Blood Games

Chapter Six SENTINEL SQUARED

The line outside, as eclectic as it had been, was nothing compared to the convention center’s main hall.

Artists, writers, and stars of sci-fi movies and television shows sat at dozens of rows of tables, and men, women, and children moved through the rows with excited expressions. Animated screens, movie posters, and spinning video-game signs reached fifteen feet into the air. Fans funneled in and out of giant rooms that seemed to be built entirely of rolled-up T-shirts, and inflatable characters roamed the narrow pathways like video-game monsters. Scantily clad women and men in loincloths posed for photographs. Music blared from all directions, and fans chatted over the cacophony, excitedly showing their treasures from the corners of the floor. Posters. Bags. Plushies.

It was an assault on all five senses, and probably a couple I hadn’t even known I had.

Jonah and I strolled across the floor dodging zombies, caped superheroes, anime princesses, and an awful lot of Wookies.

“This is a lot to take in,” I said, dodging a child in a small, pink Darth Vader costume who ran to her father with an autographed picture in hand. Actors from various sci-fi shows sat at long tables behind her, signing photographs and posing for pictures, pressing cheeks with fans willing to shell out the cash.

“I love a con,” he said over the din. “The energy. The love. The geekery. Where else do you get so many people passionate about so many different things in one place?”

“There is definitely a lot of energy here,” I said, as we passed a bevy of fans at the “Vampire Arts” table. I only barely glanced at it, expecting to see photos of Buffy, prints of Dracula and Edward, posters of Selena and Blade in battle mode.

I did not expect to catch sight of a plastic-wrapped print of a watercolor featuring a woman with dark hair, fangs, and familiar blue eyes.

I pulled Jonah to a stop, then yanked him toward it. Goggling, I picked it up, stared at the drawing of me.

I recognized the image—it was modeled after a photograph that had appeared in the paper above the headline “Ponytailed Avenger.” And that, by the look of it, was the title of the artwork, scrawled in thin, scratching strokes across the bottom right of the picture.

“It’s nicely done,” Jonah said.

“Archival paper,” said the young guy manning the table. He hadn’t yet looked up and was busily penning another drawing, this time of Lindsey with sunglasses and tight jeans. “Suitable for framing.”

And according to the tiny sticker in the bottom corner, very affordable. For thirty-five dollars you could take home your own Sentinel.

The artist, whose index and middle fingers were smeared with ink, looked up. “Nice costume.”

“I think you’re going to want to see this.”

I heard Jonah speak but was so flabbergasted and creeped out—and, yeah, a little flattered—by the assortment of drawings that I didn’t really hear it. Not until he said my name again, then took me by the shoulders, turned me around to face a table dotted entirely with photographs and swag featuring “Chicago’s Hunkiest Vampires.”

Photographs, prints, T-shirts, mugs, sweatshirts, blankets, and underwear, all featuring the smiling face of Ethan Sullivan.

“Dear God,” I said, dodging a pair of zombie cheerleaders to cross the busy pathway to the “Hunkiest” table, staring down at the assortment of pink, white, and pale blue panties, Ethan’s green eyes staring out from the front triangle.

I had no argument with their appreciation of Ethan; he was a miraculous specimen of vampire. A blond genetic gift. And I understood the women who’d cheered him on at the Cadogan Dash. Hot guy running? Sure, I’ll show up for that. I did show up for that. I knew there were Web sites devoted to Ethan. I might, in a moment of curious weakness, have visited Ethan SullivanIsMyMaster.net and smiled at the bloggers’ obvious adoration.

But underwear? Underwear!

“Pretty hot, isn’t he?” asked the clerk.

I was bewildered. Of course he was hot. But he was my hot. “Yes?”

“Handsome? He is utterly and completely en fuego. But I hear he’s taken. My loss, right?”

“Probably dating some skanky vampire,” said one of two girls who clutched “Master of My House” nightshirt and panty sets.

It seemed this entire episode was designed to test my grace under pressure.

“He’s dating me, actually.” The words slipped out before I thought better of it.

But they didn’t faze the shopper. She looked at me, cocked her head. “Oh, I get it. You’re doing the girlfriend—what’s her name? Megan?”

“Merit,” answered the girl at the table. “And it’s a pretty good costume.”

I opened my mouth to object, to proclaim that I wasn’t doing Ethan’s girlfriend, I was Ethan’s girlfriend, and I was doing Ethan. But I got a pinch on the arm from Jonah for my trouble. I glanced back at him, could feel my eyes silvering in irritation, caught the warning look in his expression.

“Investigation,” he quietly said. “We’re keeping it low-key.”

Oh, I’d keep it low-key, I thought, imagining for a moment the pummeling I could give these mere mortals. I’d keep it real low-key.

But that was not what Jonah had meant, so I sucked it up.

“Yeah, I’m wearing a Merit costume,” I said, with a forced smile, and strode away.

“You knew he had fans,” Jonah said when he caught up with me.

“There are fans, and there are fans. Fans buying underwear with my boyfriend’s face on them.”

“You’re awfully young to be a prude.”

“I’m not a prude. I’m just—it’s underwear.” I glanced at him. “Would you want your face on underwear?”

“No. But then again, I’m not Master of the House, dating one of Chicago’s most eligible bachelorettes, and constantly in the news.”

My expression and tone were bland. “So he asked for it?”

“I’m just saying. He’s pretty famous, and he doesn’t seem to mind it. But he obviously only has eyes for you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about anything. It’s just . . . weird. They don’t know him.”

“They’ll know him intimately pretty soon.”

“You can stop now.”

“I’m not sure that I can,” Jonah said, with a cheeky grin. “I’m having entirely too much fun. I may not ever stop. I wonder if they make blow-up Ethan Sullivan dolls.”

“I am not having this conversation with you. But I am going to find those comic books you pose for. I’m going to find them, and I’m going to display them on easels in the foyer of Grey House.”

He stopped short near a fourteen-foot-tall plastic Godzilla with waggling, inflatable arms.

“I won’t mention your ‘costume’; you don’t mention the comics gig.”

“We get to work, and we never mention this again.”

“Agreed,” he said, and, both of us mortified, we looked around the floor to get our bearings.

“Who are we seeing today?” I asked.

“Them, actually,” Jonah said, nodding to a nearby vendor stocked with weapons.

The scrolled wooden sign read FAIREMAKERS and listed an address in Schaumburg. A man and a woman worked the booth. The man, who sat at the table, had short hair and a precisely trimmed goatee, and he wore a tunic, brown pants, and soft brown boots. The woman, who stood behind him, flipping through an old-fashioned ledger, had a mass of wavy strawberry blond hair that reached halfway down her back and wore a wide circle skirt and linen peasant’s blouse. Her breasts were ample, and a round pendant lay nestled between them.

As we walked to the table, the man moved toward us with a wide grin. “Good evening. How can I help you on this lovely spring night? We have all variety of weaponry,” he said, gesturing toward the wall. There were maces, daggers, a couple of replica katanas, and several two-handled swords. Some of them looked like good replicas; some looked like well-worn antiques.

“Actually,” Jonah said, pointing at the woman behind him, “we need to talk to her.”

“Nan,” the clerk said, touching her shoulder to get her attention.

Nan turned back to us, her round face brightening at the sight of my RG partner. “Jonah! Such a pleasure. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“It’s been a while,” he agreed, then put a hand at my back. “Nan, this is Merit, Sentinel of Cadogan House.”

“Namaste,” Nan said, pressing her hands together and bowing just a little.

“Hi.” I offered a little wave.

“Nan helps source our katanas and practice weapons,” Jonah said. And since he was captain of Grey’s guards, I bet he was responsible for purchasing and arranging all those weapons.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

She looked between us. “Are you looking to buy something? We only have replicas today, but perhaps there’s something . . .” She gestured to three katanas that hung behind her, their blades shining like chrome.

“We’re just looking for information, actually. We’re trying to identify swords that were recently used in a crime.”

Nan put a hand on her chest, leaned in. “Oh my God, are you here about the murder at that church? We saw it on television last night. Horrible thing. I certainly hope you find out who did it.”

“So do we,” Jonah said. He pulled out his phone, offered her photographs of the tsubas. “Do these look familiar at all?”

Nan squinted down at the phone, then glanced surreptitiously around and pulled a pair of funky leopard reading glasses from a beaded chain hidden beneath her shirt. She fitted them on, stared down at the phone.

“These are nice. Nice pictures, and very well rendered. Good three-dimensional qualities, good detail. We tend to stay away from fish images. We prefer dragons and bamboo.”

“Any idea who does prefer fish?” Jonah asked.

“Actually, yes.” She pointed at the phone’s display. “The colored enameling’s the giveaway—it’s called cloisonné. Gained traction in Japan in the seventeen hundreds. You don’t see it very often, and when you do, it’s usually an older piece. Not many craftsmen making it these days. Did you get any photos of the edge?”

“Let me see,” Jonah said, taking the phone back and moving through pictures. “I got one—there were markings there, and I thought maybe it was an artist’s mark.”

He handed the phone back, and she peered at it, tilted her head, leaned closer.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Not an artist’s mark per se, but similar. And you got very, very lucky.”

“Oh?” Jonah asked.

She held the phone out, the photograph zoomed in on a couple of small, raised squiggles on the edge of the tsuba. “See those?”

“Looks like an ‘M’ and an ‘S,’” I said.

“Precisely. Stands for the Magic Shoppe. Located right here in Chicago. Hipsters, if you ask me.” By her flat expression and tone, she was not impressed with the Magic Shoppe. “They sell replicas, but they customize. Pick your blade length, your cording, your tsuba design. They have tsubas made at a small workshop in Kyoto, have the store’s initials added to the side.

“They also do the con circuit, but they aren’t here. No loss, in my opinion. Yes, they have good merch. Some nice pieces. But they’re disorganized. Snooty. Expensive. And despite all that, they’re convinced they’re the best vendor at any con.”

She shook her head, but smiled. “Different con, same drama. I certainly hope the store isn’t directly involved. We get enough of a bad rap as geeks and nerds. We certainly don’t need to add murder to the equation.”

“No, we don’t,” Jonah said, taking the phone from her and tucking it away again. “As always, Nan, you’ve been invaluable.”

She blushed, swished her hand in front of her face to downplay the compliment. “You stop it.”

“I’ll call you in a week or two about those bokken we were talking about.”

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” she assured him, smoothing her skirts. “Oh, and here.” She offered up two pens featuring the images of lusty wenches holding very large bastard swords.

“A little souvenir,” she said with a wink. “We look forward to serving your future melee needs.”

With the Magic Shoppe as a promising lead, we turned toward the exit and began maneuvering through the crowd. We’d nearly reached the door when I stopped short, grinned.

It seemed kismet that the last booth I’d see was an homage to Jakob’s Quest, Jeff’s favorite online role-playing game. Fifteen-foot-tall shelves were filled with green T-shirts featuring the Jakob’s Quest logo, images of the characters in battle, and quotes I assumed were from the game. There were plastic figurines, plush dolls, hats, and even bags of Jakob’s Munch trail mix, perfect for the gamer on the go.

I spied a bobblehead doll of Roland, the brown-haired warrior that Jeff preferred to play. I flicked the head, which, appropriately enough, bobbled wildly.

This had to go home with me. It was possible Jeff already had one; hell, there was a good chance he had one for each character in the game. But since his last office—my grandfather’s basement—had been torched, he probably wouldn’t argue overmuch with a new one.

“Tap the button.”

I turned to find a curvy girl with a crop of bright red hair behind me. Along with her staff credentials, she wore a JQ-appropriate costume: green tunic and tights, soft brown leather boots.

“Okay,” I said, and tapped the square button on the doll’s square plastic base.

“Bravely into battle!” said a digitized male voice. “And victory for all.”

“Oh my God, just take my money,” I said, grinning as I imagined how much Jeff would love it and shoving a wad of bills from my pocket into her hand.

“I’ll grab one that’s boxed,” the clerk said, moving back to the register.

“There you are.” I turned, found Jonah grinning at me. “Have you suddenly become a gamer?”

I answered with another tap of the bobblehead’s button. “Bravely into battle! And victory for all.”

“That’s my counter to that question.”

“Nerd,” he said with a grin.

“It’s for Jeff. I couldn’t pass it up.”

The clerk returned with a plastic bag and change. I tucked the bag under my arm, stuffed the change into my pocket.

“If you’re ready,” Jonah said with a half bow, extending an arm toward the exit.

With an offer like that . . .

We reached the doors, were about to walk through, when a hand gripped my arm. I instantly reached for my katana, and then I looked at the grabber.

She wore black leather pants and a burgundy tank that showed a lot of cleavage. Her hair was dark and straight, with a fringe of bangs and a long ponytail. Her features were voluptuous: apple cheekbones, pert nose, lush lips. In her hand was a plastic katana.

“Dear God,” I murmured, looking over the woman who apparently had tried to look like me.

“It’s not a bad costume.”

I made my way back to her face, found her expression appraising. Her lips were pursed as she looked me over.

“What?” I asked.

“The sword’s a really nice touch—did you get it at Faire Makers?—but I’m not buying the attitude. It’s not really Merit. You should be channeling your inner vampire sex warrior. Like this,” she said, then put her hands on her hips, canted out one leg, and smiled sensually.

“What?” was all I could think to say.

“Maybe a little more cleavage, too.”

“Cleavage.”

She nodded, winked. “A vampire sex warrior can never show too much cleavage.” She waved at a man who gestured to her a few feet away. “Good luck,” she said, before sauntering to greet him.

Jonah joined me, and we watched silently as she stopped to pose with a couple of teenagers in white T-shirts. They took pictures, and she signed their T-shirts and pressed lipsticky kisses to their cheeks while they stared down at her double-Ds.

“You have a doppelgänger,” he said.

“That woman had the balls to tell me I didn’t look like Merit.”

“I doubt she had balls,” Jonah said, smile wide as he took in her enviable curves. “And I told you people would think you’re in costume.”

I humphed. “I’m not in a Merit costume. I’m Merit—the actual Merit. I know how I dress.”

“But you aren’t Merit right now. Not really. Not stalwart, ass-kicking Cadogan Sentinel. You’re in Diana Prince mode.”

“Who’s Diana Prince?”

“Wonder Woman,” he said with a smile. “You’re in an investigation frame of mind, and that shows in your face, your body language. Lose the jacket, unsheathe that sword, and give her the same ragey expression you’re giving me right now, and she’ll see exactly what you’re made of.”

I considered that. “She did say I had a vampire-sex-warrior quality.”

“Since I like my very pretty face just the way it is, I’m going to leave that one alone.”

“Wise choice,” I said, and we left Merit 2.0 behind and headed for the escalator. “There could be Jonah doppelgängers walking around here, too, you know,” I said, when he fell into step beside me.

“There could be.” He smiled cheekily. “And they would undoubtedly be vampire sex warriors.”

I decided it was best not to comment. “I think I need a drink,” I said instead.

Ten minutes later, I was drinking the smallest bottle of water I’d ever seen, which Jonah had pulled from his glove box. Two good sips and I’d finished it off, but at least we’d made it back to his car, where I very much looked like Merit.

The most like Merit of anyone, as a matter of fact.

While he looked for directions to the Magic Shoppe, I checked in with the House, found the crew safe and Ethan ensconced in his office, which was fine by me. A slightly overworked vampire was a safe vampire in my book.

We were en route when my phone rang. It was Ethan, which made my heart stutter with nerves. I answered it immediately.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “But I need you back at the House.”

I felt Jonah’s gaze snap to mine, probably because of the spike of magic I’d shoved through the car. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing yet,” Ethan said. “But I expect that may change. Darius is in Chicago.”

Jonah drove me back to the House. In addition to the patience-melting stop-and-go of Chicago’s traffic, we debated the possibilities that awaited us at the House—and I interrogated Jonah just as Ethan had requested.

“By coming back to Chicago, you think he means to challenge Ethan?”

“That would be the obvious reason,” I said. “Have you heard anything about his intentions? Any rumors about GP activity against the House?”

“Not a peep,” Jonah said. “And I hope you know that I’d tell you.”

He had a point. He’d tell me—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me in transit. I gripped the armrest as Jonah stopped short to avoid hitting the minivan in front of us. The cabbie behind us honked furiously.

“Sometimes,” Jonah said, glancing into the rearview mirror and staring down the cabbie, “I wish I had a message board on my car—like the scrolling ones they use for stock reports. I’d tell this asshole I’ll eat him for lunch if he doesn’t lay off the horn. I have got to start taking the El.”

“According to the Canon, Darius could challenge Ethan to a duel,” I said. “Or a battle of wits.”

“Like, they play bar trivia for the throne?”

“I guess,” I said, wishing it would be that simple. I hadn’t been to Temple Bar, the official Cadogan House watering hole, in much too long. I’d much rather squeeze into a booth with Ethan, Darius, and a gin and tonic than watch them square off with weapons, winner take all.

The thought of it made my stomach ache. It was the note, I thought. That goddamned note that Ethan wouldn’t tell me about.

Jonah pulled in front of the House. “I’ve always liked the look of Cadogan,” he said, gaze on the building. “Always thought it had good bones.”

“It does. And good vampires. And hopefully they’ll still be safe and sound at the end of the night.”

“You want me to come in?”

I appreciated the gesture, but if Darius and the GP had turned their wrath on Cadogan House, I didn’t want that spilling onto Jonah and his friends.

“Better not,” I said, climbing out of the car. “But I’ll keep you posted.”

“Do,” he said. “I’ll call your grandfather, tell him about the Magic Shoppe. The more I think about it, the more I suspect they’ll want to do that part of the investigation themselves. Warrants and legalities, and all that.”

“Good thought. And thanks for that.”

“That’s what partners are for. Take care, Merit.”

I nodded and closed the door, and Jonah drove off into the night.