We'd said hurtful things, things that put an obstacle between us. We'd talked since then, but that breach was still there, a barrier that seemed impassable, at least for now.
It was perhaps the most frustrating kind of breakup - when the person you loved lived down the street, in the same building, or across town but they were still inaccessible to you.
I couldn't bring myself to call her. It didn't seem right - like a call would have violated a silence we'd agreed upon. That's what put me in my car two hours before sunrise - two hours before the sun would send me deep into unconsciousness (and worse, if I wasn't careful)
- heading north from Hyde Park to Wicker Park, Mallory's neighborhood.
I swore to myself that I wouldn't drive past the brownstone we had shared; that seemed a little too stalkerish even for me. Besides - seeing the lights on, the glare from the television, the shadow of people in front of the picture window - would only make me that much more miserable. Her life wasn't just supposed to go on. I know it sounded petty, but this was supposed to be hard for her, too. She should have been grieving, as well. Instead, I stayed on Lake Shore Drive. I drove past her exit, the Lake on my right, then turned off the radio and rolled down the window. I drove until I'd run out of street. And then I pulled over.
I parked and got out of the car, then leaned back against it and stared out at the water. With much-needed space between me and Wicker Park and Cadogan House, I let down the defenses I'd erected, and let the sounds and smells of three million people, not to mention vampires and shifters and fairies and nymphs, take me over.
And in that noise and ocean of sensation, I lost myself for a little while, finding the blankness, the anonymity I needed. I stayed there, my gaze on the water, until I was ready to go home again.
The House was still lit when I returned, the vampires inside not yet settled in against the rising of the sun.
The mercenary fairies who guarded the gate stood quiet and still outside it. One of them nodded when I walked past. After I made it through the gate and onto the House's blocks-wide grounds, I stopped and glanced up at the sky. It was still an inky indigo black. It was a little while yet until dawn.
My soul was quieter than it had been when I left, but I wasn't quite ready to go back inside. Instead, I stepped onto the lawn and headed across it, then around the House. Cadogan's backyard was like a playground for night-bound vampires - barbecue, pool, and fountain inside a neatly trimmed garden. It was empty now, the vampires - even if not asleep - already indoors.
I walked to the kidney-shaped pool, then knelt beside it and trickled my fingers across the surface of the water. I didn't look up when I heard soft footsteps.
"It's a nice evening," he said.
"Yes, it is." I flicked the water from my fingers, then stood up again. Ethan stood on the other side of the water in his suit pants and shirt, hands in his pants pockets, hair tucked behind his ears, gold Cadogan medal peeking from the triangle of skin at the hollow of his neck.
"You left?"
I nodded. "For a little while. Just to clear my head." He cocked his head at me. "Shifters?"
I assumed he was asking if they were the reason I needed space. "Sorcerers," I corrected.
"Ah," he said, then lowered his gaze to the water. "Mallory?"
"Yeah. Mallory." He knew we'd fought. I didn't think he knew that he'd been what we'd fought over - part of it, anyway. Ethan crossed his arms over his chest. "The transition can be a challenge for friends. For loved ones."
"Yes, it most definitely can," I agreed, then opted to change the subject. "What are you doing out here?
Shifters?"
"Yeah," he mimicked, a hint of a smile on his face. "Shifters."
"Maybe the shifters have it right," I said. "I mean, heading off into the woods, keeping to themselves."
"Your theory being that if you don't have contact with anyone, you can't be hurt by them?" That was a very astute conclusion for a four-hundred-year-old vampire who usually seemed clueless about human emotion. "That would be the idea, yes." This time, when he looked at me, there was sadness in his eyes. "I don't want to see you become cold, Merit."
"Not wanting to be hurt isn't the same as becoming cold."
"Not at first," he said. He walked to a low brick wall that surrounded the pool and leaned back upon it, ankles crossed in front of him, arms still crossed. And then he looked at me, the pool lights making his eyes glow like a cat's.
"Now that you've finally completed the change, beware the creep of insensitivity. Humans accept the concept of death; they may not wish for it, but they recognize that the decay of the human body is inevitable. Vampires, on the other hand, have the possibility of immortality. They implore strategy to protect it, and they often forget about the details of life between the change and the aspen stake."
He shook his head. "You are a wonder of vampiric strength, yet you treasure your humanity and care greatly about those who were in your life before your change. Stay that way," he said. "Stay just the way you are."
"Quit flirting with me, Sullivan," I said dryly, but I wasn't kidding. Ethan was seductive enough when he was being snarky; I wasn't prepared for complimentary Ethan.
"I'm being completely honest," Ethan said, lifting a hand and holding up two fingers. "Scout's honor." I made a doubtful noise, then glanced up at the sky. As the earth turned on its axis, the indigo of evening was beginning to shift and lighten.
"We should get inside," I suggested. "Unless you want to test your sunlight allergy defenses?"
"I'll pass," Ethan said, standing and holding out a hand. I walked past him, across the backyard and to the brick patio that spanned the back of the House, then to the back door. When we reached the door, he reached to grasp the handle, but then paused.
I glanced over at him.
"I'm not your father, you know."
It took me a moment to find words. "Excuse me?"
"I'm capable of giving you a compliment and being completely sincere about it." I opened my mouth to snipe back, but I realized he had a pretty good point. Offering a compliment to goad someone into doing something was just the kind of thing my father would do. I gave Ethan credit for recognizing the difference.
"Then thank you," I told him, a hint of a smile at my lips.
He nodded graciously. "You're welcome. I'll see you in the evening."
"Good night, Sullivan."
"Good night, Sentinel."