Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

I squeezed his hand. “Unfortunately, I think that’s guaranteed. But if things get too ugly, I’ll lay you both out.”

*   *   *

Ethan’s office was spacious and as beautifully decorated as the rest of the House. There was a desk on one side, a sitting area across from it, and a conference table that spanned the back wall.

Balthasar stood in the middle of the room, taking in the furniture, décor, mementos of Ethan’s life. Was he evaluating what he’d lost in Ethan’s revolution, or what he stood to gain if he could bring Ethan into the fold once again?

Luc stood in the sitting area, arms crossed and expression suspicious, beside Malik, Ethan’s second-in-command.

Malik was tall and lean, with thoughtful pale green eyes that set off dark skin. His stance mirrored Luc’s, and he was the only one in the room who wore the official Cadogan House uniform—slim-cut black suit, white button-down shirt. A silver teardrop, the Cadogan House medal, was suspended at the base of his throat.

Malik was protective of Ethan and the House, and his gaze drilled into Balthasar, eyes tracking across Balthasar’s face as if committing his visage to memory. All the better for Malik to double-check his bona fides later, I thought.

As I closed the door, Malik shifted his attention to Ethan, to gauge his mood, his magic, and his emotion as only a confidant and colleague could do.

When he was satisfied, he looked at me, a question in his eyes—Was this man who he seemed to be?

I gave Malik a quick nod, shifting my gaze to Ethan. He seemed to believe, and that was the only thing that mattered now. But that only created more questions: How had Ethan been wrong about Balthasar’s death? Where had he been in the intervening years? And, most important, what did he want from Ethan?

Balthasar dabbed at his mouth and, when he was satisfied the wound had closed—the benefits of vampire healing—tucked the handkerchief away again. “You have a lovely home, mon ami.”

Ethan ignored the compliment and the intimacy, walked to the sitting area, took a seat on the leather sofa, and spread his arms across the back, staking his position, his authority. I stood at attention beside him, ready to jump forward should the need arise.

“We enjoy it. You should begin.”

Balthasar quirked an eyebrow at the order—I wondered if Ethan had unconsciously picked up the affectation from him. “I will tell you my story, and you will reach your own conclusions.”

“Tell your tale,” Ethan said. “And we’ll see what comes next.”

*   *   *

Balthasar took a seat across from Ethan, fingers steepled in his lap.

“I was in London,” he began. “Three men walked into the house with crosses and stakes. They were the relatives of some girl or other, convinced I was evil, the devil incarnate.”

Not just some girl, Ethan said to me, his irritation obvious even telepathically. Persephone.

Ethan had loved her. Balthasar knew that, and had seduced and killed her in order to taunt Ethan. That selfish and violent act had been Balthasar’s final blow, prompting Ethan’s separation.

These men had been members of her family? I asked.

Yes was all Ethan said.

“I was the only one in the house,” Balthasar continued. “You’d just left, and I’d sent Nicole, as you call her now, on an errand.”

“To find me and bring me back,” Ethan said flatly, and Balthasar lifted his gaze to Ethan again, amusement in this eyes.

“Alive, if that was an option,” Balthasar agreed. “And if it was not . . . Well, it was a different time.”

“She did not find me,” Ethan said. “But I went back anyway.” A shadow crossed his eyes, as if he watched a memory play back. After a moment, he refocused on Balthasar.

“I heard about the mob. I went back, and saw you through the window. Bloodied. Almost decapitated.”

That explained why Ethan had believed Balthasar dead. A vampire could heal most wounds, but once the head was severed, the game was up. That was too much for even vampire genetics to mend. And the fact that Balthasar hadn’t contacted Ethan in the interim would only have reinforced what Ethan had seen. Still . . . there was doubt in Ethan’s voice now, put there by the vampire now sitting across from us.

I inched closer to the sofa, just enough for my hip to brush Ethan’s shoulder, a quick brush of contact I hoped would remind him that I was there. Balthasar saw the gesture, his gaze snapping like a cobra’s hood to notice the intimacy. There was something old and icy in his eyes. The utter absence of empathy, as if I was nothing more than a few brushstrokes on the canvas of his very long life.

I wanted to shrink away, but I forced my shoulders back, my chin up. I was Sentinel, and this was my House.