dip in gravy. When his first bite left a trail of juice on the floor in front of his feet—and not on his expensive Italian shoes—he smiled grandly at me.
“Well done, Sentinel.”
I nodded through my bite of bread, beef, and peppers, happy that Ethan was in a better mood.
Say what you might about my obsession with all things meat and carbohydrate, but never underestimate the ability of a stack of thin-sliced beef on a bun to make a man happy—vampire or human.
And speaking of happiness, I wondered what else Ethan had been missing out on. “Have you ever been to a Cubs game?”
Ethan dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, and I got a glimpse of his knuckles—already healed from the blows. “No, I have not. As you know, I’m not much of a baseball fan.”
He wasn’t much of a fan, but he’d still tracked down a signed Cubs baseball to replace one I’d lost. That was the kind of move that threw me off balance, but I managed to keep things lighthearted.
“Just stake me now,” I said. “Seriously —you’ve been in Chicago how long and you’ve never been to Wrigley? That’s a shame. You need to get out there. I mean, for a night game, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
A couple of large men with mustaches and Bears T-shirts moved toward the high bar where we stood, sandwiches in hand. They took a spot beside Ethan, spread their feet, unwrapped their own Italian beefs, and dug in.
It wasn’t until bite number two that they glanced over and noticed two vampires were standing beside them.
The one closest to Ethan ran a napkin across his dripping mustache, his gaze shifting from me to Ethan. “You two look familiar. I know you?”
Since my photo had been smeared across the front page of the paper a couple of months ago, and Ethan had made the local news more than once since the attack on Cadogan, we probably did look familiar.
“I’m a vampire from Cadogan House,” Ethan said.
Our area of the restaurant, not full but still dotted with late-night munchers, went silent.
This time, the man looked suspiciously at the sandwich. “You like that?”
“It’s great,” Ethan said, then gestured toward me. “This is Merit. She’s from Chicago. She decided I had to try one.”
The man and his companion leaned forward to look at me. “That so?”
“It is.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You had deep dish yet? Or a red hot?”
My heart warmed. We might have been vampires, but at least these guys recognized that we were first and foremost Chicagoans. We knew Wrigley Field and Navy Pier, Daley and rush hour traffic, Soldier Field in December and Oak Street Beach in July. We knew freak snowstorms and freakier heat waves.
But most of all, we knew food: taquerias, red hots, deep dish, great beer. We baked it, fried it, sauteed it, and grilled it, and in our quest to enjoy the sunshine and warmth while we could, we shared that food together.
“Both,” I said. “I got him pizza from Saul’s.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows popped up. “You know about Saul’s?”
I smiled slyly. “Cream cheese and double bacon.”
“Oooh,” the man said, grinning ear to ear. He dropped his napkin and threw his hands into the air. “Cream cheese and double bacon. Our fanged friend here knows about Saul’s Best!” He raised his giant paper cup of soda in a toast. “To you, my friend. Good eats and whatnot.”
“And to you,” Ethan said, raising his sandwich and taking a bite.
Hot beef in the name of peace. I liked it.
“I’m surprised you told him we were vampires,” I told Ethan on the way back to the car. “That you admitted to it, I mean, given what we saw earlier tonight.”
“Sometimes the only way to counter prejudice is to remind them how similar we are. To challenge their perceptions of what it means to be vampire . . . or human. Besides, he wouldn’t have asked who we were if he hadn’t at least suspected, and lying probably would have irritated him further.”
“Quite possibly.”
He smiled magnanimously. “Besides, you clearly wooed them with your cream cheese and double-bacon talk.”
“Who wouldn’t be wooed by cream cheese and double-bacon talk? I mean, other than vegetarians, I guess. But as we have thoroughly established, vegetarianism is not my gig.”
Ethan opened my car door. “No, Sentinel, it is not.”
I’d climbed inside and he did the same, but he didn’t start the car right away.
“Problems?” I asked.
He frowned. “I’m not sure I’m ready to return to the House. Not that I’d prefer to be at Creeley Creek, of course, but until I go back to Hyde Park, the drama hasn’t quite solidified.” He glanced at me. “Does that make sense?”
Only a four-hundred-year-old Master vampire would wonder if a grad student could understand procrastination. “Of course it does.
Procrastination is a very human emotion.”
“I’m not sure humans have a monopoly on procrastination. And, more important, I’m not sure this counts as procrastination.” He turned back again and started the ignition. “Unlike what you’re doing.”
“What I’m doing?”
He smiled just a little—a tease of a smile.
“Procrastinating,” he said. “Avoiding the inevitability of you and me.”
“How long does ‘inevitability’ take when you’re immortal?”
He grinned and pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
One summer night in Chicago. Three sets of battle lines drawn.
The protesters were still outside when we returned, their apparent hatred of us undiminished. On the other hand, their energy did seem to be a little diminished; this time, they were sitting on the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and street. Some sat in pop-up camping chairs. Others sat on blankets in pairs, one’s head on the other’s shoulder, given the late hour. Late-night prejudice was apparently exhausting.
Malik met us at the door, folder in hand; Ethan had given him a heads-up call in the car on the way back to the House.
Malik was tall, with cocoa skin, pale green eyes, and closely cropped hair. He had the regal bearing of a prince in training—shoulders back, jaw set, eyes scanning and alert, as if waiting for marauders to scale the castle walls.
“Militiamen and arrest warrants,” Malik said.
“I’m not sure it’s advisable for you two to leave the House together anymore.”
Ethan made a snort of agreement. “At this point, I’d tend to agree with you.”
“Tate indicated the supposed incident was violent?”
“Exceptionally so, according to the firsthand account,” Ethan said.
Once we were in Ethan’s office and he’d closed the door behind us, he got to the heart of it. “The story is, the vamps lost control and killed three humans. But Mr. Jackson’s description rang more of uncontrolled bloodlust than of a typical rave.”
“Mr. Jackson?” Malik asked.
Ethan headed for his desk. “Our eyewitness.
Potentially under the influence, but sober enough that Tate was apparently convinced. And by convinced, I
