraid."

We sat quietly for a few minutes, as I let him work through that memory.

"Anyway, that's my story."

"How long ago was that?"

"Nineteen seventy-two."

"So that would make you . . ."

He half chuckled, and I was glad to see a little more color in his face. "An age that will make you uncomfortable."

I leaned against the counter, crossed my arms, and gave him a good looking over. "You look about, what, twenty-eight? That would mean you were born around nineteen forty- four."