Dark Debt (6 page)

“In that case, talk to him, and make it snappy. Our interlude this morning put us behind.”

That interlude had been his idea, but considering how much I’d enjoyed it, I let it go. “I can read a clock. I’ll meet you in the apartments.”

Unless I came up with a really good reason to avoid the thing altogether.

*   *   *

Cadogan House had four floors—three aboveground, which held offices, gathering spaces, the library, and the vampires’ individual rooms; and a basement, which held the training room, the arsenal, and the Operations Room. The latter was Luc’s personal kingdom, a high-tech room with security monitors, computers, a giant conference table, and several vampires at his disposal.

Tonight, it also
held a giant tin of popcorn with the seals of the three Chicago vampire Houses stamped in gold on an azure background.

“Nice,” I said, reaching over the table and grabbing a handful. “I hope we’re getting licensing fees for this.”

“But of course,” Luc said. While the guards sat at computer stations along the edges of the room, monitoring security, doing research, Luc sat at the end of
the table in jeans and cowboy boots—like Helen, an exemption from Cadogan’s black-suit
policy—his ankles crossed on the table as he perused the day’s
Tribune
.

The headline on the front page, which faced out, was jarring:
MASTER MEETS MAKER
above a photograph of Ethan and Balthasar facing each other. The opportunism was clear in Balthasar’s eyes. The concern clear in Ethan’s.

“Glad to see
they aren’t encouraging him.”

Luc grunted, folded the paper lengthwise, then horizontally, and set it on the table. “Reporters love a good story.” He tapped the folded paper. “That’s a damned evocative one.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. Too evocative—too emotional—for my tastes. “Did every outlet pick it up?”

Luc gestured back to his desk, where a pile of folded papers had already been reviewed.
“Across the world. We’re the hot new dysfunctional family.”

Lindsey rolled her office chair toward us, used red nails on the tabletop to pull herself to a stop. Her blond hair was pulled into a high bun, and she’d paired her suit with eyeglasses with trendy black frames that she didn’t actually need. But she pulled off the “saucy librarian” look.

“Babe,” she said to Luc, “you sound whiny.”

“I’m entitled to be whiny,” Luc said. “And don’t call me ‘babe’ on duty.”

Lindsey gave me a long-suffering look. “If I had a quarter, am I right?”

“Always.” I pointed toward the glasses, the hairdo. “What’s this?”

She smiled, shrugged. “Just trying something a little different. I’m going for intellectual femme fatale.”

“And you’re pulling it off,” I said. “We’ll be heading to
Reed’s within the hour, so I wanted to check in. Any word about Balthasar?”

“No,” Luc said, “but the door’s good and warded. He won’t be able to get in or out.”

“How’d they link it to him?” I wondered.

“Used a piece of wood from the office bookshelves. Residual magic, apparently. You know Mallory’s into forensic magic?”

I nodded. “Yeah. How are the Novitiates taking her involvement?”

“There are grumbles, of course. Concerns about trustworthiness. But considering those are matched against concerns about Balthasar, most are chill.”

“Where’s he staying?”

“Condo on Michigan near Grant Park. We aren’t sure which unit—we didn’t follow him in past the lobby. We’re looking through real-estate records to confirm the owner, and we’ll keep eyes on him twenty-four-seven.”

“What about his backstory?”

Luc leaned forward, tapped the touch screen built into the tabletop, and an image flashed onto the large wall screen behind us—a spreadsheet marked by black and green boxes.

“That’s impressive,” I said. “What is it?”

This time, Luc tapped a button on the conference phone.

“Yo,” said a familiar voice after a moment.

Luc smiled. “Jeff, Merit likes
your spreadsheet.”

Jeff Christopher was a shape-shifting white tiger in the body of a lanky computer genius and, along with Catcher, one of my grandfather’s employees.

“My spreadsheets bring all the girls to the yard. Hi, Merit.”

“Hi, Jeff.” I glanced at Luc with amusement. “You’re giving orders to the Ombuddies now?”

“Requesting their assistance in our time of great need,” Luc
corrected, bringing his hands together prayerfully.

“Being bossy,” Lindsey corrected with a grin, rolling back to her computer station at Luc’s arch look.

It occurred to me that over the course of the last year, we’d become a strange and wonderful team. The Ombuddies, Cadogan House, the sorcerers, with occasional help from other supernaturals. Most of them friendly, all of them with unique
strengths that contributed to a pretty weird, but wonderful, whole.

“I’m short on time tonight,” I told the team members, “so tell me about whatever this is.”

“So,” Jeff began, and I could practically hear the smile in his voice, “we’ve begun the fact-checking process. Given the importance, we decided to be systematic about it, so we created this timeline.”

“Green entries are verified,”
Luc said. “Black entries need to be. Red entries, if there were any, would be falsies. No falsies yet.”

I nodded, gestured to the green entries. “What have you verified so far?”

Luc gestured to the beginning of the timeline. “We’ve started with Persephone’s death, and Balthasar’s not-quite death and capture by the Memento Mori. There was definitely cult activity in Spitalfields. In our
particular case, men who wanted immortality and, ironically, didn’t care who they killed to get it.”

Luc switched the image on-screen to a small gold disc.
MEM
ENTO MORI
was engraved around a center skull. “It’s a signet ring,” he said, spinning the picture so the band was visible. “Each member got one.”

“Anything specifically about Balthasar being one of their captives?”

“Nothing we’ve
been able to dig up so far,” Jeff said. “But the Librarian thinks he’s found some of the group’s research
materials. They’re held by a private collector, but there’s a library in London that has microfiche of the pages. Some of them are online.”

The Librarian was Cadogan’s aptly nicknamed research and book specialist. He worked in the House’s extraordinary two-story library. I was green-eyed
with envy for the job. Although ass-kicking definitely had its moments.

“The Librarian has reviewed some of them,” Jeff said, “and we’re working on getting copies of the entire archive. He’s found some general mentions of vampires, but no names.”

I glanced at Luc. “I’m surprised the GP didn’t jump on that—a cult torturing vampires.”

“I doubt this popped onto their radar,” Luc said.
“This wasn’t a large-scale operation, but a cult in a very poor neighborhood.”

“We looked at Walford Abbey next,” Jeff continued. “Unfortunately, the building was destroyed in World War Two, and the monks have all died, so we’re still searching for records there. That’s as far as we’ve gotten tonight.”

“And we’ll let you get back to it,” Luc said, and we offered our good-byes to Jeff.

I glanced back at the spreadsheet, surveyed the data. “It might all match up,” I said. “He’d have known we’d check.”

“I’d be surprised if it doesn’t,” Luc said. “He’d have prepared.”

I looked back at Luc. “And for what, exactly? This isn’t a courtesy call.”

“No,” Luc agreed. “He’s got an agenda. And from his little display yesterday, you seem to be part of it.”

“Oh, good,” I
said, smiling weakly.

“He’ll use you if he can. Hell, he’ll use any of us, I think, if he thinks it’ll hurt Ethan.”

“You think that’s why he’s here? To cause pain?”

“Why else? He couldn’t have thought he’d get a warm reception from Ethan. Ethan suggested revenge and power, and I think he’s probably right.”

“What a mess,” I said with a sigh. “Ethan hates to leave the House alone
tonight, but my dad did help us. And Ethan’s not going to pass up an opportunity to talk to Reed.”

Luc grinned. “Nope. He’s a savvy one. And we won’t be alone. Me and Blondie”—that was Lindsey—“have done our fair share of supernatural butt-kicking. And we’ve got the sorcerers. You’ll have Brody. You should take your katana, although you probably can’t take it into the ball.”

My eyes widened.
“I’m sorry—did you say ‘ball’?”

“Yeah. Reed’s party. It’s a ball. A full-on gala.” He glanced up at me, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Did you not know that?”

“No,” I said flatly. “No one mentioned that to me.” Probably on purpose.

As the child of wealthy parents, I’d seen fancy parties through stairway balusters and cracked doors. I’d grown into a jeans-and-Pumas girl,
evolved into a boots-and-leathers girl, and preferred both to crinoline and Spanx.

I lifted my gaze to the ceiling, considered the garment bag in Ethan’s office, wondered what nightmare it held.

“If it’s any consolation,” Lindsey said, “all the cool kids will be there. The Schwartzes. The Lindenhursts. Michael Marlow and Todd Vanguard. They are very pretty. Tech billionaires or something,
tall, dark, and handsome both, and very much in love.”

“I take it you’ve been reading the society pages again,” Luc said.

“It breaks up the bad news,” she said, and I couldn’t argue with that.

“Explain to me why people would spend money outfitting their houses and themselves for charity balls. Why don’t they just give that money to the charity?”

“That is a question for the ages,
Sentinel. In the interim, make sure your fancy ball gown has a spot for your phone. Or take one of those little purse things you ladies carry.” He moved his fingers in the shape of a rectangle.

“A clutch?”

“That’s it.”

Lindsey chuckled. “Just call him Mr. de la Renta.”

I blew out a resigned breath, rose, cast a baleful glance at Luc. “A ball? Seriously.”

“Complete with theme.”

I felt my lip curl. “Which is?”

Luc grinned. “That, Sentinel, is a mystery you’ll have to solve on your own.”

*   *   *

I left them to their work, reached the basement stairs when my phone began to ring. It was Jonah, who I still hadn’t taken the time to call. I was glad he’d thought to do it.

“Hey,” I said. “Sorry I haven’t checked in.”

“So Ethan’s long-dead Master is alive.”

“Hello to you, too,” I said, bristling a little at his tone, which was snarky, but not in a good way. “And yes, that’s what it seems. Have you seen him?”

“Only on television. You think he’ll come here? What’s his play?”

I gave him the overview and our analysis.

“I know you’re probably busy with the AAM, but you’ll want to keep an eye out for him. He’s dangerous.”

“So I sensed.
This is going to make it even more crucial that we monitor Ethan.”

I stopped on the stairs. “Wait. What?”

“I was going to talk to you tonight. We want you to install a camera, with audio, in Ethan’s office.”

Jonah was lucky he couldn’t see my face. “Excuse me?”

“Ethan’s part of the AAM. He’s in a position of authority, and it’s our job to monitor people in those positions. It’s
exactly what you signed up for.”

In fact, I’d signed up for the RG when Ethan was gone. But that wasn’t the point.

“I won’t help you spy on him.”

“Balthasar is alive, Merit, and apparently strong enough to call Ethan. He’s dangerous.”

“I don’t disagree. But Ethan won’t let Balthasar control him.”

“You’re assuming he’ll have a choice.”

“Balthasar isn’t that powerful.” I
hoped. “Besides, there’s an entire House of people who’d stop Ethan if we thought he was becoming someone’s minion, including me. You sure know I wouldn’t let him become a dictator.”

“You have an obligation.”

“So do you. Do you have a camera in Scott’s office?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

“No, but that’s not relevant.”

“How is it
not
relevant?” Realization dawned when he
didn’t answer. My anger rose, lifted like a hot cloud, and I dropped my voice to keep from screaming at him in the stairway.

“You cannot actually think I’d ignore Ethan becoming a
dictator because I’m
sleeping
with him. I thought the RG was past that.” Another RG member, Horace, had raised the issue before, and I’d believed we’d resolved it.

“Balthasar wasn’t in the picture then.”

“It’s insulting either way.”

“It’s not meant to be an insult. It’s meant to be a protection.”

“Against what? My inability to logic through hormones?”

“You’re taking this too personally.” He sounded tired again, like a parent talking to a petulant toddler.

I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on at Grey House. Maybe you’re distracted; maybe
you’re concerned about Scott and the AAM. I don’t know. But you know him better than this, and you certainly know me better than this.” And if he didn’t, it wasn’t flattering for either of us.

“You’re saying you won’t do it.”

“Yeah, I am saying that. We all have lines, Jonah. This is one of mine. I assume you trust me, or you wouldn’t have made me your partner. You think about that, and
you let me know.”

And for the first time that I could remember, I hung up on my partner.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A NIGHT MAKES

I
was still stewing when I made it to the apartments. Ethan was gone, but the garment bag lay on the bed beside a glossy shoe box.

Hoping to direct my anger more productively, I unzipped the bag, half hoping I’d find a voluminous satin gown with mounds of rhinestones
to rage against.

But I should have known better. Satin and rhinestones weren’t Ethan’s style.

“Oh,”
I said as I unzipped the bag.

The dress was a slender column of black flared at the bottom. The sweetheart bodice was fitted but demure, and two panels of black tulle formed narrow sleeves that just covered the shoulders.

I turned to the box, uncapped it, found a pair of heeled sandals
of crisscrossing satin straps that rose to the ankle and tied in a bow. They’d be tricky to walk in, but at least the straps would keep them in place if we needed to run.

I laid them out on the bed, climbed into the appropriate undergarments, and went to the bathroom to consider my hair
options. My usual option, a high ponytail and bangs, wasn’t going to do it tonight.

I dug through the
bathroom drawers until I found a curling iron I’d probably used twice in the last five years. My bangs were long enough to sweep to the side and pin, and a few twirls of the iron left my hair in long, tousled curls. Mascara. Lip gloss. A hint of blush across pale cheeks.

And then it was time to don the dress.

I spent two minutes mostly naked in the bedroom, hair curling across my shoulders,
staring at the dress.

Was I supposed to step into it? Drag it over my head? Surely the former, but it looked snug enough that I was a little afraid—even with a ballet dancer’s build—that I’d get stuck halfway up.

Unfortunately, time was ticking, so I had to make a call. I let the dress drape to the floor, stepped carefully inside the middle, and began to pull it up the way a woman might
don stockings. The dress was fitted, but the fabric had some give to it, so sliding it up wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined.

The zipper was the tricky bit. It ran the length of the back, and even with my relatively long limbs I couldn’t crook my arm enough to get the zipper up more than a few inches.

I was trying what I thought was a very creative approach—lowering the dress, zipping it up
halfway, then sliding it carefully upward—when a knock sounded at the door.

“Merit?”

I snapped my hands over my chest as Lindsey’s head popped into the room. The dress hit the floor, puddling at my feet.

“Um,” she said with lifted eyebrows, walking inside and closing the door behind her. She put her hands on her hips, gave me an up-and-down appraisal. “Problem?”

“I’m getting ready!”

“I can see that.”

I turned around, gave her my back. “Zipper?”

“Ah,” she said with a nod, and strode forward, apparently nonplussed at the sight of the bare most of me.

“I like your hair like this,” she said, pulling the sides of the dress together and raising the zipper with a satisfying
zwip
. “There’s a hook at the top,” she added, fastening it, then plucking at tulle and taffeta
until she was satisfied.

“Very nice. Turn around.”

I followed her directions, mostly relieved I wasn’t hanging loose anymore, watched her nod.

“Very nice, indeed.”

Apparently not content with playing at the dress, she fluffed parts of my hair, tucked in others. “This is fun. It’s like you’re my own vampire Barbie.”

She stepped back, hands on her hips, nodding as she looked
me over. “Shoes?”

“Box on the bed.” Since there was little chance I was bending over to lace up the ribbons, I lifted the flare of the dress and let her tuck me into the shoes like Cinderella.

The heels were high, but the fit was good, snug. “I think I could run in these,” I said, taking a few in-place steps.

“I doubt you’ll need to sprint at Adrien Reed’s house, but it’s probably
best to be prepared.” She pointed to the closet, which held a floor-length mirror. “You want a look-see?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

She stepped aside while I carefully traversed the bedroom, trying not to snag the dress’s flare on the heels or the spindly legs of Ethan’s antiques.

The sound I made when I saw myself wasn’t far off from the sound I’d made when I’d first seen the dress. I
still looked like
me, but sheathed in a gown that might have been worn by an actress on the red carpet, my hair softer than its usual knife-edge bangs and ponytail, I seemed softer. Not just a girl with immaculate comic timing and fine katana skills, but a woman who could hold her own with the city’s elite.

That reminded me—I’d need something to hold my phone, so I grabbed a simple black clutch
from the closet.

I’d just stepped into the bedroom again when the doors opened, and Ethan strode in like a man who owned the world.

He wore a superbly tailored black tuxedo—pants, two-button jacket, and bow tie—that accentuated his lean frame. He’d slicked back his thick golden hair, tying it at the nape of his neck, which enhanced his already striking features—cheekbones cut from marble,
sculpted lips, piercing eyes.

He didn’t catch our appreciative looks, because his gaze was on his watch. “I hope you’re ready, because we’re already behind.”

“Ahem,”
Lindsey said. “Sire?”

At the sound of her voice, he looked up, his gaze shifting from Lindsey to me, his eyes going enormous.
“Sentinel.”

Lindsey lifted a finger, pointed it at the door. “And I’m just going to take
that as my cue to leave. You know, before the panting and heavy petting.”

Neither of us said a word as she slipped out.

Ethan took a step forward, then another. “I am . . . speechless. You look absolutely beautiful. Statuesque. Exotic. Poetic. Not that you aren’t usually beautiful, but this is . . .”

“Different,” I finished with a smile.

“Yes. Different.” He touched a lock of hair,
spun the curl around his finger. “Another side of you, of my dedicated Sentinel.”

He lifted my hand, turned my palm, pressed his lips to the
pulse in my wrist. The kiss—the connection, the love, the magic—sent sensation up my arm, down my spine again.

“You look very handsome, too.”

He arched an eyebrow with obviously wicked intent. “Do I?”

“You know you do, so don’t pretend otherwise.
You look like a prince.”

He laughed heartily. “I am very much not—was not ever—a prince. I was, and remain, a soldier.” He squeezed my hand. “Your soldier, as you are mine.”

“Then we fit very well. We should probably go.”

Ethan nodded, picked up our scabbarded katanas from the side table. “Just in case,” he said. “We’ll leave them in the car.”

That reminded me—and I went back to
the bureau, grabbed my dagger from the top drawer, and stuffed it into the handbag.

“You’ve got a weapon on you?” I asked, looking him over. I sensed the vague vibration of magic, but if he had a blade hidden anywhere, he’d done a very good job of it.

“Dagger and a small throwing knife I borrowed from the arsenal,” he said as we headed toward the door.

“Ooh,” I said, glancing up at
him. “I’ve always wanted to try those. How’s the weight?”

“Rather fantastic,” Ethan said. “You should have Malik teach you how to use them. He’s very skilled. And he knows it.”

Both good facts to file away, I thought with a smile.

When we reached the stairs, I handed my clutch to Ethan.

He gave it the same look he might have given bad fish. “I’m not going to carry your purse.”

“Then you’ll have to carry me down the stairs.” I took the handrail in my right hand, picked up the skirt’s flare in my left. Took one careful step, then the next, sensed him descend with resignation behind me.

“Yes, a Master has to occasionally carry a purse,” I said, anticipating his objection. “Just as a Sentinel must occasionally wear a very expensive dress.”

“Did you make contact
with Jonah?” he asked, catching up to walk beside me.

“He’s going to keep an eye out for Balthasar.” I opted not to tell him about Jonah’s request. Both of us being angry at him wasn’t likely to accomplish much.

Luc was alone in the foyer when we reached it, the supplicants already gone for the evening. He worked on his phone, tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, and looked up at the
sound of our footsteps.

His eyes widened appreciatively as he took in my dress, heels, hair. “You look beautiful.”

Ethan beat me to a response. “Thank you. But you should compliment Merit as well. She cleans up nicely.”

Luc snorted, glanced at me. “And you don’t look half-bad yourself, Sentinel.”

“Thank you, Luc. He’s just jealous. He prefers to be the arm candy.”

“I think
you’ll both do,” Luc assured.

“Anything?” Ethan asked, the question clear, even if unspoken.

Luc shook his head. “Quiet as a mouse, still as a rock.”

I knew that line, had played the game in elementary school, a ploy to keep children still and quiet.

“I have an idea,” Ethan said, “and I’d like your thoughts, your analysis.”

Luc put his phone away, put his hands on his hips.
“I’m listening.”

“Disavowal.”

“All right, all right, all right,” Luc said with a grin. “I like an aggressive strategy.”

I actually recognized that movie reference—an unusual win for Luc—but let the applause pass, since we were short on time.

“I’ll talk to Malik, have the Librarian look into it.”

Ethan nodded. “Brody’s driving?”

“He’s the best defensive driver we’ve got.
He’s waiting at the gate. I’m glad to see you’ve got weapons,” he added, gesturing toward the katanas. “Although I do wonder about the purse.”

“It’s hers,” Ethan said, handing it back to me. I supposed he expected I’d make the steps in front of Cadogan House single-handedly.

He must have guessed the line of my thoughts.
I’ll hoist you over my shoulder if you can’t make it down three steps.

I’d make it just fine.

“Be careful,” Luc said. “And, Sentinel? Try to have a good time.”

I’d be at a fancy party in a fancy dress with my father and his fancy friends, while my boyfriend’s narcissistic creator roamed Chicago. What could possibly go wrong?

*   *   *

The Reed house was a mansion of the old-school Chicago variety, located in the city’s Prairie Avenue Historic District,
a neighborhood south of downtown that housed some of the city’s finest architecture. Reed’s house, a monolith of stone with a sharply pointed red roof, had been built in 1885 for the owner of a successful mail-order company based in Chicago. The house formed a squared, elongated C, the open side closed with a long stone wall, creating a courtyard in the middle.

Tonight, limousines lined the
neighborhood’s streets. Brody plodded along in stop-and-go traffic, his frustration evidenced by occasional grunts.

“Eyes on the road,” Ethan said when Brody checked the rearview mirror again to catch a glimpse of me.

I bit back a smile, but gave myself a mental high five for being utterly fly.

“She just looks so . . . fancy,” Brody said, which deflated my ego just a bit.

“Fancy,”
I decided, wasn’t the equivalent of “astoundingly beautiful.” And the dress had been too much work to get into for anything less complimentary than the latter.

“
She
can hear you,” I reminded him. “And she outranks you. Eyes on the road.”

“What did you say to me last night?” Ethan murmured with amusement. “Down, girl?”

I made a vague sound as Brody reached the front of Reed’s house,
where a human in a black shirt, vest, and pants opened the door.

“Stay close,” I told Brody. “Find a spot, no more than two blocks, and keep your phone on.”

“On that,” he said, and merged back into the slow crawl of cars after Ethan and I had disembarked. I tucked hair behind my ear, adjusted the dress so it fell properly around my feet, noticed Ethan’s soft smile.

“What?”

“You
think you don’t fit here, Sentinel,” he said quietly, offering me his arm as we strolled the red carpet through lines of reporters who’d gathered to snap photos of the rich, famous, and infamous. “But you fit better than many of them, because you know exactly who you are.”

The lucky photographer who snapped me after that compliment got a grand smile for her trouble.

After several slow
minutes of walking, we reached the front door, where a petite girl with dark skin and hair piled in a voluminous topknot stood with a clipboard.

“Ethan and Merit,” he said. “We’re guests of Joshua Merit.”

She scanned the list, nodded. “Welcome to the Reed house,” she said, and gestured us inside.

The house opened immediately into an enormous two-story room, with marble dominating the
first floor, including a large marble staircase bound in curvy marble balusters that marched to the second floor. The second floor formed a balcony around the first, surrounded by a railing of thick, dark wood.

The house’s décor matched its large scale. Baroque furniture, paneled walls, heavy sconces, all of it oversized. There was something Old World about the tone, but the effect was jumbled,
as if Reed had simply plucked items at random from an antiques store.