Friday Night Bites
Chapter Eight

PAPA DON'T PREACH
The Breckenridge estate, nestled in the Illinois countryside, was a massive would-be French chateau, modeled on Vanderbilt's Biltmore after one of the Breckenridge forefathers, swollen with profit, took a serendipitous trip to Asheville, North Carolina.
Although the Breck estate didn't nearly rival the size of George Vanderbilt's home, the pale stone mansion was a massive asymmetrical homage, complete with pointy spires, chimneys, and high windows dotting the steeply pitched roof.
Ethan pulled the Mercedes down the lengthy drive that ran through the park-sized front lawn to the front door, where a white-gloved valet signaled him to stop.
When an attendant opened my door, I carefully stepped out, the blade and holster an unfamiliar weight on my thigh. As the Mercedes - my getaway vehicle - zipped away, I craned my neck to look upward at the house. It had been six or seven years since I'd been here. My stomach knotted, a combination of nerves from the thought of reentering a life I'd escaped at the first opportunity and the possibility of a confrontation with my father.
Gravel scratched as Ethan stepped beside me. We headed for the front door, Mrs.
Breckenridge visible in the foyer through the open door in front of us, but before we stepped inside, Ethan stopped and put a hand at my elbow.
"We need an invitation," he quietly reminded me.
I'd forgotten. Unlike the bit about crucifixes and photographs, this vampire myth was actually true - we weren't to enter a home without an invitation. But this myth wasn't about magic or evil. It was, as so many other vampire issues were, about rules and regulations. About the vampire paradigm.
We waited a minute or so, long enough for Mrs. Breck to finish shaking hands and chatting up the couple that had arrived just before us. When they walked away, she looked up. I saw a blink of recognition as she realized that we were waiting outside. Her face lit up, and I hoped it was because she was pleased to see me darkening her doorway again.
She walked toward us as elegant and slender as Princess Grace, everything feminine despite having raised a brood of rowdy boys. Julia Breckenridge was a beautiful woman, tall and graceful in a simple champagne sheath, blond hair in a tidy knot at the back of her neck.
Ethan bowed slightly. "Madam. Ethan Sullivan, Master, Cadogan House. My companion and guard, Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan House. Upon your invitation" - he flicked the invitation I'd given to Luc from his pocket and held it between two long fingers before her, his proof of our legitimacy - "we seek admission to your home."
She held out her hand, and carefully, gracefully, Ethan lifted it, eyes on hers as he pressed his lips to her hand. Mrs. Breck, who'd probably dined with heads of state and movie stars, blushed, then smiled as Ethan released her hand.
"Upon this night," she said, "you and your companion may enter our home with our blessing."
Her answer was interesting, her invitation formal and specific to one night in the Breckenridge house, as if intended to limit our access.
"I had my people research the appropriate protocol," Mrs. Breck said, moving aside to allow us entry. When we were just inside the foyer, she reached up and cupped my face in her hands, the scent of warm jasmine rising from her wrists. "Merit, darling, you look beautiful. I'm so glad you could join us tonight."
"Thank you. It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Breckenridge."
She placed a kiss on my right cheek, then turned to Ethan, a glimmer of feminine appreciation in her eyes. I could sympathize. He looked, as was his irritating way, good enough to bite.
"You must be Mr. Sullivan."
He smiled slowly, wolfishly. "Ethan, please, Mrs. Breckenridge."
"Ethan, then. And you'll call me Julia." She gazed at Ethan for a few seconds, a kind of vague expression of pleasure on her face, until a shortish, bald man with round spectacles approached us and popped her on the elbow with his clipboard.
"Guests, Julia. Guests."
Mrs. Breck - I hadn't called her Julia when I was running through her hallways as a child, and I wasn't going to start now - shook her head as if to clear it, then nodded at the man at her elbow.
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to excuse myself. It was lovely to meet you, Ethan, and it's lovely to see you again, Merit. Please enjoy the party." She indicated the way to the ballroom and then moved back to the door to greet a new cluster of guests.
I made a guess that the vacant expression on her face had been Ethan's doing. "Ah," I whispered as we walked away, "but can he charm the humans without resorting to glamour?"
"Jealous?"
"Not on your life."
We were just outside the ballroom when he stopped and looked at me. "It's a tradition."
I stopped, too, frowning as I tried to puzzle out the context. " Glamouringthe host is a tradition? That explains why vampires were in hiding for so long."
"The blade. Your blade. The dagger I gave you. Malik researched the Canon. It's tradition for the Master to present a blade to the Sentinel of his House."
"Oh," I said, fingers pressing the spot on my dress that lay just above the blade. "Well.
Thank you."
He nodded crisply, then adjusted his tie, all verve and smooth confidence. "A bit of advice?"
I blew out a breath and smoothed my skirt. "What?"
"Remember who, and what, you are."
That made me chuckle. He really had no idea the gauntlet he was about to walk.
"What?" he asked, sliding me a sideways glance.
"Fangs or not, we're still outsiders." I bobbed my head toward the ballroom doors.
"They're sharks, waiting to circle. It's like Gossip Girl in there. That I come from money, and that we're vampires, doesn't guarantee us entree."
But as if on cue, two tuxedoed doormen pushed open the doors for us. Literally, they gave us access. Symbolically, they gave us access. But the judging hadn't yet begun.
I took a breath and adopted my best grin of Merit-worthy entitlement, then glanced up at my companion.
He of the golden hair and green eyes surveyed the glittering party before us. "Then, Merit, Sentinel of my House, let's show them who we are."
His hand at my back, a frisson of heat slipping down my spine, we stepped inside.
* * *
The ballroom was awash in the light of crystal chandeliers. Beneath them in the glow stood all the people I remembered. The society matrons. The two-doctor families. The bitter wives. The charming, cheating husbands. The children who were fawned over solely because they'd been spawned by the wealthy.
Technically, I suppose that last group included me.
We found a spot on the edge of the room and made camp. That's where I began Ethan's education. I pointed out some of Chicago's old-money families - the O'Briens, the Porters, and the Johnsons, who'd made their money in commodities trading, pianos and beef, respectively. The room was also sprinkled with new money - celebs, music magnates who made their home in the Windy City, Board of Trade members, and sports team presidents.
Some guests Ethan knew, some he asked questions about - their connections, their neighborhoods, the manner in which they'd made their fortunes. For the families he knew, I asked about their take on the supernatural: Did they have ties to our communities? Sons and daughters in the Houses? He was, unsurprisingly, well-informed, given his penchant for connections and strategies. Really, the entire conversation could have walked itself out of a Jane Austen novel, both of us rating and evaluating the matriarchs and patriarchs of Chicago's social elite.
Noticeably absent from the party was the remainder of the Breckenridge clan - Nicholas and his brothers and Michael Breckenridge, Sr., who was known in friendly circles as Papa Breck. I'm not saying I was thrilled at the idea of jumping into another Nick encounter, but if I wanted to learn more about this Nick/Jamie business, I would at least need to be in the same room with him again. The no-show thing was going to put the kibosh on my investigation.
I also saw neither hide nor hair of my father. Not that I looked too hard.
I did see a cluster of people my age, a knot of twenty something's in cocktail dresses and sharp suits, a couple of the guys with scarves draped around their collars. These, I supposed, were the people I would have been friends with had I chosen my siblings' paths.
"What do you think I'd have been like?" I asked him.
Ethan plucked two delicate flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and handed one to me. "At what?"
I sipped the champagne, which was cold and crisp and tasted like apples, then gestured to the crowd around us. "At this. If I'd skipped school in New York or Stanford, stayed in Illinois, met a boy, joined the auxiliary with my mother."
"You wouldn't be a Cadogan vampire," he said darkly.
"And you'd be missing out on my sparkling personality." I made eye contact with another tuxedoed waiter, this one bearing food, and beckoned him closer with a crooked finger. I knew from the handful of galas I'd peeked into as a kid that the fare at charity events tended a little toward the weird side - foams of this and canapes of that. But what they lacked in homespun comfort they more than made up for in quantity.
The waiter reached us, watery blue eyes in the midst of a bored expression, and extended his tray and a handful of "B"- engraved cocktail napkins.
I reviewed the arrangement of hors d'oeuvres, which rested artistically on a bed of rock salt. One involved tiny pale cubes of something soaking in an endive cup. Another formed a cone of various pink layers. But for the endive, I had no clue what they were.
I looked up at the waiter, brows raised, seeking help.
"A napoleon of prawn and prawn mousse," he said, nodding down at the pink columns,"and tuna ceviche in endive."
Both weird seafood combinations, I thought, but, ever brave when it came to matters of gastronomie, I picked up one of each.
"You and food," Ethan muttered, with what I thought was amusement.
I bit into the endive. I was a little weirded out by the ceviche treatment, but I was accommodating a vampire-sized hunger that wasn't nearly as picky as I was. I raised my gaze from the appetizer as I noshed, pausing midbite at the realization that the cluster of twenty something's across the room was staring at me. They talked among themselves and, some decision apparently made, one of them began walking toward us.
I finished my bite, then scarfed the shrimp napoleon, which was good but a little exotic for my junk-food-ruined palate. "Sharks, two o'clock."
Brows raised, Ethan cast a glance at the away team, then smiled at me, with teeth.
"Humans, two o'clock," he corrected. "Time to do a little acting, Sentinel."
I sipped at my champagne, erasing the taste of whipped shellfish. "Is that a challenge, Sullivan?"
"If that's what it takes, Sentinel, then yes."
The brunette leader of the ensemble, her petite figure tucked into a sequined silver dress, approached, her entourage watching from across the room.
"Hi," she said, politely. "You're Merit, right?"
I nodded at her.
"I don't know if you remember me, but we were in the same cotillion class. I'm Jennifer Mortimer."
I picked back through my memories and tried to place her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but I'd spent most of my cotillion being humiliated by the fact that I'd been trussed up and stuffed into a billowing white gown in order to be paraded before Chicago's wealthy like a cow on parade. I hadn't paid much attention to the people around me.
But I faked it. "It's nice to see you again, Jennifer."
"Nick Breck was your escort, wasn't he? I mean, at our cotillion?"
Well, I had paid attention to him, so I nodded, then used my champagne glass to gesture at Ethan, whose expression had flattened at Jennifer's announcement. I guess I hadn't mentioned that part of our history. "Ethan Sullivan," I offered.
"A pleasure," Ethan said.
"Can I..." She half smiled, looked away uncomfortably, then twisted a ring on her right hand. "Could I... ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"I noticed earlier... with the appetizers..."
"We eat food," Ethan smoothly answered. He'd realized what she'd wanted to know before I did, which was funny, because that was one of the first questions I'd asked as a new vampire.
Jennifer blushed, but nodded. "Okay, sure. It's just, the blood thing, obviously, but we weren't sure about the rest, and, God, was that really rude of me?" She pressed a hand to her chest, grimaced. "Am I completely gauche?"
"It's no problem," I said. "Better to ask a question than assume the worst."
Her face brightened. "Okay, okay, great. Listen, one more thing."
I'm not sure what I expected - another question, sure, but not her next move. She slipped a thin business card from her bodice, and with manicured fingers that somehow worked under the weight of a gigantic marquis-cut diamond engagement ring, handed it to me.
This time when she spoke, her voice was all smooth confidence. "I know this is a little forward, but I did want to give you my card. I think you could benefit from representation."
"I'm sorry?" I glanced down at the card, which bore her name beneath the heading CHICAGO ARTS MANAGEMENT.
She was an agent.
I nearly dropped my glass.
Jennifer cast a cautious glance at Ethan, then back at me. "You've got a great look, a good family, and an interesting story. We could work that."
"I - uh - "
"I'm not sure about your experience or interests - modeling, acting, that kind of thing - but we could definitely find a niche for you."
"She'll call you," Ethan said, and Jennifer, all smiles and thank-you's, walked away. "I'm not surprised by anything anymore," he said.
"Seconded." I flipped up the card between two fingers, showed it to him. "What the hell just happened?"
"I believe, Sentinel, that you're being wooed." He laughed softly, and I enjoyed the sound of that laughter a little more than I should have. "That didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would."
"I'm amused that you thought it was inevitable."
"Yes, well." Another waiter approached, and this time Ethan picked a curl of endive from the tray. "Things have become decidedly less predictable since you came on staff. I believe I'm beginning to appreciate that."
"You appreciate having a chance to bolster your social connections."
"That helps," he admitted, biting into his endive. He chewed, then, his face contorted in displeasure, sipped his champagne. Glad I wasn't the only one.
Without warning, my main social connection suddenly appeared at my side and touched my elbow.
"We'll use Michael's office," my father said by way of greeting, then walked away, apparently confident that we'd follow. Ethan and I exchanged a glance, then did.
My father strutted through the halls of the Breck estate as if he'd traveled them a million times before, as if he were strolling through his own Oak Park mansion and not someone else's.
Papa Breck's office was located in a back corner of the first floor. It was full of furniture, books, globes, and framed maps, the detritus of wealth collected by the Breck family. It smelled comfortingly familiar, of cigars and ancient paper and cologne. It was Papa Breck's respite from the world, a secret sanctuary that Nicholas and I had only occasionally dared to violate. We'd spent a handful of rainy days in the office, hiding amidst the antiquities, pretending to be castaways on a nineteenth-century ship of the line, sprinting down the hall when we heard his father approaching.
The door closed behind us. I blinked my way out of the memory.
My father turned to us, hands in his pockets. He bobbed his head at me, then looked at Ethan. "Mr. Sullivan."
"Call me Ethan, please, Mr. Merit," Ethan said. They shook, the guy who made me, and the vampire who made me something else. That seemed fundamentally wrong.
Or maybe discomfortingly right.
"I read about your acquisition of the Indemnity National Building," Ethan said.
"Congratulations. That's quite an achievement."
My father offered a manly head bob of acknowledgment, then slid a glance my way.
"You've gained a Merit property of your own."
I nearly stepped forward to wipe that smug smile off my father's face, at least until I remembered my pretty party dress.
"Yes, well," Ethan said, a hint of dryness in his voice. "Vampirism does have its benefits."
My father made a sound of agreement, then looked at me over the top of his glasses.
"Your mother informs me that you want to, to use your words, rebuild some relationships. Meet the right people." He used the same tone he'd adopted when, as a child, I'd finally made my way to his office to apologize for some presumed transgression.
"I've reconsidered your request to assist Robert."
He seemed to freeze for a moment, as if utterly shocked by the offer. Given our interaction the last time he'd asked me - I'd all but thrown him out of Mallory's house - maybe he was.
"What, exactly, did you have in mind in that regard?" he finally asked.
Let the acting begin, I thought, and prepared to lay out the script that Ethan and I had prepared - details that might be useful as Robert attempted to build connections among the city's supernatural population. A few words about that population (which was, but for the vampires, unknown to the populace), House finances, and our connections to the city administration - leaving out, of course, the fact that my grandfather was playing Ombud to the city. It would be enough, or so Ethan hoped, to make my father believe we were offering bites of a much larger apple.
But before I could speak, Ethan handed over the entire Red Delicious.
"Celina has been released by the Presidium."
I turned my head to stare at him. That was so not the plan.
I didn't think I could activate the mental connection between us - the telepathic link he'd initiated when I'd been Commended into the House - but the sarcasm was boiling me from the inside, so I had to try. That's your "tidbit"??
If he heard me, he ignored it.
And Ethan's gift was only the first surprise.
"When?" my father asked, his tone as bland as if we'd been discussing the weather.
Apparently, the loosing of a would-be serial killer - a woman who'd arranged to have his daughter killed - wasn't any more interesting than the day's high temperature.
"Within the week," Ethan answered.
My father made a motion with his hand, and Ethan followed him to a group of chairs, where they sat down. I followed, but stayed standing behind Ethan.
"Why was she released?" my father asked.
Ethan covered the ground we'd already discussed. But unlike the surprise I'd shown, my father reacted with nods and sounds of understanding. There was a familiarity with sups and the workings of the Houses and the GP that surprised me. It wasn't so much that he had the information that was surprising - the Internet was chock-full of vamp facts. But he also seemed to understand the rules, the players, the connections.
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:
Meet me at the castle. Now.
- NB
"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 gloriously 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.