Biting Bad_ A Chicagoland Vampires Novel(5)

“Do you?” I teased. “I find that surprising.”

“Actually, I have a date tonight.”

I blinked. The news, admittedly, hit me a little weird. I was very much in love with Ethan, but as partners, Jonah and I had a separate, unique relationship, one that required a different kind of trust and intimacy. I just found odd the possibility that another woman was going to figure into it.

But I could suck it up. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“A Rogue,” he said. “Noah introduced us. I’m not sure if it will go anywhere, but I like her style. And her figure.”

“And I’d like it if you kept the details to yourself.”

“Merit,” he teased, “are you jealous?”

I wasn’t, not really. Just a bit weirded out. But I wasn’t going to admit that aloud. “Not in the slightest. I just don’t need the gory details. Be careful out there.”

“I intend to. And I’d say the same to you.”

“Nothing weird should happen, but in case it does . . .”

“You want me to come save you so Ethan doesn’t drop a sizable ‘I told you so’ into your lap?”

“I don’t need saving. But yes, please.”

He chuckled. “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and you’ll see McKetrick breaking into a car or something. It wouldn’t be the most satisfying tag, but at least we could put him away.”

I could hardly agree more. McKetrick had been playing the desk-bound bureaucrat, but in reality, he had a nasty hatred of vampires and the willingness to act on it. Four murders later, we still had no evidence to pin on him, and no idea what he might do next.

“We’ve found nothing,” I said. “Maybe Michael Donovan was lying about McKetrick hiring him.” Michael Donovan was the vampire assassin who’d been hired by McKetrick.

“That we haven’t caught him doesn’t mean he isn’t doing anything,” Jonah noted. “If he’s smart, he’s lying low right now.”

“Lying low, or planning?” I wondered aloud.

“We won’t know until we know,” Jonah said, clearing his throat as if preparing for something. “If you want to speed things up, we could bug his house.”

That had been a common refrain by Luc and Jonah. They were convinced they could get in, bug McKetrick’s Lincoln Park house, and get out. Considering the regularity of McKetrick’s schedule—he was a city employee, after all—there was merit to the idea. But the risk? Considerable, which was why Ethan and Noah, the head of the Red Guard, rejected the idea.

“We aren’t the CIA,” I reminded him. “And if we got caught, the city would turn against us Watergate style. There’s too much risk.”

“So we wait,” Jonah said. “Which is awesome, because you’re such a patient person.”

I wasn’t, and he really knew me too well. “He won’t stay silent forever. He has too much ego for that.”

The cars in front of me had slowed to a virtual standstill, and I knew better than to chat about supernatural drama while navigating gridlock. “Jonah, traffic’s picking up. I’m gonna run. I’ll keep you posted on any excitement with Mallory.”

“Do that,” he said. “But I will not be advising you on any excitement on my end.”

Thank God for small miracles.

—

Wicker Park was northwest of Hyde Park, and the traffic didn’t ease up again even as I pulled into the neighborhood. Even in the dark of February, Division Street, Wicker Park’s main drag, was hopping. Chicagoans moved between bars and restaurants, climbing over and around the mountains of snow piled high by snowplows, darkened with street grit, and thickened by freezing temps.

I drove around a bit to find a parking space—a task that probably consumed twenty to thirty percent of a Chicagoan’s waking hours—and nudged the Volvo into it.

I looked for a moment at the katana in the passenger’s seat. I didn’t like the idea of leaving it in the car, but nor did I think it would be welcome in the mecca of Chicago-style deep-dish I was heading to.

“I can always come back for you,” I murmured, slipping the sword between the center console and the passenger seat to make its presence a little less obvious. I took a final calming breath, then climbed out of the car and locked it behind me.

Compacted snow crunched beneath my feet as I walked toward Saul’s, my favorite pizza spot in Chicago or outside it. I’d done my time in New York, and although I could appreciate the depth of New Yorkers’ love for floppy pizza, I didn’t understand it.

Bells attached to a red leather strap hung on the door, and they jingled when I opened it, a gust of wind sneaking in behind. I pushed the door shut again, shrinking back a bit from the growly expression on the face of the man behind the counter.