Midnight Marked: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (10 page)

I swallowed heavily, playing up my fear, then looked back at the man again. He looked very pleased.

“I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage,” Ethan said, understanding exactly the game to be played. “I take it you’re Cyrius?”

“Cyrius Lore. I manage this club.”

“For who?”

“For whoever the fuck I want. It’s no business of yours. The fact is, you came into my club with an old password. I don’t like interlopers in my club.”

“Surprising, since you’ll allow virtually anything else.”

Ethan’s words were slow and dangerous, but Cyrius snorted. “You think I’m intimidated by you because you’re head of some vamp house? No. I manage a club; you manage a club. That makes us equals, far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t allow my vampires to harm innocents in my ‘club.’”

Cyrius held up his hands defensively. “What happens among consenting adults is their business, not mine. I don’t police what happens here.”

I didn’t buy that everyone here was consenting, or that Cyrius didn’t know exactly what went on in his club.

But that was irrelevant, because he’d just shown us the only bit of business that mattered. On the inside of his right forearm was a forest green tattoo—an ouroboros, an old and circular symbol made up of a snake eating its tail.

It was the symbol of the Circle . . . and therefore of Adrien Reed.

Son of a bitch.
Cyrius’s ink,
I said to Ethan, and watched his gaze slip discreetly from Cyrius’s face to the symbol on his arm.

Cyrius Lore managed La Douleur, and the Circle managed Cyrius Lore. If we were right about the alchemical symbols, this was part of the sorcerer’s territory. We had a link between Adrian Reed and the sorcerer, the alchemy. Reed’s sorcerer and the alchemy sorcerer weren’t two different people. They were one and the same, part of his criminal organization. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

And once again, it raised questions about Caleb Franklin. Had he known about the Circle? About Reed?

Probably sensing our magic, Cyrius nodded and the vamp stepped closer, unsheathed her katana with a dull whistle of sound. I’d bet the edge was dull, too. She really needed to take better care of her blade.

She stepped forward, put the blade against my neck.

Maybe it was the place, maybe it was Reed. Maybe it was the residual effect of Ethan’s magic. Whatever the reason, my blood began to hum beneath the cold steel, aching to fight. Ethan tensed with concern, but my adrenaline was already flowing.

Focus on him,
I said silently.
She’s mine.

“Now,” Cyrius said. “Why don’t you tell me why the fuck you’re in my place when you weren’t invited?”

“We want information about Caleb Franklin.”

Cyrius frowned, which didn’t do his mug any favors. “The fuck is Caleb Franklin?”

“A shifter under the protection of Gabriel Keene,” Ethan said. Not entirely the truth, given the defection, but true enough for our purposes. “He’s dead.”

“I don’t know shit about him or who killed him.”

“He lived nearby,” Ethan said.

“We’re in Chicagoland. Few million people live nearby. I know nothing about him, which means you’ve wasted your time and mine.” Ugly or not, Cyrius’s face didn’t show any hint he was lying. Maybe he was just a good liar.

But the vampire was another matter. I didn’t need to see her face to know she had knowledge; the fizz of magic in the air was enough.

“What makes you think you have the right to walk into my place, disrupt my club, and ask me questions about anything?”

The vampire adjusted her position. Her sword was still at my neck, but she’d moved closer to Ethan, and her eyes were on him. In lust, in fascination, in hope. Maybe she had a crush on our photogenic Master. I could probably use that. And considering the current position of her sword, wouldn’t feel bad about exploiting it.

“I had the password,” Ethan said drolly.

“Your password is garbage.” Cyrius linked his hands on the table. “You know the penalty for trespassing?”

Ethan’s gaze flicked to the tattoo, up again. “For trespassing on Reed’s land, you mean?”

Cyrius shifted his arm to hide his ink, and his face went beet red. Maybe because of anger he’d been challenged, but more likely because of fear. Reed wouldn’t be happy that we’d discovered his bordello.

He offered a mirthless laugh, full of false confidence. “You don’t know shit about shit. But you just wrote your ticket out of here in a body bag.”

It was the kind of lead-in I’d probably heard a dozen times. The prelude to a command of violence to be meted out by someone else, by their weapon and their sweat.

And I was ready for it.

Cyrius signaled the vampire with a flick of his finger, a death penalty handed down with no effort on his part. I understood he believed us a threat—and he was right about that—but I didn’t have respect for people too lazy to fight their own battles.

Duck,
I told Ethan, and when the vampire shifted her weight to bring the sword to bear, I moved. I put my hands on the arm of the chair, pushed up my weight, and as Ethan dodged, twisted and kicked. I caught her shoulder, sent her stumbling backward.

Ethan vaulted from his seat, jumped toward Cyrius, who’d pulled open a desk drawer. I caught the glint of metal, felt the buzz of steel in my bones. He had a gun.

Damn it. My arm had only just stopped aching. I did not want to get shot again this week. I’d let Ethan handle that one.

You got him?
I asked Ethan.

I’ve got him. She’s yours.

Damn right she was.

I unsheathed my katana as the vampire regained her footing. I could give credit where credit was due: She’d held on to her sword, and was resetting to face me again.

Good. That would make the fight more interesting.

“You should tell me your name,” I said, raising my blade so it hovered in the air between us. “I mean, if we’re going to fight like this.”

She lifted her chin. “Leona.”

“Merit,” I said.

“I know who you are. The spoiled little rich girl.”

There weren’t many insults that would hit me dead-on, but that was one of them. I felt the sting, opened my mouth to argue that I wasn’t spoiled. And while I was mentally trying to justify my existence, she moved.

She wasn’t as fast as me, but she was big, all of it muscle that gave her plenty of power. Smiling, she moved forward, holding the sword aloft the way a knight might have carried a broadsword. She sliced down, the katana whistling by my head as I ducked away.

I’d barely pivoted when she tried another strike. Her arms were long, and she had a lengthy reach. I hopped onto a stack of the file boxes, jumped over the arc of the katana she swung at my feet. That made three strikes in a row for her, whereas I hadn’t managed one since my initial kick.

I considered using that as strategy—letting her wear herself out while I tried to stay in front of her. But that wouldn’t be much fun.

I bounced up and flipped over her head, spun my katana horizontal, and sliced across her torso. The blade caught leather, carved right through it, and stripped a line of crimson across pale skin.

She roared with agony and fury, brought the katana’s pommel down hard onto the arm I’d injured the night before. Pain jolted through my arm—a needle-sharp stab surrounded by a column of deep, dull ache. Tears sprang to my eyes, an involuntary reaction, and my knees went wobbly.

“Little rich girl,” she said, fairly singing it as I groped for the nearest column of boxes, tried to keep myself upright while my brain struggled back against pain.

Sentinel?

I’m fine,
I said, risking a glance at him and Cyrius. Ethan had gotten the gun away; it was tucked into his jeans. But Cyrius had found a pearl-handled knife and was thrusting it toward Ethan.

You could use the gun on him,
I pointed out.

How dull that would be,
Ethan said, dodging a thrust.
You need help?

That question was enough to have me rolling my shoulder, demanding my brain ignore the pain. I adjusted my fingers around the katana’s handle.

“It’s my father’s money,” I said. “Not mine.”

“Like it matters. All you Housed vampires are the same. You think you’re better than everyone else.”

This time, I wasn’t going to wait for her to nail me again. I took the offensive, moving forward, setting the pace and driving her back. I sliced horizontally, and she met my sword, blade against blade, the strike of steel against steel
clanging
through the air. I struck again, switching up my positions and direction.

Leona was bigger than me. I wouldn’t beat her with sheer strength, and maybe not with stamina. But I was faster and better trained, and could probably force her into a bad move.

“You know,” I said, “Reed’s got plenty of money, too. It doesn’t make sense you hate me, but work for him.”

Leona scoffed, spittle at the corners of her mouth as she worked to counter my strikes. “I don’t work for Adrien Reed. He’s a
businessman
.”

She used the world like a shield. “Yeah, keep saying that if it eases your conscience. But you know it’s only half right.” I switched up my attack, went for my favorite shot—a side kick that she batted away with an enormous hand. She tried to grab my ankle, but I cleared her, then spun and brought the katana around again.

Another clang of metal against metal. The sound made my teeth ache and my chest tighten with concern. The katana’s cutting edge was sharp, hard steel. It was designed to slice and too brittle for prolonged blade-on-blade strikes.

Another overhead strike—one of her favorites. This time, I spun the blade in my hand to raise the spine, which was less brittle, into the blow to protect the sword’s integrity. I still had to deal with Catcher, after all.

The woman had power, and the shock of impact passed through me like one of Mr. Leeds’s concussions. But it must have passed through her, too. When she raised the sword again, her muscles quivered with effort.

We’d reached the desk again, and I jumped onto one of the chairs, then over it, putting space between us.

She kicked the chair out of the way, stalked forward, spinning the katana in her hand.

“Did you know who killed Caleb Franklin?” I asked her.

“No,” she said, but the answer was belied by her fumble with the katana.

“Was he murdered to protect the alchemy?” Or given what we’d learned tonight, “Or to protect Reed?”

That was enough to have her lunging forward, the sword raised again.

Leona might not have been as good at bluffing as Cyrius was, but she was a hell of a lot braver and probably more loyal. I wasn’t sure I’d actually be able to get any information out of her.

Darling?

Ethan’s question, polite and casually curious, had me biting back a smile. He might as well have asked when I’d be home for dinner.

In front of me, Leona swayed side to side, shifting her body weight as she prepared to move. She looked tired, and I’d managed to get in a couple of deeper cuts. They’d heal, but use precious resources in the meantime.

Nearly done,
I said, and glanced left, as if accidentally signaling my next move.

She took the bait, dodging left. I spun into a low kick and this time nailed my target. I kicked her legs out from under her. She hit the floor hard enough to make the building shake, her head bouncing once against concrete, her eyes rolling back.

I snatched up her katana, pointed both swords at her. Her chest rose and fell slowly. She was out cold.

My enemy vanquished, I glanced back at Ethan, found him standing over Cyrius. This time, Ethan had both the gun and the dagger. Cyrius sat on the floor, legs splayed in front of him, holding his arm at an awkward angle. Ethan looked healthy enough.

I walked to Cyrius’s desk, pulled open a drawer, found exactly what I’d expected to find: a pair of silver handcuffs.

It seemed likely I’d find some in a place dedicated to kink. But I decided not to think too carefully about how they’d been used before.

I walked back to Leona, pulled her hands in front of her, and cuffed her. She was too heavy to flip over; besides, I planned to be long gone before she woke.

“He answer your questions?” I asked, when I’d blown the bangs out of my eyes and walked back to Ethan.

“He did not.”

I grinned predatorily at Cyrius. “Can I have him?”

“No!” Cyrius said, which made Ethan grin.

“Not yet, Sentinel. Let’s see, first, if he’ll identify our murderer. Cyrius?”

When the man didn’t answer, I knelt in front of him, rested my elbows on my knees. “He asked you a question. Answer him, or he’ll give you to me. And you don’t want that.”

“That good-cop, bad-cop shit don’t work on me,” Cyrius said. But beads of sweat had popped across his forehead, and the words seemed to stick in his throat.

Ethan kept his expression mild. “You don’t get it, Cyrius. We’re
both
bad cops.” He held up the weapons he’d confiscated from Cyrius, gestured toward my swords. “Tell me about Reed.”

“He’ll kill me.”

“No, he
might
kill you,” Ethan said with a terrifying smile. “We definitely will.”

We wouldn’t, of course. Not a man unarmed, who’d been no real threat to us even when he’d been pretending otherwise. But he didn’t need to know that.

Cyrius wet his lips.

“You only get one chance to answer,” I warned him, patting his knee collegially before I rose again. “So choose that answer carefully.”

“He’s right,” Cyrius muttered, wiping his face with the forearm of his uninjured hand. “You’re monsters. No better than anyone else. He’ll fix it. He’ll fix all this. Bring some goddamn order to the world. Make things right again.”

Ethan’s brows lifted. “Is that the story Reed’s been telling you? That if he was dictator, if he ruled Chicago, life would be better for you?”

“He’ll clean up the streets.”

“He’ll continue to
pollute
the streets,” Ethan said. “He’s a crime lord, for God’s sake. He doesn’t belong in charge any more than Capone did.”