Chicagoland Vampires - Some Girls Bite Part 8

I grinned at him and sat down on the floral sofa. "No, thanks, Grandpa. I'm fine."

He sat on an ancient recliner positioned kitty-corner to the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Your father called me when the House called him." He paused. "You were attacked? Bitten?"

I nodded.

He looked me over. "And everything's okay now? You're okay?"

"I guess. I mean, I feel okay. I feel the same, except for the vampire part."

He chuckled, but his expression sobered fast enough. "Do you know about the attack on Jennifer Porter? That it was similar to your attack?"

I nodded again. "Mallory and I saw the press conference on television."

"Sure, sure." My grandfather started to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He was silent for a moment, the ticking of the wall clock the only sound in the house. He finally raised concerned eyes to mine. "Your father has asked that the police not be involved in your attack. But your name was in the paper, so the city will know that you were changed. That you're a vampire now."

"I know," I told him. "I've already gotten calls from reporters."

My grandfather nodded. "Of course. I would have expected that given your father's notoriety. Frankly, Merit, I'm not going to hinder a police investigation, not for crimes of this magnitude. I can't in good conscience do that, not when a killer is still out there.

But I have enough pull to keep the nature of your transition under wraps but for a select few detectives. If we can limit access to that information, keep it on a need-to-know basis, you won't be called out as a potential victim of this killer. We can keep the press from hounding you about it, and you can learn to live as a vampire, not just as an attack victim. Okay?"

I nodded, tears beginning to well again. Say what you wanted about my father, but I loved this man.

"Now that said, while I'm not going to parade you through a bureau office, we still need an official interview for the record." He put a gnarly hand on my knee. "So why don't you tell me what happened in your own words?"

My grandfather, the cop.

I gave him the entire tale, from my walk across campus to my conversation with Ethan, Luc, and Malik, including their Rogue- vampire hypothesis. The general public may not know about the Rogues' existence, but I wasn't about to hide that fact from my grandfather. When I was done, he asked thoughtful questions-essentially walking me through the entire few days again, but this time pulling out details Ethan, Luc, and Malik hadn't discussed, like the fact that the attacker bailed upon seeing Ethan, apparently aware of who he was and unwilling to risk a one-on-one confrontation. When we'd walked through the events twice, he sat back in his recliner and scratched what little hair remained on the perimeter of his head. For all that his mind was impeccably sharp, he looked so much the grandpa-tucked-in flannel s.h.i.+rt, twill trousers, comfortable thick-soled shoes, gleaming pate.

He sat forward again, elbows on his knees. "So the Cadogan folks have concluded that Porter's death is connected to your attack?"

"I think they're willing to consider it a possibility."

After nodding thoughtfully, Grandpa rose and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, there was a manila folder in his hand. He sat down again and opened it, then flipped through some doc.u.ments. "Twenty-seven-year-old white female. College educated. Brunette. Blue eyes. Slim build. She was attacked just after dusk, walking her dog through Grant Park. Her blood was drained, and she was left for dead." His pale blue eyes, which matched mine in color, watched me intently. "There are undeniable similarities."

I nodded, not thrilled that Grandpa agreed with Ethan's conclusion. But what was worse, the first vampire probably had meant to kill me. Which meant I was supposed to be his second victim and would have been-death by exsanguination in the middle of the quad-had Ethan not come along.

I really did owe Ethan for saving my life.

And I really didn't want to owe Ethan anything.

My grandfather reached out and patted my knee with a large callused hand. "I'd really like to know what you're thinking right now."

I frowned and picked a fingernail against the nubby fabric of the couch. "I'm alive. And I really do have Ethan Sullivan to thank for it, which is . . . disturbing." I looked up at my grandfather. "Someone was gunning for me. Because I look like Jennifer Porter? If so, why send the brick through my window? This guy wanted me dead, maybe for himself, maybe on someone else's behalf. And he's still out there." I shook my head. "Vampires coming out of the closet was bad enough. The city is not going to be prepared for this."

Grandpa patted my hand again, then rose from his chair and grabbed a jacket that lay across its arm. "Merit, let's go for a drive."

My grandfather, the man who cared for me for much of my childhood, announced to the family four years ago, following the death of my grandmother, that he was taking partial retirement. He told my sneering father that he was off the streets and would instead man a desk in the CPD's Detective Division, helping the active detectives with unsolved homicides.

But as we drove south in his gigantic Oldsmobile-think red velveteen upholstery-he confessed that he hadn't exactly told us the truth about his role with the CPD. He was still working for the city of Chicago, but in a wholly different capacity.

As it turned out, when vampires came out of the closet those eight months ago, my grandfather wasn't the least bit surprised.

"Chicago has had vamps for over a century," he said, hands at ten and two as he drove through the city's dark streets. "Navarre's been here since before the fire. Of course, the administration hasn't been in the know that long, only a few decades. But still, the Daleys knew about you. Tate knows about you. There aren't many in the upper echelon who don't." Eyes on the road, he leaned slightly sideways. "By the way, Mrs. O'Leary's cow had nothing to do with it."

"All that time and no one thought to tell the city that vampires were living among them? All that time, and no leaks? In Chicago?

That's kind of impressive, actually."

My grandfather chuckled. "If you think that's impressive, you'll love this. Vamps aren't even the tip of the supernatural iceberg.

Shape-s.h.i.+fters. Demons. Nymphs. Fairies. Trolls. The Windy City has pretty much every entry in the sup phone book. And that's where I come in."

I glanced over at him, brows raised. "What do you mean, that's where you come in?"

My grandfather started to speak, but stopped himself. "Let me start at the beginning?" I nodded.

"All these supernatural contingents-they have disputes, too. Sniping between the Houses, fairy defections, boundary disputes among the River nymphs."

"Like, the Chicago River?"

My grandfather turned the car onto a quiet residential street. "How do you think they get the river green for St. Pat's?"

"I'd a.s.sumed dye."

He huffed out a sardonic sound. "If it were only that easy. Long story short, the nymphs control the branches and channels. You have River work to do, you call them first." He held up a hand. "So you see, this isn't just domestic disputes and petty theft. These are serious issues-issues the majority of the boys in blue don't have the training, the experience, to deal with. Well, Mayor Tate wanted a way to funnel these issues down to a central location, a single office. Folks who could handle the disputes, take care of things before they could affect the rest of the city. So four years ago, he created the Ombudsman's office."

I nodded, remembering Ethan's reference. "Ethan mentioned that, said something about having Mallory talk to the Ombud. They think she has magic. That she's a witch or something."

Grandpa made a sound of interest. "You don't say. Catcher will be interested to hear that."

"Catcher?" I asked. "Is he the Ombudsman?"

My grandfather chuckled. "No, baby girl. I am."

I froze, turned my head to stare at him. "What?"

"The Mayor likes to call me a 'liaison' between the regulars and the sups. Personally, I think 'liaison' is a bulls.h.i.+t bureaucrat word.

But the Mayor asked me to serve, and I said yes. I'll admit it-I never came across any vamps or s.h.i.+fters when I walked the beat, and I was curious as all get out to meet these folks. I love this city, Merit, and don't mind making sure everybody gets a fair shake."

I shook my head. "I don't doubt that, but I don't know what to say about the rest of it. You were retired, Grandpa. You told us- you told me-that you were retired."

"I tried retirement," he said. "I even tried a stint in the evidence locker, a desk job. But I was a cop for thirty years. I couldn't do it.

Wasn't ready to give it up. Cops have lots of skills, Merit. We mediate. We problem solve. Investigate." He shrugged. "I just do it for some slightly more complicated folks now. I started at a desk in City Hall, and now I have my own staff."

He explained that he'd hired four people. The first was Marjorie, his secretary, a fifty-year-old woman who'd become battle- hardened by twenty-five years of staffing phones in one of the city's more crime-ridden police bureaus. The second was Jeff Christopher, a twenty-one-year-old computer prodigy and, as it happened, a shape-s.h.i.+fter of as-of-yet-unidentified shape. The third was Catcher Bell. Catcher was twenty-nine and, my grandfather said, gruff. Warned my grandfather: "He's pretty, but he's wily. Give him a wide berth."

"That's only three," I pointed out when my grandfather paused.

Silence, then, "There's a vampire. Housed, but his colleagues don't know he works for me. He avoids the office unless absolutely necessary. They do the groundwork," my grandfather continued, "so all I have to do is step in and play good guy." I doubted he was as uninvolved as all that, but-especially in contrast with my father-the humility was refres.h.i.+ng. "You won't believe this," he said on a gravelly chuckle, "but I'm not as spry as I used to be."

"No!" I exclaimed, feigning shock, and he laughed in response. "I can't believe you've been keeping this from us. I can't believe you've been playing with magic for four years and didn't tell me. Me! The girl who wrote about King Arthur for a living."

He patted my hand. "It wasn't you that I was trying to keep the information from."

I nodded in understanding. My father's discovery of my grandfather's secret would have led to one of two results: arranging to have my grandfather fired, or trying to manipulate my grandfather to get closer to the Mayor. Ever scheming was my father.

"Still," I said, watching through the window as the city pa.s.sed by, "you could've told me."

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm now your Ombudsman. And I'm taking you to our secret headquarters."

I looked over at him, watched him try unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "Secret, huh?"

He nodded, very officially.

"Well, then," I said. "That makes all the difference."

The office of the Ombudsman was a low, una.s.suming brick building that stood at the end of a quiet block in a middle-cla.s.s neighborhood on the city's South Side. The houses were modest but well tended, the yards surrounded with chain link fence. My grandfather parked the Olds along the curb, and I followed him up a narrow sidewalk. He tapped b.u.t.tons on an alarm keypad on the wall next to the door, then unlocked the front door with a key. The interior of the building was equally una.s.suming, and looked like it hadn't gotten a style upgrade since the late 1960s. There was a lot of orange. A lot of orange.

"They work late," I noted, the interior well lit, even given the hours.

"Creatures of the night serving creatures of the night."

"You should put that on your business cards," I suggested.

We walked past a reception area and down a central hallway, then into a room on the right. The room housed four metal desks that were placed at intervals, two back-to-back set out from each facing wall. The front and back walls were covered by rows of gunmetal gray filing cabinets. Posters lined the white walls, most of gorgeous, scantily clad women with flowing hair. The prints looked like they were part of a series: Each featured a different woman wearing a tiny sc.r.a.p of strategically placed fabric, but the "dresses" were cut in different colors, as were the pennants they held in their hands. One woman was blond, her dress blue, and she held a pennant that read "Goose Island." A second had long, raven-dark hair and was dressed in red. Her pennant read "North Branch." These, I surmised, were some of the Chicago River nymphs.

"Jeff. Catcher."

At my grandfather's voice, the men who sat at two of the desks looked up from their work. Jeff looked every bit the twenty-one- year-old computer prodigy. He was fresh-faced and cute, a tall, lanky guy with a mop of floppy brown hair. He wore trousers and a white dress s.h.i.+rt, unb.u.t.toned at the top, the sleeves rolled halfway up his lean arms, long fingers poised over an expansive set of keyboards.

Catcher had a solidly ex-military look about him-a muscular body beneath a snug olive T-s.h.i.+rt that read "Public Enemy Number One" and jeans. His head was shaved, his eyes pale green, his lips full and sensuous. Had it not been for the annoyed look on his face, I'd have said he was incredibly s.e.xy. As it was, he just looked disgruntled. Wide berth, indeed.

Jeff grinned happily at my grandfather. "Hey, Chuck. Who's this?"

My grandfather put a hand at my back and led me farther into the room. "This is my granddaughter, Merit."

Jeff's blue eyes twinkled. "Merit Merit?"

"Just Merit," I said, and stuck out a hand. "It's nice to meet you, Jeff."

Rather than reaching out to take my outstretched hand, he stared at it, then looked up at me. "You want to shake? With me?"

Confused, I glanced back at my grandfather, but before he could answer, Catcher, his gaze on a thick ancient-looking book in front of him, offered, "It's because you're a vamp. Vamps and s.h.i.+fters aren't exactly friendly."

That was news to me. But then, up until twenty minutes ago, so were the existence of s.h.i.+fters and the rest of Chicago's supernatural citizens. "Why not?"

Catcher used two fingers to turn a thick yellowed page. "Aren't you the one who's supposed to know that?"

"I've been a vamp for three days. I'm not really up on the political nuances. I haven't even had blood yet."

Jeff's eyes widened. "You haven't had blood yet? Aren't you supposed to have some kind of crazy thirst after rising? Shouldn't you be, you know, seeking out willing victims for your wicked bloodl.u.s.t?" His gaze made a quick detour to the stretch of T-s.h.i.+rt across my chest; then he grinned up at me through a lock of brown hair. "I'm O neg and completely healthy, if that matters."

I tried not to grin, but his enthusiasm over my notably un-buxom chest was endearing. "It doesn't, but thanks for the offer. I'll keep you in mind when the wicked bloodl.u.s.t hits." I looked around for a chair, found an avocado green monstrosity behind one of the two empty metal desks, and sank into it. "Tell me more about this vamp-s.h.i.+fter animosity."

Jeff shrugged negligently and went back to tinkering with a vaguely octopus-shaped stuffed animal on his desk. A buzz sounded, and my grandfather pulled a cell phone from a hip holster, took a look at the caller ID screen, then glanced up at me. "I need to take this. Catcher and Jeff will get you started." He looked at Catcher. "She's trustworthy, and she's mine. She can know everything that's not marked Level One."

At my smile and nod, he turned and disappeared through the door.

I had no idea what Level One was, but I was pretty sure that was the stuff I'd really want to know. Or it was the stuff that would scare the c.r.a.p out of me, so it was probably better not to press the point today.

"Now you can get the real scoop," Jeff said with a grin.

Catcher snorted and closed his book, then slid back in his chair and linked his hands behind his head. "You met any vamps yet?

Beyond Sullivan, I mean?"

I stared at him. "How did you-"

"Your name was in the paper. You're Cadogan's vamp, which mean's you're Sullivan's vamp."

My skin p.r.i.c.kled. "I am not Sullivan's-"

But Catcher waved a hand. "Babe, not the point. The point is, and I'm guessing from that bristly tone you've met Sullivan and you understand at least the basics of vamp politics, that your people, and I use that term loosely, are a little particular."

I gave him a sly smile. "I've gotten that sense, yeah."

"Well, s.h.i.+fters aren't. s.h.i.+fters are happy. They're people; then they're animals; then they're people again. What's not to be happy about? They live with their friends. They drink. They ride their Harleys. They party in Alaska. They have hot s.h.i.+fter s.e.x."

At that revelation, Jeff winged up his eyebrows at me, an invitation in his eyes. I bit down on a grin and shook my head sternly in response. Apparently unruffled, he shrugged and turned back to his computer. Happily.

"Vampires, on the other hand," Catcher continued, "play chess with the world. Should we let people know about us, or shouldn't we? Are we friends with this House or that one? Do we bite people, or don't we bite people? Eek!" He bit down on a crooked finger dramatically.

"Wait," I said, holding up a hand, remembering something Ethan had said about Cadogan vamps. "Stop there. What's the story with the biting?"

Catcher scratched absently at his head. "Well, Merit, a long, long time ago-"

"On a continent far, far away," Jeff threw in.

Catcher chuckled, the sound low and sensual. "Way back when, Europe got p.i.s.sy about its vamps. Figured out that aspen stakes and sunlight were the best treatment for an overabundance of vamps and took out most of the fanged population of Europe. Long story short, vamps eventually formed the precursor to the Greenwich Presidium, which made the survivors take an oath never to bite another unwilling human." He smirked. "Instead, in true, manipulative vamp form, they found people who could be blackmailed, bribed, glamoured, whatever into giving it up for free."