Biting Bad
Chapter Eight

LIKE A GOOD NEIGHBOR, VAMPIRES ARE THERE
Charla disappeared into the building, and without our escort, the cops shooed us back behind the police tape. We regrouped beside Moneypenny, and looked very sharp doing it.
"Thoughts?" he asked.
"I think we have to wait for the CPD to question Robin Pope. I'm curious to know exactly how pissed she was about losing 'most popular hot dish' at the company potluck."
"Hot dish? What's a hot dish?"
"You know," I said, moving my index fingers in the shape of a square. "A casserole. A hot dish."
"Nobody says hot dish."
I rolled my eyes. "People say hot dish. My roommate at NYU was from Minneapolis. She said it all the time."
Catcher looked far from convinced, but he let it go. For the moment. "Idioms aside, I think you're right, especially since we don't actually have any other leads."
The wind was picking up. I spied a coffee shop across the street; a man with a laptop sat at a table in front, sipping at his mug while he stared out the window. Aspiring novelist looking for inspiration in violence . . . or sociology student with a window on a natural experiment?
"It's cold out here," I said, gesturing toward the cafe. "Why don't we grab something warm? We can talk shop."
"Sure," Catcher said.
We walked across the hills and valleys of snow to the shop's front door, and then inside. The shop, which was new to me, was just the kind of place I'd have frequented in grad school. Dark and a little cozy, with shabby couches and mismatched chairs and the scents of coffee, cinnamon, and smoke from the roaster. A checkers set was on one small table; saltshakers and other random tchotchkes replaced missing pieces.
We walked to the counter, where Catcher immediately pulled out his wallet.
"Latte, half caf, extra hot, double foam, two shots, soy milk," he rattled off, then looked at me.
"I'm not really sure how I can follow that," I said, before looking over the chalkboard menu and picking something simple. "Hot chocolate?"
The barista looked suddenly tired. "Caramel, salted caramel, mocha, Aztec, dark chocolate, double chocolate, white chocolate, black and white, low cal, fat free, or regular?"
"Regular?"
The clerk seemed utterly unimpressed by my decision, but she rang us up. Ever the gentleman - or at least in coffee bars in February - Catcher paid for both drinks. We waited in silence for them to arrive, then picked them up and tucked into a sitting area along the back wall. Window views were nice, but not in Chicago in the winter. The cold inevitably seeped through, which left you only slightly less chilled than if you'd been outside in the first place.
I took a seat on the couch and curled my feet under me, then sipped my hot chocolate. It was tasty, although the residual warmth from the mug was more valuable than the drink.
"They're going to strike again," Catcher predicted. "The rioters, I mean. There was no event here. No trigger. They weren't reacting to a Super Bowl win or the beating of a civilian. And if there's no trigger, there's a groundswell of rage. That's not the kind of thing that just disappears."
Unfortunately, I couldn't disagree with him. "So how do we stop it? Get a handle on it?"
He shrugged. "By doing the stuff we've discussed. We'll follow up with the CPD, check the security videos. The key here may not be the riot itself, but why this particular place was targeted. This isn't exactly a public hot spot for vampire activity. It's not flashy. Not like Cadogan House, which would have been the obvious, big-name target. There's something to that - to picking this place. I just don't know what it is yet."
I nodded, and we sat quietly for a few minutes, sipping our beverages. "While we're here, can I talk to you about something?"
"What?"
"Our little blue-haired friend? She asked me for a job at Cadogan House."
Catcher looked surprised, which wasn't a common expression for him. "A job?"
"She's contingency planning. Looking for something to do when her time with the shifters is up. She hoped we might have something for her."
"I can't imagine Sullivan took that well."
"He's not thrilled at the idea. She violated the sanctity of his House. And his mind. But I think he also knows we need a plan for when she's better. What do you think?"
He looked away; whether it was in thought or fear, I wasn't sure.
"I don't know," he finally said. "I think she's making progress. I think we're making progress. I don't want to interrupt it." He paused. "We started dating so fast. Jumped right into it, and into living together. To be honest, when she used the Maleficium, I thought I'd made a horrible decision. That I'd totally misjudged her."
I hadn't known how close Catcher had come to breaking up with Mallory, and I wondered if she did.
"And then I saw her with the shifters."
Confused, I looked at him. "You mean washing dishes?"
Catcher made a sarcastic sound. "She's doing more than just washing dishes, Merit."
That was news to me. Everything I'd seen and heard indicated Mallory was doing manual labor while she learned to live with her magic. Neither Mallory nor Gabe had mentioned anything else, even last night.
"So what's she doing?" And why hadn't either one of them told me there was more to it?
"I don't know all the details." Catcher swirled the coffee left in his cup, and I waited him out. "Shifters have a connection to magic that we don't," he finally said. "I think they're helping her learn to channel her magic productively."
"I'm surprised Gabe hasn't told us that."
"He's been playing it off," Catcher said. "Shifters don't involve themselves in the affairs of others; at least, that's what they keep telling themselves. That rep's taken a hit lately, considering his friendships with you and Ethan. And if word got out he was actively helping Mallory, a sorceress, a lot more people would come asking."
I nodded. I understood the reasoning, even though the information probably would have gone a long way toward soothing Ethan - and everyone else who'd had an unfortunate run-in with Mallory.
"And how do you feel about it?" Catcher had been jealous of Simon, Mallory's former tutor. I wondered how he felt about Mallory working with Gabriel and the other brutally attractive shape-shifters.
"It's not my choice," he said. "But it's our obligation."
He offered few words, but they packed a punch. Catcher was letting her work outside his comfort zone in order to prevent the chaos he'd helped facilitate by being inattentive the first time around.
My phone rang, so I pulled it out and checked the screen.
"It's the House," I told Catcher, holding it up to my ear. "Merit."
"Merit." Ethan's voice rang through the phone. "You're on speakerphone."
His tone was serious, and my stomach turned with nerves. "What's wrong?"
"Clean Chicago has fired back up," Luc said. "They're in Wrigleyville. And they're attacking Grey House."
The breath stuttered out of me in shock - then fear. Had we done this? Had we caused this riot by visiting Robin Pope, cluing her in to the direction of our investigation, and letting her get away?
And what about Jonah? As captain of the Grey House guards, he'd be right in the middle of the violence, right in the line of fire. I knew he was capable of handling himself, but that didn't mean I wished him into combat.
"Scott's called the CPD," Luc said. "But they don't have control yet. They're estimating three hundred rioters. He also sent out an SOS for help from other Chicago vampires."
"The GP blacklisted us," I pointed out. "Are we even allowed to help?"
"Blacklisting is between Cadogan and the GP," Ethan said. "Not Cadogan and Grey. That Grey House has not come to our aid does not mean we won't come to theirs. We set the example; we set our own bar. Besides, you've already heard from one Grey House vampire, who risked the blacklist to tell us about it. The barrier's already been breached. They need help, and we'll provide it."
"But that doesn't mean we can be careless," Luc put in. "This is the kind of situation the GP will likely stay out of - too much bad press, too many ways for their hands to get dirty, which they don't care for. But keep an eye out anyway. Just because action by the GP is unlikely doesn't mean it's impossible."
"Luc and Juliet are about to leave for Grey House," Ethan said. "Malik will stay at the House, in the event the rioters are looking for other targets. Lindsey is not to leave his side under any circumstances. Kelley's got command of the guards in our absence. Notify the humans at the gate. I want them on full-alert status. The tunnels are prepared?"
"Cleaned, stocked, and ready," Luc answered. "I'm going to say good-bye to Lindsey; then I'm heading to the car."
My heart clenched. Luc was saying good-bye - not just because he was leaving the House, but because he was leaving the House for possible battle.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Wait for me," Ethan said. "I'm already en route, and I'll meet you there."
The last place I wanted my boyfriend - and the Master I'd taken an oath to protect - was in the middle of a war zone.
"I suppose there's no point in arguing with you about this?"
"There is not," Ethan said, his tone firm. "So don't bother."
"Where should I meet you?"
"I'll talk to Luc and select a spot. We'll text you coordinates. Where are you currently?"
"At a coffeehouse with Catcher, across the street from Bryant Industries."
"Stay put until we send the location," Luc said. "I don't want you heading in blind."
"Roger that," I said. I didn't want to head in blind, either.
The call ended, and I looked at Catcher. "I suppose you got the gist?"
He held his phone out, revealing a message from my grandfather: GREY HOUSE UNDER ATTACK.
"Word moves quickly," I said.
"As does violence," Catcher said. "And we all have our parts to play."
Fear in my heart, I looked at him. "Did we do this? By questioning her, by letting her get away, did we make this happen? Did we scare her into it?"
"Did we scare her, within an hour, to organize a riot of three hundred people? No. This would have been on the books before we talked to Pope, maybe even before the riot last night. It's too big to be anything other than a planned attack. But I'll bet your ass and mine that she's got a hand in it, and she knows how to stop it."
Catcher stood up and rebuttoned his coat.
"Where are you heading?" I asked.
"I can't use magic in the middle of the riot," he said. "Too many witnesses. But I can manage the perimeter. Pick off the stragglers now and again."
"Pick them off?" I asked. I assumed he didn't mean it literally, but I thought I should perform the due diligence.
"I'm not going to kill them," Catcher said. "Incapacitating them will be enough. And it's a creative venture that I'm going to enjoy. With gusto."
"I haven't seen you this excited about magic in a long time."
"The world is changing," he said. "The old ways don't work anymore. For better or worse, Mallory's been a good reminder of that."
I nodded. "Then good luck, and thank you for your help."
"You're welcome. Good luck at the House. And I wouldn't be a friend of your grandfather's if I didn't ask you to please be careful."
"I'm always careful," I promised. "It's other people I can't be sure about."
-
Ethan sent me the address of the rendezvous spot - a pharmacy a few blocks away from Grey House. From there, we'd get a sense of the scene from the other end of the riot, then plan our approach and how best we could divert the rioters from the House. Luc and Juliet would drop him off, then proceed to the House, or as close as they could get.
Wrigleyville wasn't terribly far from Wicker Park. I arrived at the rendezvous point before Ethan and got out of the car, belting on my katana and ensuring the fit was perfect. With an imperfect fit, I wouldn't be able to draw the sword cleanly from its scabbard.
The street was quiet, but I could hear the now-familiar sounds of the riot - chanting, glass breaking, rhythmic drumming - a few blocks away. A gut-wrenching column of smoke lifted into the sky, visible even blocks away from Grey House.
I was seeing only the margin of the violence, and it was still enough to make me nervous. After all, I was immortal, not invincible. But my fear was irrelevant. This was battle, and I was Sentinel of my House. Being brave meant fighting through fear.
It was unfortunate Mayor Kowalcyzk didn't see this for what it was - domestic terrorism at its finest. But she'd already decided we weren't the protagonists of this particular story.
"This story," I murmured, a plan beginning to form.
Maybe, if we wanted to combat Kowalcyzk and McKetrick and Clean Chicago, we had to write our own story. We had to remind the city we were hardworking Chicagoans who were out to make lives for ourselves, not to harm anyone else. We had to show Chicago what the violence was doing to us, and to the rest of the city.
And how could we do that?
We could call our favorite reporter to give him the story of a lifetime.
Being raised in a wealthy family had obvious advantages. Good schools, square meals, safe neighborhood, and access to people in high places. The members of the Breckenridge family were some of those people. They were old-money Chicago, having made their fortune in the steel industry. I'd gone to high school with Nick, one of the Breckenridge boys. I'd gone to college and grad school; he'd become a Pulitzer Prize - winning investigative journalist.
He'd also once tried to blackmail Cadogan House, but that was water under the bridge. Especially after he put me on the front page of the paper beneath the headline PONYTAILED AVENGER. That press had been good for the House. We'd see if it could be again.
So as I waited for Ethan, I dialed up Nick.
A woman answered. "Nick Breckenridge's phone."
"Is Nick there?" I asked, feeling suddenly awkward about the question.
"He's in the shower. Just a minute."
Her voice carried an accent - Italian or Spanish, perhaps - and I imagined a lovely and buxom brunette. And since I hadn't known Nick was dating anyone, I couldn't help but be curious.
"This is Nick," he said after a moment.
"It's Merit. Sorry to interrupt, but I've got something you might be interested in."
"I'm listening."
"Clean Chicago is rioting again. They've hit Grey House."
He paused. "That's the one in Wrigleyville?"
"It is. They've asked for vampire assistance, and we're on our way. Other vamps are heading over there as well."
"How many rioters?" His tone was serious, journalistic. I'd hooked him; I could hear it in his voice.
"Two or three hundred."
Nick whistled. "That's a lot."
"Clean Chicago is making this about humans. But it isn't. It's about vampires. Whatever Clean Chicago's supposed issues, I'd put good money on the possibility they've never met a single member of Grey House. And it's the Grey House vamps who will suffer. Who are suffering as we speak."
"I'm on my way. Good luck," he said, then ended the call.
I appreciated the sentiment, because I was afraid I was going to need it.
-
Ethan arrived a few minutes later, and he was dressed for battle. Or, rather, not in the fitted black suits he preferred for a typical night at Cadogan House. He wore jeans over boots and a black motorcycle-style jacket that was styled like mine, already zipped up against the cold. His blond hair was tied back, his katana in hand.
"You look ready for business," I said.
"I tried to be prepared. You're all right?" He pressed a soft kiss to my lips.
"I'm fine. Nervous. Catcher's here; he's going to move around the perimeter and try to thin out the crowd. How bad is this going to be?"
"I don't know," Ethan admitted, looking over the neighborhood. "It depends on the CPD. It depends on the mayor. It depends on whether they deem the rioters the assailants, or the victims."
My stomach turned at the possibility the Houses would be blamed for an assault against them. Now, of course, it was Nick's job to help them understand the full story.
"I actually hired some help in that area," I said.
Ethan looked sharply back at me. "Oh?"
"I called Nick Breckenridge and suggested he might be interested in a human, or vampire, interest story - our oppression by hate groups."
Ethan's smile was sly, his magic suddenly pert. "I love the way you think."
"Good," I said, "because we're waging a war against stupidity, and we're going to need all the thinking we can get."
"Let's get the war under way," Ethan said, gesturing toward an alley beside the pharmacy. "Let's go up to the next block and take a look."
We didn't get far. We'd only just made it steps into the dark when we spied a trio of cops in full riot gear marching past the alley. They paused to shine flashlights into the darkness, and we pressed our backs to the brick wall, waiting until they'd passed.
Sure, we weren't the enemies here, and they weren't exactly looking for us. But revealing our presence wasn't going to help anything.
For a few seconds, the beams of light danced back and forth across the passageway. Apparently satisfied it held no threat, they drew back their beams and moved on.
"Next idea?" I whispered.
Ethan looked around, then pointed above us. "There," he said. "If we can't go around, we go up."
I glanced at the rusty and rickety fire escape that stopped six feet above our heads. It reached up to the roof, seven or eight floors above us, in a tangle of landings and ladders that didn't look entirely safe.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"It's our best option," Ethan said ruefully. "I'll go first. You can follow me."
Ethan jumped up and grabbed the bottom rung, pulling until the ladder released and clanked its way to the ground. He shook it, testing its mettle and metal. It didn't collapse, but bits of ice and rust flew to the ground like dander.
"And up we go," he said, stepping onto the first rung and climbing to the first landing.
Since this wasn't the best time to argue about safety, I kept my mouth shut and followed him, climbing upward, one foot over another. The climb became monotonous - climb the ladder, switchback around the landing, climb the next ladder.
I made it to the seventh floor - nearly to the top - when a boom shook the building and the fire escape - and the vampire upon it.
My heart stuttered, and my boot slipped on ice. My knee hit the rung below, singing out in pain, and I felt myself falling, without even time to call out Ethan's name for help.
He saved me anyway, reaching down from the landing above me and grabbing my wrist, holding it tight. "Steady now, Sentinel."
I nodded, ignoring the sound of the explosion and pursing my lips to slow my breathing, and felt for the rungs until I found my footing.
"I'm okay," I said when all four limbs were once again attached to the fire escape.
Ethan climbed over the ledge, then helped me over, and we dashed to the other side of the building to look down at the scene below.
A small part of me - the part that still believed in Santa Claus - wished we'd look out upon the city to find the fires extinguished, Grey House in pristine shape, and vampires and humans shaking hands on the sidewalk.
Instead, we found a war zone.
Flames rose from the front of Grey House, two blocks north of us. The path in between was filled with a boisterous mix of rioters and the CPD units trying to control them. Like the cops we'd seen in the alley below, they were outfitted in black, with helmets and shields, and they marched in a line toward the rioters from various directions, pushing them into a smaller and smaller area. But like putting a thumb over the end of a garden hose, condensing the anger only seemed to make it worse. The rioters yelled and raised their makeshift weapons - sports equipment, tools, kitchen knives - the tension only escalating as the camps moved closer.
"Jesu Christi," Ethan murmured.
"There's a lot of them," I said.
Ethan nodded and pulled out his phone. He dialed Luc's number, holding the phone out so I could hear. "Where are you?"
"In front of Grey House," Luc said, crackling and noise in the background. "Fire department's here. The fire is nearly under control."
"We heard an explosion," Ethan said.
"It wasn't from the House," Luc assured. "It must have been from somewhere else in the neighborhood. The cops have made a pretty good perimeter around the House, and Juliet and I are helping with the evacuation. It's clear Jonah's very good. The first wave of rioters had the firebombs, but he established a perimeter very quickly, set up a zone around the House."
"Molotov cocktails?" Ethan asked.
"Just like the first riot, yeah. At least three made contact," Luc said. "The fire department went through the roof to extinguish the flames; the atrium is toast. Water and glass and ash everywhere. Six vamps with severe burns, two currently unconscious. All were Novitiates; no staff."
I closed my eyes in relief. Jonah was staff, which meant he was okay. For now.
"We're on the roof of a building facing north," Ethan said. "The CPD's put a perimeter of bodies around the rioters at" - he paused to squint at the street signs - "Seminary and Cornelia, I think. The cops are trying to move them east, probably out of the residential areas."
Suddenly, a rioter carrying a mean-looking serrated shovel emerged through the knot of rioters and toward the police, raising his shovel against the closest cop. The cop used his shield to ward off the hit but still fell to his knees from the force of the blow. More cops joined the fray, pulling the attacker away, but creating a hole in the perimeter. Before it closed again, a handful of rioters slipped through the gap, heading north toward Grey House.
"When there's a gap in the perimeter, the rioters head for the House," I said, glancing at Ethan. "Maybe we should give them new targets."
He smiled, just a little. "That could work, Sentinel."
"Liege?" Luc said. "I'm not entirely sure what's going on over there, but I don't think I like it."
"There's no time for like tonight, Luc," Ethan said. "We're going to intercept the stragglers, try to lead them on a nice little goose chase."
"In that direction," I said, pointing to a cruiser parked a couple of blocks to the southwest.
"Agreed," Ethan said. "Help as you can, Luc, but keep a low profile. The GP could have spies about."
"Will do, hoss. For what it's worth, please be careful. Malik will have my ass if you go down in combat again."
Ethan's eyes shimmered with green fire. "I have every intention of staying alive."
He put away the phone and looked at me, and I'd have sworn there was a hint of a smile in his expression.
"Sentinel, I believe this dance is ours."
-
We decided to split up, giving us double the chance to redirect rioters away from Grey House.
Once on the street again, wearing my relatively tame leathers, I decided I needed to look a bit more dramatic. I flipped over my head and shook out my hair, giving it enough volume to add a Bride of Frankenstein vibe, then smudged some of the pink lip gloss in my coat pocket beneath my cheekbones. For the big finale, I let my eyes silver and my fangs descend. I was hoping for a "vamp on the prowl" look, with just enough ferocity to spark the rioters' interest.
A man wielding a very large, and very pointy, chef's knife picked that moment to dash around the corner. He stuttered when he saw me, trying to figure out if I was a full-on threat or a momentary obstacle.
His eyes stilled when his gaze reached my mouth and needle-sharp fangs; his eyes widened, the air filling with the heady scent of fear.
Of frightened prey.
"Going somewhere?" I asked.
It took only a moment for his fear to transmute into anger. He adjusted the grip on his knife, fingers flexing around the handle.
"Bitch," he said, and ran forward.
That was my cue. I turned and took off, running down the sidewalk. After a moment, footfalls and copious swearing sounded behind me. He'd taken the bait.
"I don't answer to 'bitch,'" I called out, jumping over a bench to cross the empty street, leading the rioter southwest toward the CPD cruiser we'd spied earlier.
I dodged around a parked car, and, pretending the bumper tripped me up, slowed just enough to let the rioter gain ground.
"You are mine now, bitch."
"Seriously, with the language," I muttered, moving with a faux hobble down the block, looking back and showing my fangs until he reached out with both hands to nab me, nearly grabbing the back of my jacket.
I skipped forward, feeling victorious, when karma bit me back.
He stuck out the knife and caught the back of my jacket. The leather split, freeing me, but the stutter broke my stride . . . and I hit a patch of ice on the sidewalk.
I slipped and fell forward, hitting both knees. Before I could rise again, the rioter was against my back, smelling of tinny sweat, his arm around my body, his knife cutting through leather and fabric and opening a line of hot blood across my belly.
I screamed in pain, elbowing him in the stomach to free myself as tears filled my eyes. He grunted and tried to draw the knife again, but I bent his wrist backward until he dropped the knife. I grabbed it up, wriggled away, and held it out at him, hand shaking with fear and pain and adrenaline, and from the crimson that bloomed across my stomach. He'd cut me, and deep.
The rioter's eyes, round and deep set, didn't waver. They were flat, devoid of emotion, as if I were less than human, an animal he'd trapped and nearly managed to kill.
My brain clouded. Think, I told myself, a hand pressed against my stomach to slow the blood loss until my body began to heal, trying to slow the crazy beating of my heart.
I had been running this way . . . because there was a cop around the corner.
Without looking back, I ran. It was a slow, ugly run, an arm against my stomach, the man's knife in my hand. I stumbled around the next corner, nearly running into the uniformed officer who stood beside his cruiser.
He looked up at the sound of the chase, caught sight of the blood on my abdomen, and put a hand on his gun. "Ma'am?"
Before I could answer, the rioter rounded the corner behind me. He saw me, and smiled - but then saw the cop and prepared to bolt again.
I stuck out a foot, and he hit the ground. The cop was on him before he could crawl away.
He put a booted foot on his back and glanced at me with concern. "Ma'am, you're bleeding. Did he cut you? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," I said, handing over the knife. For some reason, it seemed important to get rid of it. "I don't think this is mine."
Stars appeared at the edges of my vision, and I managed a final thought before the world went dark.
Ethan.