Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires 10)
Faux words aside, she made a lot of sense.
“Bottom line, he loves you. Powerfully. And he’s trying to build a life with you. This heifer’s getting in the way. Maybe he’s a little embarrassed he can’t control it; maybe he’s a little afraid he’ll lose you because of it.”
“He’s been pushing me away.”
“Better to push you away than have you see him as less or different than you do now. I’ve seen you look at him, Merit. He’s seen you look at him. There’s a lot of things there—love, heat, amusement. But there’s also admiration. A man like Ethan isn’t going to risk that lightly.”
I nodded, and we walked a few steps in companionable silence. I cleared my throat, told her the rest of it. “Before all this, he was hinting about a proposal.”
She stopped short, jaw dropped. “You are shitting me.”
“Not even a little.”
Mallory looked at me for a moment, and then her smile dawned bright and excited. “Darth Sullivan is going to propose.”
“Well, he was going to propose. Now who the hell knows?” I blew out a breath, rolled my shoulders in frustration. “What do I do about this, Mallory? It makes me want to scream and cry at the same time.”
“You two have always run hot,” she said. “Most people, I think they operate somewhere between four and seven.”
“Four and seven?”
“On a scale of one to ten. One being totally disinterested, ten being crazy, can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other love.”
“Angelina and Billy Bob.”
“Correct. You two operate in the seven to nine zone, and that’s only the stuff I’ve actually been around to see. I’d guess you two run hot the rest of the time, too.”
“He told me he just gave me the chance to blossom, to become the person I was meant to be.”
Mallory put a hand on her chest, sighed. “For all his faults, which are legion, Darth Sullivan has a way with words. I assume he also has a way with what I’m assuming is an impressive endowment. Is sex an option? I find it fixes many things that ail the alpha type.”
“That’s not really a problematic area.”
“Good. And not surprising. Vampire or not, he cleans up well.” She bobbed her head as she considered. “In that case, I say you have to mix things up. Steal the ball. Run a new play. Jump higher than everyone else. Fake out the QB.”
“You can stop with the mixed sports metaphors. I suppose I need to stage some kind of Ethan intervention.”
She nodded emphatically. “Merit, sneaking around behind Darth Sullivan’s back? I love it.”
“If he kicks me out, I can sleep under your table in the crafts room, right?”
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “But you can sleep on the floor of the Ombud’s van.”
But not with my own Ombuddy T-shirt, I glumly thought.
Chapter Fourteen
FILL IT ’TIL YOU SPILL IT
It was late, and most of the restaurants and shops on Division were locked up tight for the night. But lights shined brightly in the “all-nite” pizza joint and the bar next door, and the store that sat beside them in a small strip.
“The Magic Shoppe” was painted across the front glass in old-fashioned gold letters that looked like they’d been chiseled. Although the lights were on, the store looked empty. Mallory squinted as she peered through the glass, then tapped a fist against the door.
It took a few minutes—and another round of tapping—before a tall man, as lean as a whipcord—walked up one of the long aisles. He wore a snug plaid shirt and corduroys, and his brown hair was cut into a short Caesar. His face was long, his chin covered in a thick goatee, and there were bags under his eyes.
Late for him, I guessed.
He had a clipboard and large round key ring in hand, and he stuck the clipboard under his arm to unlock the door. He pulled it, the mechanism squealing in protest and a leather strap with a bell jangling.
“Hey, Mallory,” he said. “Long time no see. Come on in.”
“Hey, Curt. It’s been a while,” she agreed. I followed her inside. “Trying to work off my current stock. The store looks good,” she said, glancing around.
It looked much like Jonah had described it. The store was long and narrow, the floor made of scarred wooden planks, the walls lined in wooden bead board. A long wooden counter filled the left side of the room, its backer mirrored and edged in fluted wooden columns that reached from the floor to the ceiling of the wall behind it. “Smithson Pharmacy” was etched in faded gold letters across the top of the mirror, and on glass apothecary jars of mysterious substances. The right-hand side of the store was lined with shelves, and the weapons FaireMaker Nan had mentioned hung high along the back wall. Katanas, wakizashi, daggers, sais. There was an array to choose from, and at least far away, they looked like quality instruments.
The place smelled witchy—the scents of dust and paper mixed with the bright fragrance of dried plants and herbs.
“Business is good,” he agreed. “Although I’m tired tonight.”
Mallory nodded sympathetically. “We appreciate your opening up the store.”
“You said something about tarot cards?”
“Yeah. We actually think they’re being used in a crime. I wanted to show Merit your stash, maybe get your thoughts?”
He scratched the back of his head, yawned hugely—and sourly—while he led us to a glass case in the back of the store. He pointed at it. “Cards are in there. I’m right in the middle of a count. Let me get someone to help you.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Actually, before you go, a question—Mitzy Burrows. What do you think of her?”
His expression went guarded. “The CPD has already asked me about Mitzy. They asked all of us.”
“And I’m sure they appreciate your cooperation. It’s just—someone else was killed. We really need to find her.”
“Someone else was . . .” He began to talk, but then shook his head. “Look, nobody was perfect. But she wouldn’t kill anybody. She certainly wouldn’t kill two people.”
“You were friends?”
Something flashed in his eyes. “We were, and I’m not going to stand around gossiping about her. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t work here anymore, so what she does isn’t my business. And frankly, I don’t see that it’s any of yours.”