Blood Games

Chapter Fourteen FILL IT ’TIL YOU SPILL IT

It was late, and most of the restaurants and shops on Division were locked up tight for the night. But lights shined brightly in the “all-nite” pizza joint and the bar next door, and the store that sat beside them in a small strip.

“The Magic Shoppe” was painted across the front glass in old-fashioned gold letters that looked like they’d been chiseled. Although the lights were on, the store looked empty. Mallory squinted as she peered through the glass, then tapped a fist against the door.

It took a few minutes—and another round of tapping—before a tall man, as lean as a whipcord—walked up one of the long aisles. He wore a snug plaid shirt and corduroys, and his brown hair was cut into a short Caesar. His face was long, his chin covered in a thick goatee, and there were bags under his eyes.

Late for him, I guessed.

He had a clipboard and large round key ring in hand, and he stuck the clipboard under his arm to unlock the door. He pulled it, the mechanism squealing in protest and a leather strap with a bell jangling.

“Hey, Mallory,” he said. “Long time no see. Come on in.”

“Hey, Curt. It’s been a while,” she agreed. I followed her inside. “Trying to work off my current stock. The store looks good,” she said, glancing around.

It looked much like Jonah had described it. The store was long and narrow, the floor made of scarred wooden planks, the walls lined in wooden bead board. A long wooden counter filled the left side of the room, its backer mirrored and edged in fluted wooden columns that reached from the floor to the ceiling of the wall behind it. “Smithson Pharmacy” was etched in faded gold letters across the top of the mirror, and on glass apothecary jars of mysterious substances. The right-hand side of the store was lined with shelves, and the weapons FaireMaker Nan had mentioned hung high along the back wall. Katanas, wakizashi, daggers, sais. There was an array to choose from, and at least far away, they looked like quality instruments.

The place smelled witchy—the scents of dust and paper mixed with the bright fragrance of dried plants and herbs.

“Business is good,” he agreed. “Although I’m tired tonight.”

Mallory nodded sympathetically. “We appreciate your opening up the store.”

“You said something about tarot cards?”

“Yeah. We actually think they’re being used in a crime. I wanted to show Merit your stash, maybe get your thoughts?”

He scratched the back of his head, yawned hugely—and sourly—while he led us to a glass case in the back of the store. He pointed at it. “Cards are in there. I’m right in the middle of a count. Let me get someone to help you.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Actually, before you go, a question—Mitzy Burrows. What do you think of her?”

His expression went guarded. “The CPD has already asked me about Mitzy. They asked all of us.”

“And I’m sure they appreciate your cooperation. It’s just—someone else was killed. We really need to find her.”

“Someone else was . . .” He began to talk, but then shook his head. “Look, nobody was perfect. But she wouldn’t kill anybody. She certainly wouldn’t kill two people.”

“You were friends?”

Something flashed in his eyes. “We were, and I’m not going to stand around gossiping about her. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t work here anymore, so what she does isn’t my business. And frankly, I don’t see that it’s any of yours.”

Mallory waited until he was gone. “He’s tense.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “And maybe a little bitter. Did you see his eyes? There was something there when you asked if they were friends.”

“You’re thinking ex-friends?”

“Or ex–something else.”

Mallory nodded, gestured to the glass case he’d pointed out, and we made our way toward it.

Boxes of cards were displayed in tidy rows, from oversized cards that could have doubled as door hangers to a deck of cards half as big as a credit card. The art varied from fantastic to art nouveau, and so did the price. The decks ranged from a few dollars to several hundred.

“The Rider-Waite,” Mallory said, pointing to a yellow box. “Probably the classic American tarot card. Old-fashioned artwork, lots of delicious symbolism.”

Most telling was the empty spot in the third row.

“Someone bought a box of tarot cards recently,” Mallory said. “And they haven’t restocked yet.”

“Inventory,” said a woman behind us.

We turned around, found a petite human with her dark hair pulled into a topknot, the tips of her ears shaped into delicate elf-like points. She wasn’t an elf—or magic at all, as far as I could tell—so the ears must have been an homage. She wore a black skirt over chevron tights, clunky boots with thick, flat soles, and a shirt with short, puffy sleeves. She also carried a clipboard, a yellow pencil tucked beneath the silver clip.

“I’m Skylar-Katherine Tyler,” she said.

“Hi, Skylar. I’m Mallory, and this is Merit.”

“Skylar-Katherine.”

Mallory blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“My name is Skylar-Katherine. With a hyphen. Middle name Mary Francis. Last name Tyler. Skylar-Katherine Mary Francis Tyler.”

That seemed like a lot of letters to lay on a kid. More power to her for remembering them in order. “I bet when you were little you could never find one of those little license plates with your name. I certainly couldn’t.”

Skylar-Katherine stared at me. “You’re asking about the tarot cards. We had a Fletcher deck. Sold it a week ago.”

Excitement built, and I saw the gleam of success in Mallory’s eyes. It was the right deck and the right timing—a week before both of the murders.

“You haven’t replaced it yet?” I wondered. “I understood you bought the back stock?”

Skylar-Katherine nodded. “We did.” She gestured toward the stockroom. “Inventory. We’re not bringing anything else out until we’ve counted everything.”

“Could you tell us who bought the deck?” Mallory asked.

“Our customers like their privacy. Not everyone who shops here likes that fact announced to the public.”

Mal’s blue eyes flashed with irritation. “I’m one of your customers, and normally I’d agree with you. But we think the deck was used to commit a crime.”

Skylar-Katherine looked us over, and she didn’t seem impressed. “You’re not cops.”

“We’re working with the CPD and the Ombudsman’s office,” Mallory said. “We thought your staff and customers would prefer a visit from us—people who know the ropes—instead of police in uniforms. I don’t imagine that would be very good for business.”

Skylar-Katherine looked irritated, but she must have recognized the logic. “Fine,” she said. “Give me a minute.”

“Damn,” I said, as she disappeared through the door. “That was seriously impressive.”

“I have mad skills. But, you know, if Mitzy really did this, she could have just taken the box. There may not be a receipt.”

True, but I doubted Skylar-Katherine wanted to answer our questions about Mitzy. On the other hand . . . “If Mitzy—or any other employee—was going to take a deck, why take it from the display box? They’d know it was missing. They could have lifted it from the back room.”

“True,” she said.

I shrugged. “We’ll want to see the receipt either way.”

When Skylar-Katherine emerged a minute later with a slip of paper in her hand, I decided they should be paying Mallory a lot. At least until she spoke.

“The receipts from a week ago are already in storage. Inventory,” she said again, this time her tone haggard. “This is the manager’s name and address. You want the information, you’ll have to talk to him.”

“Will he be available later today?” Mallory asked.

“He might be. He might not.”

“Let me guess,” Mallory said, tucking the paper away. “Inventory.”

Mallory chatted with Skylar-Katherine about a deal on phoenix feathers (or so I guessed) while I perused the store. It was an opportunity I couldn’t exactly pass up.

Every time I thought I’d begun to get a handle on the world of the supernatural, something surprised me. In this particular case, it was the half dozen shelves of jars that apparently held ingredients for charms and spells.

Shakespeare had been right: “Eye of newt” was really a thing, as were toe of frog, wool of bat, and lizard’s leg. I decided to believe the newt, bat, frog, and lizard had been thoroughly compensated for their contributions to the magical arts, because they didn’t look especially content as their bits floated in yellowish liquid.

“I think we’re all done,” Mallory said when she joined me.

“Do you buy this stuff?”

She glanced at the shelves. “Sometimes. I really like to browse, but I try not to pay retail,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “You go through a lot of stuff, you need to keep an eye on the coin. I use Spellseller.com quite a bit. It’s cheaper, free shipping, points with every purchase. Although . . . ,” she said, trailing off as she picked up a white box with “Wolfsbane” printed in calligraphy on the end.

Mallory opened the box but then closed it and returned it to the shelf. “Hey, Skylar-Katherine!” she called out.

A pause, then “What?” echoed through the store.

“The wolfsbane. Do you have any more in stock?”

“Isn’t that poisonous?” I asked, vaguely remembering a warning Catcher had given.

“Deadly to shifters in large quantities, but according to Berna, pretty useful in smaller doses. And hella hard to find online.” Berna was a shifter, aunt to the Apex of the North American Central Pack, and a damn good cook.

Skylar-Katherine appeared at the end of the row. “Empty box?”

Mallory nodded as Skylar-Katherine checked her clipboard. I guess the inventory had been useful after all. “Not at the moment. Hey, Curt!”

“Yeah?”

“Wolfsbane?”

He appeared on the other end of the row, a stack of boxes in hand. “What about it?”

“You got any restock in the back? They need some.”

Curt looked at Mallory appraisingly. “That’s dangerous stuff. Could make someone sick.”

“I’m all but licensed,” she said. “And it won’t be for humans, if you catch my drift.”

“Okay. Just so you know. There’s a shipment from our herbalist coming in day after tomorrow. It should be on that truck.” He adjusted his boxes, scratched his cheek. “We can hold it for you.”

“Might be after hours before I can get over here.”

Skylar-Katherine tapped the clipboard, walked toward the back of the store. “We’ll be here. Inventory.”

“When was the last time you ate?” Mallory asked as the bell rang us out and Curt locked the door again.

“I had a bite of breakfast. And several madeleines. But I should probably get back to the House. I can grab something on the way.” I needed to process what we’d learned, update Luc and Jonah, find out whether we’d heard anything else about Darius.

“You probably should get back to the House,” she agreed as we walked back down Division. “But right now you’re with me, and I’m starving, and you have to eat anyway, and I’m jealous.”

That stopped me in the middle of the sidewalk. “Jealous? Of what?”

“Of Ethan. Of Jonah.” She cleared her throat self-consciously. “Of Lindsey. We’re getting our shit back together—I’m getting my shit back together—and I miss you.”

“You do recall that I had to move into Cadogan House in the first place because you invited Catcher in?”

“Young love,” she blandly said. “It had been a really long time since I’d been with someone who got me the way that he gets me. I kind of dived headfirst into it.”

“You did,” I agreed. “And I don’t fault you for that. But I didn’t pick teams. I just needed a place to live. Furniture that Catcher hadn’t been bare-ass naked on.”

“He and Ethan were friends,” Mallory pointed out. “There’s no telling how bare that ass has been in Cadogan House.”

“Don’t want to think about it.”

“I just—I miss you. And I’d like us to spend more time together. Maybe I can’t make up for that lost time, for choosing dicks over chicks, so to speak, but I’d like to see you more often.”

She said it so shyly, so meekly, that I nearly got teary-eyed. But I’d had enough near-tear moments in the last few days, so I sucked it up.

“You’re right—I have to eat, and you’ll definitely be better company than Darth Sullivan. I can check in with the House while we eat. And speaking of”—I glanced around the darkened streets—“there’s not much open around here.”

“Oh, but there is,” she said, turning around so she walked backward in front of me. “Do you remember what we’ve always talked about? Our dream restaurant?”

“The All You Can Eat Bacon Hut?”

“The other one.”

I searched my memory, stopped still. “No.”

Mallory stopped in front of me, grinned. “Yes.”

“No freaking way.”

She nodded briskly. “Uh-huh. Some restaurateurs are doing a ‘beta test’ or something, and it’s only two blocks away.”

This time, I tucked my arm in hers. “In that case, let’s eat.”

It was the concept of our dreams, born after one too many nights at restaurants that offered rice bowls of the Choose Your Own Adventure variety.

But what if the bowl wasn’t just rice? What if it wasn’t just faux Chinese or Tex-Mex?

What if the bowl could hold anything?

We’d spent one warm spring night on her stingy back porch with cheap blush wine and her current incarnation of a boyfriend, and we’d set out a plan: a restaurant in which you could assemble the bowl of your dreams. The bowl of your deepest longings. From shepherd’s pie to a barbecue sundae, seven-layer dip or a trifle of cakes and berries if that floated your boat. There’d be cold stations, hot stations, and plenty of snacks.

We’d called it “Baller Bowl.” And it was going to be legendary.

The restaurateurs called it “Layers,” and they’d built it in a long, narrow space with exposed-brick walls and small tables in front of an equally long oak banquette.

A man with black disks in his earlobes and wearing a snug plaid shirt brought cups of water and two sturdy white bowls to our table.

“Welcome to Layers, ladies.” He reached for silverware in the black apron around his neck. “Spoon, fork, or spork?”

Mallory and I looked at each other, eyes wide. “Sporks,” we simultaneously said as our dreams came true.

The waiter put two silver sporks on the table. “Hot bars on the right, cold bars on the left. One trip per bowl, and each bowl’s ten dollars. Fill it ’til you spill it,” he added, pointing at the motto on the wall behind us, and left us to work our magic.

I walked Mallory back to the town house with a belly full of layers—heavy on the mashed potatoes, lardons, peas, and grilled chicken.

We reached the front porch, turned to face each other like teenagers at the end of an evening. “Now that you’ve fed me, I should get back to the House. Do me a favor? Don’t tell anyone about the proposal thing. Especially not Catcher. I don’t think I’m up for that kind of teasing.”

“Like he would tease you about that.”

I gave her a flat look, and she waved away her argument.

“You’re right. He’d be unmerciful. We’ll wait until Darth Sullivan pops the question and plants a two-carat”—she paused to let me argue with the prediction, but I just shrugged—“or four-carat or whatever ring on your finger, and let Catcher torture him instead. That seems safest.”

“I appreciate it.”

She flapped her hands. “Come here,” she said. “Give me a hug before you leave.”

She squeezed so hard I coughed, vampire healing or not. At the sound, she pulled back, looked at me.

“Sorry. It’s just—we’ve been off our game for a really long time, because I was a crazy witch for a really long time. And yes, I said ‘witch,’” she snarked, eyes narrowed. “And I saw that damn Tribune article. But we’re getting back there, because you’re giving me more chances than I deserve. And that means a lot to me.”

“It means a lot to me, too, Mallory.”

She went inside, and I heard the strain of the television and the snap and jangle of the door’s several locks.

So much for taking out the trash.

Cadogan glowed quietly in the dark of Hyde Park as I drove back into the basement parking area. The Ops Room was closest, so I dropped by there first, found Luc at the conference table reviewing documents in a binder, Lindsey and the others at the computer stations.

Luc glanced up when I walked in, tapped an unsharpened pencil on the tabletop. “What’s the good word, Sentinel?”

I took a seat. “The obelisk was magicked by someone with knowledge of magic, ability to improvise. Could be a sorcerer, could be not a sorcerer.”

“Not very helpful,” he said.

“No, it’s not, at least without more. But we did confirm the Magic Shoppe sold a Fletcher tarot deck last week. They’re going to look for the receipts, but they’re already boxed up. The store’s doing inventory. Mallory’s got the manager’s contact information. She’ll give him a call, and hopefully that will lead somewhere.”

“Good work.”

“What about you?” I quietly asked, leaning forward. “Have you spoken with him?”

The sudden tightness in his eyes told me they’d talked, and Luc wasn’t comfortable sharing the details.

“Just tell me—is he in danger?”

“I don’t believe so. I don’t,” he added, when I gave him a look. “He didn’t tell me all the details. Just hinted at the edge of it.”

Somehow, that was more of a punch than his not talking to anyone at all. He’d talk to the head of his guard corps about his past, and what he was about to face, but not his Sentinel? Not his future fiancée? What the hell was going on? What was he trying to hide, or hoping I didn’t find out about?

“This is really pissing me off,” I said.

The phone in the middle of the conference table rang—two short chirps—and Luc picked it up, lifted it to his ear.

“We’ll be right up,” he said, put the receiver down again, looked up at me. “It’s time. Darius is about to make an announcement.”

We were on the stairs when the message went out, when Helen announced over the rarely used Cadogan House intercom that Darius was making a statement, and vampires were welcome to watch in the televisions in the front parlors and ballroom.

By the time we got to the first floor, vampires were already gathering in the front parlors, where televisions had been turned on and tuned in.

History would be made today, one way or another.

It was the tenor we weren’t sure about.

My phone signaled, and I pulled it out, found a message from Jonah.

YOU TUNED IN?

ON MY WAY TO ETHAN’S OFFICE, I answered. GREY HOUSE WATCHING?

WITH BATED BREATH. HOPING SOMEONE MAKES A RATIONAL DECISION FOR ONCE.

IT WOULD MAKE A NICE CHANGE, I agreed. SORRY I INTERRUPTED YOUR DATE. GOOD ONE?

MORE FISH IN THE SEA was his response. I guess she’d learned he didn’t sparkle.

We walked to Ethan’s office, found the door cracked open, Malik, Helen, and Margot already in the sitting area, eyes on the television mounted above the bookshelves. The screen showed a pale green background, “Greenwich Presidium” written across it in neat black script.

Ethan stood slightly apart from the rest of them, hands on his hips, his hair tied back, the ends curling just below the back of his starched collar. His shoulders were rigid, bearing once again, I knew, the mantle of authority that so often weighed on him. But it was a mantle he wore willingly. It was a weight he honored and would wear for the American and European Houses if the GP would allow it.

And tonight, I supposed, we’d see about that.

I blew out a breath, prepared myself for whatever might come, and walked inside behind Luc and Lindsey.

Margot was closest to the door. She reached out and took my hand as I walked in, squeezing in solidarity. Say what you would about the asses in the GP, the vampires of Cadogan House were a solid bunch.

Helen looked up, nodded before turning back to the television. I let Luc and Lindsey take the remaining chairs, and I stood beside Ethan.

He turned and glanced at me, his eyes swirling silver with emotion. With bated hope, fear, readiness for the fight. For taking up arms and facing down enemies, instead of politicking, threatening, backbiting. God knew Ethan could politick with the best of them, had been politicking for much of his four hundred years, and with extra intensity the last few weeks. But he was still an alpha. Words had their place, but alphas preferred to get to the goddamned fight.

I saw that in his eyes now, that relief that things might move forward, even if going forward might be exponentially more dangerous.

Unfortunately, there was something else there: need. There was only a foot of actual distance between us, but the emotional wall might have been a thousand miles high. It was built of bricks of his past, mortared together with his pride, his fear.

I needed, as Mallory had suggested, a surprise play. Something to shake him out of his rhythm, and the very crappy coping mechanism he was using right now. I hadn’t yet figured out what that might be.

Maybe, for right now, kindness would be enough. I reached out across the distance, above the wall, and took his hand, squeezed, kept my eyes level on his. I was still angry; he was still angry. But we were still us.

“Here we go,” Luc said, and we looked back at the television. The green faded and Darius filled the screen.

His blue eyes looked sharp again, bright and clear. He wore a starched, striped shirt, and a little of the cockiness was back in his gaze.

He sat in a chair behind a large, pale desk dotted with antiques. A tapestry hung on the wall behind him.

“His office,” Ethan quietly said.

He adjusted the microphone at his lapel, linked his hands on the desk, and looked into the camera.

“Good evening, vampires. I hope this message finds you with peace, with prosperity, and with growth and renewal as spring spreads across our lands.

“I have, in the many years of my reign, done what I believed was necessary to keep the vampires within my authority safe and secure. Those decisions were sanctified by some, questioned by others. Some decisions had unintended consequences. But never doubt that they were meant to secure the safety of all vampires. Individual humans, individual vampires”—he paused but kept his gaze steady—“individual Houses, were not my concern. Our kind was and ever is my concern.

“You will by now have heard that I was recently in the United States, and not entirely of my own accord. Our investigation is ongoing but suffice it to say that when it is done, the perpetrators will be held fully accountable for their crimes. And they will give their immortality in payment.”

Goose bumps lifted on my arms at the deadly calm in his eyes. I’d seen Darius at his worst; at his best, there was no question of his power and authority.

“The vampires that found me—that relieved me of the magic that kept me prisoner—represented Cabot House and Cadogan House. One vampire lost his life in the effort to save me. Others faced danger unflinchingly in order to see me home again. For their acts of bravery, I commend the Houses and their Masters.

“In particular, that the vampires of Cadogan House searched me out when they had no obligation to me or us, when they are no longer members of our union, is noteworthy. Their behavior was exemplary, and they deserve our thanks—and mine.”

I realized our hands were still linked when Ethan squeezed my hand. Magic—pleased, relieved, and utterly validated—spilled across the room. After a long war, after standing as the enemy for so many for so long, we were no longer anathema.

“But the past is past,” Darius said. “We must, as we have done for eons, move forward.” He looked down at the desktop for a moment, a breach in his composure, and then lifted his eyes to the screen again, his sadness obvious.

“Life, immortal or otherwise, is seldom what we expect it will be. But that is no matter. The leader of this union of vampires must show him- or herself as strong, capable, fearless, and above reproach. I am saddened to admit that I have not fulfilled those roles.

“As such, I intend to step down as leader of the Greenwich Presidium. As you may be aware, challenges to my rule have already been issued.”

“Challenges?” I quietly murmured. “Plural?”

“So it seems,” Ethan said, gaze on the screen, eyes narrowed with concentration.

“As I am stepping down, I have no need of a formal response to those challenges. Rather, those who have challenged me will be deemed candidates for this position. Testing will begin immediately—psychological and physical. The vampires with the top three scores will be placed on the ballot to all our Houses. The winner will take my place. Lakshmi Rao, acting Council Prelect, will oversee the process.”

“It’s a bloodless coup,” Luc said, awe in his voice. “No duels or anything else—and moving right into a traditional testing process.”

Not entirely, I thought. No blood had been spilled today, but plenty had been spilled in the recent past.

“In Europe,” Darius continued, “standing for nomination will be Danica Cummings, Teresa Perez, and Albert Christian.” Danica was one of the current GP members. The other names weren’t familiar to me.

“And in the United States, standing for nomination will be Ethan Sullivan . . . and Nicole Heart.”

Nicole Heart was a vampire I had heard the name of before. She was the head of Atlanta’s Heart House, another American Master, and apparently the only other American challenging Darius for the throne.

It should have been a magical moment. It should have been a time of excitement, of preparation, of plans for what would come.

But instead, there was only fury—an angry, biting ball of magic that rose with such fervor the floor vibrated with it. The entire House shook on its foundations, as if Chicago had become suddenly situated above a fault line. A vase hit the floor. Photographs toppled.

The center of the magic, the eye of the storm, stood beside me.

All eyes turned to Ethan . . . and the green fire raging in his eyes.