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.