Biting Bad
Chapter Eighteen

ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FANGED TO PRINT
I was awakened by the shifting of weight in the bed; Ethan took a seat on the edge as he finagled cuff links into shirtsleeves. He was forever adjusting cuff links. Maybe that was a potential belated Valentine's Day gift. Monogrammed hearts? Tiny silver katanas? Little male figures with tiny arched eyebrows?
"Good evening, Merit," he said.
"Grbarfulgorph," I said, pulling the covers over my head. "I'm not leaving this room tonight."
"That's unfortunate, as I think you'd get an inspirational kick in the ass."
I pulled down the blanket just enough to peek out with one eye. Ethan looked back at me with mild amusement.
"How so?" I asked.
"Your father just called. Your grandfather is out of intensive care and in a regular room. He's awake - sore, but awake - and they expect he's got a solid chance at a good recovery."
I closed my eyes in relief and put my hands on my face, shielding the tears that I knew would inevitably come. My eyes already ached from the anticipation, so it was almost a relief when they began coursing down my cheeks.
Ethan looked utterly flummoxed. "Isn't this good news?"
I wiped the tears away and smiled at him. "It's the best news."
"Then why are you crying?"
"Because sometimes women cry when there's good news. Tears of relief. You know, catharsis."
His expression was utterly blank.
"Haven't you ever cried when you, I don't know, you get a new batch of that fancy stationery you like with the watermarks on it?"
He looked bewildered. "That's what you think I'd cry tears of relief about?"
"You do like your office supplies."
Ethan closed his eyes and shook his head. "This conversation has taken an indecipherable turn. Nevertheless, I actually have more good news. Nick managed to get his story finished and online during the day, and it's been picked up by media outlets across the country." He reached out and picked up a folded Tribune from the nightstand. "They issued a special edition on the Houses."
I accepted it from him and flipped open the paper, which was sized like a magazine but on newsprint paper. VAMPIRES: THE COST OF OUR IGNORANCE read the headline, a shot of Grey House burning beneath it. I flipped it open and found the interior pages full of discussions about our financial and other benefits to the city.
"This is quite a coup," I said, folding it up and handing it back to him.
Ethan nodded. "I've no idea how much of it he actually believes, but it helps us either way. Perhaps he still feels guilty about the blackmail."
"Or he still has feelings for me," I said, putting a hand on my chest. "Ours was a forbidden love. . . ."
Ethan rolled his eyes and swatted me playfully on the leg with the newspaper. "That's enough egotism for you today. Get up. It's another night, which means another riot is possible, and we're running out of Houses to burn. Call Catcher. See if Detective Jacobs found out anything about that syringe. And follow up again with Charla Bryant and the videos of the facility. I want this solved!"
There was a knock at the door. Ethan and I looked at each other.
"They usually don't start rioting this early," I said.
"I was serious about the 'solving' bit, Sherlock," he said, and walked to the door.
While Ethan chatted with the visitor, I climbed out of bed and gathered up clothes. After a moment, Ethan closed the door again.
"Who was it?"
"Helen," he said. And when he stepped around the wall again, he looked confused.
"Well, don't leave me in suspense."
"Charla Bryant is downstairs, and Helen says she's inconsolable."
I stood up straight. "Inconsolable? About what?"
"I don't know. Apparently she waited outside on the portico until the sun went down, then started knocking until Margot opened the door. She's waiting for us in my office. Perhaps you'll want to get dressed."
"On it," I said, grabbing the pile of clothes and heading to the bathroom. "I apologize for the ensemble ahead of time," I yelled from the bathroom. "My leathers are toast."
When Ethan didn't respond, I assumed he'd decided to deal with it.
-
Eight minutes later, I was in jeans, boots, a black shirt, and the black jacket from my official Cadogan House suit. It seemed likely I'd have to leave the House for some ornery errand or other, and while I'd put on the suit jacket to make a good show while I was still here, I wasn't going to investigate crimes in a suit.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since dusk, and I already missed my leathers. They fit perfectly, and obviously had saved my skin in a number of battles.
But immortal, they weren't.
After nabbing water from Margot's dusk leavings - I decided against the blood until I learned precisely what Charla was crying about - we headed downstairs to Ethan's office.
Charla stood in the middle of the room. Instead of her usual suit, she wore jeans, snow boots, a sweater, and a parka. Like so many of us over the last few days, she looked like she'd been crying.
"Your grandfather?" she asked, rushing toward us. "He's all right?"
"He's in the hospital, safely out of surgery, and beginning the recovery process," Ethan said. "Are you all right?"
She shook her head and handed him a manila envelope. "The security tapes. I just watched earlier, and came over here as soon as I could. I waited outside." She looked at us. "This is our fault."
Ethan stilled, then gestured toward the couch. "Why don't you sit down," he said, "and we can talk this through. Could we get you some tea?"
She shook her head but walked over to the couch. Clearly troubled, she sat nervously on the edge of the seat, as if waiting for a bad verdict.
Ethan opened the envelope and pulled out a disk in its jewel case. While Ethan moved to the inset television on the opposite wall and futzed with the electronics, I took a seat by Charla.
"I could get you some water?"
She shook her head, tears gathering at her lashes again. "I'm fine. Let's just - get through this."
Ethan queued up the video, then moved aside so we could see the screen.
The video was in color and showed a clean, white facility that looked a lot like a kitchen. The tape moved haltingly, more like stuttering time-lapse photography than a video, but it was bright and clear, which made for a nice change. We didn't usually get high-fidelity evidence.
"What's this?" Ethan asked.
"The lab," Charla said. "The room where Alan does his research and we test samples. This is the two days before the riot. When I was at the spa."
A figure walked into the room. It was Alan Bryant, Charla's brother. He walked to a counter and reached beneath it, feeling around for something. After a moment, he pulled out a brown envelope that had apparently been stashed there. Another man approached him.
Ethan cursed in Swedish, his native language, an affectation he usually saved for big developments . . . like the fact that Alan Bryant and John McKetrick were chatting in the middle of the Bryant Industries lab.
I guessed that explained why Alan had taken so long to get the tapes to us.
According to the time stamp, they talked for four minutes, at which time Alan handed the envelope to McKetrick. They argued for a moment, until McKetrick handed a smaller one to Alan.
Their business done, both men walked out of the room.
The tape went to black.
"Keep watching," Charla said.
After a moment, another scene appeared. The lab was in the picture again, but the color had shifted, like the sun was at a different angle.
"When?" Ethan asked.
"Right before the riot."
McKetrick walked into the lab and began opening cabinets. He flipped through folders and papers, tossed aside beakers and flats of test tubes, clearly looking for something.
But what?
Ethan answered my unspoken question. "He's looking for the thing he and Alan were arguing about," he mused, eyes glued to the screen.
And he found it. With a grin we could read even on a security video, McKetrick pulled a blue folder from an open drawer he'd rifled through. He tucked the folder beneath his arm, pulled out a silver lighter, lit a cigarette, took a puff, and tossed the cigarette into the pile of papers.
The fire started immediately.
"Oh my God," I said. "McKetrick was covering his ass. He arranged the riot to cover up his attempt to burn down the lab."
"That's what it looks like," Charla said.
Ethan looked back at Charla. "What was in the envelope? What did your brother give him?"
"I don't know," she said. "But I think I know what McKetrick gave him." She cleared her throat nervously. "You may have learned in your research that our parents' divorce was messy. They were ready to retire, so Alan and I got the business to share. Alan wasn't thrilled about that. He wanted to buy me out, and I said no. His offer was ridiculously low, but that wasn't the real issue. I'd worked at my parents' business since I was sixteen; I wasn't going to just give it up.
"He started pressing me again a few months ago. I said no again, but he kept pushing and his offer was still too low. He wants to make the business international," she said. "Send the production overseas, rebrand, become the only global distributor of blood for vampires . . ." She trailed off and sat quietly for a moment. Ethan and I exchanged a glance but waited her out.
"After I watched the tape, I checked our accounts. There was an unscheduled deposit in our operating account two days ago."
"How much?" Ethan asked.
"Five hundred thousand dollars."
I glanced at Ethan. McKetrick paid Alan Bryant half a million dollars. For what?
That is the question, he silently agreed. "Charla, you have no idea what he might have given McKetrick?"
She shook her head. "Alan is a talented researcher, but I have no idea what McKetrick would want from us. We're trying to help vampires - to keep them fed and healthy. Those certainly aren't McKetrick's goals."
"Is it possible he wanted to adulterate the blood somehow?" Ethan asked.
"To be frank, if Alan wanted to adulterate the blood, he could do it. He has the access." Her eyes widened. "Oh, but information about the Houses, that he has." She glanced between us. "All three Houses buy blood from us. We have their account numbers, delivery dates - do you think McKetrick wanted that?"
That was a frightening possibility, but it didn't read for McKetrick, I thought. "McKetrick wouldn't pay money for information he could easily get," I said. "He's part of the city admin. If he wanted information about the Houses, he could get a warrant, comb tax records. He's got sources he wouldn't have to pay for," I said.
"I would tend to agree," Ethan said.
I glanced at Ethan. "Alan knows blood. McKetrick wants to wipe us out. Maybe McKetrick thinks Alan's got the information he needs to accomplish that with blood."
"Oh my God," Charla said, putting a hand over her mouth. "You think he's going to use us - our business - to hurt you?"
Ethan frowned. "We don't know enough right now. But it's clear McKetrick wanted information that Alan had. Information he was willing to pay for."
"Charla, why didn't Alan wipe the tapes?" I wondered aloud. "He's in charge of building security, right?"
"He thought he did," Charla said. "Our hard drive was clean, as was the backup we stored on-site. But when Celina announced your existence, I retained a backup service to store copies of the videos off-line, just in case things deteriorated. It was nearly a year ago. He must have forgotten."
She looked away for a moment, shaking her head ruefully. "He told me he watched the tapes, that there was nothing on them. That the inspection was just like normal, the same inspectors, the standard questions about packaging and quality control. He lied to my face about this. My own brother." She shook her head. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry."
Ethan shook his head. "There is nothing to feel guilty about, Charla. You didn't create this problem, or this drama. You undertook to do something we don't see others doing very often. Grieve for your family, for your brother. But know that you are the reason we will close this loop. Because you took the time to care."
Ethan knew how to make a speech, and he knew how to motivate. And by the sudden change in Charla's posture, he'd done the job effectively.
"That helps," she said.
"I'm glad, but I didn't say it to help. I meant it. Your family has provided for ours for decades, even when others would not. And now you've come to us with information you could have easily ignored. We need more people like you. Chicago would be better for it."
Charla's eyes welled again, but these were clearly the good kind of tears.
"Sorry," she said, waving a hand. "I'm just really emotional today."
"No apologies necessary," Ethan said. "Merit has told me about cathartic tears."
She looked at Ethan for a moment the way a person might inspect a beautiful, but confusing, piece of artwork. Then she burst out laughing.
"Right?" I said. "Four hundred years old and he doesn't know about relief crying."
"There are worse sins," she said, looking back at Ethan. "What should I do now?"
"We'll need to talk to Alan. Where can we find him?"
"The lab. He'll be in the lab. He's always in the lab."
"Are your people safe from Alan? Your employees?"
She nodded. "The irony is, I don't think he'd really hurt anyone on purpose. He's a vegetarian, for God's sake. He doesn't even want to hurt animals."
"Greed can make people act very irrationally," Ethan said. "Try to go about your business as normal, but perhaps keep an extra bit of security on the blood supply. If he tries to offer you money again for the business, perhaps you hear him out because he has so much more to give. Act like you're seriously considering the offer. That will keep him calm in the meantime, and keep him from making any rash decisions."
The plan in place, Charla nodded decisively and stood up. "I'll do that exactly. Thank you again for your understanding."
"Thank you for yours," he said. "And let us know if you need anything else."
She nodded, but she'd gone quiet. I could see her retreating into her head, mulling over what she'd seen, replaying conversations. It was exactly the kind of thing I'd do in the face of such betrayal.
We saw her back to the front door, then paused in the foyer. Ethan looked at me. "You were right about McKetrick."
"I was guessing about McKetrick. It just seemed his kind of operation. Too smart, too crafty for kids with bad attitudes."
"I'll grab the DVDs," Ethan said. "Go ahead downstairs and advise Luc. I'll be right down."
"Roger that," I said. As Ethan disappeared down the hallway, I made for the stairs, glancing back when the House's front door opened again.
Jonah appeared in the doorway, coat swirling in the winter wind. "Was that Charla Bryant I just saw leaving?"
"It was. What are you doing here?"
"Scott heard about your grandfather, sends his best wishes. And I think, instead of sending get-well balloons, he sent me to help with the riots."
I looked at him for a second. "How many balloons would it have been, exactly?"
"Smart-ass," Jonah said.
"Actually, you'll be glad you came," I assured him. "As it turns out, our paranoia has been validated."
"So I guess I'll have to respect you now."
"It would be a good start. Let's get downstairs."
-
The Ops Room became our gathering point once again. Luc and Lindsey were at the table, Kelley and Juliet outside.
Luc dialed up Jeff and Catcher as soon as Jonah and I walked through the door, apparently anticipating developments in the investigation, but we waited until Ethan walked through the door, DVD in hand, to get started.
"What's this?" Luc asked, glancing at it.
"It's a DVD," Lindsey said. "It stores videos or information."
"Hi-larious," Luc said.
"It's a video of the Blood4You lab," Ethan said, taking a seat at the table. I walked over to the whiteboard and erased our prior bad guesses. And as Ethan narrated the DVDs, I filled in the appropriate blanks.
"The video shows John McKetrick exchanging some sort of payoff with Alan Bryant, Charla Bryant's brother. But they argue, presumably because McKetrick doesn't get what he wants."
"That's something," Luc said.
"Oh, that's hardly the preface," Ethan said. "McKetrick comes back, takes a file, and torches the lab . . . right before the riot starts."
"Alan tried to erase the tapes," I said, "and obviously failed."
"Off-site backup?' Jeff asked.
"Off-site backup," I confirmed.
"What was the payoff for?" Luc asked.
"We aren't certain. Information that's worth five hundred thousand dollars to McKetrick, at any event."
"Good God," Luc said.
"Alan Bryant knows blood and biochemistry," I said. "So presumably McKetrick wants information to do with that. But what?"
It was a chilling question.
"And so we circle round again to McKetrick," Ethan said.
"I'm sending Detective Jacobs a message," Catcher said. "This is Chicago, so getting to McKetrick is going to take a little finessing. But I think we can have the CPD pick Alan up. I've only met him the once, but he strikes me as the type to flip easily. Maybe we can get something useful."
Ethan nodded authoritatively. "Thank you, Catcher. We appreciate it."
"Why is McKetrick doing this?" Lindsey asked. "Because he hates us?"
"He definitely does," Ethan said. "But he's also a public official in this city, and by all accounts, he's loving the attention and the ego boost."
"That's a good point," Jonah said. "He clearly likes the gig, and why risk his job? And even if he wanted something from Bryant Industries, why hit Grey House? Why hit your grandfather's house?"
"We now know the rioters hit Bryant Industries for a reason," I said. "So maybe he also hit Grey House and my grandfather for a reason. We just have to figure out what that reason was."
The room went quiet.
"Okay, then," I said. "We'll just mull on that for a little bit. Catcher, do you know anything about the syringe?"
"Nothing yet," he said. "There's a backlog in the forensics department. Might not be until tomorrow."
We all stared quietly at the board for a moment, irritated magic rising as we faced a problem we didn't have information to solve.
"I've got something," Jeff said, keyboard clacking in the background. He must have found a replacement for the computer that had undoubtedly been torched in the fire. "I know why McKetrick hates you."
Ethan leaned forward. "We're listening."
"It's in McKetrick's military history. Turns out, when he was special ops, he was part of an operation in Turkey."
Luc screwed up his face. "Jeff, buddy, as much as I love you, and you know I do, are you about to tell us something we aren't supposed to know? I mean, this doesn't sound like the kind of thing you'd pull off the Department of Defense's Web site."
"I didn't do any digging myself," Jeff said. "I have a friend, who happens to also play 'Jakob's Quest.' Due to an unfortunate situation involving a winter elf, a pod of orcs, and a very nasty spell of dissolution, he owed me a favor."
Jakob's Quest was Jeff's favorite online role-playing game.
"Let it never be said that I don't support a man's God-given right to spawn," Luc said. "Continue."
"So, McKetrick was in an operation in Turkey in 'ninety-seven. Small group of special ops guys went in to deal with fallout from a national coup. The special ops team ended up in Turkey's Cappadocian region - that's the place where the fairy chimneys are, if you've ever seen them. Here, I'll send a picture."
Within a couple of seconds, Luc's computer had registered the message, and Luc was popping it up onto the screen. It was a photograph of an arid and hilly landscape, and sprinkled here and there were enormous rock formations that looked like pointy hats. Or something more lascivious, depending on your perspective.
"And why are we taking this detour through the geography of Turkey?" Luc asked.
"The special ops guys got into trouble there. Seven went in. Only one came out."
Dread tightened my stomach. "McKetrick was the one who came out?"
"He was," Jeff said. "The report is pretty heavily redacted, but it looks like the guys were lost over the course of a couple of consecutive nights. He made it out alive and started telling some pretty chilling stories."
"Oh shit," Luc muttered, apparently anticipating the same thing I was.
"Vampires?" Jonah guessed.
"Vampires," Jeff agreed. "They trained for this mission for six weeks, and special ops guys are always close. McKetrick was airlifted out, started telling stories about his friends disappearing, about these feral monsters who'd taken them at night. How they were strong, deadly, and no match for human weapons."
"No wonder he hates us," I said. "He thinks we're the reason his friends were killed."
"He thinks we slaughtered his friends," Jonah corrected. "And he's made it his personal mission to fix that."
"He's not going to stop," I said, looking at Ethan. "If that's his motivation, and he thinks he's a warrior bound to avenge his friends, he'll keep going until he's gotten all of us out of Chicago, dead or alive."
I walked to the whiteboard, uncapped a marker, and added "Lost colleagues to vampires" beneath the note we'd added about McKetrick's military experience. That done, I turned back to the group.
"He's trained, and he's got motive. We know he's willing to use his public platform to sway public opinion against us. We know he's willing to pay an assassin to take us out. We also know he has a facility," I said, "but we've never found any evidence of it."
"I'm beginning to wonder if that's just a rumor," Luc said. "He's never gone there, at least not in the car we've tracked. And we didn't find any property records."
Jonah's phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the screen. "It's the doc about Brooklyn," he said, lifting it up. "I'm going to step outside."
Ethan nodded, granting permission, then gestured back to Luc. "Catcher, you might request Detective Jacobs ask Alan about the location of McKetrick's facility. Maybe he knows something."
"On it," Catcher said.
"That takes care of the 'where,'" Luc said. "What about the 'what'?"
"The syringe," I muttered, glancing at Ethan. "Brooklyn, a vampire, is sick because of some unknown condition. McKetrick's now interested in the lab work done by a blood distributor. Does that read as a coincidence to you?"
"It does not," Ethan said, "but I still have no idea what it means."
"Research means new findings," Luc said. "So, maybe it's not about access or facilities. Maybe it's about the blood itself. New things it can do? New technologies?"
"New means to our destruction?" Ethan suggested. "He invented a gun that shoots aspen - the ultimate weapon against vampires. The perfect way to best them. Figuring out a way to manipulate blood - to use it against us - would be well within his wheelhouse."
Jonah appeared in the doorway, face wan, his magic chaotic. Ethan and Luc, still debating McKetrick's murderous intent, were oblivious to the shock in his expression.
Slowly, Jonah walked to the table, but he didn't sit down.
"Are you all right?" I whispered.
Luc and Ethan, finally realizing something was amiss, looked up at him.
"Jonah?" Ethan said.
"I need to go - to see Brooklyn."
"Did something happen to her?" I asked.
"They can't figure out how to make her better," Jonah said, complete befuddlement in his voice. "I think I should go see her."
Ethan and I exchanged a glance, and he was out of his seat within a second. "We'll go with you."
"With me?"
"She's not sick," Ethan said. "This isn't a random illness. She could be the key. And that means she's ours to protect."
They looked at each other for a moment, something passing between them. Some unspoken exchange that had everything and nothing to do with me, and everything and nothing to do with Brooklyn.
After a moment, Jonah nodded. "Let's go," he said.