Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1)

Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1) Page 6

IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED,

FALL DOWN, DOWN AGAIN.

It was raining when I woke the next evening, the fourth day of my new life, tucked beneath the ancient quilt that covered my bed. I stretched and rose and walked to the window, flipping back the black leather curtain that kept sunlight off my body while I slept. The evening was gray, the window cold against the flat of my palm. Heavy drops of spring rain patted against the glass. It was seven thirtyish, and the evening stretched before me. I had only one thing planned - training with Catcher, as arranged the night before.

I made myself stop obsessing about the kiss. After all, I should have been thrilled to death that I hadn't been weak enough to say yes to Ethan's offer. I was still Merit, still Mallory's friend and still my grandfather's granddaughter. So when I rose, I put it behind me and focused on the night ahead.

I wasn't sure of the appropriate dress code for my first night of training as Cadogan House Initiate, especially given the weather, so I opted for black yoga capris, a T-shirt, running shoes, and a fleece jacket to ward off the chill. When we met in the living room,

Mallory was out of her business suit and tucked into jeans and a T-shirt. She linked her arm in mine as we stepped onto the stoop, nodding to the guards at the door before darting to the garage.

Mallory flipped open the garage door and we walked inside. "You ready for your big vampire adventure?"

"You ready to find out who you are?" I countered.

"Honestly, I'm not yet sure if knowing is better than not."

I made a sound of agreement, unlocked the car, and slid inside. Mallory joined me after I reached over to pop the lock. The car started on the first try - not always a guarantee with a car nearly older than I was - and I backed her carefully out of the garage and onto the street.

"Can you believe we're wrapped up in this?" she asked. "Not even a month ago, no one knew vampires existed. Now we're in the middle of it, as deep as you can get. And this Catcher. He's what?"

"He said he was a fourth-grade sorcerer until he was kicked out of the Order. I don't know what that - "

"It's the governing body for sorcerers," Mallory interjected.

I slid her a quick glance. "And you'd know that because?"

"I've done some homework. I made some calls."

"I see. And a fourth-grade sorcerer? That would be what, exactly?"

"Top of the line."

Not really surprising given the fireworks display. A little scary, but not surprising. "Gotcha."

When we reached the warehouse district, we found parking in front of the brick building bearing the address Catcher had provided. The building was four squat stories tall and ringed at the top with equally spaced square windows, like a coronet of glass. A substantial red door sat in the middle of the facade. We dodged raindrops to reach it, then pushed it open, revealing an impressive atrium that stretched the full height of the building. The room itself was shaped like an inverted T, with a long hallway punched through the middle. An empty demilune reception desk stood in the juncture.

Having gotten no instructions beyond the time and address, I gave Mallory a shrug, and we ventured toward the hallway. Doors marked both walls, but there was no sign of our sorcerer or a gym. Rather than testing each door, which felt a little too Alice in Wonderland, we decided to wait and hope that someone would eventually come looking for us. We debated whether they'd come from the right or the left.

"Left side?" I offered.

Mallory shook her head. "Right. Loser buys dinner."

"Done," I agreed, seconds too early. Mallory nailed it - a door opened on the right, and Jeff's head popped out of the doorway. He grinned at me, waved, and widened his eyes when he saw Mallory.

"You brought magic," he said, his voice a little dreamy, and beckoned us in. Mallory grumbled a few choice words about "magic," but we followed obediently.

The room was enormous. The walls were concrete, the floor dominated by blue gymnastics mats. A gauntlet of punching and speed bags hung in one corner. The contrast between this room - sterile, equipped for precision training - and the Cadogan sparring room - ceremonial, equipped for flashy moves - was easily apparent. This place lacked the gravitas, but it also lacked the ego. There, you showed off. Here, you worked out. You prepared. The music, though, was weirdly mellow - John Lee Hooker's "You Talk Too Much" flowed through the space.

"I'm Jeff," he said, sticking out a hand toward Mallory. She shook it.

"Mallory Carmichael."

"I'm a shifter," he said. "And you're magic."

"That's what I hear," she flatly said.

"Have you joined the Order yet?"

Mallory shook her head.

Jeff nodded. "Talk to Catcher. But don't let him blind you to the benefits of being unionized."

As if on cue, a door on the far side of the room opened with a metallic scrape. Catcher emerged, stalking toward us in bare feet, jeans, and a T-shirt that read Real Men Use Keys. It was a good look for him - sexy, rough, a little dangerous. It was the look of a man who'd just crawled out of bed, leaving a very satisfied woman beneath the sheets.

I watched his eyes survey the room, saw his gaze move from Jeff, to me, to Mallory. And that was when I saw the blink, the tiny hitch in his composure when he took in the petite frame, the blue hair, the gorgeous face. I turned, saw the same awestruck expression on her face, and watched them stare at each other. The force of the attraction seemed to warm the air. I grinned.

"You're late," Catcher said when he reached us, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jeff, the sweetheart, defended my honor. "She was here on time. I found 'em standing in the hallway, staring at the architecture."

"It's a great building," I said.

"Thanks," Catcher replied, his gaze on Mallory. "I don't have time to deal with you tonight." I guessed introductions were unnecessary.

Mallory huffed. "I don't recall asking you for help."

The air seemed to prickle around us, drawing goose bumps along my arms. Jeff took a couple of steps backward. Since he undoubtedly knew more than I did, I followed suit.

"You don't have to ask," Catcher said. "You're practically drenched in power, and you obviously have no clue what to do with it."

Mallory rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're a fourth-grade," Catcher said, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. "And I know you know what that means. I know you put in a call. But Merit doesn't have magic, and I need to make sure, first and foremost, that she can handle what's coming. So not now, okay?"

Mal's eyes flared, blazed. But after a moment, she nodded.

Catcher inclined his head, then looked me over. He pinched the sleeve of my fleece jacket. "This won't work. You're wearing too many clothes. You need to watch your body move, learn how your muscles work." He crooked a thumb toward the door in the back of the room. "Head back. There're clothes in the locker room. And lose the shoes."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Do you want a speech, too?"

I didn't, but I was a little sick of being bossed around by supernatural boys with ego problems, so I satisfied myself by muttering a few choice curses on my way back.

The locker room was bright, empty, and clean, but like all locker rooms, it carried the ubiquitous scent of sweat and cleaning products. There were two pieces of black fabric on a bench. I picked them up.

Catcher had been serious about watching my muscles work. The "clothes" were barely scraps - an eight-inch band of spandex to cover my breasts and a pair of spandex shorts that would just reach the tops of my thighs. It looked like a beach volleyball uniform, although I think even Gabrielle Reese got more clothing than this.

"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered, but stripped and pulled on the workout gear. They fit well, at least the little skin they covered. I folded and piled my clothes, placed my shoes on top, then pulled my hair into a ponytail. A quick survey in the mirror above a slate of sinks revealed a lot of pale vampy skin, but the effect wasn't bad, actually. I'd always been lean, but my muscles seemed more defined now, vampire genetics doing more for my body than miles on the treadmill. I blew the bangs out of my face, wished myself luck, and walked back into the training room.

For my trouble, I got catcalls from Mallory and Jeff, who grinned at each other in delight. I rolled my eyes, but curtsied to both of them, then walked to where Catcher stood, arms folded across his chest, a glower on his face, in the middle of the mats.

"Push-ups," he said, pointing at the floor. "Start now."

As commanded, I went to the floor, extended my arms and legs, and started lifting my body. The move was nearly effortless; while I certainly couldn't do push-ups indefinitely, I had noticeably more upper body strength. I felt muscles clench and flex as I moved, and reveled in the sensation of blood flowing faster than before. I saw feet come into view, then circle me.

Catcher called Jeff's name, and the music changed - it became harder, louder, more rhythmic.

"The first step," Catcher said above me, "is evaluation. The vampire's powers are based in the physical - strength, speed, agility. The ability to jump higher, to move faster, than prey. Enhanced smell, sight, hearing - although those might require a little maturing before they kick in. And most important, the ability to heal wounds, to repair damage, which ensures that the body stays in top form." Thus, the unmarred skin on my neck.

As I steadily lifted and lowered my body, Catcher crouched before me, a finger under my chin pausing me, arms extended, in the middle of a push-up. He searched my eyes, but called Jeff's name. "Jeff?"

"She just finished push-up one hundred thirty-two."

Catcher nodded. "You're stronger than most." Hands on his knees, he rose again. "Sit- ups. Begin."

I swiveled my body into position, started a course of sit-ups. Those were followed by lunges, squats, and a set of yoga positions Catcher said were intended to test my flexibility and agility. They were all relatively easy, my body fitting into positions that -  even years removed from serious dance-level fitness - should have been impossible. But I did King Dancer and Warrior poses, Wheel poses and Forearm Stands as effortlessly as if I'd been simply standing there. My muscles worked to maintain the positions, but the sensation was wonderful - like a full-body stretch after a long nap.

"So far, you're easily a Very Strong Phys," he commented.

I was in a headstand when he said it, and I lowered my feet to the floor and stood. "Meaning what?" I asked, straightening my ponytail.

"Meaning, just in terms of your patent physical strength, you're in the highest echelon. Vamps are rated on a three-prong basis. Phys - physical strength, stamina, skills. Psych - psychic and mental abilities. Strat - strategic and ally considerations. Who your friends are," he explained. "And within those categories, there are levels. Very strong at the top, very weak at the bottom, a range in between."

I frowned at him. "Give me a comparator. What are humans?"

"In strat and psych, 'very weak' by vampire standards. In physical strength, they might vary from a weak to a very weak. Many vamps aren't much stronger than humans. They need blood, and they have that nasty sunlight allergy problem, but their musculature remains essentially unchanged. Some will get powers, but even then it's later on. It's only been, what, four days since your change? Of course, even the vamps who don't get appreciably stronger get a boost metaphysically - the ability to glamour humans, mental communication, once your Master initiates the link."

I put my hands on my hips. "Mental communication? You mean like telepathy?"

"I mean telepathy," he confirmed. "Ethan will call you, initiate the link. You'll only be able to communicate with him - as your Master - but it's a handy skill to have."

I glanced at Mallory, thinking of her similar words before I took the floor with Ethan at Cadogan House. She nodded at me.

"You'll have Phys," Catcher continued. "Psychic, maybe. Those probably haven't come online yet. They may not until you and Ethan connect." Catcher moved a step closer and gazed into my eyes, his brow furrowed, like he was peering through my pupils. "You'll have something," he quietly said. Then his eyes focused again, and he stepped backward. "And those powers will move you up. You'll be a Master vampire, Merit. You'll have your own House one day."

"You're serious?"

He shrugged casually, like the possibility that I was going to be one of the most powerful vampires in the world was no big deal. "It's up to you, of course. You could stay a Novitiate, stay under Ethan's wing."

"You do know how to motivate a girl."

He chuckled. "Why don't you take five, and then we'll start you on the moves? There's a water fountain in the hallway."

I walked toward Mallory, who jumped up, grabbed me by the elbow, and pulled me out into the empty hall. I found the water fountain and latched on, my body suddenly aching for water. That was when she started yelling.

"You said 'sorcerer'! Sorcerer!" She pointed back into the training room. "That was not a sorcerer."

I guessed meeting Catcher did have an effect on her. I lifted my head and wiped water from my chin, then peered back into the room, where Catcher was sparring with a surprisingly sprightly Jeff.

"Uh, yeah, that was. Is. And believe me - I know. I was almost a victim of these little fingertip blast things he can do."

"But he's young! What is he, twenty-eight?"

"He's twenty-nine. And what did you think he was going to look like?"

She shrugged. "You know - old. Grizzled. Long white beard. Scruffy robes. Lovable. Smart, but a little absentminded professorish."

I bit back a grin. "I said 'sorcerer,' not 'Dumbledore.' So he's hot." I shrugged. "It could be worse. He could be a pretentious centuries-old vampire who's decided you're his latest project."

Mallory paused, then patted me on the arm. "You win. That's worse."

"Uh, yeah," I agreed, and led her back into the training room.

We worked for two more hours. He positioned me in front of a bank of mirrors along one wall and began teaching me how to move, how to defend myself. We spent the first hour - well, I spent the first hour - learning how to fall down.

Seriously.

Anticipating that I might be the object of an overhead toss or a clumsily executed jump, Catcher taught me how not to injure myself when I hit the ground - how to roll, to balance my weight, to use the momentum to push into a different move. The second hour we worked on the basics - kicks, punches, blocks, hand attacks. The building blocks that he'd eventually combine into katas, the combination sets that defined vampire fighting. The patterns had their origins in various Asian martial arts forms -  Judo, Iaido, Kendo, and Kenjutsu, European vampires having learned the systems from a nomadic swordsman. But Catcher explained the moves had evolved into a unique form of fighting because, as he put it, "Vampires and gravity have a special relationship." Vamps could jump higher and keep their bodies in the air for longer than humans, so vampire moves were more complicated than the original human katas. Showiness, Catcher said, was encouraged.

It wasn't until the end of the second hour, after he'd begun to teach me defensive sword-fighting poses, that Catcher even let me see a sword. The sheathed blade had been wrapped in slinky indigo silk, and he unfolded it with careful concentration. It was a katana, much like the belt-bound blades worn by the guards outside Cadogan. It was sheathed in a black lacquer scabbard and had a long handle wrapped in black cord. He unsheathed it with a whistle of steel, the long, gently curved blade catching the glow of the overhead fluorescent lights.

As I admired the sword, tracing a finger in the air an inch above the blade - loath to sully the surface - Mallory asked, "Why swords? I mean, if vamps can be killed, why not just use guns? It's faster, certainly easier than carrying around a three-foot-long sword. Those things aren't exactly inconspicuous."

"Honor," Catcher said, gripping the sword just below the hilt and rotating it in his hand in a figure-eight pattern. He glanced over at me. "You're immortal, meaning you'll live forever if you aren't killed. But if someone decides it's your time to go, they have three options. Sunlight is, of course, the easy way." He gripped the sword in both hands, the blade pointing to the ground, and thrust it down. "Two - pierce the heart with a stake. Destroy the heart and you destroy the vampire. Aspen is the traditional wood."

"Why aspen?" I asked.

Mallory lifted a finger. "There's a theory chemicals in the fibers prevent the heart from regenerating."

"And you know this because . . . ?"

"Oh, please," she said, waving me off with a hand. "You know I read a lot."

Catcher swung the sword above his head, then sliced the blade through the air, the steel whistling as it fell. "Three - destroy the body. Remove the head, remove the limbs, the body dies. Slicing and dicing will weaken the body, as will guns. But guns are too easy. Bullets too easy. If you want to take out an immortal, you do it carefully, precisely, and after battle. You take out an immortal because you've fought them, used the old traditions, earned the right." Pommel up, he gripped the sword and sliced it beside his body, a move that would have gutted an enemy behind him. Then he looked up at me. "Honor among thieves," he concluded, brows lifted, and I wondered, not for the first time, how Catcher knew so much about vampires, and what put that intent gleam into his eyes.

He glanced back at Mallory. "That's why they don't use guns."

"How do you know all this?" she asked.

Catcher shrugged matter-of-factly. "Weapons are what I do."

"That's how he works his mojo," Jeff said.

"It's the second Key," I added, enjoying the surprised expression on Catcher's face. "I am capable of learning."

"Color me surprised," he snarked, then moved to his knees, resheathed the blade, and placed the sword in front of him on the floor. Solemnly, he bowed to it, then rewrapped it in the silk. "Next time, I'll let you hold her."

"Next time? What about your job? My grandfather?"

"Chuck doesn't mind that I'm ensuring your safety." When the scabbard was covered again, he rose, cradling it in his arms, and surveyed us all. "Who wants eggs?"