Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

“You tell me about Catcher’s sexual prowess all the time,” I said as we began to climb the stairs.

“That’s different.”

“Because?”

She grinned. “Because I like talking about it.”

We reached the apartments and walked inside.

“Damn,” she said. “I really didn’t get a good look at this place earlier.”

“You hadn’t been in here before?”

“I had not.” She walked to the bathroom, peeked in, sat on the edge of the mattress, bobbed to check the weight, poked into the closet. “Holy balls. Darth Sullivan has a lot of suits.”

“Yeah,” I said, moving into the bedroom. “He does.”

“You got pretty nice digs here, Mer. Much better than that closet he called a dorm room.”

“Sleep with the Master, get the best digs.”

“I guess. Good for you. For both of you.” She yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry. I’m nearly gone. Bracelet?”

I walked to the cabinet in the closet, pulled out the bracelet. It was antique gold link, with a small raven-shaped charm.

Mallory moved to the desk, pulled the Louis XVI chair into the middle of the room. She put the bracelet on the padded seat, arranged it just so.

“You think he’ll care if the fabric gets singed?”

I just looked at her.

“You’re right. It’s Darth Sullivan. Better bring me a towel.”

Because she was tired and doing me a favor—protecting me from a crazy person—I did, handing over a fluffy bath towel Ethan probably also wouldn’t want singed. But scorch marks could be hidden with careful folding.

Mallory arranged the towel, put the bracelet on top of it. “Come stand behind me,” she said, and I did, well back and out of the way. I’d already seen one of her fireballs today. I didn’t need a repeat performance—or my own singeing.

She stood between me and the chair, eyes closed, wringing her hands as if to warm up. And then it began—the warm, slow spin of Mallory’s winding magic.

This was magic, clean and astringent, but not the kind Balthasar or Morgan had used. Glamour was viscous and syrupy compared to the energy Mallory pulled into the room. Catcher had once explained that sorcerers didn’t make magic, but pulled it from the universe using the force of their own will, moved and manipulated it. In that case, she was pulling the best of it tonight.

I peeked around her shoulder, watched as the bracelet began to glow with a faint amber light and shiver on the seat cushion. It jumped once, then twice, before lifting into the air and beginning to rotate, its speed increasing until it spun like a Frisbee.

Mallory smiled, flicked a finger to the side as if to direct it, but its spin suddenly wobbled.

“Ah, crap,” she said, turning and yanking me to the floor as the bracelet whirled through the air like a blade and launched across the room. It buzzed over our heads and hit the opposite wall with a resounding crack.

Mallory looked up, climbed to her feet, grimaced. “You think he’ll notice that?”

I glanced up at the ruler-sized burn mark on the wall.

“He might,” I said, the bracelet clanking to the floor as I climbed to my feet. A painting hung a couple of feet away from the mark, mounted by wires from a hook over the crown molding. I scooted it over to cover the hole, then moved back to stand beside Mallory and survey my handiwork. The picture was in an awkward place, but it was a landscape I didn’t especially like; no British pastoral scene was complete without a linen-shirt-clad man emerging from a pond.

ren’t sure who he was, but the “what” was clear enough.

He was a threat.

Chapter Seventeen