Friday Night Bites (17 page)

The Ombud’s office had a secret vampire employee, a source of information about the Houses. Maybe my father had one, too.

After Ethan finished his explanation, my father glanced at me.

“You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity,” he said. “But why the change in attitude?”

Okay, so I’d been wrong to assume that if we offered information that might help Robert, my father wouldn’t ask questions.

Go ahead
, Ethan mentally prompted, and I delivered my lines.

“I’d like to become more involved in the family’s social activities. Given my new position in the House, and the family’s position, my becoming more involved could be, let’s say, mutually beneficial.”

My father leaned back, placed an elbow on the back of his chair, and tapped a bent knuckle against his chin. He could hardly have looked more skeptical. “Why now?”

“I’m in a different position now,” I told him. “I have different responsibilities. Different abilities.” I cast a glance toward Ethan. “Different connections. I’m old enough to understand that the Merit name makes certain things easier. For
one, it makes alliances easier to forge.” I touched the Cadogan medal at my neck. “And now there’s an alliance that I can help build.”

He watched me, evaluated in silence, then gave a single nod. “I’ll assume for our purposes that you aren’t lying to me. But that doesn’t answer my question.” He slid his gaze to Ethan. “Why now? Why tonight?”

Ethan smoothed the knee of his trousers with a swipe of his hand. The move was so casual, almost careless, that I knew it was forced. “The Breckenridges may be . . . dabbling in our world.”

“Dabbling,” my father repeated. “In what way?”

A moment of hesitation, and then Ethan decided—unilaterally, I might add—to trust my father. “We were informed that Jamie Breckenridge planned to publish a very damaging story.”

“Damaging to vampires?”

Ethan bobbed his head. He was playing the story off, giving my father unemotional seeds of information, with no hint of the fear and concern that he’d shown me earlier.

“And if I assumed the content of the story is too . . . delicate to be shared here?”

“Then you would be correct,” Ethan said. “I take it you aren’t aware of anything in that regard?”

“I am not,” my father said. “However, I’m assuming it’s no coincidence that you’ve made the Breckenridge home your first social stop?”

“It was a coincidence, actually,” Ethan responded. “But a fortuitous one.”

My father arched dubious eyebrows. “Be that as it may, I take it you noticed that Julia is the only Breckenridge at home this evening?”

“I thought that odd,” Ethan said.

“As did we all,” my father agreed. “And we didn’t understand
the reason for it.” Slowly, he lifted his gaze to me. “But now perhaps we do. Perhaps they are absent because of certain . . .
visitors
in their home.”

His very gaze was an accusation, and an unearned one. Neither the story nor the Breckenridges’ absence had anything to do with me. Well, nothing I’d done on purpose anyway. But he was willing, nevertheless, to assign blame.

Charming
, Ethan telepathically commented.

I told you
, I said back.

Ethan stood up. “I appreciate your time, Joshua. I trust the information we’ve shared will be held in confidence?”

“If you prefer,” said my father, without bothering to rise. “I trust you’ll be circumspect in your inquiries? While I understand that you have a concern, whatever it might be, these people—these families—are my friends. It wouldn’t do for gossip to travel, for undue aspersions to be cast upon them.”

Ethan had turned away from my father, and I saw the look of irritation cross his face, probably at the suggestion that his aspersions were “undue.” Nevertheless, always the smooth player, he slipped his hands into his pockets, and when he turned back again, his expression was mild and politic once again. “Of course.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” my father said, then checked his watch. That was our dismissal, so I moved toward the door, Ethan behind me.

“Remember,” my father said, and we turned back. “Whatever this is, if it falls apart, it falls on you. Both of you.”

It was a final blow. We walked into the hallway, and let him have the last word.

 

On the way back to the ballroom, Ethan and I paused in a window-lined corridor that linked the public and private portions of the house.

He stared out the windows, hands at his hips. “Your father . . .”

“Is a piece of work,” I finished. “I know.”

“He could help us . . . or crush us.”

I glanced beside me, noticed that line of worry between his eyes, and offered the nearly four-hundred-year-old vampire a piece of advice. “And never forget, Ethan, that the choice is his to make.”

He looked over at me, brow raised.

I turned away and looked out at the dark, sloping lawn. “Never forget that whatever boon he offers, whatever suggestion he makes, is calculated. He has the money and power to help or hurt a lot of people, but his reasons are usually his own, they’re usually selfish, and they aren’t easy to ferret out. He plays his pieces three or four moves ahead, without obvious outcomes. But never doubt they’re there.”

Ethan sighed, long and haggard. A dove cooed in the distance.

“Ms. Merit.”

We both turned to find a woman at the portico door. She wore a simple black dress and white apron, thick-soled shoes on her feet. Her hair was in a neat bun. A housekeeper, maybe.

“Yes?” I asked.

She held out a piece of paper. “Mr. Nicholas asked me to give this to you.”

I arched a brow, but walked to where she stood and took the paper. When I offered my thanks, she disappeared back through the doorway.

“Mr. Nicholas?” Ethan asked when we were alone again.

I ignored the question, and unfolded the note, which read:

“What is it?” Ethan asked.

I glanced out the window, then back at him as I refolded the note and slipped it into my purse.

“An opportunity to make some connections of my own. I’ll be back,” I added, and before he could respond or express whatever doubts were pinching that line between his eyes again, I walked to the end of the hallway to the patio door.

The patio was brick in a carefully laid demilune form, which ended in an arc of stairs leading down to the lawn. I leaned against the brick banister and untied the straps of my shoes, then placed them and my purse on a step. The night was glori ously warm, white paper lanterns hanging from the flowering trees that dotted the back lawn. Relieved of the stilettos, I crept down to the lawn, the bricks cool beneath my feet, then stepped into the grass. I stood there for a quiet moment, eyes closed, reveling in the soft, cool carpet of green.

The Breckenridge estate was huge—hundreds of acres of land that had been carefully groomed and manicured to seem just this side of wild—the Brecks’ primeval respite from the workaday world. The lawn led down to a wood that covered the back acres of the property, a carefully clipped trail winding through them.

I’d spent a lot of time on that trail as a child, chasing Nicholas through thick trees on summer days and through frosted, ice-tipped boughs on cold November mornings. I left the dresses and pinafores to Charlotte—I wanted running and fallen branches and fresh air, the outdoor fantasy world of a child with an expansive imagination and a constrictive home life.

But this time, when I reached the narrow, dirt path, I had to push limbs from my face. I was taller than I had been the last time I’d traversed it; then I’d been short enough to skip beneath the boughs. Now branches crackled as I moved, until I made it to the clearing.

To the labyrinth.

The fence was low, only three or four feet tall, a delicate and rust-covered ring that ran for yards in both directions around the hedge maze Papa Breck had commissioned in the woods behind the house. The gate was ajar. He was here already, then.

The maze itself was simple, rings of concentric circles with dead ends and passageways along its length, a pattern I’d memorized many years ago. The web of boxwood had been our castle, defended by Nicholas and me against bands of marauders—usually his brothers. We’d used stick swords and cardboard shields, both of us fighting until his siblings grew bored and retreated back to the comfort of the main house. This had been our secret garden, our tiny kingdom of leaves.

I neared the glowing inner core of it, my footsteps nearly silent on the soft dirt path, the night silent but for the occasional rustling of trees or scampering in the undergrowth around me. And it was still silent when I met him in the middle.

“I wondered how long it would take you to make it out here,” Nicholas said, arms crossed over his chest as he looked at me. Two hurricane lamps cast a golden glow across his torso, which was currently covered by a Chicago Marathon T-shirt. He’d skipped the suit for a T-shirt, and he’d also skipped the suit pants for jeans.

I walked to the center of the circle and glanced up at him, my smile tenuous. “I’d nearly forgotten this was out here.”

Nicholas made a sarcastic sound that bobbed his shoulders. “I doubt very much, Merit, that you’d forget about the castle.”

Although a corner of his lip lifted as he said it, his expression sobered again quickly enough. He scanned my dress, then lifted his gaze to mine. “The vampires appear to have accomplished what your father was unable to do.”

I stared at him for a second, unsure if he meant to insult me, or my father, or Ethan, although it felt like a shot at all three of us. I opted to ignore it, and walked around him to trace the perimeter of the circle that marked the inner core of the labyrinth. It was probably fifteen feet across, marked by facing gaps in the
hedge that allowed entrance and egress, and curved wooden benches along the side walls that currently held the lamps.

“I didn’t expect to find you outside Cadogan House,” I admitted.

“I didn’t expect to find you
inside
Cadogan House. Times change.”

“People change?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder.

His expression stayed the same. Blank, guarded.

I decided to start with niceties. “How have you been?”

“I’m more interested in how you’ve been. In the . . .
thing
you’ve become.”

I lifted my brows. “The thing?”

“The vampire.” He fairly spat out the word, as if the sound on his lips disgusted him. He looked away, glanced out at the woods. “People do change, apparently.”

“Yes, they do,” I agreed, but managed to keep my thoughts about his current attitude to myself. “I didn’t know you were back in Chicago.”

“I had business.”

“You’re back to stay?”

“We’ll see.”

More important question: “So you’re working? In Chicago, I mean?”

His gaze shifted back to me, one dark eyebrow arched. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable discussing my plans with you.”

It was my turn to arch an eyebrow. “You asked me to meet you out here, Nick, not the other way around. If you weren’t comfortable discussing things with me, you probably should have let me stay in the house.”

He looked at me for a long time. An intense time, those steel gray eyes fixed on mine, as if he could see through me to ferret out my intentions. I had to work not to shift my feet in the silence.

“I want to know why you’re here,” he finally said. “In my parents’ home. In my family’s home.” Given the distrust in his voice, I guessed it wasn’t a coincidence that Julia was the only Breckenridge at the party.

I clasped my hands behind my back, and looked at him. “It’s time that I recall my family obligations.”

He responded with a dry look. “I’ve known you for twenty years, Merit. Family obligations aren’t high on your priority list, especially when those obligations involve black-tie affairs. Try me again.”

I didn’t know what he was up to, but I wasn’t about to spill all my secrets. “Tell me why you were outside Cadogan House.”

He glanced up at me, his expression a challenge: Why should I answer your questions?

“Quid pro quo,” I told him. “You answer mine, and I’ll answer yours.”

He wet his bottom lip while he silently considered the offer, then looked up at me. “I’m investigating,” he said.

“You’re writing a story?”

“I didn’t say I was writing a story. I said I was investigating.”

Okay, so he was investigating, but not in order to write a story—about vampires or otherwise. So what was he investigating? And if he had questions, why was he looking for answers in a knot of paparazzi outside the House, instead of using his own connections? More importantly, why Nick, and why not Jamie?

Nick stuffed his hands into his pockets and bobbed his head at me. “Quid pro quo. Why are you here?”

A second of consideration before I told him. “We’re doing our own investigating.”

“Of whom?”

“Not precisely who, but what. We’re trying to keep our people safe.” Not the whole truth, but true enough.

“From what?”

I shook my head. It was time to dig a little deeper. “Quid pro quo. While we’re discussing the Brecks, what’s the family been up to? How’s Jamie these days?”

Nick’s expression changed so suddenly I nearly took a step back. His jaw hardened, nostrils flaring, and his hands clenched into fists. For a second, I could have sworn I felt a brief pulse of magic—but then it was gone.

“Stay. Away. From Jamie,” he bit out.

I frowned, trying to figure out where the anger had come from. “I just asked how he was, Nick.” Mostly to figure out if he’s trying to sacrifice us to win props from Papa Breck, but Nick didn’t need to know that. “Why do I need to stay away from him? What do you think I’m going to do?”