Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

Another vampire entered the room—an enormous woman with freckles, brown hair, and silvered eyes that were focused on us. A katana in a lacquered black sheath was belted at her waist, and she probably had five inches and eighty pounds on me.

Good, I thought, as I met her threatening gaze. That might make us even.

Steady, now, Sentinel.

I won’t move unless I have to, I assured him. But I hoped that I’d have to. Even vampires bored of posturing.

“Now,” the butler insisted, all pretense of politeness—and the British accent—gone. “Or we do this here.”

Ethan rolled his eyes. “This was once an establishment of some gentility.” But he put aside his drink, rose, held up a hand for me.

I nodded, rose obediently, and followed Ethan and the butler to the door where the vampire waited. When I looked back, the vampires had descended on the man on the ottoman, and the scent of blood rose in the air.

The man in the fedora was gone.

• • •

We were marched into the hallway again, then through the open door at the far end into an enormous concrete room, probably a dock for the store that had once filled the slip. A rolling overhead door was open, letting in an astringent, chemical breeze.

There was a desk in the middle of the space piled with papers, and white cardboard file boxes lined the walls, some bursting with paper.

“Excuse the mess.” A man emerged from columns of boxes. A human of medium height, with pale skin, a round belly that hung over camouflage pants, and a gleaming head bounded by a perfect semicircle of dark hair. “We moved recently. Still organizing our inventory and whatnot.”

Ethan and I didn’t respond, but we watched him walk to the desk, pull out an army green chair, and take a seat. It creaked with his formidable weight.

He linked his hands on the table, looked up at us. His eyes were gray, and they narrowed as they took us in.

“Let’s start at the beginning,” he said. “You’re Ethan and, whatsit, Merit? From Cadogan House? Glamour don’t work on me,” he explained, “which makes me perfect for this job.”

So our cover was blown, and thank God for it. Playing meek was absolutely exhausting.

Ethan let the glamour slowly dissolve and flutter away. I rolled my shoulders with relief. The magic might not have had mass, but it still weighed heavily on my psyche.

I felt the vampire move closer, and I slipped a hand to my katana. The feel of the corded handle beneath my fingers was comforting.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he said, gesturing to the vampire behind us. “She’s very good with that steel.”

There were many ways to bluff. You could preen and exaggerate your strengths, or you could let others believe you were less than you were. I opted for the latter, and managed to stir up a worried glance as I looked at the vampire over my shoulder.

She unsheathed her katana and smiled at me, lifting her chin defiantly. The steel of her sword was smeared and cloudy. She hadn’t cleaned it recently. Catcher, who’d given me the sword I carried, would have my ass in a sling for that.

I swallowed heavily, playing up my fear, then looked back at the man again. He looked very pleased.

“I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage,” Ethan said, understanding exactly the game to be played. “I take it you’re Cyrius?”

“Cyrius Lore. I manage this club.”

“For who?”

“For whoever the fuck I want. It’s no business of yours. The fact is, you came into my club with an old password. I don’t like interlopers in my club.”

“Surprising, since you’ll allow virtually anything else.”

Ethan’s words were slow and dangerous, but Cyrius snorted. “You think I’m intimidated by you because you’re head of some vamp house? No. I manage a club; you manage a club. That makes us equals, far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t allow my vampires to harm innocents in my ‘club.’”

Cyrius held up his hands defensively. “What happens among consenting adults is their business, not mine. I don’t police what happens here.”