Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires 10)

“You got some time next week?” Tyler asked.

When a faint blush appeared on Jonah’s cheeks, my curiosity grew. “Sure, man. Get in touch.”

“Five by five,” Tyler said, and turned to the next person in line.

“Five by five?” I wondered aloud, as I pulled on my pass and walked to the doors that led into the convention center.

“It means he understands. Military term.”

I added that to my mental list of phrases to use with Luc. “And what does he want your time for?”

He diverted to a poster that bore a map of the convention center floor. “Oh, I just consult,” he said offhandedly.

“Consult? With a comics artist?”

He looked back at me, sheer embarrassment on his face, and realization struck.

“You don’t consult with him,” I said with a dawning grin. “You pose for him.”

Jonah rolled his eyes dramatically. “He wants to get the body right. The anatomy. He’s a perfectionist.”

The options for teasing him were legion. Truly numerous. But Jonah—tall and gorgeous and auburn haired in the way of an Irish prince—looked absolutely mortified. And besides, he’d been doing a favor for a friend.

“Good,” I said with a smile. “Good. You’ve got a good build for that.”

He looked back at me with obvious suspicion as folks in SpringCon T-shirts flowed onto the floor. “Okay,” he cautiously said. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“You got us in here to help my grandfather. I’m giving you a pass.”

He looked utterly relieved and led the way onto the main convention floor.

Yes, I was in love and committed. But I still snuck a peek at the guard-slash-model’s assets . . . and made a mental note to find out which comics Tyler worked on.

Chapter Six

SENTINEL SQUARED

The line outside, as eclectic as it had been, was nothing compared to the convention center’s main hall.

Artists, writers, and stars of sci-fi movies and television shows sat at dozens of rows of tables, and men, women, and children moved through the rows with excited expressions. Animated screens, movie posters, and spinning video-game signs reached fifteen feet into the air. Fans funneled in and out of giant rooms that seemed to be built entirely of rolled-up T-shirts, and inflatable characters roamed the narrow pathways like video-game monsters. Scantily clad women and men in loincloths posed for photographs. Music blared from all directions, and fans chatted over the cacophony, excitedly showing their treasures from the corners of the floor. Posters. Bags. Plushies.

It was an assault on all five senses, and probably a couple I hadn’t even known I had.

Jonah and I strolled across the floor dodging zombies, caped superheroes, anime princesses, and an awful lot of Wookies.

“This is a lot to take in,” I said, dodging a child in a small, pink Darth Vader costume who ran to her father with an autographed picture in hand. Actors from various sci-fi shows sat at long tables behind her, signing photographs and posing for pictures, pressing cheeks with fans willing to shell out the cash.

“I love a con,” he said over the din. “The energy. The love. The geekery. Where else do you get so many people passionate about so many different things in one place?”

“There is definitely a lot of energy here,” I said, as we passed a bevy of fans at the “Vampire Arts” table. I only barely glanced at it, expecting to see photos of Buffy, prints of Dracula and Edward, posters of Selena and Blade in battle mode.

I did not expect to catch sight of a plastic-wrapped print of a watercolor featuring a woman with dark hair, fangs, and familiar blue eyes.

I pulled Jonah to a stop, then yanked him toward it. Goggling, I picked it up, stared at the drawing of me.

I recognized the image—it was modeled after a photograph that had appeared in the paper above the headline “Ponytailed Avenger.” And that, by the look of it, was the title of the artwork, scrawled in thin, scratching strokes across the bottom right of the picture.

“It’s nicely done,” Jonah said.

“Archival paper,” said the young guy manning the table. He hadn’t yet looked up and was busily penning another drawing, this time of Lindsey with sunglasses and tight jeans. “Suitable for framing.”

And according to the tiny sticker in the bottom corner, very affordable. For thirty-five dollars you could take home your own Sentinel.

The artist, whose index and middle fingers were smeared with ink, looked up. “Nice costume.”

“I think you’re going to want to see this.”

I heard Jonah speak but was so flabbergasted and creeped out—and, yeah, a little flattered—by the assortment of drawings that I didn’t really hear it. Not until he said my name again, then took me by the shoulders, turned me around to face a table dotted entirely with photographs and swag featuring “Chicago’s Hunkiest Vampires.”

Photographs, prints, T-shirts, mugs, sweatshirts, blankets, and underwear, all featuring the smiling face of Ethan Sullivan.

“Dear God,” I said, dodging a pair of zombie cheerleaders to cross the busy pathway to the “Hunkiest” table, staring down at the assortment of pink, white, and pale blue panties, Ethan’s green eyes staring out from the front triangle.

I had no argument with their appreciation of Ethan; he was a miraculous specimen of vampire. A blond genetic gift. And I understood the women who’d cheered him on at the Cadogan Dash. Hot guy running? Sure, I’ll show up for that. I did show up for that. I knew there were Web sites devoted to Ethan. I might, in a moment of curious weakness, have visited Ethan SullivanIsMyMaster.net and smiled at the bloggers’ obvious adoration.

But underwear? Underwear!

“Pretty hot, isn’t he?” asked the clerk.

I was bewildered. Of course he was hot. But he was my hot. “Yes?”

“Handsome? He is utterly and completely en fuego. But I hear he’s taken. My loss, right?”

“Probably dating some skanky vampire,” said one of two girls who clutched “Master of My House” nightshirt and panty sets.

It seemed this entire episode was designed to test my grace under pressure.

“He’s dating me, actually.” The words slipped out before I thought better of it.

But they didn’t faze the shopper. She looked at me, cocked her head. “Oh, I get it. You’re doing the girlfriend—what’s her name? Megan?”

“Merit,” answered the girl at the table. “And it’s a pretty good costume.”