My heart softened, and I ached for him. My chest hurt with it; my stomach was raw with it. “Not telling me about your past doesn’t protect me. It doesn’t shield me from anything but the truth of who you are.”
Silence. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said, his voice growing thicker, his words slower. “But the past is immutable. Only the future can be written.”
The shutters closed over the windows, and the sun rose again, as it always did. And we fell into slumber beside each other with nothing else resolved.
Chapter Thirteen
EAT YOUR HEART OUT
Ethan was gone when I rose, the remains of breakfast on the tray Margot usually left by the door at sunset. An empty bottle of blood, crumbs from a croissant. He’d left me a second bottle and pastry, and a trio of lusciously red strawberries that made me glad spring was on its way.
I sat down at the small desk in the sitting area, glanced at the folded Tribune that sat beside the tray. Samantha Ingram’s murder was the main story, and the headline was telling: WOULD-BE VAMP KILLED—SUPERNATURALS AT FAULT?
On the other hand, reading through the story, it looked like the reporter hadn’t yet made the connection between the sword and pentacle murders. Not that several cops, an Ombudsman, two vamps, a sorcerer, and a shifter had made the connection, either. It took a sorceress with a love of all things weird and witchy.
When I felt prepared to face the night, I checked my phone, found messages waiting.
Mallory had worked her particular magic. YOU’RE LUCKY, she’d said. THE MAGIC SHOPPE HAS OVERNIGHT INVENTORY TONIGHT; THEY’LL BE EXPECTING US.
I arranged to meet her in an hour, traffic depending, at her Wicker Park home.
My grandfather had also sent a message: There was, unfortunately, still no sign of Mitzy Burrows. But they had confirmed—and quickly this time—that Samantha Ingram had been given Rohypnol, just like Brett.
Both victims had been drugged, killed, laid out in very public spaces, their bodies arranged like scenes in a very particular type of tarot card. Both had been marked with small blue crosses. Those were particular, unusual, and supernatural elements. But why? Because the killer loved magic? Or hated it? Or did the killer not care either way, but wanted to take out a handful of people, and found the city’s supernaturals very convenient scapegoats?
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the answers. I did have a sword and a fast car, and no specific interest in talking to Ethan yet tonight. So I sent him and Luc a message, advised them of my travel plans, and grabbed my jacket and sword.
* * *
I headed north toward Wicker Park. Mallory and Catcher lived in the town house I’d once shared with her, a home she’d inherited when her only living relative, an aunt, had passed away. It still held her aunt’s flowery and comfy furniture, although Catcher had upgraded the audio equipment, and Catcher had transformed the musty and spider-laden basement into a spell-crafting room worthy of Martha Stewart.
I took the opportunity to call Jonah and check in.
“Hey,” he slowly said. “Thanks for calling me, Grandma. Hold on just a minute.”
I blinked at the non sequitur—and the muffled words I couldn’t make out in the interim—but kept my eyes on the road. “I’m holding and assume you’ll explain what this is momentarily.”
“Absolutely, Grandma.”
More muffled words, followed by the squeak of furniture and shuffling. The reason for the pretense belatedly occurred to me.
“You’re on a date!”
“I am sorry I missed your birthday, Grandma, and I’m glad you called so we could talk it over.”
“Is she cute? Ooh, is she human? River nymph?” It was immature, but flustering him was fun. It also helped our relationship from becoming too awkward, since he’d once expressed feelings for me.
“Uncool, Merit.”
I grinned. “You called me your grandmother. Which I take to mean you’re dating a human, since I’m not aware you have any living relatives.”
“First date,” he admitted. “I found it didn’t work so well when I told girls I was a vampire right off the bat.”
“Twilight effect?”
“Twilight effect,” he agreed. “They get bummed when I show up without brown hair, pale skin, a moody expression, and sparkles.”
“And how’s it going?”
“It’s going. And since it’s going, what can I do for you?”
“Sorry, small update: They found Rohypnol in Samantha Ingram’s system, too.”
“Another connection between the murders.”
“Yeah. I’m heading to the Magic Shoppe right now to take a look-see with Mallory.”
“Excellent. You get on that, and give me an update when you can. Go team. And I’m hanging up now, because my date is beginning to look at me suspiciously.”
“Just wait until she sees your fangs, sunshine.”
* * *
Wicker Park was technically part of the West Town neighborhood and had a main street full of quirky shops, restaurants, and bars. The streets were quiet tonight, although humans still stood outside bars, cigarettes in hand, and music still pumped from the open doorways of clubs.
Parking in Wicker Park, like in most Chicago neighborhoods, was tricky. Mallory was one of the lucky few to have a garage behind her town house, but the small drive was filled by her and Catcher’s vehicles.
I cruised for a few minutes, just in case rock-star-quality parking was available outside her town house, but gave up and parked Moneypenny a block away. The spot wasn’t ideal; I’d wedged her in between a truck and an SUV whose drivers I hoped were good at squeaking their way out of parallel spots without bumping the cars around them. But at least the piles of snow were nearly gone, and I didn’t have to climb a gray wall of ice and gravel in order to make it to the sidewalk.
I walked to the house, climbed the front steps, and knocked on the door. Catcher answered it a moment later, a frilly apron tied around his waist.
I opened my mouth, closed it again. Settled on, “There are hardly words.”
“Oh, good. Vampire humor. You should really think about doing stand-up.”
I spiraled a finger in the air, pointing at the apron. It featured cats knitting, although I wasn’t sure how they managed to hold knitting needles in their little paws. “The apron,” I said. “Let’s discuss.”
“I’m making cookies. I didn’t want to ruin my shirt. It was in a drawer.”