Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires #10)

Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires #10) Page 21

Chapter Twelve

PRIVATE DANCER

Jonah and I had been served by Ombuddies, which made it only fair we help bus the table in preparation for the meal to come—the one with the honored guests. We carted dirty dishes back to the gym’s kitchen, exchanged used linens for clean ones.

I grabbed the obelisk from my car—thinking it safer to keep it behind steel, all things considered—and, when Catcher emerged first from the back room, handed it over.

Catcher’s immediate expression was bland. He was clearly not impressed with our magical technique. “A plastic bag and salt? That’s the best you could do?”

When Jonah snickered, I elbowed him. “We were trespassing in a penthouse at the time,” I said. “We didn’t really have time to pore through an ancient tome and figure out how to turn down the magic on an alabaster obelisk. Because, you know, assassins.”

I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but I was really getting the hang of arguing with Catcher. And enjoying the hell out of it. A little verbal sparring put me in a good mood.

“Did you have time to pull out your phone? There’s an app.”

“There’s no app.”

Catcher gave me a flat look, pulled out his phone, thumbed the screen, and turned it to face me. A graphic of a rotary phone dial filled the screen below the words “Dial-A-Spell.”

“Why do I even argue with people about this stuff anymore?”

“Because you’re a vampire. It’s what you do.”

Mallory and Jeff walked out, eyes on the bag. “That’s your charm?” she asked.

“It’s something.”

Mallory tapped a finger on her chin, brow furrowed as she stared through the plastic. “The salt actually neutralized it?”

“Darius came back to his senses, if that’s what you mean.”

“Instantly, or over time?”

“Pretty much instantly. It was like the air cleared.”

Mallory nodded matter-of-factly. “Okay, okay. That helps. Some sorcerers have a style,” she explained, hands moving as she talked. “You break the magic down into its component parts and actions, maybe you can figure that out. Digging through it might take a little time.”

“I’d appreciate any help you can give us.”

“We all would,” Jonah added. “Whoever spelled that thing used it to coerce a very powerful vampire and steal a whole lot of coin. Take whatever time you need.”

She looked back at the obelisk, sighed heavily. “I can deal with the salt. But seriously, a plastic bag?”

“It wasn’t my idea. The other vampire did it.”

“If I had a nickel . . . ,” Catcher muttered.

He’d probably have been a very wealthy man.

By the time I returned to the House, it was a couple of hours before dawn.

On the one hand, I needed to check in with Ethan, update him about the murder, and find out whether we’d heard anything from Darius.

On the other hand, I didn’t want to check in with Ethan. Didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to not talk to him about things that were obviously important, didn’t want to deal with his pissy way of turning fear into anger and irritability.

But I was a grown-up, which meant eating the proverbial broccoli before dessert. So I walked to his office, promised myself a Mallocake later for doing the right thing.

When I found him staring out his office window, shoulders tight and buzzing magic in the air, I gave myself permission to have two.

I waited until he acknowledged me. When he finally glanced around, his eyes were cold marble. “Long night, Sentinel?”

I put my sword on the conference table, walked to the bar, grabbed a bottle of water. “Well, I was unconscious for most of it, due to saving your life and the resulting concussion. Most recently, I had dinner with Jonah and the Ombuddies.”

I enjoyed too much that his eyes flashed at Jonah’s name. If he wasn’t going to be civil, I wouldn’t be, either.

“I didn’t realize your schedule was so . . . pliable.”

I uncapped the bottle, took a drink. “It wasn’t. I investigated a murder, provided an update to Mallory, Catcher, and Jeff, who were assisting my grandfather with a nymph truce, was served dinner by nymphs—an offer I didn’t have the luxury of refusing—and got one step closer to a killer. In other words, I was doing my job.”

His eyes changed, just a little. “One step closer?”

“The woman found tonight was Samantha Ingram. A potential Initiate at Grey House.”

“That’s a miserable thing to discover.”

“It was. And a miserable Jonah to have to tell Scott. She had the same mark as Brett Jacobs—a small blue cross painted on her hand. That’s how the CPD figured out they were connected. And Mallory realized their deaths are related to the tarot.”

“How so?”

“Brett’s murder involved two swords. Samantha’s involved three pentagrams.”

“The Two of Swords and Three of Pentacles,” he said, with a nod.

“Yep. So the CPD will move forward there, look for connections between Samantha, Brett, Mitzy. Did you hear from Darius tonight?”

“Only that he’s landed. He hasn’t made any pronouncements, if there are any to make.”

I was home safe and he’d had no contact from Darius, but his shoulders were still as stiff as granite. Something else was going on. Damn the space he thinks he needs, I thought, and asked the question. “And your blackmailer? Has she contacted you again?”

The tightness in his eyes was answer enough.

“She did.”

He wet his lips, turned away again.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

Short and brittle answers were beginning to piss me off. “Do you think I’m going to walk away because you’re being snarky? Or let you walk away from me because of something you think you did? Some wrong you committed centuries ago?”

He turned back, his eyes green fire, as if angry that I’d guessed his darkest secret, the cancer on his psyche.

“You don’t know who or what I was.” There was danger in his voice and in his eyes, as if he meant to remind me he was Master of his goddamned House.

“Then tell me.”

He shook his head.

“You know what? I think that’s bullshit. I think it’s a cop-out.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s a cop-out. I’ll do whatever I think is best—whether or not that includes you.”

I stiffened, leveling him with a glance that should have stripped the hide off a lesser man. There was a time I’d have been afraid to challenge him. But we’d come well past that time.

“While you’re doing that thinking, I hope you manage to pull that stick out of your ass.”

He stared at me, shock in his eyes.

Good, I thought. It was about time. Maybe a little anger would allow him to work through the fear.

“Don’t test me, Sentinel.”

“I’m not testing you. I’m promising you. If you think for one moment that I’d do anything less than give my life to protect you—again, since I’ve already done it once this week—regardless who you were back then, then you can just kiss my ass. And after all we’ve been through, that you don’t trust me enough to tell me.” I shook my head, fury burning in my eyes. “That’s beneath you, Ethan. It’s beneath both of us.”

I walked out of the office and slammed the door, hard enough to hear pictures fall and break behind me.

That made me feel a little better.

It wasn’t often that I needed to train to let off physical steam. There was usually trouble enough brewing in and around the House that regular workouts took care of any excess energy.

Ethan was afraid, and shutting me out, and I was hurt and angry and frustrated.

But instead of my training ensemble, I opted for old friends. A black leotard, tights that reached midcalf, and a cropped wrap sweater in pale pink that I hadn’t worn in at least a year. It had been too long since I’d worn toe shoes. I guessed I’d be able to make the transition, but I didn’t have the time or materials to break in a new pair of toe shoes, so I opted for ballet slippers.

Shoes in hand, I closed the apartment doors as I shrugged into the wrap sweater, then went downstairs to the basement training room. I cracked open the door, found the room empty. I walked inside, closed and locked it, and leaned back against it with a smile.

This was my time, and it had been much too long.

I rolled back the tatami mats that covered the center of the floor, then turned on the audio system. Music was one of Luc’s favorite ways to ensure we fought with appropriate rhythm, which he was convinced was crucial to defending an attack. Tonight, it was crucial to maintaining my sanity.

Music—a diva singing over a heavy bass line—filled the air. Perfect, I thought, adjusting the volume so Luc, in the Ops Room next door, wouldn’t think the building was under attack.

I walked to the middle of the room, racked with a sudden bout of self-consciousness. I hadn’t done this in a really long time. I closed my eyes, rolled my shoulders, and began to stretch out. Arms, back, calves, hamstrings. I imagined one of my former ballet teachers’ favorite cadences: Plié! Relevé! Plié! Relevé! Over and over again.

When my body was warm, I pulled off the shrug, tossed it near the door. I closed my eyes, dropped my head, and let my body feel the thud of the bass.

It started like ballet, with long lines, arabesques, and pirouettes. Then grand battement and grand jeté, the stretch and flex of muscles and tendons glorious. Sword fighting was an art, certainly. But dance was something altogether different.

The song turned mournful, and I slowed, spinning with arms above me, arms around me, arms out. A kick, an arabesque, then hands on the ground, legs flipping over one at a time until I was on my feet again.

Arm work. Fast moves—in, out, arms above my head, hips moving in time. Footwork—shuffled steps, a spin with bent knees, then straight up again. Backward flip into a spin. I hit the floor on my knees, draped my torso over my legs, let my hands fall to the floor.

Applause lit through the room.

Shocked, I looked up, mopped my bangs from my face, and found two dozen vampires on the balcony, including a green-eyed devil—presently silver eyed—who stared down at me.

I hadn’t thought to lock the balcony door, and I’d been so completely involved in the stretch and flex of muscle that I hadn’t realized I wasn’t alone. Which, I guess, was exactly the point.

I had no idea what he was thinking or feeling—not just because he hadn’t talked to me about it, but because the look in his eyes was unfathomable. Pain, confusion, fear, love, pride, or maybe all of them. I don’t know how long we stood there. Master and ballerina staring each other down, Ethan’s past between us again. This wasn’t the first time we’d locked horns over it, and I doubted it would be the last. Ethan had four hundred years of experience and memories packed into his brain, and all the issues that came with them. He was an enigma—probably the most frustrating enigma I’d ever met.

He blinked first, dropping his gaze, turning, and disappearing through the balcony door, still a mystery to me.

Dawn was approaching. Since I’d wrung out my anger, it was time to get some work done.

I pulled on the wrap sweater, thanked the vampires who made their way down to the floor to thank me, and put the training room back in order.

I stepped outside, found vampires filing back into the Ops Room or upstairs; Ethan was already gone.

“Good workout, Sentinel?” Luc was already at the conference table, ankles kicked up. There was a shit-eating grin on his face. “If we’d known you could dance like that, we’d have made you social chair. Oh, wait. Did that.”

I gave him a look.

“Have you and Ethan made up yet?”

“You’d have to ask him,” I said, accepting with a smile the bottle of water that Brody handed me. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. You earned it after that little display. You had quite an audience in the gallery.”

I wiped my face, wrapped the towel around my neck. “So I saw.”

“The murder?” Luc asked.

“Samantha Ingram, one of Grey House’s Initiate applicants.”

“Jesus, add that to the swords, and it’s a horrible coincidence.”

“Actually, it looks like they were trying to peg sorcerers here. The body was marked with pentagrams. But we think we found the connection. What do you know about the tarot?”

“The cards?” Luc asked, sitting back and linking his hands behind his head in what I’d come to learn was his classic “thinking” pose.

“The cards,” I confirmed. “The murders actually match up pretty well with the artwork in an exclusive tarot deck made by a Chicago artist.”

His brows shot up. “That’s something.”

“It would have been, except she’s deceased. The murders we’ve seen so far? Two of Swords and Three of Pentacles.”

“That fit with their suspect? Missy? That she’d use tarot?”

“Mitzy. And we don’t know yet. The CPD’s going to look into it, but Mallory thinks the real deal is the Magic Shoppe—it’s where the swords were purchased, and it’s apparently the only place to get this particular deck.”

“That’s a lead,” Luc agreed with a nod. “You following it up?”