Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

He wasn’t just an onlooker.

He was a vampire—the vampire who’d killed Caleb Franklin. The one who’d gotten away from me in Wrigleyville and was now standing in front of Cadogan House.

My heart began to race, my blood to pound with need, with fight. “Get in the House, Mallory.”

“What?” Her smile faded, and she looked around, sensing my sudden caution.

“Get in the House, right now. Tell Ethan to close the gate and lock it down.”

“Merit, I’m not—”

I looked at her, and whatever she’d seen in my eyes must have convinced her.

We might have started this journey together, unsure of our steps, unfamiliar with the kinds of darkness we’d come to see. But we knew it now—how to react, how to protect. Her gaze steeled, and she slid her glance slowly, casually, to the vampire who I didn’t think had yet realized we were watching.

“He works for Reed,” I said. “I’m going to approach him. He’s going to run, and I’m going after him. I’m not going to stop until I get him.”

Ethan would be pissed that I was doing exactly what I lectured him not to do—taking Reed’s bait—but it couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t just let the vampire go. Not when we’d made a promise to Gabriel. And not when Caleb Franklin deserved better.

Fear crossed her eyes, but she put it away. “I’ll tell Ethan,” she said. “Go.”

I turned toward him.

He turned, I think, because he’d noticed my movement. And it took only an instant for him to recognize me, to see. We looked at each other, just long enough for me to confirm that he was the vampire I’d wanted . . . and for him to confirm that it was time to go.

He smiled at me, and took off in a sprint, heading north.

I’d be damned if I lost him again.

• • •

With the House’s gate clanking closed behind me, I followed him down Fifty-third toward the lake. He barreled past bars and twenty-four-hour restaurants where patrons still lingered, me in his wake.

All the while, I checked my pace, kept my gaze trained on his back, and wished to God I’d had my katana. But it was in the House, parked in our apartments, because I hadn’t thought I’d need it in a meeting of friends.

I’d been half right.

He ran toward the Metra Station, then inside the lobby. A train had just arrived; people streamed through the station, trying to get outside. I lost him in the crowd, scanned heads and shoulders frantically to catch sight of him.

I just saw his skullcap as he jumped the turnstile, then headed up the long, jagged staircase that led to the platform. I hustled through the crowd and over the turnstile as people yelled behind me, promising to send Metra the fare. Humanity pressed back against me like a tsunami.

He slipped into the train heading north. I did the same, managing to get inside just before the doors closed, and found him standing alone inside the empty car.

There, in the cold light of the train, I got my first real look at the vampire who had killed Caleb Franklin.

He’d lost his skullcap in the bustle, and stood with his legs apart, braced like a captain on a ship. His hair was thick, straight, and brown, and it was pulled into a knot atop his head. His face was handsome. But there was a coldness in his expression, a deadness in his brown eyes.

And there was something familiar.

Memories flooded back, slicked over sudden and battling bursts of fear and fury.

Freshly cut grass, still wet with dew. His fingers, rough against tender skin. The sharp shock of pain as his fangs tore into skin, spilled blood. And the speed with which he’d abandoned me, his quarry, when Ethan and Malik found me, saved me, and made me immortal.

This was the vampire who’d killed Caleb Franklin . . . and the vampire who’d attacked me on the Quad one year ago.