Biting Bad_ A Chicagoland Vampires Novel(10)

“The rioters are anti-vamp,” I guessed, stomach tightening with nerves.

“That’s quite possible,” Luc agreed. “And, Sentinel, they’re moving your way. I think now would be a good time to make a polite exit and get Mallory out of there. Little Red is closer than the House. Maybe stay there until we’re sure the coast is clear?”

I glanced back at the door. “Luc, I can’t just leave Saul here unprotected, not if the rioters are coming this way. What if they try to hit the restaurant?”

“They’re anti-vampire, Merit. They probably don’t pose a specific risk to Saul’s unless they find out you’re there. If they think he’s harboring vamps, they might hit it on purpose. You’re a danger to him if you stay.”

That possibility stung, sending a sick feeling through my chest. To them, because of my biology, I was the enemy. And that meant I posed a danger to everyone around me.

“Luc—,” I began, but he cut me off.

“You can’t protect Saul, Merit. Get to your car and go.”

Crap. “Luc, call my grandfather. He’s still got friends in the CPD. Maybe he can get a cruiser on the building.”

“Good thought,” he said. “I’ll call him as soon as you promise to get your ass to Little Red.”

“On it,” I promised. I hung up the phone but took a moment to send a warning message to Jonah. It was simple and to the point: RIOTS IN WICKER PARK. BLOOD4YOU HIT. KEEP WATCH.

My phone beeped immediately, and I assumed Jonah had already responded. Instead, I found an infuriating alert that my message hadn’t gone through.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket. I’d have to deal with technology later and hope Jonah got the message.

I glanced at Mallory. She looked nervous, but her eyes were clear, and her magic seemed appropriately banked.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know we should hurry.”

I nodded and had to speak up to be heard over the increasing sound of drumming and chanting. “My car’s only two blocks away, but my katana is in the car. They might be out for supernaturals, so we’re going to pretend that we’re just two girls out for a night on the town. We’re going to walk to the car, get in, and drive as quickly as we can to the bar.”

“And if they recognize you?”

My father, Joshua Merit—Merit was actually my last name—was a Chicago real estate mogul, and media outlets in the city thought it newsworthy that I’d been made a vampire. My photo had been in the papers, so I wasn’t exactly anonymous.

“We hope they don’t,” I said. And there was no chance in hell I’d go down without a fight. And I’d make it a good one.

—

I gave Saul a heads-up and promised that help was on the way. He didn’t look entirely convinced . . . until I told him the riots were anti-vampire and I was part of their target audience.

“I don’t want you or your place to get hurt because of us,” I said. Saul nodded, a little guiltily, and shut and locked the door again.

I knew I wasn’t human, that I was separated from them by genetics, fangs, and bloodlust. This was a poignant reminder of that separation, of the differences between us.

I looked at Mallory, who nodded and plastered a smile on her face. “You said we were party girls out for a night on the town. So let’s, like, totally get out of here. For reals.”

“Are there valley girls in Chicago?”

“Tonight,” she said, “there are.”

We started toward the car, avoiding Division, darting from the restaurant into the alley across the street, then running through darkness to the other end, where we peered out to survey the source of the noise.

There were dozens of humans, maybe forty or fifty altogether, and they moved up the middle of Division in a cluster. In a mob. They ranged in age from young enough to be carded to their mid-forties, and they were obviously passionate about their cause, which they shouted loudly and often.

“Clean Chicago!” they yelled in unison. “No more fangs! Clean Chicago! No more fangs!”

They repeated the words like a mantra of hatred, yelled at people on the street, waved bats and hockey sticks in the air and against one another, and smashed car windows and streetlights as they moved.

These were modern-day villagers with torches, and I was Dr. Frankenstein’s monster.

“What a bunch of assholes,” Mallory muttered.

“No argument,” I said. “And we need to get out of here before they get any closer.” Escape in mind, I scanned the street for the Volvo. It sat safely up the block, no missing mirrors or windows, but we’d have to sidestep the rioters to get to it.