Hard Bitten (Chicagoland Vampires 4)

And since my visit to the Ombud's office hadn't exactly been productive on an intelgathering basis (albeit very productive on a river-trolldiplomacy basis), Jonah was a source I needed to tap.

He'd called me once before, so when I was on the move north toward Schaumburg, I dialed his number. He answered after a couple of rings.

"Jonah."

"Hi. It's Merit."

There was an awkward pause. "House business?"

I assumed he was asking if I was calling on behalf of Cadogan House - or our RG connection. "Not exactly. Do you have a minute to talk?"

Another pause. "Give me five minutes. I'll call you back."

The line went dead, so I made sure my ringer was turned on and put the phone in the cup holder while I made my way toward I-90.

Jonah was punctual; the dashboard clock had moved ahead exactly five minutes when he called back.

"I had to get outside," he explained. "I'm on the street now. Figured that would avoid the drama." Scott Grey's vampires lived in a converted warehouse in the Andersonville neighborhood, not far from Wrigley Field. The lucky ducks.

"What's up?" he asked.

I decided to offer up the truth. "Mayor Tate called us into his office yesterday. Told us he had an eyewitness account that a band of vampires had killed three humans."

"Damn." His curse was low and a little tiredsounding.

"Anything else?"

"Tate suggested the violence was part of the rave culture. But based on our intel, this sounds different. Bigger. Meaner. If the witness, a Mr.Jackson, was telling the truth, this has the markings of some kind of attack. That it happened at a rave might be the minor issue. In any event, it's time to do something about them, and in order to do that, I need information."

"So you called me?"

I rolled my eyes. The question suggested he was doing me a favor - and that he'd ask for one in return. How very vampire.

"You're my best hope for answers," I matterof-factly said.

"Unfortunately, I don't have a lot to tell you. I know about the last rave - the one the RG cleaned up - but only because Noah filled me in. I wasn't there."

"Do you think Noah might have any more information?"

"Maybe. But why not just call him directly?"

"Because you were offered up to me as a partner."

Jonah paused. "Is this call an indication of interest in the RG?"

It's a last-ditch effort to glean information, I thought, but offered instead, "I think this is big enough that it transcends Houses or RG membership."

"Fair enough. I'll ask some questions and get back to you if I learn anything. I assume you won't tell anyone we've talked."

"Your secret is safe with me. And thanks."

"Don't thank me until I dig something up. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead, so I tucked the phone away. There were more drama and complications with each day that passed.

Rarely did a night pass without more vampire drama.

Sometimes hanging out in pajamas with a good book sounded like a phenomenal idea.

The phone rang again almost immediately after I'd hung up. I glanced at the screen; it was my father.

I briefly considered sending him directly to voice mail, but I'd been doing that a lot lately  - enough that my lack of communication hit my grandfather's radar. I didn't want my problems on his plate, so I sucked it up, flipped open the phone, and raised it to my ear.

"Hello?"

"I'd like to speak with you," my father said, apparently by way of greeting.

That was inevitably true. I'm sure my father had a number of topics in the queue for me. The trick was figuring out which particular topic was on his mind today.

"About?" I asked.

"Some things on the horizon. I've become aware of some investments in which I think Ethan might be interested."

Ah, that explained the good humor at Creeley Creek. If there was anything that made my father happy, it was the possibility of a capital gain and a fat commission. Still, I did appreciate that he was interested in working with Ethan - instead of trying to bury us all.

"We're in the middle of something right now.

But I'll definitely advise Ethan of your offer."

"He can call me in the office," my father said.

He meant his skyscraper on Michigan Avenue across from Millennium Park. Only the best real estate for the city's best real estate mogul.

With that bit of instruction, the line went dead.

If only we could have picked our family . . .

Chapter Six

SEASON OF THE WITCH

I pulled into the restaurant's almost empty parking lot. The restaurant's windows glowed, only a handful of men and women visible through the glass.

I parked the Volvo and headed inside, glancing around until I found Mallory. She sat at a table in front of a laptop computer and a foot-high stack of books, her straight, ice blue hair tucked behind her ears. She frowned at the screen, a half-full tumbler of orange juice at her side.

She glanced up when I came in, and I noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"Hi," she said, relief in her face.

I slid into the booth. "You look tired." No need to equivocate when your BFF was in pain, I figured.

"I am tired." She closed the laptop and slid it out of the way, then linked her hands on the table. "Practicum isn't all it's cracked up to be."

I crossed my legs on the bench. "Hard work?"

"Physically and emotionally exhausting." She frowned over at the pile of books. "This is like sorcery boot camp - learning stuff I should have studied ten years ago, cramming all that into a fewmonth period."

"Is it useful stuff?"

"Yeah. I mean, I've gone over it with my tutor so much it's kind of second nature now."

Before I had time to blink, the plastic salt and pepper shakers were sliding across the table in front of me.

I glanced up and found Mallory completely still, her expression bland. I'd seen Mallory move things before - furniture, the last time - but I hadn't seen her so lackadaisical about it.

"That's . . . impressive."

She shrugged, but there was something dark in her eyes. "I can do it almost without thinking about it."

"And how do you feel about that?"

That was when the tears began to well. She looked up and away, as if the gesture alone would keep the tears from falling. But they slipped down her cheeks anyway. And when she brushed away the tears, I realized her fingers were red and raw.

"Talk to me," I told her, then glanced around.

Our corner of the restaurant was empty; the only waitress in sight sat at a table on the other side of the room, rolling silverware into paper napkins.