Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

I didn’t buy that everyone here was consenting, or that Cyrius didn’t know exactly what went on in his club.

But that was irrelevant, because he’d just shown us the only bit of business that mattered. On the inside of his right forearm was a forest green tattoo—an ouroboros, an old and circular symbol made up of a snake eating its tail.

It was the symbol of the Circle . . . and therefore of Adrien Reed.

Son of a bitch. Cyrius’s ink, I said to Ethan, and watched his gaze slip discreetly from Cyrius’s face to the symbol on his arm.

Cyrius Lore managed La Douleur, and the Circle managed Cyrius Lore. If we were right about the alchemical symbols, this was part of the sorcerer’s territory. We had a link between Adrian Reed and the sorcerer, the alchemy. Reed’s sorcerer and the alchemy sorcerer weren’t two different people. They were one and the same, part of his criminal organization. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

And once again, it raised questions about Caleb Franklin. Had he known about the Circle? About Reed?

Probably sensing our magic, Cyrius nodded and the vamp stepped closer, unsheathed her katana with a dull whistle of sound. I’d bet the edge was dull, too. She really needed to take better care of her blade.

She stepped forward, put the blade against my neck.

Maybe it was the place, maybe it was Reed. Maybe it was the residual effect of Ethan’s magic. Whatever the reason, my blood began to hum beneath the cold steel, aching to fight. Ethan tensed with concern, but my adrenaline was already flowing.

Focus on him, I said silently. She’s mine.

“Now,” Cyrius said. “Why don’t you tell me why the fuck you’re in my place when you weren’t invited?”

“We want information about Caleb Franklin.”

Cyrius frowned, which didn’t do his mug any favors. “The fuck is Caleb Franklin?”

“A shifter under the protection of Gabriel Keene,” Ethan said. Not entirely the truth, given the defection, but true enough for our purposes. “He’s dead.”

“I don’t know shit about him or who killed him.”

“He lived nearby,” Ethan said.

“We’re in Chicagoland. Few million people live nearby. I know nothing about him, which means you’ve wasted your time and mine.” Ugly or not, Cyrius’s face didn’t show any hint he was lying. Maybe he was just a good liar.

But the vampire was another matter. I didn’t need to see her face to know she had knowledge; the fizz of magic in the air was enough.

“What makes you think you have the right to walk into my place, disrupt my club, and ask me questions about anything?”

The vampire adjusted her position. Her sword was still at my neck, but she’d moved closer to Ethan, and her eyes were on him. In lust, in fascination, in hope. Maybe she had a crush on our photogenic Master. I could probably use that. And considering the current position of her sword, wouldn’t feel bad about exploiting it.

“I had the password,” Ethan said drolly.

“Your password is garbage.” Cyrius linked his hands on the table. “You know the penalty for trespassing?”

Ethan’s gaze flicked to the tattoo, up again. “For trespassing on Reed’s land, you mean?”

Cyrius shifted his arm to hide his ink, and his face went beet red. Maybe because of anger he’d been challenged, but more likely because of fear. Reed wouldn’t be happy that we’d discovered his bordello.

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.