Biting Bad_ A Chicagoland Vampires Novel(3)

Jeff Christopher was a friend and colleague, a lovable nerd and shape-shifter I’d met through my grandfather, Chicago’s former liaison to all folks supernatural. Jeff was tech savvy and a fan of role-playing games—I’d recently seen him in head-to-toe ranger garb, from boots to hood—so my reference to a “trusty steed” was right up his alley.

“Jeff has saved our butts on a number of occasions,” I pointed out.

“Well aware, Sentinel. But you must agree he does it with his particular flair.”

“He does. His own furry flair. Oh, and speaking of, you still haven’t paid me on our little bet.”

“You didn’t win our little bet, Sentinel.”

“I guessed Jeff was a puma.”

“And as I’ve pointed out many times, Jeff isn’t a puma.”

I gave him a sarcastic look. “He’s also not a marmot, which was your guess. Mine was closer; thus I win.”

“Close doesn’t count. It was a draw.”

I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t going to give up my position, but I didn’t have time to argue the finer points of animal taxonomy today.

“Either way, furry makes a nice change from stodgy vampire.”

“Vampires are not stodgy,” Ethan said, pushing his hands into his pockets and staring back at me, stodgily.

“You are, but that’s your particular flair.”

Ethan arched an eyebrow, a move he used frequently to portray many of the emotions in his arsenal—doubt, imperiousness, wickedness, among them.

“You do realize, Sentinel, that you’re one of us?”

I let my eyes silver, an effect that appeared when vampires felt strong emotions, to demonstrate just how much like him I really was—and the depth of my emotion about it. “I never doubt it. Anyway,” I said, changing the subject, “what’s your call about?”

“Darius. Apparently there are rumors he’s no longer strong enough to hold the GP together. Morgan and Scott wanted to talk.”

“Because Darius was kidnapped?” I wondered aloud. Darius West was the leader of the Greenwich Presidium. Although we were technically Rogue vampires since we lacked GP affiliation, Ethan maintained friendly relations with Scott Grey and Morgan Greer, the Masters of Grey and Navarre Houses, respectively. It also helped that we’d recently saved Darius’s life, rescuing him from an assassin hired by the city’s new supernatural “liaison,” John McKetrick.

“Exactly,” Ethan agreed. “I understand the other GP members are pleased we saved him, but concerned he needed saving in the first place.”

The GP was populated by vampires revered for their strength, if not their magnanimity.

“It doesn’t surprise me they’d question his abilities,” I said, grabbing a short camel trench coat from a hanger and shrugging into it. The coat had been a gift from Ethan, who was afraid the thin leather jacket I usually wore on Sentinel excursions wasn’t warm enough for February. I didn’t need him to ply me with gifts—I was plenty pliant already—but the coat was warm and fit perfectly, so I’d decided not to argue.

“You’ll be careful out there?” Ethan asked. A line of worry appeared between his eyes.

“I will. But we’re just going for pizza. And Luc knows where I’ll be, just in case of a zombie apocalypse.”

My chain of command was complicated. I stood Sentinel for the House, a sort of soldier for Cadogan and all that it stood for. But I wasn’t a House guard per se, which meant Luc, captain of the Cadogan guards, wasn’t exactly my boss. Neither was Ethan, for that matter, since I technically had the authority to override him if he wasn’t acting in the House’s best interests. But Luc was at least my acting supervisor, so I’d filled him in on my plan for the evening.

“I know,” Ethan said. “And I know you need a break. We’ve both been working a lot of hours lately.”

“Well, I’ve been keeping an eye on McKetrick, and you’ve been—” I looked at him sideways. “What have you been doing again?”

“Running this House of vampires?” he dryly asked.

“Ah, yes,” I said with a nod. “Running this House of vampires.”

He grinned a bit, then slid a tendril of dark hair behind my ear. “In all seriousness, we should arrange to spend some quality time together.”

I gave him a sly smile, because I happened to have anticipated his request.

“I agree completely,” I said. “Which is why I’ve made dinner reservations on Friday at Tuscan Terrace, Chicago’s finest Italian bistro. Homemade pasta. Fine champagne. Truffles. These little dessert cakes that are nearly better than Mallocakes. We’ll celebrate in style.”