Hard Bitten (9 page)

“There are also the raves we knew about before we visited that rave. And the one Tate identified. It was in West Town.”

Catcher nodded, grabbed a blue marker, and filled in those stars.

I squinted at Catcher’s “drawing,” but still couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Except that it still looked like a fish. “Could you at least show us where Navy Pier is?” I asked him. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Catcher grumbled, but obliged, and drew a tiny rectangle poking out from one side of the fish.

Jeff chuckled. “Is that Navy Pier, or is Chicago just happy to see me?”

I laughed so hard I snorted a little, at least until Catcher pounded a fist on the top of the closest table.

“Hey,” I objected, pointing at him, “my Master might be in Cook County lockup by the end of the week, and that won’t exactly be good for me. Sarcasm is my way of relieving stress, as you know, since you’ve seen me and Mallory at it.”

Ironically, saying the jail bit aloud again made my stomach crumple with nerves. But Catcher’s expression softened. He glanced back at the board, a smile at one corner of his mouth. “I guess it does look kind of ridiculous.”

“And since you’ve acknowledged that, you may continue,” I magnanimously offered.

“So the raves,” he said without delay, “are sprinkled across the city. No apparent pattern.

No apparent locus of activity.”

“That’s telling in itself,” I said, sitting up.

“That says there’s no rave headquarters, not where the parties are held, anyway, and that the vamps are smart enough to move the party around.”

“So no humans or Masters—if these are Housed vamps—get suspicious,” Jeff added.

“Exactly,” Catcher said.

“What about the size?” I asked. “The scale?

Mr. Jackson was convinced there were dozens of vamps there, and that the entire thing was
American Psycho
violent.”

“Just like the site we visited, our current intel says raves are a handful of vamps and a few humans. Small, intimate. Focused on the act of giving and accepting blood. To continue the movie analogy, this isn’t
Fight Club
.”

“More like
Love at First Bite
,” Jeff said.

Catcher rolled his eyes again. “So this new incident we’re talking about is something unprecedented in terms of size and violence, without matching missing persons reports, and no actual evidence of a crime.” He shrugged. “That suggests Mr. Jackson wasn’t entirely honest.

Problem is, we haven’t talked to any vampires who were actually there. That would be the real coup—getting someone in from the beginning.

On the ground floor. Figuring out who’s there, how the information is being passed, who’s participating, and whether they’re participating willingly.”

“Can you pull in data from the CPD?” I asked.

“See what their files have to say?”

“Done and done,” Jeff said, sitting forward and beginning to tap on his keyboard. “I might have to dig a little to find it—their IT

architecture is for shit—but I’ll let you know.”

Of course, just because the Ombud’s office didn’t have information didn’t mean there wasn’t information to be had. It was probably time to tap my next source. . . .

“Thanks,” I told both of them. “Can you give me a call if you hear anything else?”

“Of course. I assume Sullivan’s going to send you out on some sort of crazy psycho-vampire-hunting field trip?”

“The forecast is strong.”

“Call me if you need backup,” Catcher said.

“Of course,” I agreed, but I actually had an idea about that, as well. After all, Jonah had been offered up as a partner.

“And if you do go,” Catcher added, “look for identifying information, listen for any word about how they’re contacting vamps or identifying humans.”

“Will do.”

“You want me to find Chuck before you leave?” Jeff asked.

I waved him off. “No worries. He’s busy. Let him handle his open house.”

“I’m pretty sure I can manage a job and family both,” said a gravelly voice at the door. I glanced back and smiled as my grandfather walked into the office. He was dressed up tonight, having traded in the long-sleeved plaid shirt for a corduroy blazer. But he’d stuck with the khaki pants and thick-soled grandpa shoes.

He walked over to where I sat at the edge of the desk and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“How’s my favorite vampire?”

I put an arm around his waist and gave him a half hug. “Are there any others in the running?”

“Now that you mention it, no. They tend to be rather high maintenance.”

“Amen,” Catcher and Jeff simultaneously said.

I gave them a snarky look.

“What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“I was filling in Catcher and Jeff about our latest drama. Long story short, black ops and raves two-point-oh.”

He grimaced. “That wouldn’t thrill me even if I weren’t your grandfather.”

“Nope,” I agreed.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news myself,”

he said, “but your father tells me you haven’t spoken in a few weeks.”

I didn’t care for my father, but I cared even less for the fact that he’d put my grandfather in the middle of our feud.

“Actually, I saw him leaving the mayor’s home last night. We had a very pleasant exchange,” I assured my grandfather.

“Good girl,” he said with a smile.

I hopped off the desk. It was time to get the rest of the investigative show on the road. “I need to run, and you need to get back to your party, so I’ll let them fill you in on the details.”

“As if there’s a chance I could avoid it,” my grandfather said. He hugged me one more time, then let me go.

I said my goodbyes and walked back to the front door, the river trolls nodding at me when I passed as if I’d been vetted. Not as a vampire, maybe, but at least the granddaughter of a man they trusted.

Friends in high places definitely helped

—especially if you had enemies in even higher spots.

My phone rang just as I was getting back into my car. I pulled the door shut and flipped it open.

It was Mallory.

“Hey, Blue Hair. What’s up?”

She didn’t speak, but she immediately began sobbing.

“Mal, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Catharsis,” she said. “It’s one of those catharsis cries.”

I blew out a breath. I’d been prepared to squeal tires in the rush to get to her if she’d been in danger. But every girl knows the importance of a cathartic cry—when you aren’t necessarily crying over something specific, but because
everything
has worked itself into a giant, contorted knot.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Kind of. Not really. I don’t know. Can you meet me?”

“Of course. Where are you?”

She sniffed. “I’m still in Schaumburg. I’m at the Goodwin’s off I-90. I know it’s far away, but could you meet me out here? Do you have time?”

Goodwin’s was one of those ubiquitous twenty-four-hour restaurants that you saw in office parks and hotel parking lots. The kind frequented by senior citizens at four in the afternoon and teenagers at midnight. I wouldn’t call Mallory a foodie, but she definitely had an interest in hip cuisine. If we were meeting at a Goodwin’s, she wanted either bland food or anonymity.

I wasn’t crazy about either option.

“I’m just leaving the Ombud’s office. It’ll take me about forty-five to get there. That okay?”

“Yeah. I’m studying. I’ll be here.”

The studying explained the choice of restaurants. We said our goodbyes and I looked back at the office door for a minute, wondering if I should head back in and warn Catcher that his girl was a stressball. But I was a BFF, and there was a code of honor. A protocol. She’d called me, not Catcher—even though he was in the office and clearly reachable. That meant she needed to vent to me, so that was what we’d do.

“On my way,” I muttered, and started the car.

While I drove, I made plans for the second part of my investigation. And that part was a little bit trickier, mostly because I didn’t think my source liked me. The first time we’d met, Jonah had been brusque. The second time I discovered him on the dark streets of Wrigleyville, having followed me around so he could get a look at me.

Test my mettle, as it were.

The Red Guard had been organized two centuries ago to protect Master vampires, but now operated to keep a watchful eye on the Masters themselves. When Noah Beck, the leader of Chicago’s Rogues, made the membership offer, he’d informed me that Jonah, captain of the guards of Chicago’s Grey House, would be my partner if I signed up. I was flattered by the offer, but joining a group whose purpose was to keep an eye on Masters would have provoked World War III in Cadogan House.

Ethan, if he’d learned of it, would have seen the move as a slap in his face.

I considered myself to be a pretty low-drag vampire; purposefully adding to my stockpile of drama wasn’t really my cup of tea.

Jonah, having been singularly unimpressed with me, probably wasn’t bummed that I’d said no. I wasn’t expecting this telephone call was going to go any better, but the RG had details on the raves—including the rave they’d cleaned up.

And since my visit to the Ombud’s office hadn’t exactly been productive on an intelgathering basis (albeit very productive on a river-troll-diplomacy basis), Jonah was a source I needed to tap.

He’d called me once before, so when I was on the move north toward Schaumburg, I dialed his number. He answered after a couple of rings.

“Jonah.”

“Hi. It’s Merit.”

There was an awkward pause. “House business?”

I assumed he was asking if I was calling on behalf of Cadogan House—or our RG

connection. “Not exactly. Do you have a minute to talk?”

Another pause. “Give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.”

The line went dead, so I made sure my ringer was turned on and put the phone in the cup holder while I made my way toward I-90.

Jonah was punctual; the dashboard clock had moved ahead exactly five minutes when he called back.

“I had to get outside,” he explained. “I’m on the street now. Figured that would avoid the drama.” Scott Grey’s vampires lived in a converted warehouse in the Andersonville neighborhood, not far from Wrigley Field. The lucky ducks.

“What’s up?” he asked.

I decided to offer up the truth. “Mayor Tate called us into his office yesterday. Told us he had an eyewitness account that a band of vampires had killed three humans.”

“Damn.” His curse was low and a little tired-sounding. “Anything else?”

“Tate suggested the violence was part of the rave culture. But based on our intel, this sounds different. Bigger. Meaner. If the witness, a Mr.

Jackson, was telling the truth, this has the markings of some kind of attack. That it happened at a rave might be the minor issue. In any event, it’s time to do something about them, and in order to do that, I need information.”

“So you called me?”

I rolled my eyes. The question suggested he was doing me a favor—and that he’d ask for one in return. How very vampire.

“You’re my best hope for answers,” I matter-of-factly said.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have a lot to tell you. I know about the last rave—the one the RG

cleaned up—but only because Noah filled me in.

I wasn’t there.”

“Do you think Noah might have any more information?”

“Maybe. But why not just call him directly?”

“Because you were offered up to me as a partner.”

Jonah paused. “Is this call an indication of interest in the RG?”

It’s a last-ditch effort to glean information,
I thought, but offered instead, “I think this is big enough that it transcends Houses or RG

membership.”

“Fair enough. I’ll ask some questions and get back to you if I learn anything. I assume you won’t tell anyone we’ve talked.”

“Your secret is safe with me. And thanks.”

“Don’t thank me until I dig something up. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead, so I tucked the phone away. There were more drama and complications with each day that passed.

Rarely did a night pass without more vampire drama.

Sometimes hanging out in pajamas with a good book sounded like a phenomenal idea.

The phone rang again almost immediately after I’d hung up. I glanced at the screen; it was my father.

I briefly considered sending him directly to voice mail, but I’d been doing that a lot lately

—enough that my lack of communication hit my grandfather’s radar. I didn’t want my problems on his plate, so I sucked it up, flipped open the phone, and raised it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“I’d like to speak with you,” my father said, apparently by way of greeting.

That was inevitably true. I’m sure my father had a number of topics in the queue for me. The trick was figuring out which particular topic was on his mind today.

“About?” I asked.

“Some things on the horizon. I’ve become aware of some investments in which I think Ethan might be interested.”

Ah, that explained the good humor at Creeley Creek. If there was anything that made my father happy, it was the possibility of a capital gain and a fat commission. Still, I did appreciate that he was interested in working with Ethan—instead of trying to bury us all.

“We’re in the middle of something right now.

But I’ll definitely advise Ethan of your offer.”

“He can call me in the office,” my father said.

He meant his skyscraper on Michigan Avenue across from Millennium Park. Only the best real estate for the city’s best real estate mogul.

With that bit of instruction, the line went dead.

If only we could have picked our family . . .

I
pulled into the restaurant’s almost empty parking lot. The restaurant’s windows glowed, only a handful of men and women visible through the glass.

I parked the Volvo and headed inside, glancing around until I found Mallory. She sat at a table in front of a laptop computer and a foot-high stack of books, her straight, ice blue hair tucked behind her ears. She frowned at the screen, a half-full tumbler of orange juice at her side.