Part 3 (1/2)
Ethan was on the phone. He nodded at Luc, then me, and raised his index finger as if to signal the call wouldn't take long.
”Of course,” he said. ”I understand completely.” He pointed at the two chairs in front of his desk.
Obediently, Luc took the one on the right. I took the one on the left.
”Yes, sire,” he said. ”The information is before me as we speak.” As Master of Cadogan House, Ethan got the honorific ”liege,” but ”sire” was a mystery. I looked at Luc.
He leaned toward me. ”Darius,” he whispered, and I nodded my understanding. That would be Darius West, head of the Greenwich Presidium.
”We've considered that,” Ethan said, nodding his head and scribbling something on a tablet on his desk, ”but you know the risks. Personally, I advise against it.” There was more nodding, then Ethan's shoulders stiffened and he looked up.
And looked directly at me.
”Yes,” Ethan said, hauntingly green eyes on mine, ”we can certainly explore that route.”
I swallowed reflexively, not comforted by the possibility that I was a ”route” to ”explore.”
”Whatever this is,” Luc said, leaning over again, ”you're not going to like it.”
”I'm really not going to like it,” I quietly agreed. There were a few more minutes of nodding and validating before Ethan said his goodbyes. He replaced the receiver in its cradle and then looked at us, a tiny line between his eyes. I'd seen that tiny line before. Generally, it wasn't a good sign.
”TheChicago World Weekly ,” he began, ”with its apparent interest in vampire activities, will be investigating the raves. They'll publish a three-part series, one story per week, beginning next Friday.”
”d.a.m.n,” Luc said, before sharing a weighty look with Ethan that suggested he knew why that was a problem.
I guessed these were the ”underground” details Luc had been waiting for. Unfortunately, they didn't mean much to me. I'd heard a reference to vampire raves before; Catcher had mentioned them once, then refused to give me any details. My subsequent research in theCanon was equally unproductive.
Whatever they were, vamps weren't chatty about them.
I raised a hand. ”Raves? They're investigating parties?”
”Not parties,” Luc said. ”Humans actually borrowed the term from us. Raves in the supernatural world are definitely gatherings, but they're much . . .” He trailed off, s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably in his chair, and looked at Ethan, who then looked at me.
”Bloodier,” Ethan matter-of-factly said. ”They're bloodier.”
Raves, Ethan explained, were the vampire version of flash mobs. They were, essentially, ma.s.s feedings.
Vampires were informed (electronically, of course) where and when to meet, and awaiting them would be a group of humans. Humans who believed in us, even before we announced our existence to theworld. Humans who wanted to be near us, to savor the element of the darkly forbidden.
Of course, given the b.u.mper stickers and pennants and Lindsey's new position as reigning vampire cover girl, I wasn't sure how ”darkly forbidden” we were.
”They want to be part of our world, to see and be seen,” Ethan said, ”but they didn't necessarily want our fangs in or near their carotids. But that's what happens. Drinking.”
”Feasting,” Luc added.
”Surely some humans do consent to the drinking,” I suggested, glancing from Luc to Ethan. ”I mean, they walk willingly into some kind of vampire feeding. It's not like they're heading out for a garden party. And we've all seenUnderworld . I'm sure there are humans who find that kind of thing . . . appealing.”
Ethan nodded. ”Some humans consent because they want to ingratiate themselves to vampires, because they believe they're positioning themselves to serve as Renfields-servants-or because they find an erotic appeal.”
”They think it's hot,” Luc simplified.
”They believe that dabbling in our world is hot,” Ethan sardonically corrected. ”But raves take place outside the oversight of these vampires' Masters. Agreeing to spend time in the company of vampires may indicate consent for a sip or two. But if a vampire is willing to partic.i.p.ate in activities of this nature-activities forbidden by the Houses-he or she is unlikely to abide by the request of a human to stop drinking.” He gazed solemnly at me. ”And we know how crucial consent is when human blood is at stake.”
I knew about consent, largely because I hadn't been able to give any. Because Ethan had given me immortality in order to save me from Celina's flunkies, and that split-second decision hadn't allowed him time for deliberation. I understood the sense of violation that came with the unrequested bite . . .
especially when the vampire wasn't interested in just a sip or two.
”After they're relieved of a few pints of blood,” Luc said, ”to add insult to injury, the vamps often attempt to glamour the humans to make them forget what happened. To forget the supernatural a.s.sault and battery. And let's be frank-raving vampires aren't usually at the top of the vampire food chain. That means they usually aren't very good at the glamouring.”
The ability to glamour a human-to bring a human under the vampire's control-was an indicator of a vampire's psychic power, which was one of the three measures of a vampire's strength, Strat (alliances) and Phys (physical strength) being the other two. I couldn't glamour worth a d.a.m.n, at least not the couple of times I'd tried to make it happen. But I seemed to have some kind of resistance tobeing glamoured, which was one of the many reasons Celina Desaulniers was none too fond of me. She was a queen of glamouring, and it must have gotten under her skin to know that I wasn't susceptible to her control.
So, to review, not only were humans made unwitting vampire snacks, the perps weren't even verygood vampires. None of that added up to a scenario that many humans would find comfortable. I didn't find it comfortable, and I hadn't been human in nearly two months. Humans had agreed to live with us on the understanding that most vampires no longer drank from people but utilized blood that was donated, sold, or delivered in sterile plastic by businesses like Blood4You. Only four of the twelve American Houses, including Cadogan, still partic.i.p.ated in the ritual of drinking straight from the tap. But those that drank did so in an officially sanctioned way-inside the House, after careful screening and after consent forms had been signed and notarized. In triplicate. (Personally, I was far from mentally or emotionally prepared to sip from anything other than plastic.) Unfortunately, vampires who drank from humans were considered out of sync, or at least that was the image perpetuated by Celina when she'd organized the vampire coming-out. Vamps drinking en ma.s.se and without oversight, even if the humans had consented to a sip, was a PR nightmare waiting to happen.
Since vampires who chose to drink from humans were supposed to follow those cover-your-a.s.s safeguards, this blossoming PR nightmare begged a question: ”Which Houses partic.i.p.ate in the raves?” I asked.
”None of them, theoretically,” Luc muttered, prompting a sympathetic nod from Ethan.
”As you know, a handful of the Houses remain pro-drinking,” Ethan answered. ”But none of the Housescondone raves.”
”Could be sneaky Housed vamps or Rogues,” Luc added, referring to the few vampires who lived outside the House system. ”Maybe wandering vamps from other cities, other countries. Add those groups together and you've got a hornet's nest of thirsty vampires and naive, wannabe humans. Bad combination.”
I crossed my arms and glanced at Ethan. ”I understand your concerns, but is there a reason the House Sentinel is only hearing about these raves now?”
”We don't exactly advertise them,” Ethan mildly replied. ”However, now that you are in the know, we believe there are services you can provide.” He pulled a gray folder to the top of the stack of papers on his desk, then flipped it open, revealing paper-clipped doc.u.ments that were topped by a small color photograph.
”We understand the reporter is currently doing his background research.” Ethan lifted the picture and flipped it around to show me. ”And I believe you two are acquainted.”
I reached out, gingerly took the picture from Ethan, and stared at the familiar image. ”h.e.l.lo, Jamie.”
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE PRE-PARTY PLANNING COMMITTEE.
” He's the youngest Breckenridge,” I told Ethan and Luc, who'd swiveled in his seat to watch me pace the length of Ethan's office and back. ”The youngest of four boys.” I stopped pacing, stared down at the photograph between my fingers, and tried to recall the math. ”Nicholas is three years older. Then Finley, and Michael's the oldest.”
”Nicholas is your age?” Ethan asked.
I glanced back at him. ”Yes. Twenty-eight.”
”And how long did you two see each other?”
I resisted the urge to ask how he knew Nicholas and I had been an item, realizing that Ethan was at least as well connected as my money-hungry father and was equally keen a purveyor of information. I'd wondered if Ethan was my grandfather's secret source. At the very least, his access to information was as deep.
”Nearly two years while we were in high school,” I told him.
Nicholas Etherell Arbuckle Breckenridge (and yes, his brothers and mine had tortured him about the name) had been totally dreamy-wavy brown hair, blue eyes, Romeo in our junior production of Shakespeare, editor of the school paper. He was funny, confident, and heir, if you didn't count Michael and Finley, to the fortune that was Breckenridge Industries.