Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

“Because Cyrius wishes to have a word with you.”

Ethan rolled his eyes, playing at a man unaccustomed to being beckoned, which wasn’t much of a stretch. But I caught the tightening of his jaw.

“I’m trying to relax, and I don’t know who Cyrius is. If he wants to speak with me, he can do so here.”

Trouble?

Cyrius runs La Douleur, Ethan said. I’ve not met him, but I know his name.

Another vampire entered the room—an enormous woman with freckles, brown hair, and silvered eyes that were focused on us. A katana in a lacquered black sheath was belted at her waist, and she probably had five inches and eighty pounds on me.

Good, I thought, as I met her threatening gaze. That might make us even.

Steady, now, Sentinel.

I won’t move unless I have to, I assured him. But I hoped that I’d have to. Even vampires bored of posturing.

“Now,” the butler insisted, all pretense of politeness—and the British accent—gone. “Or we do this here.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “This was once an establishment of some gentility.” But he put aside his drink, rose, held up a hand for me.

I nodded, rose obediently, and followed Ethan and the butler to the door where the vampire waited. When I looked back, the vampires had descended on the man on the ottoman, and the scent of blood rose in the air.

The man in the fedora was gone.

• • •

We were marched into the hallway again, then through the open door at the far end into an enormous concrete room, probably a dock for the store that had once filled the slip. A rolling overhead door was open, letting in an astringent, chemical breeze.

llowed the would-be butler, who escorted us to a high-backed settee and gestured to it. “Please.”

Sit at my feet, Ethan said, before I could move.

He must have felt my hesitation.

It is part of the illusion, of the theme of this particular room. Remember your word.

Since I’d given it, I bit back a sneer and sank to the floor at the edge of Ethan’s chair as graciously as possible.

He stroked a hand over my head. “Very good,” he said, signaling to the room that I’d pleased him.

I’d learned to bluff a long time ago, and if ever there’d been a time to use the skill, this was it. Dutifully, I rested my cheek on his knee.

“What may I obtain for you, sir?” the butler asked.

“Cognac, for the moment. We’ll see how well my pet behaves.”

I began to make very specific plans for Ethan’s quid pro quo. If I had to sit at Ethan’s feet, he’d damn well better be prepared to sit at mine.

The butler nodded, walked to a brass cart, poured liquid from a cut-crystal decanter. He brought it back to Ethan and then began checking with the other sups.

Do you recognize anyone? Ethan asked.

I trailed my fingers up and down his leg. I don’t. I count several vampires and shifters, but no sorcerers.

Caleb Franklin’s killer?

I looked them over. None had a beard, although that could have been removed easily enough. But the killer had also been tall and well muscled, and none of the vampires here seemed to have the right proportions, Ethan excluded.