again.
He followed through on his promise.
I woke in the middle of the day, the metal shutters still banking any light from the windows, but unusually aware of his body beside me . . . and of the craving that nearness inspired.
We’d moved apart in sleep, but I curled into him again, vaguely expecting him to react to the sensation with a kiss. He traced a finger through my hair, the act more comforting than erotic.
And it wasn’t enough.
“Ethan,” I muttered, my heart suddenly racing even as the sun glared down from its cradle in the sky. But as much as I wanted him, I couldn’t take that next step. I couldn’t force myself to move, to kiss him. Some of the hesitation was born from exhaustion, by the fact that I should have been unconscious until the sun sank again. But the rest was pure, unmitigated fear. Fear that if I made a move, kissed him, I’d be offering up my heart again, risking heartbreak again.
Instincts warred, because equally as powerful was the urge to step forward, to take what I wanted, to make the most of the kiss even if it wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done.
As if he knew my struggle, he smoothed a hand over my hair. “Sleep, Sentinel. The time will come when you’re ready. Until then, be still and sleep.”
I dreamed it was the first day of high school and I was an awkwardly tall twenty-eight- year-old walking down a hallway with a new notebook and pen in hand. I’d somehow forgotten to register for classes, and even though I had two and a half college degrees, I’d also apparently forgotten to finish tenth grade.
I sat down at a desk too small for me and stared at a chalkboard filled with handwriting —quadratic equations too complicated for me to solve. When I looked around the room, everyone else was busily filling out the stapled pages of a test.
One by one, the other students looked up and at me and began pounding their fists on the desk.
A girl with long blond hair looked over at me.
“Open the door,” she said.
“What?”
“I said, open the—” I jolted awake, sitting straight up in bed, just in time to see Ethan disappear from the room.
I rubbed my hands across my face until I was in his room again—not a helpless sophomore out of place in a high school I was too old to attend.
I heard his door open and shut. I tried to smooth down what I’m sure was a pretty severe case of bed hair, and then threw back the covers and padded into the other room.
“What is it?”
Ethan held out a cordless landline telephone.
“It’s Jeff for you. Apparently, it’s urgent.”
Frowning, I took the phone from him. “Jeff?
What’s up?”
“Sorry to interrupt you, but I was able to dig up some more information about Paulie Cermak and his criminal history.”
I frowned. “You know Celina’s already been arrested, right?”
“And that a warrant’s been issued for Mr.
Cermak after her little confession last night.
Oh—and I hear Ethan’s warrant was torn up, so congrats on that. But that’s not the issue.”
“So, what did you learn?”
“I found the original police report—and it listed the vic’s name. Well, a last name and first initial, anyway. Guy or gal named ‘P. Donaghey.’ Also from Chicago—” Shaking my head, I cut him off. “Jeff, I know that name.” I squeezed my eyes closed but couldn’t place it. “Can you Google it?”
“Oh, sure.” I heard fingers flowing across the keys. “Oh, this is bad.”
“Tell me.”
“‘P. Donaghey’ stands for ‘Porter Donaghey.’ He was Seth Tate’s opponent in his first mayoral election.”
Now I remembered where I’d seen Paulie’s photograph before. “Paulie Cermak punched Seth Tate’s opponent in the face.”
Ethan’s eyes went as big as saucers.
“Wait, there’s more. I’ve got pictures.
Campaign events. Tate’s on the podium, and you can see Paulie in the background.”
“Send the images to Luc,” I told him. “Same way you did before.” Something else occurred to me. “Jeff, in that file you found, did it say anything about who represented Paulie? The attorney that got the file sealed, I mean?”
“Um, let me scan.” He went quiet for a moment but for a little nervous whistling.
“Oh, crap,” he finally said.
Only one lawyer made sense. “It was Tate, wasn’t it?”
“It was Tate,” Jeff confirmed. “Cermak punched Tate’s opponent, and Tate got him off.
Paulie Cermak and Tate know each other.”
The phone still pressed to my ear, I looked at Ethan. “I don’t think that’s the end of it, Jeff. If Paulie’s involved with drugs, raves, and Celina, and Paulie and Tate know each other, then how much is Tate involved with drugs, raves, and Celina?”
“What’s the theory?” Ethan quietly mouthed.
“Tate’s under pressure to reassure Chicagoans about vampires. He decides to be proactive—he helps create a problem; he helps solve the problem. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, and his poll numbers are up by twenty percent.”
“Oh, I gotta tell Chuck about this,” Jeff said.
“Can you get an arrest warrant for Tate?”
“On this little evidence? No. You don’t have anything that ties Tate to, as you said, drugs, raves, or Celina. It’s not enough that Paulie knows him.”
“Not enough? What more do you want?”
“You’re the Sentinel. Find something.”
I hung up the phone and looked at Ethan, apology in my expression.
“I knew it wasn’t over,” he said. “I knew just as well as you did yesterday. I just wanted to momentarily bask in the possibility that we could find a few hours of peace.”
“We had a few hours,” I pointed out with a smile. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing in your apartment in a T-shirt and with some serious bed hair.”
“That is true. Your bed hair is rather serious.”
“You’re funny at dusk, Sullivan.”
“And you’re adorable. I assume it’s time for you to wreak havoc again?”
“My file’s already annotated. Better more demerits in my file than more pressure on the House.” I moved up on tiptoes and pressed my lips to his cheek. “Call Luc and Malik and get them ready for the fallout. I’m going back to Paulie’s house.”
“One moment,” he said, and before I could ask him why, he was tugging my T-shirt to pull me closer. He kissed me brutally, and then pulled back so abruptly I nearly stumbled backward.
“What was that?” I asked, my voice suddenly hoarse.
He winked. “That was the kiss you owed me.
