Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

I touched fingers gingerly to my cheekbone, which had dulled to an ache. “Is it still bruised?”

“It’s a little purple, yeah. How’s Navarre?”

It always surprised me when word of our off-campus shenanigans traveled, and I had no idea why. Vampires loved to gossip at least as much as humans, and since this particular gossip involved a vampire attack, Luc would have advised the House just as a precaution.

“At the moment, not great. Internal conflict, external conflict. It’s kind of a mess.”

“I ever tell you I applied there?”

I drew my gaze away from neat square tins of chopped vegetables at the station next to her stove to her face. “No. Before Cadogan?”

“Same time as. I wasn’t sure which House I liked better—Cadogan was in my gut, but I had a friend in Navarre.”

“And why’d you pick Cadogan?”

“I trusted Ethan more than I trusted Celina.”

“Good instincts.”

“No kidding, right? Ethan was—still is—very practical about vampirism, about being a Novitiate. Our responsibilities to the House, his responsibilities to us. Celina was more . . . I don’t know. Particular. I mean, Ethan’s particular in his own way, sure. But he’s particular about things that matter. She was particular about our being vampires with a capital “V.” Seeming, at all times, the best vampires in town. It was exhausting.”

“Yeah. That’s the vibe I got tonight. Lot of expectations about how to ‘be’ a vampire.”

She nodded. “That hits it pretty well. What brings you by?”

“I know it’s between meals, but could I grab something to eat?”

“Sure. Just a second while I get this where it needs to be.” She swirled the pan for another moment or two, and when she decided it was done, she poured the contents—caramel-colored liquid—into a nearby glass dish.

“I’m browning butter,” she said, then put the pan in the sink, walked to the fridge, and pulled out a small take-out container. “Ham and a very nice white cheese on baguette. Sides of Dijon and mayo, pickle, chips.”

I took it from her, smiled. “You made me a to-go box?”

She closed the refrigerator again. “Ah. You must not know about Executive Order Two Hundred Eleven.”

“What’s that?”

“Basically, we’re required to keep sack lunches ready for you. Ethan thinks you get hangry.”

I was torn between irritation and admiration, as the order was both incredibly apt and utterly insulting. “That’s ridiculous. I do not get hangry.”

“Are you hangry now?”

I paused. “Maybe,” I said with resignation.

She flicked a hand toward the box. “And there you go. Eat your regulatory sandwich and be happy about it. I threw in two chocolate chip cookies.”

That was something anyway.

*   *   *

I was hungry/hangry enough that I didn’t think company was a good idea. It also wasn’t often I found myself with a few moments to sit quietly, so I sat in the dark cafeteria for a few quiet minutes, eating my take-out dinner with bottles of blood and water I’d grabbed from the cooler.

One wall of the cafeteria was composed of windows that looked out over the Cadogan grounds. The landscape lights were on, highlighting a group of trees just beginning to bud, tulips just beginning to blossom. I could see the yard’s French fountain from there and, if I was quiet enough, could hear the gurgling water. While I ate, I kept my gaze on the sculpted yard, my mind on trickling water, on gently blowing limbs, on the fresh possibilities that spring would bring to Chicago.

ised his eyebrows. “Nicole might tell him directly.”

“She probably will. And that will only tempt him further.”