Friday Night Bites (28 page)

 

He let me be silent for most of the ride to Oak Park, which was considerably faster than the trip to the Breckenridge estate. But while he didn’t talk, he kept turning to look at me, casting worried, surreptitious glances at my face, and a few more lascivious ones at other parts of my anatomy.

I noticed them, but ignored them. In the quiet of the car, my thoughts kept going back to my conversation with Mallory. Was I forgetting who I’d been, my life before Cadogan House? I’d known Mal for three years. Sure, we’d had a spat or two along the way. We’d been roommates, after all. But never something like this. Never an argument where we questioned the other’s choices, where we questioned our roles in each other’s lives. This was different. And it was, I feared, the harbinger of unfortunate things. Of the slow dissolution of a friendship already weakened by physical separation, new ties, supernatural disasters.

“What happened?”

Since Ethan’s question was softly spoken and, I thought, sincere, I answered it. “Mallory and I had a fight.” About you, I silently added, then said aloud, “Suffice it to say, she’s not happy with the person, the vampire, I’m becoming.”

“I see.” He sounded as uncomfortable as you might expect a boy, even a four-hundred-year-old boy, to sound.

I skipped a responsive nod, fearful that the movement would
trip the tears, smear my mascara, and leave track marks down my face.

I really, really wasn’t in the mood for this. Not to go to Oak Park, to play dress-up, to be in the same room as my father, to pretend at being that girl.

“I need a motivational speech,” I told him. “It’s been a pretty awful night so far, and I’m fighting the urge to take a cab right back to Cadogan House and spend an intimate evening with a couple of deep-dish meat pies. I could use one of those ‘Do it for Cadogan!’ lectures you’re so fond of.”

He chuckled, and the sound of it was comforting somehow. “How about I tell you that you look radiant?”

The compliment was probably the best, and worst, thing he could have said. Coming from him, it felt weightier, more validating, than it should have. And that bothered me. A lot.

Scared me. A lot.

God, was Mal right? Was I sabotaging my relationship with Morgan for this man? Was I exchanging real friendships, real relationships, for the possibility of Ethan? I felt like I was spiral ing around in some kind of vampire whirlpool, the remnants of my normal life draining away. God only knew what would be left of me.

“How about I remind you,” he began, “that this is your opportunity to be someone else for a few hours. I understand, maybe better than I did before, that you’re different from these people. But tonight you can leave the real Merit in Hyde Park. Tonight, you can play make-believe. You can be . . . the girl they weren’t expecting.”

The girl they weren’t expecting. That had kind of a nice ring to it. “That’s not bad,” I told him. “And certainly better than the last speech you gave me.”

He made a Master-vampire-worthy huff. “As Master of the House—”

“—it’s your duty to give me the benefit of the doubt,” I finished for him. “And to motivate me when you can.” I glanced at him. “Challenge me, Ethan, if you need to. I understand a challenge; I can rise to it. But work from the assumption that I’m trying, that I’m doing my best.” I glanced out the window. “That’s what I need to hear.”

He was quiet so long I thought I’d angered him. “You are so young,” he finally said, poignancy in his voice. “Still so very human.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Frankly, Merit, neither am I.”

 

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the circle drive in front of my parents’ blocky Oak Park home. The house was a stylistic orphan, completely different from the Prairie-style, Wright-homage houses around it. But my parents had had enough sway over Chicago’s political administration to get the plans approved. So here it sat, a rectangular box of pasty gray concrete in the middle of picturesque Oak Park.

Ethan stopped the Mercedes in front of the door and handed the keys to one of the ubiquitous valets that apparently haunted these kinds of galas.

“The architecture is . . . interesting,” he said.

“It’s atrocious,” I replied. “But the food’s usually pretty good.”

I didn’t bother knocking at the front door, nor did I wait to get an invitation into the house. Like it or not, this was my ancestral home; I figured I didn’t need an invitation. More importantly, I hadn’t bothered on my first trip back to the house shortly after I’d been changed. And here I was, the prodigal daughter, making her return.

Pennebaker, the butler, stood just inside the concrete-and-glass foyer, his skinny, stiff frame bowing at each passing guest. His nose lifted indignantly when I approached him.

“Peabody,” I said in greeting. I loved faking him out.

“Pennebaker,” he corrected in a growl. “Your father is currently in a meeting. Mrs. Merit and Mrs. Corkburger are entertaining the guests.” He slid his steely gaze to Ethan and arched an eyebrow.

“This is Ethan Sullivan,” I interjected. “My guest. He’s welcome.”

Pennebaker nodded dismissively, then looked back to the guests behind us.

That hurdle passed, I led Ethan away and began the trek toward the long concrete space at the back of the first floor where my parents entertained. Along the way, bare, angular hallways terminated in dead ends. Steel mesh blinds covered not windows but bare concrete walls. One stairway led to nothing but an alcove showcasing a single piece of modern art that would have been well suited to the living room of a maniacal serial killer. My parents called the design “thought-provoking,” and claimed it was a challenge to the architectural mainstream, to people’s expectations of what “stairways” and “windows” were supposed to be.

I called the design “contemporary psychopath.” The space was packed with people in black-and-white clothing, and a jazz quintet provided a sound track from one of the room’s corners. I glanced around, looking for targets. There were no Breckenridges in sight, and my father was equally absent. Not that that was a bad thing. But I found something just as interesting near the bank of windows that edged one side of the room.

“Prepare yourself,” I warned him with a grin, and led him into the fray.

 

They stood together, my mother and sister, eyes scanning the crowd before them, heads together as they gossiped. And there was no doubt they gossiped. My mother was one of the ruling
matrons of Chicago society, my sister an up-and-coming princess. Gossip was their bread and butter.

My mother wore a conservative gown of pale gold, a sheath and bolero jacket well suited for her trim frame. My sister, her hair as dark as mine, wore a pale blue sleeveless cocktail dress. Her hair was pulled back, a thin, glossy black headband keeping every dark strand in place. And in her arms, currently chewing on her tiny, pudgy fist, was one of the lights of my life. My niece, Olivia.

“Hi, Mom,” I said.

My mother turned, frowned and touched fingers to my cheek. “You look thin. Are you eating?”

“More than I’ve ever eaten in my life. It’s glorious.” I gave Charlotte a half hug. “Mrs. Corkburger.”

“If you think having my daughter in my arms will prevent me from swearing at you,” Charlotte said, “you are sorely mistaken.” Without batting an eyelash—and without explaining why she planned on swearing at me—she passed over my eighteen-month-old niece and the nubby burp cloth that rested on her shoulder.

“Mehw, mehw, mehw,” Olivia gleefully sang, hands clapping as I took her in my arms. I was pretty sure she was singing my name. Olivia, having missed out on the dark-haired Merit gene, was as blond as her father, Major Corkburger, with a halo of curls around her angelic face and bright blue eyes. She was wearing her party best, a sleeveless pale blue dress the same color as Charlotte’s, with a wide blue satin ribbon around the waist.

And by the way, yes. My brother-in-law’s given name really was Major Corkburger. But for the fact that he was a blond-haired, blue-eyed former college quarterback, I’d have assumed he got the crap beat out of him in high school on a daily basis for that one. Nevertheless, I rarely failed to remind him that he
was, in fact, a major Corkburger. I don’t think he thought that was funny.

“Why are you going to swear at me?” I asked Charlotte, once I’d arranged Olivia and placed the cloth prophylactically on my shoulder.

“First things first,” she said, eyes on Ethan. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“Oh. Mom, Charlotte, this is Ethan Sullivan.”

“Mrs. Merit,” Ethan said, kissing my mother’s hand. “Mrs. Corkburger.” He did the same to my sister, who nibbled the edge of her lip, one eyebrow arched in obvious pleasure.

“It is just . . .
lovely
to meet you,” Charlotte intoned, then crossed her arms. “And how have you been treating my little sister?”

Ethan snuck a glance my way.

Don’t look at me
, I silently told him, assuming he could hear me.
This was your idea. You got yourself into it, so you can get yourself out
. I couldn’t hold back a grin.

Ethan rolled his eyes, but seemed amused. “Merit is a very unique vampire. She has a certain . . .”

We all leaned forward a little, eager to catch the verdict.

“. . . star quality.”

He looked at me when he said it, a hint of pride in his emerald green eyes.

I was stunned enough that I couldn’t quite manage to get out a thank-you, but there must have been sufficient shock in my eyes that he couldn’t have missed it.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Merit,” Ethan lied to my mother. She thanked him, and the conversation about the benefits and disadvantages of living in an architectural masterpiece began. I figured that gave me at least ten or fifteen minutes to catch up with Charlotte.

Charlotte looked at him with approval, then smiled smartly at me. “He is delish. Tell me you’ve hit that.”

“Ugh. I have not ‘hit that.’ Nor do I plan to. He’s trouble in a very pretty package.”

Head tilted, she gave Ethan’s body a complete scan. “Very pretty package indeed. I’m thinking he might be worth the trouble, little sister.” She looked back at me, then frowned. “Now, what’s going on with you and Daddy? You’re fighting, and then you’re a vampire, and then you’re still fighting, and now, all of a sudden, you’re here. At a party. In a
dress
.”

“It’s complicated,” was my admittedly weak retort.

“You two need to sit down and hash some things out.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” She didn’t need to know exactly how much I’d dreaded it. “And as for the fighting, he’s threatened to disinherit me twice in the last month.”

“He threatens to disinherit everyone. You know how he is. You’ve known for twenty-eight years.”

“He hasn’t threatened Robert,” I pointed out, my voice sounding every bit the petulant little sister.

“Well, obviously not Robert,” Charlotte dryly agreed, reaching out to straighten the hem of Olivia’s dress. “Dearest Robert can do no wrong. And speaking of family drama, did I get a phone call to tell me my baby sister was a vampire? No. I had to find out from Daddy.” She flicked the tip of my ear with her thumb and index finger.

I guess that explained why she wanted to swear at me. “Hey!” I said, covering an ear with my non-baby-cradling hand. “That wasn’t funny when I was twelve, and it’s not funny now.”

“Act your age, and I’ll act mine,” she said.

“I am acting my age.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” she muttered. “Just do me a favor, okay?”

“What?”

“Just try, for me? For better or worse, he’s the only father you’ve got. And you’re the only immortal Merit, as far as I’m
aware anyway. I don’t think Dearest Robert has acquired immortality yet, but that might only require a few dollars pressed into the right hands.”

I smiled and relaxed a little. Charlotte and I weren’t close, but I could appreciate her hands-on approach to sarcasm. And, of course, we shared a heady dose of sibling rivalry with Robert.

“About that immortality thing,” she said. “Maybe now is the time for you and Daddy to mend some fences.”

My eyes widened at the sudden seriousness in her voice.

“You’ll be here longer than the rest of us,” she said. “You’ll be alive long after we’re gone. After I’m gone. You’ll watch my children and my grandchildren grow up. You’ll watch them, and you’ll watch over them. And that’s your responsibility, Merit. I know you have duties to your House; I’ve learned enough in the last two months to understand that. But you’re also a Merit, for better or for worse. You have the ability—you’re the only one of us who does—to keep them safe.”

She let out a haggard sigh, a motherly sigh, and settled serious eyes on her daughter, tugging again at her dress. I wasn’t sure if it was a nervous movement, something to do with her hands, or just the simple comforting act of touching her child.

“There are crazy people in the world,” she continued. “Being made a vampire certainly doesn’t inoculate against crazy. They say—what was her name?”

No need to ask who she meant. “Celina.”

“Celina. They say she’s been confined, but how would we know that?”

She turned her gaze back on me, and I saw a mother’s concern, and a mother’s suspicion, in her eyes. She may have wondered if Celina had been released, but she didn’t know. My father, apparently, had kept his word, and hadn’t revealed what Ethan had told him.

I could have spilled the beans to Charlotte, told her things
that would frighten her further, things that would impress upon her the need to keep her family close, to keep them safe.

Instead, I kept the burden in my hands. “It’s taken care of,” I said simply.

It wasn’t, of course, taken care of. Celina was out there somewhere. She knew where I was, and she probably wasn’t above going after my family to show how irritated she was with me. I assumed that’s what I was to her—an irritation. An unfinished project.