Part 17 (1/2)
It was nearly midnight when I made it to Wicker Park, but I got lucky, finding a corner grocery with its neon OPEN sign still blazing in the window. I grabbed a bottle of wine and a chocolate torte, my calorie-laden contribution to Mallory's not-going-that-far-away party.
On my way north, I tried to shrug off the job tension. It wasn't that I was the first girl to have boss issues, but how many bosses were four-hundred-year-old Master vampires or sword-wielding sorcerers? It didn't help that the same sword-wielding sorcerer was one-fourth of Mal's party.
Once in the 'hood, I opted to leave my sword in the car. Since I was off duty and off Cadogan House turf, it was unlikely that I'd need it and, more importantly, the act felt like a tiny rebellion. A wonderful rebellion. A rebellion I needed.
Mal opened the door as soon as I popped up the steps. ”Hi, honey,” she said. ”Bad day at the office?”I held up booze and chocolate.
”I'll take that as a yes,” she said, holding open the door for me. When I was inside and the door was closed and locked behind us, I handed over the gifts.
”Chocolate and booze,” she said. ”You do know how to woo a girl. You've got mail, by the way.” She bobbed her head toward the side table, then headed for the kitchen.
”Thanks,” I mumbled after her, picking up the pile. Apparently the post office hadn't completely caught up with my change of address. I set aside magazines, interesting catalogs and bills, and dumped credit card offers addressed to ”Merit, Vampire” into a pile for shredding. There was also a wedding invitation from a cousin and, at the bottom of the stack, a small crimson envelope.
I flipped it over. The envelope was blank but for my name and address, both written in elegant white calligraphy. I slid a finger beneath the flap and found a thick, cream-colored card tucked inside. I pulled it out. It bore a single phrase in the same calligraphy, this time in bloodred ink: YOU ARE INVITED.
That was it. No event, no date, no time, and the back was completely blank. The card contained nothing but the phrase, as if the writer had forgotten, mid-invite, exactly what party she'd been inviting me to.
”Weird,” I muttered. But the folks my parents hung out with could be a little flighty; maybe the printer was in a hurry, couldn't finish the stack. Whatever the reason, I stuffed the half-finished invite back into the pile, dropped the pile back on the table, and headed for the kitchen.
”So, my boss,” I said, ”is kind of an a.s.s.”
”Which boss did you mean?” Catcher stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He glanced back at me. ”The a.s.shole vampire or the a.s.shole sorcerer?”
”Oh, I think the name applies pretty well to either.” I took a seat at the kitchen island.
”Don't take Darth Sullivan personally,” Mallory said, twisting a corkscrew into the wine like a seasoned expert. ”And really don't take Catcher personally. He's full of s.h.i.+t.”
”That's charming, Mallory,” he said.
Mallory winked at me and filled three winegla.s.ses. We clinked, and I took a sip. Not bad for a last-minute quick-stop find. ”What's on the menu for dinner?”
”Salmon, asparagus, rice,” Catcher said, ”and probably too much talk about girly s.h.i.+t and vampires.”
I appreciated the light mood. If he could leave our issues in the Sparring Room back in Cadogan House, I could, too. ”You are aware that you're dating girly, right?” I asked. Mal may have loved soccer and the occult, but she was all girly-girl, from the blue hair to the patent leather flats.
Mal rolled her eyes. ”Our Mr. Bell is in denial about certain issues.”
”It's lotion, Mallory, for G.o.d's sake.” Catcher used a long, flat spatula and the tips of his fingers to flip salmon in his saute pan.
”Lotion?” I asked, crossing my legs on the island stool and prepping for some good drama. I could always appreciate being the audience for a domestic squabble that had nothing to do with me. And G.o.d knows Mal and Catcher were a constant source-I'd been able to give up TMZ completely, my need for gossip sated by Carmichael-Bell disputes.
”She has, like, fourteen kinds of lotion.” He had trouble getting out the words, his shock and chagrin at Mallory's moisturizer stockpile apparently that intense.
Mallory waved her gla.s.s at me. ”Tell him.”
”Women moisturize,” I reminded him. ”Different lotions for different body parts, different scents for different occasions.”
”Different thicknesses for different seasons,” Mallory added. ”It's pretty complicated, actually.”
Catcher dumped a cutting board of trimmed asparagus into a steamer pot. ”It'slotion . I'm pretty sure science has advanced to the point that you can buy a single bottle that will take care of all that.”
”Missing the point,” I said.
”He's missing the point,” Mallory parroted. ”You're totally missing the point.”
Catcher snorted and turned to face us, arms crossed over a Marquette T-s.h.i.+rt. ”You two would agree that the world is flat if it meant you could gang up on me.”
Mallory bobbed her head. ”True. That is true.”I nodded and grinned at Catcher. ”That's what makes us awesome. A force of nature.”
”What's bad about this conversation,” Catcher said, pointing at Mallory as he stalked toward her, then waggling his finger between their bodies, ”is that we're dating. You're supposed to side with me.”
Mallory burst out laughing, just in time for Catcher to reach her and nab her gla.s.s of wine before Cabernet sloshed over the top. ”Catch, you're a boy. I've known you for like a week.” Two months, actually, but who was counting? ”I've known Merit for years. I mean, the s.e.x is great and all, but she's my BFF.”
For the first time since I'd known Catcher, he was speechless. Oh, he sputtered a little, tried to get something out, but Mallory's p.r.o.nouncement stopped him short. He looked to me for help. If I hadn't been amused, the desperation in his eyes would have moved me.
”You're the one that moved in, Slugger,” I said with a shrug. ”She's right. Maybe next time you should do a little of that famous Bell investigatory work before you sign up for the full ride.”
”You two are impossible,” he said, but wrapped his free arm around Mal's waist and pressed his lips to her temple. Just as I was visited by a pang of jealousy that tightened my stomach, I heard a car door shut outside.
”Morgan's here,” I said, uncrossing my legs and bounding off my stool. I glanced back at both of them and pressed my hands together. ”Please, for the love of G.o.d, have clothes on when I get back.”
I smoothed my hair as I traveled the hallway, then pulled open the front door. He'd parked an SUV in front of the brownstone.
Correction, I thought, as Morgan popped out of the pa.s.senger side-Morgan's driver parked the SUV.
I guess Morgan preferred to be chauffeured these days.
I stepped outside, hands on my hips as I waited for him on the stoop. He strode toward the house, dressed in jeans and a couple of layered T-s.h.i.+rts, a shamelessly happy grin on his face, a paper sleeve of flowers in his hand.
”h.e.l.lo, Chicago's newest Master.”
Morgan shook his head, grinned. ”I come in peace,” he said, and bounded up the stairs. He stood on the step below mine, which put us nearly at eye level. ”h.e.l.lo, beautiful.”
I smiled down at him.
”In the interest of detente between our Houses,” he said, leaning in and lowering his voice to a whisper, ”and to celebrate this historic meeting of vampires, I'm going to kiss you.”
”Fair enough.”
He did, his lips soft and cool against mine, the length of his body warm as he pressed in. The kiss was sweet and very, very eager. He nipped at my lips, whispering my name as he did it, hinting at the depths of his desire. But before we'd gone further than propriety would have allowed, given that we were standing on the stoop in full view of the street, he pulled back.
”You look”-he shook his head as if in awe-”outstanding.” He grinned up at me, dark blue eyes alight with pleasure . . . and what looked like pride.
”Thank you. You don't look half bad yourself. I mean, you're a vampire, but that's not really your fault.”
Morgan clucked his tongue and leaned around me, gazing through the open door. ”You should be affording me the Grateful Condescension I'm due. Is that salmon?”
I appreciated that the boy's love of food was nearly as big as mine. ”That's what I hear.”
”Sweet. Let's go in.”