“Hey,” I said, a little shyly. I hadn’t seen Jonah in a few days, and I spent so much time dealing with drama on behalf of Cadogan House that I didn’t have much time to serve as his partner in the RG.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s the House?”
“Nervous. They don’t like Ethan being out of reach. How’s Scott?”
“Fine. Pissed. There are a few Grey House vamps out there tonight. He didn’t want them to come but didn’t bar them outright.”
“Ditto at Cadogan.”
Jonah nodded. “Let’s get moving.”
We walked down the street and toward the plaza, each step bringing us closer to the noise and magic.
“Who organized this?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “Word of mouth, I assume.”
It was a completely rational assumption, but that didn’t make me feel any better about walking into it.
“Plan?” I asked him, now forced to raise my voice to account for the noise.
“We’re monitoring. We’re here as peacekeepers, and we’ll stay on the perimeter. Help anyone who looks like they’re in trouble, or help disperse the crowd if things get dangerous.”
I’d left my katana in the car—all the better to keep the CPD from harassing me about it—but the dagger was tucked into my boot. It was the only weapon I’d have if things got ugly. On the other hand, if things got ugly here, even a sword might not have helped.
Daley Plaza was open on three sides, bounded by Clark, Dear- born, and Washington streets and the Daley Center. It was a large expanse of concrete, punctuated by an insectlike metal Picasso sculpture reaching fifty feet into the air and a square fountain currently closed for the winter.
The plaza was packed with people, the crowd thick and heavy like deep water, so that each person was leaned or shoved into his or her neighbors, sending the wave forward.
Cops in black gear were visible on the edges, as were a few journalists with video cameras on their shoulders, and a few vampires standing in pairs outside the main crush. RG members, I thought, trying to keep the city’s supernaturals safe.
“There are a lot of people here,” he said.
“There are. And a lot of magic.” It was rising and falling like the movement of a symphony, raising uncomfortable prickles on my arms. “Itchy magic,” I said, scratching absently at the back of one hand.
It occurred to me that I was probably within telepathic distance of Ethan, and I called out to him silently but could practically feel the words bouncing back to me. Too much magical interference, perhaps.
“Let’s walk the perimeter,” he said, and I nodded, fell into step beside him. The night was cold, but the crush of bodies in front of us worked like a furnace to push heat in our direction.
The crowd was diverse, from obviously smitten teenagers who grinned with excitement at the cause to vampires and shifters I didn’t recognize, wearing bleak expressions and repeating their pleas for Ethan’s relief over and over and over again.
“Your man has a lot of support,” Jonah said.
“The cause has support,” I corrected, stopping short when two twentysomethings in coats and scarves bounded out of a cab and into the fray with neon posters demanding supernatural rights and Ethan’s release. “I can’t believe how many of them know who Ethan is.”
“He has fan sites, Merit.”
I stopped, looked at him, and found a bemused expression on his face. “He does not.”
“Next time you’re online, look up EthanSullivanIsMyMaster-dot-net. It has fan fiction. You’re not doing a very good job of keeping up with Ethan’s many admirers.”
“There is no such place, and there is no such fan fiction.”
This time, he stopped and looked at me, his expression flat.
My mind whirled at the possibility of hordes of human women lusting over my very vampiric boyfriend. I decided I found it endearing, since I wasn’t worried about his fidelity. Although my Internet research was clearly lacking. I made a mental note to catch up when I had some free time.
Still, the reminder of Ethan dimmed my mood. “Do you think they’ll release him?”
“In his lifetime? Yes. Unfortunately, that lifetime may last an eternity.”
Not exactly the most inspiring of thoughts.
We passed a man and woman who wore Midnight High T-shirts beneath unbuttoned coats. The man was tall and gaunt, with pale skin and thick sideburns; the woman was petite, with dark skin and curls. He was Horace, a Civil War volunteer and member of the Red Guard. I hadn’t yet learned her name.
Horace exchanged the slightest of nods with Jonah as we passed. An acknowledgment of our membership, our partnership, our vampiric fence around the plaza.
We edged around the perimeter and turned to the other side of the crowd just as a woman, petite and dark haired, walked up the sidewalk in a satin coat and four-inch platform shoes, a red dress visible beneath and a cloak of magic flowing around her.
She was barely five feet tall, but with each step, another man or woman in her vicinity trained their eyes on her, awestruck. Like all nymphs, she had the big-eyed beauty of an anime character.
I glanced at Jonah, saw the same glazed expression on his face.
“River nymph approaching,” I warned, a little late. “Although I forget which part of the river she controls.”
“North Branch,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Her name’s Cassie.”
Cassie looked up, discovered us standing there, and rushed over in her platform heels, her coat swirling behind her.
“You’re Chuck’s granddaughter!” she said as she batted her lashes. But when she looked at Jonah, her smile turned pouty. “Where’s Jeff?”
I winced sympathetically for Jonah and for any other man in Chicago who was not Jeff Christopher. Geek or not, he had a way with the nymphs.
“He’s not here tonight. I’m sorry.”
Tears bloomed in her large eyes, and her lower lip quivered.
I did not have time for a nymph on a crying jag. “Jeff mentioned you,” I said. “Just last night. Said he thought you were terribly pretty.”
She clasped her hands together with obvious glee. “Did he?”
“He did,” I assured her, then glanced cautiously at the roaring crowd. I wasn’t sure that was exactly River nymph territory. “Are you here for the protest?”
“I am,” she said brightly. “There’s a party tonight. I got a gorgeous invitation!”