"I don't know what you know," he said, "or what you've seen, or what you think you've done. But I advise you to find someone you can trust, and spill those beans. Capiche?"
Silently, I nodded.
"Then let's get to work."
We did. He wouldn't allow me to spar, given what he'd deemed my subpar effort two days ago. It was a punishment in his eyes, but a moral victory for me, allowing me to put my effort into movement and speed rather than holding back the predatory instinct that threatened to overwhelm me. And besides - since we hadn't been sparring, and thus didn't risk damaging the blades, he let me practice with my katana.
We worked through the first seven Katas for nearly an hour. While the movements of each Kata lasted only a few seconds, Catcher made me repeat the steps - over and over and over again - until he was satisfied with my performance. Until the moves became rote, until my movements were mechanically precise, until I could move so quickly through them that the gestures were blurred by speed. That fast, the Katas lost some of their tradition, but they made up for it in dance. Unfortunately, as Catcher pointed out, if I needed to use a sword in a fight, it would likely be against a vampire who was moving as quickly as I was.
After he'd taught me the basic movements of a second set of Katas, these using only one hand on the sword, he released me.
"I'm seeing some improvement," he said, when we'd settled on the blue mat, a spread of katana-cleaning implements before us.
"Thanks," I told him, sliding a piece of rice paper along the sword's sharpened edge.
"The interesting question is, why don't I see the same kind of effort when you're sparring?"
I glanced over at him, saw that his gaze was still on his sword. He clearly didn't understand that I'd been working double time to help him. And I'd already decided not to tell him, so I didn't answer the question. We were silent for a moment, both of us wiping down our blades, me refusing to answer.
"No answer?" he finally asked.
I shook my head.
"You are as stubborn as she is, I swear to God."
Without comment, although I agreed, I slid my sword into its sheath.
Chapter Fifteen
I COULD HAVE DANCED ALL NIGHT
Back at the House, I showered and arranged undergarments, then slipped on my thigh holster and strappy heels. I opted for an updo tonight, twisting my hair into a knot at the back of my neck. All the basics accomplished, I slithered carefully into the dress. Short timing or not, the fit was exquisite. The dress was exquisite. Pale skin, dark hair, glossy lips, black dress. I looked like an exotic princess. A vampire princess.
But the lingering sting of my fight with Mallory lessened a little of the fairy tale.
As ready as I could be, I grabbed my clutch and scabbard and went downstairs, where Mallory's devil waited.
He stood in the foyer, hands in his pockets, lean body clad in a tuxedo. Black, crisply shouldered, a perfect bow tie at his neck. His hair was down, the gold of it straight around his face, highlighting cruelly perfect cheekbones, emerald eyes. He was almost too handsome, untouchably handsome, the face of a god - or something altogether more wicked.
"What's wrong?" he asked, without looking up.
I reached the first floor, shook my head. "I'd rather not talk about it."
That lifted his gaze, his lips parting infinitesimally as he took in the waterfall silk. "That's a lovely dress." His voice was soft, somehow that much more intensely masculine.
I nodded, ignoring the undertone. "Are we ready?"
Ethan tilted his head to the side. "Are you ready?"
"Let's just go."
Ethan paused, then nodded and headed for the stairs.
He let me be silent for most of the ride to Oak Park, which was considerably faster than the trip to the Breckenridge estate. But while he didn't talk, he kept turning to look at me, casting worried, surreptitious glances at my face, and a few more lascivious ones at other parts of my anatomy.
I noticed them, but ignored them. In the quiet of the car, my thoughts kept going back to my conversation with Mallory. Was I forgetting who I'd been, my life before Cadogan House? I'd known Mal for three years. Sure, we'd had a spat or two along the way.
We'd been roommates, after all. But never something like this. Never an argument where we questioned the other's choices, where we questioned our roles in each other's lives. This was different. And it was, I feared, the harbinger of unfortunate things.
Of the slow dissolution of a friendship already weakened by physical separation, new ties, supernatural disasters.
"What happened?"
Since Ethan's question was softly spoken and, I thought, sincere, I answered it. "Mallory and I had a fight." About you, I silently added, then said aloud, "Suffice it to say, she's not happy with the person, the vampire, I'm becoming."
"I see." He sounded as uncomfortable as you might expect a boy, even a four-hundred-year-old boy, to sound.
I skipped a responsive nod, fearful that the movement would trip the tears, smear my mascara, and leave track marks down my face.
I really, really wasn't in the mood for this. Not to go to Oak Park, to play dress-up, to be in the same room as my father, to pretend at being that girl.
"I need a motivational speech," I told him. "It's been a pretty awful night so far, and I'm fighting the urge to take a cab right back to Cadogan House and spend an intimate evening with a couple of deep-dish meat pies. I could use one of those 'Do it for Cadogan!' lectures you're so fond of."
He chuckled, and the sound of it was comforting somehow. "How about I tell you that you look radiant?"
The compliment was probably the best, and worst, thing he could have said. Coming from him, it felt weightier, more validating, than it should have. And that bothered me. A lot.
Scared me. A lot.
God, was Mal right? Was I sabotaging my relationship with Morgan for this man? Was I exchanging real friendships, real relationships, for the possibility of Ethan? I felt like I was spiral ing around in some kind of vampire whirlpool, the remnants of my normal life draining away. God only knew what would be left of me.
"How about I remind you," he began, "that this is your opportunity to be someone else for a few hours. I understand, maybe better than I did before, that you're different from these people. But tonight you can leave the real Merit in Hyde Park. Tonight, you can play make-believe. You can be... the girl they weren't expecting."
The girl they weren't expecting. That had kind of a nice ring to it. "That's not bad," I told him. "And certainly better than the last speech you gave me."