Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

• • •

We scattered, colleagues clustering together to make plans, arrangements. I drank a bottle of blood—like an athlete preparing for battle. When I returned to the foyer, Ethan and Malik stood together, Ethan’s hands on Malik’s face.

Ethan whispered something, Malik’s eyes flared with concern. It wasn’t difficult to guess the nature of Ethan’s words. This was the last communion of a soldier and his family before war. It was a promise by Malik to care for the House, a confirmation by Ethan that he knew Malik would protect and serve it, and a good-bye for both of them.

I’d seen this scene before, and each time it moved me; I had to look away to keep tears from blooming.

“Sentinel,” Malik said, walking toward me when their discussion was complete. “Good luck. Take care of yourself and our Master.”

“He’s the first thing on my mind,” I promised. I embraced him, then Luc.

“You got this, Sentinel. Go kick their asses.”

“I fully intend to.”

There was one particular vampire on my mind.

• • •

CPD had cordoned the blocks around Towerline with police tape and crowd barriers. Officers in riot gear were stationed every few yards, and people were stacked ten deep behind them, cameras raised high above the crowd to catch photos and video. They probably weren’t entirely sure what was going to happen, but they figured it would be exciting.

Magic filled the air like the tingle of electricity before a thunderstorm. The entire city was waiting for something to happen. And Reed was working to ensure that it did.

The plaza was empty of people, but figures moved inside the building’s two-story atrium, which had already been surrounded by glass. Maybe that had been a strategic decision, too.

We walked toward the cordoned area, were waved in by my grandfather, who stood with Detective Jacobs in the middle of a V formed by two canted police cars in the northbound lane of Michigan Avenue. My father stood with them in a Merit Properties windbreaker against the spring chill, and his expression was utterly dour. I had an extra twinge of guilt about both of them. Fathers and daughters were a complicated thing.

My grandfather greeted us, then introduced the rest of the team to the several officers he was working with. But for him and Jacobs, they were also dressed in riot gear—dark shirts, dark pants, boots, protective vests, and plenty of communications equipment. They were not messing around.

How much blood would have to be shed to satisfy Reed’s ego?

“They’re still on the top floor, as far as we can tell,” Jacobs said. “Sups in the lobby with automatic weapons.”

“I’m surprised they haven’t been more aggressive,” Ethan said.

Morgan’s gaze tracked the moving shadows. “We’re tools to him. He’ll think of them as assets, and he won’t want to waste them until his plan’s completely in place.”

Jacobs nodded. “Our thought as well. We move toward the building, and he’ll attack.”

“That’s why we go in first,” Ethan said, and the cops around us went quiet, looked back at us.

“You aren’t qualified for that,” said a man in SWAT gear, but it sounded more like a question than an accusation.

“We are,” Ethan said. “All of us are combat-trained in some manner or other, and all of us are experienced in dealing with supernaturals. We’ve also been shielded against the magic. Oh, and some of us are immortal.”

His tone was dry; he didn’t intend to give up his chance to fight Reed.

“Look,” Catcher said. “We’re not trying to step on anyone’s territory. But Reed’s brought this battle to supernaturals. For better or worse, we’re the ones best equipped to do the fighting. We take care of the magic on the ground, and we send in a team to bring Reed out.”

“The goal is to limit fatalities,” the SWAT guy said.

“That’s our goal as well,” Catcher said.

Jacobs held out his hands as sorcerer and cop edged closer together in the rising tension. “This is my task force and my call. The sups are better equipped to deal with magic, and they won’t be sensitive to the vampire’s glamour. We would be. They go in, neutralize. We extract.”

“For what it’s worth,” my father put in, “it was my building. They say they can handle it, we let them handle it.”

It had taken twenty-eight years to get even that much approbation from my father. I wasn’t sure if that made it feel better or worse.