Dark Debt (7 page)

Adding to the heaviness, the furniture had been draped in jewel-toned silks and was speared with tall candelabras and dripping pillar candles. Reed had even hired performers. A couple in teal silk jumpsuits juggled painted clubs. Dancers in velvet ball gowns and harlequin ensembles, their identities concealed behind papier-mâché
masks with large dark tears painted beneath diamond-shaped eyes, danced in pairs through the crowd. Most of the guests wore black, which offset the deep burgundy, gold, and crimson velvets of the performers’ costumes.

“And the theme is,” I murmured, glancing around, “Venetian masquerade.”

“Very theatrical,” Ethan said.

“It is.” A man in a black jumpsuit spun past us, his face covered
by a mask with round eyes and a beaklike nose.

And a little creepy,
I added silently.
Very
Eyes Wide Shut.

And very Venetian
.
That’s a medico della peste,
he said.
It’s based on a mask that was used by doctors to protect them from the plague.

It’s disturbing
.

Some find that to be part of the appeal,
Ethan said, but sidled
closer as the masked man circled us, his eyes trained on
us like a ballet dancer even as his body spun.

“That was creepy,” I said as he finally moved away.

“It was,” Ethan said, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. He handed me one, then tapped his glass delicately against mine. “Sentinel, I’ll say it again: You look ravishing.”

Because I agreed with him, I shared his smile. “You have excellent taste. And I’m not
just saying that because we’re dating.”

“But it doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” I agreed, and sipped. The champagne was smoky and peachy at the same time. An odd combination, but it worked. I hadn’t yet seen a snack tray, but the drink gave me hope they’d also be good.

“Do you see him anywhere?”

I glanced back at Ethan. “Reed or my father?”

“Either. I’m surprised Reed isn’t
making the rounds—and your father isn’t at his side.”

“What do you know about this Towerline project?”

“Not a lot,” Ethan said, shifting to avoid the swoop of a juggler snatching an errant baton. “I’ve read about it, seen the plans in the paper. It’s reportedly the biggest deal your father has ever closed.”

“And he wants Reed as an investor?”

“That would be my guess. A project
that large will take a lot of financing.” Ethan touched my arm, nodded toward the other side of the room. “And I believe we’ve just received our summoning.”

I followed his gaze. A man on the other side of the room—also tall and lean, but with dark hair and pale blue eyes that matched mine—gestured with two fingers, beckoning me to him in the same fashion he called his servants.

I managed
not to growl.

“Beware, Sentinel. Humans are the fiercest predators of all.”

“Well aware,” I said, using one of Ethan’s favorite phrases.

With Ethan’s hand at my back, we crossed the ballroom.

“Joshua,” Ethan said when we reached him.

He offered Ethan a handshake. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you.”

“Merit,” he said to me, without pleasantries.

“Dad.”

Always charming,
Ethan said silently, then gestured to the room. “This is quite an affair.”

“Adrien enjoys a good show. He’d like to meet you. I’ll take you upstairs.” He turned on his heel, headed toward the staircase. My father was undeniably absorbed by business, but for him to act as majordomo for anyone was utterly out of character. And oddly sycophantic.

The deal must not be done
if he’s doing Reed’s business,
Ethan said silently.

My thoughts exactly
. But we’d come here for a purpose, so we followed him to the stairs, climbed treads of pink marble warped with age and the wear of thousands of footsteps. Thankfully, going up was a lot easier than going down, so Ethan didn’t have to bear the burden of my purse.

Partygoers flowed around us with masks and champagne
flutes in hand, the entire effect dizzying, like walking uphill through a waterfall of people.

The second floor opened into a long gallery flanked by marble columns, the walls marked by oil paintings in gilded frames: landscapes, still lifes, portraits. As with the first floor, his taste seemed to vary in everything except size. They were all enormous, which made their subjects seem that much
larger.

Our Mr. Reed does not care for subtlety,
Ethan said, our footsteps silent on the undoubtedly priceless runner that covered the marble floor as we traversed the gallery.

There were fewer guests in this room, which felt more like it belonged in a medieval castle than a businessman’s home. The few men and women who’d sought refuge from the crush downstairs stood in intimate clusters,
faces hidden by demi-masks.

The end of the gallery was marked by a set of wooden doors.They opened and a man strode out, closing them quietly behind him again. He was a big man—tall and wide—with a rounded crown of silver hair surrounding a shining bald dome. He walked toward us with heavy, steady steps, and looked very unhappy about whatever had gone down in the office.

“Sanford,” my
father said.

“Joshua,” the man said with a nod, then carried on behind us, leaving the faint smell of cigar smoke behind him.

Sanford?
I asked Ethan silently. His face rang a bell, but I couldn’t place him.

Sanford King,
Ethan said.
He was arrested last year for racketeering, bribery, extortion, and some manner of other financial ills. He was acquitted, as I recall.

The arrest
apparently hadn’t hurt his reputation if he was getting private meets with Reed at the man’s own gala.

We reached the doors, the apparent inner sanctum, and my father knocked. A moment later, the door opened, and a tall man in a black suit glanced at my father, then us. Bodyguard. He had the square jaw and broad shoulders for it, and the buzz of steel from the gun I guessed was holstered in
a shoulder harness.

“Joshua Merit,” my father said.

The door closed a bit while the guard did his checking, then opened again. The guard looked each of us over as we entered,
then closed the door behind us and took his post again, shoulders back, hands clasped in front of him.

The room, an office with several walls of shelves, a large desk, and a sitting area, was spartan compared
to the rest of the house. There were a few pieces of décor—a globe, potted palms, a blocky chandelier that might have been designed for a Frank Lloyd Wright house, but they were appropriately scaled and surprisingly tasteful.

A man stood across the room, leaning against the desk with one ankle crossed over the other, a phone in hand. He was trim but broad-shouldered, with dark, wavy hair and
a goatee that had just begun to salt-and-pepper. I’d have put him in his early forties.

His charcoal tuxedo was immaculately cut, his square face well lived in but handsome, with a square jaw, a deep slash of mouth, eyes the same gray as his suit. He wasn’t unhandsome, but it was the air of utter confidence, the sense of fundamental knowledge and control, that was interesting. He was absolutely
certain of his world.

He hung up the phone, slipped it into his pocket, glanced at my father questioningly.

“Ethan Sullivan of Cadogan House,” my father said. Apparently, the Master got top billing. “You’d wanted to meet him.”

Reed shifted his gaze to Ethan, and I caught a moment of surprise, then irritation. My guess? His foundation of knowledge and control had been shaken because
he hadn’t known we were coming.

I glanced at my father, and the question on my face should have been obvious: Why was Adrien Reed surprised we were here? Wasn’t his wanting to meet us the entire point? Or were we my father’s hospitality gifts, to be handed over to the man like a bottle of good wine?

Regardless of his initial surprise, Reed was practiced. He moved forward, offered Ethan
a hand. “Welcome to our home.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ethan said, then put a hand at my back. “My Sentinel and paramour, Merit.”

It was childish that he’d used my father’s word, but still satisfying to see my father’s wince of impropriety.

Reed’s nod was brisk, efficient.

“You have a beautiful home,” I said. “The gallery is very impressive.”

“I find, as I age, that
I prefer intense to dull,” Reed said. “More to less. There are only so many hours in the day, and much to be accomplished.” He glanced at Ethan. “Immortality, of course, presents the opposite problem.”

“There are more hours to fill, certainly, but more consequence,” was Ethan’s measured response. “One becomes eternally tied to one’s choices.”

Reed nodded in acknowledgment.

A door on
the other side of the room opened, and a breeze from an outdoor terrace wafted in, along with the bright scent of fruity perfume.

“My wife,” Reed said, gesturing to the statuesque woman who’d walked inside. She wore a long, sleeveless dress the color of new grass, a gleaming brass belt around her tiny waist. Her eyes were as luminously green as the fabric, her skin sun-kissed gold. Thick blond
hair waved across her bare shoulders, one side pulled back by a barrette that matched the belt. She looked like she’d stepped from a 1970s fashion ad, or maybe the set of
Charlie’s Angels
. Since she couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, she probably wouldn’t have gotten the reference.

“Sorcha,” Reed said, holding out his hand.

She walked forward, offered him her free
hand, the other holding a flute of champagne.

“Ethan and Merit, of Cadogan House. They’re vampires.”

“Oh?” she asked, her tone making it hard to tell whether she was surprised, confused, or disturbed.

“As I’ve finished my business, I suppose we should join the party again.” He released his wife, gestured toward the door, and fell into step beside Ethan.

“I understand you’re part
of the AAM—the new national organization.” They entered the gallery, the magnate and the Master, and chatted about the departure from the GP. My father and the bodyguard followed, and then Sorcha and me.

“This is quite a house,” I said to her.

“Yes, it’s very big. So, you’re a vampire?”

“Yes. For almost a year now.”

“Oh. How does that work, exactly?”

“Humans are turned when
they’re bitten by other vampires.”

“Oh,” she said again. Once again, I couldn’t tell if she couldn’t understand or didn’t much care.

We reached the stairs and Reed stopped at the top, gestured Sorcha to his side. He signaled a waiter, who brought over a tray of champagne, stood at attention while Reed turned to his guests.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Reed said, his resonant voice carrying
across the space.

A hush fell over the room. Guests turned toward Reed, moved toward the stairs to watch him.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming to our small soiree tonight. I hope you’ll enjoy the beverages, the food. You’ve all been generous, and I hope you’ll consider being generous one more time. You’ll see men and women with baskets in the crowd. Please consider making a donation.”

The plague doctor danced through the crowd with two other masked friends, all of them carrying reed baskets, pausing occasionally as guests dropped money inside them.

The entire event had been theatrical, so when two men in harlequin masks jumped suddenly from the balcony and landed in the middle of the marble stairway, I thought it was part of the act.

But when they pulled gleaming
katanas from black scabbards and the subtle vibration of vampire magic filled the air, it was obvious this wasn’t part of the show.

It was an attack.

DRESSING DOWN

E
than,
I said silently, and he nodded, his body tense and ready to spring forward.

“We come for Sanford King,” said the vampire on the right, katana pointed at the crowd. The humans talked and gestured nervously, looking around for the man who’d been called out. Unfortunately
for him, Sanford wasn’t difficult to spot, being nearly a head taller than everyone else.

“I believe you’re at the wrong house,” Reed said, voice booming and quieting the crowd again—except for the shuffle of cell phones as cameras snapped, messages were sent, and calls were placed.

This would need diplomacy, I thought, pulling my phone surreptitiously from my bag and sending Brody and
my grandfather a message:
VAMPS W/ SWORDS AT REED
HOUSE TO HARM SANFOR
D KING. CPD DISPATCH
PROBABLE.

“We’re at precisely the right house,” said the vampire on the left.

They moved down the stairs, one tread at a time, their swords
extended and blades gleaming silver. With each step, the crowd moved backward, away from danger.

Sanford King might have been a criminal, but he wasn’t a
coward. He pushed through the humans and moved into the clearing, looked over the men. His face had gone crimson, sweat beading on his brow. “I’m Sanford King. The fuck do you want with me?”

“You’re a killer,” said the vampire on the left. “A criminal. A parasite on the city. You deserve to die. Tonight, we’ll handle that.”

They began to circle King, lions preparing for an attack, the
gazelle cornered and nervous between them. Criminal, coward, or otherwise, Sanford was human, and didn’t look like much of a match for the well-armed vampires.

Ethan and I simultaneously stepped forward to assist. But before we could take the stairs, Reed held up a hand, and his voice was low and threatening.

“Do not even think of drawing your weapons in my house. I will not have any more
armed vampires here.”

Ethan showed his teeth but stayed where he was.

His house
,
his rules,
Ethan said silently
. Until we deem otherwise. Stay ready, Sentinel.

Reed snapped his fingers, and his bodyguard pulled his gun from a shoulder holster, gripped it in a two-hand stance, and began moving carefully down the stairs, barrel pointed toward the vampires.

“On the ground!” he yelled
when he hit the first floor.

The vampires ignored the order. As King disappeared into the crowd again, the vampire on the right launched forward, swinging his katana with a move the bodyguard barely evaded. But avoiding the strike left him off-balance, and the second vampire executed a perfect side kick that connected with the bodyguard’s
wrist, sending the gun into the air and then skidding
across the floor.

The bodyguard didn’t seem worried. “Fine. You want to play it that way, we’ll play it.” He lunged for one of the vampires, who neatly sidestepped the move, sliced upward with a strike that caught the bodyguard across the chest. He hit his knees, but it was a feint—when the vampire moved closer, thinking to finish him off, the bodyguard grabbed him by the calves, pulled him
to the ground, attempted to muscle him into a hold.

The bodyguard was big and muscular and outweighed the vampires considerably. But they were faster, more efficient, more athletic. The vampire flipped, squirmed out of the bodyguard’s hold, and jumped back to his feet, but he’d lost his katana. The bodyguard picked it up, grasped the handle with both hands, began to wield it like a foil, with
pokes and thrusts that weren’t well suited for the blade.

The vampires adapted, working together like the predators they were. While the vampire with the katana parried, the other moved around the bodyguard’s back, peppering him with kicks to the legs and knees to keep him off-balance.

They were trained, which didn’t bode well. Vampires trained in classic fighting styles meant someone
with equal skills had done the training. And there weren’t many vampires in Chicago with training like that.

The bodyguard stumbled, and the vampire with the sword jumped forward, blade disappearing into the bodyguard’s gut. He screamed like a wounded animal, went down heavily. Someone reached out, helped him scoot across marble and back toward the crowd, applied pressure to the wound.

“Goddamn it,” Reed muttered.

The vampires looked at each other, scanned the crowd. “Sanford King!”

Adrenaline became a dull itch beneath my skin.
Ethan,
I said again, this time the sound imploring, begging for action.

Ethan pulled out his dagger, light gleaming along the brilliant blade. “That’s our cue,” he said, not bothering to check Reed’s response—or get his permission.

I shouldn’t
have been grinning, and my blood shouldn’t have been
thrumming
like a Corvette engine at the thought of getting out there and mixing it up with these two idiots, and yet . . .

Without taking my eyes off the men, I pulled the dagger from my purse, shoved the purse back to Sorcha for safekeeping.
You want the right or left?

The one on the right looks smaller.

I narrowed my gaze at the
vampire, grinned.
Then I’ll take the one on the left.

You were beautiful before,
Ethan said silently,
but with the fire in your eyes, you are a goddess.

We’ll see how divine I am,
I said and, just as my grandfather had taught me decades ago, put two fingers in my mouth and whistled with earsplitting volume.

The vampires looked up at us, and fresh fear wafted up. They clearly weren’t
thrilled to see Ethan and me standing at the top of the stairs, blades in hand, and ready to rumble. And if they were Housed vampires, Chicagoland vampires, they’d have known who we were and what we could do . . . and what the penalty would be for fighting Ethan.

Winner buys ice cream,
I said as Ethan and I took the stairs one (careful) step at a time.

Done,
Ethan agreed.
And gets to decide
what to do with it.

I barely suppressed the delicious shiver that rolled up my spine.

“Gentlemen,” Ethan said, his gaze on the vampires. “You’ve made rather a mess here. I don’t know you—yet—but I suspect you know who I am, and who stands beside me. And you know that what has happened here—your violation of this home, and what I suspect was a trespass without invitation—will not go unanswered.
This is your one and only opportunity to lay down your weapons and peacefully surrender. There is no shame in knowing when to walk away.”

The vampires looked at each other, made their decision, and turned to face us. They’d already brought war to Reed’s house; they apparently weren’t going to back down now.

“In that case,” Ethan said, lifting his blade, “may the best vampire win.”

The battle was on.

*   *   *

I moved slowly, methodically, kept my eyes on the vampire I’d selected. I hope it looked intentional, as if I were baiting him into impatience and an unwise move. I was, of course, trying not to trip on the stairs.

Since there seemed little doubt the voluminous garment was going to get nicked, I made a silent apology to the gods of fashion, flipped the dagger
in my hand, and when I hit the first floor, dove in.

The vampire met me, blade for blade, steel against steel. A slice to my right, and I matched it with the dagger, used the force to spin him away. A slice to my left on his return spin, and I used the dagger to block, forcing the blade down and causing him to shift his center of balance. He bobbled backward but caught himself again.

I took the offensive. I sliced forward, using my blade as I might have used a paintbrush, with quick, fluid strokes designed to keep him moving at my speed, to keep him dancing and dodging instead of planning new attacks.

It was a good plan, but he was well trained.
Really
well trained. I wanted to smack the mask off his face. I wanted to know who he was, and who’d trained him to attack humans.

He was smart enough not to open his body completely, or give me access to delicate organs. There was something gentlemanly about his fighting style—and maybe that was something I could use against him.

I bobbled forward, pretending to trip on the hem of my dress—not entirely improbable. For a moment, he paused, instinct telling him to help me instead of hurting me. That put him off-balance,
and I used a spinning sidekick against the back of his leg with enough momentum to send him lurching forward . . . but not enough to put him on the floor. It was the dress—it was too snug around the knees to give me kicking room. But crescent kicks, side kicks, front kicks were key pieces of my fighting repertoire. Which meant, unfortunately, that dress would have to die.

I’m sorry about this,
I said silently to Ethan, before grabbing the hem and rending the dress up one side, giving me room to maneuver—and probably showing more thigh than I should have. The rip was audible, and I’m pretty sure I saw him flinch at the sound of thousands of dollars being shredded in the interest of victory.

But victory trumped fashion.

My legs freed of constraints, I spun the dagger in my hand,
beckoned the vampire to strike again. He didn’t waste time, moving forward with a jumping spin that sent the blade whistling. The human barrier shifted as we moved, morphing and changing
shape around us like an amoeba to give us room to fight. I turned aside, outside his range, and punched forward with the dagger. I made contact, and the scent of vampire blood—the faint spice of it—blossomed in
the air like a crimson flower—but he didn’t react, and gave no ground.

Well trained,
I said silently to Ethan, hoping he was faring well against his own opponent, but afraid to take his eyes off mine.

The vampire shook off the injury, regripped his katana, lifted it above his head in a perfectly telegraphed downward strike. I lifted my dagger to his, using our joined blades as a pivot
point, and spun away. The katana struck only air.

“You missed,” I said, and should have known better than to tempt fate. He struck again, and although I spun away, his aim was true enough that the tip of the blade caught my forearm, seared a trail of pain there.

I grunted as the scent of blood—mine, and not willingly shed—filled the air.
“Ow,”
I said, and when he stopped to look, cuffed
him in the ear with an elbow.

“You cut me, you ass!” I said, and reached out for the mask. It was time for our mysterious vampire friend to reveal his identity.

He ducked the grab, but responded with one of his own, grabbing the tulle at my shoulder, but the fabric ripped and tore away in his hand, the bodice coming perilously close to dropping, but managing to stay in place. It was one
of the rare times I was glad not to be especially buxom; had the girls been any larger, the gaping bodice would have put on quite a show.

A pulse of magic filled the air—and there was something familiar in it. The memory faded when I tried to grab on, like a faint star disappearing when you tried to look too closely. It was frustratingly out of reach, but close enough to bluff.

“I know
you,” I said.

He froze, just for a moment, and that was just enough time for me. I kicked his hand, breaking his grip and sending the sword through the air. I spun, grabbed it, and pivoted to aim the point at the pulse in his throat. His eyes moved from sword point to me and back again as he debated what he could do.

“Don’t even
think
about it,” I warned him.

With obvious concern,
he lifted his hands into the air.

Chest heaving, I glanced at Ethan, a lock of hair across my face, tulle around one shoulder, my skirt slitted to the thigh, and my enemy’s sword in my hands.

Ethan stood above his vampire, the vampire’s katana in his hand, tilted down and just above the vampire’s throat. His hair had come unloosed, gold spilling around his regal face, his tuxedo pristine
but for a slice on his left arm. I relaxed incrementally; he was safe.

Ethan took in my near state of dishabille, and his eyes went hot . . . at least before he registered the dress’s unfortunate state.

You’ve ruined another garment.

Technically,
I corrected,
this asshat made me ruin the garment.

I got a lifted eyebrow for my trouble, but since he hadn’t lost his gleam of arousal,
I decided he wasn’t all that irritated. It was his fault for putting me in expensive dresses.

Men and women in their gowns and finery rushed toward King to offer aid.

He hadn’t actually been part of the battle, but he certainly looked worse for wear. His face was red and puffy, his collar unbuttoned, chest pumping to pull in breath.

Sanford waved off some of the men and women around
him,
loosened his tie. “Give me room. Let me breathe, for Christ’s sake.”

He looked up at Ethan, then me. “You saved my life.”

“We did what anyone would have done,” Ethan said, belied by the humans who’d taken the time to record the fight but hadn’t offered to help, and probably so they could sell the video to the highest bidder.