Biting Bad (Chicagoland Vampires 8)

"There is not," Ethan said, his tone firm. "So don't bother."

"Where should I meet you?"

"I'll talk to Luc and select a spot. We'll text you coordinates. Where are you currently?"

"At a coffeehouse with Catcher, across the street from Bryant Industries."

"Stay put until we send the location," Luc said. "I don't want you heading in blind."

"Roger that," I said. I didn't want to head in blind, either.

The call ended, and I looked at Catcher. "I suppose you got the gist?"

He held his phone out, revealing a message from my grandfather: GREY HOUSE UNDER ATTACK.

"Word moves quickly," I said.

"As does violence," Catcher said. "And we all have our parts to play."

Fear in my heart, I looked at him. "Did we do this? By questioning her, by letting her get away, did we make this happen? Did we scare her into it?"

"Did we scare her, within an hour, to organize a riot of three hundred people? No. This would have been on the books before we talked to Pope, maybe even before the riot last night. It's too big to be anything other than a planned attack. But I'll bet your ass and mine that she's got a hand in it, and she knows how to stop it."

Catcher stood up and rebuttoned his coat.

"Where are you heading?" I asked.

"I can't use magic in the middle of the riot," he said. "Too many witnesses. But I can manage the perimeter. Pick off the stragglers now and again."

"Pick them off?" I asked. I assumed he didn't mean it literally, but I thought I should perform the due diligence.

"I'm not going to kill them," Catcher said. "Incapacitating them will be enough. And it's a creative venture that I'm going to enjoy. With gusto."

"I haven't seen you this excited about magic in a long time."

"The world is changing," he said. "The old ways don't work anymore. For better or worse, Mallory's been a good reminder of that."

I nodded. "Then good luck, and thank you for your help."

"You're welcome. Good luck at the House. And I wouldn't be a friend of your grandfather's if I didn't ask you to please be careful."

"I'm always careful," I promised. "It's other people I can't be sure about."

-

Ethan sent me the address of the rendezvous spot - a pharmacy a few blocks away from Grey House. From there, we'd get a sense of the scene from the other end of the riot, then plan our approach and how best we could divert the rioters from the House. Luc and Juliet would drop him off, then proceed to the House, or as close as they could get.

Wrigleyville wasn't terribly far from Wicker Park. I arrived at the rendezvous point before Ethan and got out of the car, belting on my katana and ensuring the fit was perfect. With an imperfect fit, I wouldn't be able to draw the sword cleanly from its scabbard.

The street was quiet, but I could hear the now-familiar sounds of the riot - chanting, glass breaking, rhythmic drumming - a few blocks away. A gut-wrenching column of smoke lifted into the sky, visible even blocks away from Grey House.

I was seeing only the margin of the violence, and it was still enough to make me nervous. After all, I was immortal, not invincible. But my fear was irrelevant. This was battle, and I was Sentinel of my House. Being brave meant fighting through fear.

It was unfortunate Mayor Kowalcyzk didn't see this for what it was - domestic terrorism at its finest. But she'd already decided we weren't the protagonists of this particular story.

"This story," I murmured, a plan beginning to form.

Maybe, if we wanted to combat Kowalcyzk and McKetrick and Clean Chicago, we had to write our own story. We had to remind the city we were hardworking Chicagoans who were out to make lives for ourselves, not to harm anyone else. We had to show Chicago what the violence was doing to us, and to the rest of the city.

And how could we do that?

We could call our favorite reporter to give him the story of a lifetime.

Being raised in a wealthy family had obvious advantages. Good schools, square meals, safe neighborhood, and access to people in high places. The members of the Breckenridge family were some of those people. They were old-money Chicago, having made their fortune in the steel industry. I'd gone to high school with Nick, one of the Breckenridge boys. I'd gone to college and grad school; he'd become a Pulitzer Prize - winning investigative journalist.

He'd also once tried to blackmail Cadogan House, but that was water under the bridge. Especially after he put me on the front page of the paper beneath the headline PONYTAILED AVENGER. That press had been good for the House. We'd see if it could be again.

So as I waited for Ethan, I dialed up Nick.

A woman answered. "Nick Breckenridge's phone."

"Is Nick there?" I asked, feeling suddenly awkward about the question.

"He's in the shower. Just a minute."

Her voice carried an accent - Italian or Spanish, perhaps - and I imagined a lovely and buxom brunette. And since I hadn't known Nick was dating anyone, I couldn't help but be curious.

"This is Nick," he said after a moment.

"It's Merit. Sorry to interrupt, but I've got something you might be interested in."

"I'm listening."

"Clean Chicago is rioting again. They've hit Grey House."

He paused. "That's the one in Wrigleyville?"

"It is. They've asked for vampire assistance, and we're on our way. Other vamps are heading over there as well."

"How many rioters?" His tone was serious, journalistic. I'd hooked him; I could hear it in his voice.

"Two or three hundred."

Nick whistled. "That's a lot."

"Clean Chicago is making this about humans. But it isn't. It's about vampires. Whatever Clean Chicago's supposed issues, I'd put good money on the possibility they've never met a single member of Grey House. And it's the Grey House vamps who will suffer. Who are suffering as we speak."

"I'm on my way. Good luck," he said, then ended the call.

I appreciated the sentiment, because I was afraid I was going to need it.

-

Ethan arrived a few minutes later, and he was dressed for battle. Or, rather, not in the fitted black suits he preferred for a typical night at Cadogan House. He wore jeans over boots and a black motorcycle-style jacket that was styled like mine, already zipped up against the cold. His blond hair was tied back, his katana in hand.

"You look ready for business," I said.

"I tried to be prepared. You're all right?" He pressed a soft kiss to my lips.