? ? ?
Ethan was Master of the House and one of the twelve members of America’s reigning vampire council.
But there was nothing vaguely obedient—or even very polite—in the angry stares Luc and Malik sent him from their unified front in Ethan’s office. They stood side by side, a wall of frustration matched against the Master who’d endangered himself. As much as they hated Reed, they were pissed at Ethan.
Ethan hadn’t changed clothes, but he’d taken off the bow tie and jacket, unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The coiffing he’d done earlier had loosened its grip on his hair, and it waved like golden sunlight around his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and firm mouth.
“We’ve taken a big enough hit tonight,” Luc said. “You and Merit, particularly, don’t need to take another risk by going out again.”
“And there are supplicants in the foyer,” Malik pointed out.
“There are,” Ethan acknowledged. “And I will apologize to them personally. But we can’t ignore another instance of alchemy. Especially since it seems what we have upstairs is only part of the story.”
“You could send someone else,” Luc pointed out.
Ethan shook his head. “Merit found the first alchemy, and she’s familiar with the symbols. She has a rapport with Annabelle, and she can defend herself if the sorcerer shows up.” He slid his gaze to me, over the invisible wall between us. “And she’s not leaving without me.
“Yes, I let Reed provoke me, and he’ll almost certainly try again. We can’t stop that until we stop him. But if we stay here and put our heads in the sand—we also play into his hands. That’s what has allowed him to gain as much power as he currently holds. That’s what he’s counting on.”
Malik and Luc looked at each other, and then Luc slid his gaze to me. “Sentinel, your analysis?”
“As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right.”
“Not entirely flattering,” Ethan murmured, rolling up one of his shirtsleeves.
“Wasn’t meant to be,” I assured him, the tension still heavy between us. I looked at Luc and Malik. “He knows how to provoke us, how to play with emotions. That’s what he does. It’s what he’s good at.”
“Balthasar,” Malik said, and I nodded.
“Exactly. And yeah, he likes to wax poetical about the game we’re playing, the chess match, whatever. He likes to screw with people. But we know he has a bigger plan. Lore admitted it. Reed admitted it, with all that messiah complex nonsense about saving Chicago. Whatever he has planned, we aren’t the focus. I think moments like this—this drama he orchestrated at the Botanic Garden—they’re part of his sideshow. He had CPD officers waiting for us. There’s no way they’d have gotten there so quickly otherwise. But they weren’t the main event, because we aren’t the main event. The alchemy, the plan. That’s the main event. That’s why we have to go tonight, because that’s what Reed cares about. That’s what he’s trying to distract us from. If we don’t go, we help him win.”
There was silence for a moment.
“That’s not bad, Sentinel.” Luc wiped a faux tear away. “I’m actually pretty proud.”
“I had good teachers. But let’s not get too cocky,” I said, and pulled out my phone, handed it to Ethan. “Call my grandfather,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Tell him where we’re going. And then let’s get this show on the road.”
Wisely, he didn’t argue.
? ? ?
Annabelle asked us to meet her at Mount Rider Cemetery, which was located on the city’s far northwest side. My grandfather promised to meet us there—or to send Jeff or Catcher, depending on who could get there quickest. We gave her a heads-up in case we weren’t the first to arrive, then climbed into the car again.
Unlike Longwood, with its chain-link fence and fallen headstones, Mount Rider was as much park as cemetery, its rolling hills landscaped and artfully dotted with trees, shrubs, and reflecting pools. The monuments were tall enough to be war memorials, with plenty of weeping angels and marble obelisks.
Annabelle was still in her car when we arrived, and there was no sign of Ombuddy yet. It took a good fifteen seconds—and an offered hand from Ethan—for her to unwedge herself from behind the steering wheel of her Subaru. “Three more weeks,” she said, locking the door behind her. “Just three more weeks.”
“Your first child?” Ethan asked.
“Second,” she said, adjusting the long, drapey wrap she’d worn over a tank and long jersey-knit skirt. “Marley’s a very precocious four right now. My husband, Cliff, stays at home with her. She is very eager to be a big sister, and he is very excited about having another little one in the house.” She smiled. “I am excited about being able to stand up without assistance. But enough about me.” She glanced around. “No Ombudsman?”