Blood Games

Chapter Four REQUIEM

We dipped under the tape and moved through the passageway and into the courtyard, a large grassy rectangle bordered by buildings and hedges. A fountain stood in the middle. The area bustled with cops and investigators—and no one I’d recently seen aiming a handgun at my person. A forensic unit surveyed the grass, sweeping flashlights back and forth across the ground.

Between the fountain and one of the buildings was a tall, square enclosure of yellow plastic. A bit of privacy for Brett, I presumed. A stand of temporary lights had been placed inside, the bulbs visible above the plastic, which crackled stiffly in the breeze. The smell of blood—and much, much worse—stained the air.

Steady? Ethan asked.

Vampires were innately attracted to the scent of blood, but there was nothing attractive about this scent, mixed as it was with the unmistakable odor of death.

Fine, I promised. And hoping to keep my dinner down.

We followed my grandfather toward the barrier. He stopped a few feet away, gestured to a brunette in a classic black suit. She was handsomely pretty, with strong features and a wide mouth, her hair waving over her shoulders. Midthirties, I’d have guessed, with hard eyes unmistakably belonging to a cop.

“Detective Bernadette Stowe,” my grandfather said. “Ethan Sullivan, Merit, Jonah.”

She nodded, held up gloved hands. “I’d shake, but I’m already prepped. You’re our vampire experts?”

“No one better,” my grandfather said. I wasn’t sure about that, but we certainly had the practical expertise.

We reached the barrier and Stowe pushed it aside, allowing us to enter. I went in last, taking a final glance around the courtyard, making sure I didn’t recognize the driver among the men and women who surveyed the scene.

Catcher already stood inside the plastic, looking down at Brett Jacobs, who lay on the new spring grass. He nodded at us, moved aside to let us enter.

Brett’s hair was short and dark, and his eyes were deeply brown and stared up, empty. He wore jeans and a navy T-shirt, but his feet were bare, and there was a blue mark on the back of one hand, a small, square cross. Beneath it, his dark skin had a gray cast: the pallor of death.

His body was posed as if he’d been crucified: arms outstretched, his palms flat on the grass, legs straight. His careful positioning was strange, but that’s not why they’d called us.

Blood made a dark stain on his shirt and stained the ground beneath him. Two gently curved and gleaming katanas had been plunged into his abdomen like horrible skewers, crossing each other below his breastbone like an “X.”

That was why they’d called us. Because they were katanas, and we were vampires, the only supernaturals that used them.

I’d seen death before, but that didn’t make the sight of it any easier to stomach. I glanced away, closing my eyes for a moment until the world stopped spinning.

“Brett was twenty-five,” Stowe quietly said. “Graduated from Columbia College three years ago, has a bachelor’s in music. Plays violin for a string quartet that does weddings, events, and works at a restaurant in the Loop. Shares an apartment with a friend in Wrigleyville. No girlfriend. No sheet. By all accounts, lived a clean life.”

“This should not be the reward for someone who lived clean,” my grandfather said.

“No,” Stowe quietly said. “It is not. And I’m sorry for it. And for Arthur.”

“When did he die?” I quietly asked.

Stowe checked a delicate silver watch. “We’re waiting for the coroner yet, but our preliminary estimate is about four hours ago. Custodian found him.”

“Witnesses?” Ethan asked.

“None that have come forward,” she said. “The fountain shields the body from the passageway and the street, and you’d have to walk over here to see it. Not many tourists doing that at night in early March.”

Ethan turned his gaze to Stowe. “You’ve asked us here because of the swords.”

She nodded. “Vampires use swords, fight with them. It’s well-known Detective Jacobs has worked with you before.”

“We’re not suggesting you were involved in this,” my grandfather said, stepping forward and drawing Ethan’s ice-cold gaze to him. “But we don’t have much else to go on.”

Since Catcher’s magical expertise was in weaponry, he must have been stumped.

Ethan looked at him. “Your impression?”

Catcher crouched, gestured to the swords. “They’re replicas. Good replicas, but replicas all the same. The arc of the blade looks correct. The tsuba’s circular, engraved. Leather cord braided around the handle. All that’s right . . . but the steel’s wrong.”

I tilted my head to glance at it, noted how shiny the metal was. “It’s not folded,” I said, and Catcher nodded, obviously pleased.

Catcher looked up at Stowe and my grandfather. “Vampires fight with traditional katanas—high-carbon steel weapons, usually tamahagane, steel that’s folded repeatedly. The folding creates a pattern in the steel that looks like wood grain. This isn’t carbon steel.” He pointed at the blade, to a mark stamped into the metal.

“Looks like ‘440,’” Stowe said.

Catcher inclined his head. “That’s a grade of stainless steel—which they might use in replicas.”

Jonah nodded. “A midgrade replica, at that.” He pulled a mini flashlight from his pocket, pointed it at the tsuba. There were minuscule daubs of a clear substance in the hairsbreadth space between guard and blade.

“Probably silicone,” Jonah said. “Not a horribly sloppy job, but not an authentic construction method. And nothing a vampire would use.”

“Damn,” Stowe quietly said, crouching beside Jonah, careful not to touch the blood or disturb the body. “Good eye.”

“That’s why we called them,” Chuck said with an approving nod. Even Ethan looked impressed.

Stowe looked at Jonah, then Catcher. “You think vampires wouldn’t use replicas?”

“No,” Catcher said without hesitation.

“In case you aren’t familiar,” I said, “vampires are particular.”

Stowe glanced back at Brett Jacobs. “Surely it’s possible some vampire who didn’t have an authentic katana or access to one grabbed a replica, used it.”

“Not all vampires fight,” Ethan said. “Those who do fight—and who consciously choose to use katanas instead of guns, knives, Tasers, or any number of other weapons which are easier to hide, carry, and use—use authentic katanas. It’s our way.”

“That’s where I get stuck,” Catcher said. “The use of the weapons has a vampire ring to it. It hints that a vampire committed the crime. But anybody who knew anything about vampires would know that a vampire isn’t going to use a replica like that.”

“Chuck?” Stowe asked, immediately rising in my estimation in that she’d look to my grandfather for his thoughts, his take.

“I’d tend to agree. You can’t rule out the possibility a vampire was the perpetrator. But vampires, finicky as they are—no offense—”

“None taken,” the three of us put in.

“—are not likely to do something like this. If they want the world to know that they’ve killed a human, and the son of a cop, using their own preferred weapon, they’re going to do it full out, as the kids say.”

“I don’t know that the kids say that,” Stowe said lightly, “but I appreciate your candor. Vampires or not, someone had to buy these replicas. What about a source?”

“You can buy pretty much anything on the Internet these days,” Jonah said, still crouched as he surveyed the swords up close. “But even if the construction’s not fantastic, they’re still pretty solid. See the designs here on the tsubas?” he asked, pointing.

Stowe leaned in. “Looks like fish around a pond, with some symbols. They’re very detailed for something so small.”

“They are,” Jonah agreed, gesturing with his pinkie. “There’s some colored enameling, even. Tsuba designs are specific to the maker. I don’t know the artist of these motifs, specifically, but that’s how we identify him or her. If I can take pictures, that would probably help.”

Stowe looked at Chuck, who nodded. “They won’t go any farther than they need to,” he assured her.

“Then go ahead,” Stowe said, rising again while Jonah pulled out his phone and snapped shots. She peeled the gloves from her carefully manicured fingers and stuffed them into a ball, then walked around Brett’s body, surveying it, eyes tracking from one body part to another, then following the curve of the katana blades.

“What about the placement of the swords?” she asked, without lifting her gaze to us. “Their location in the body, the fact that they’re crossed, form an ‘X’?”

“I don’t recognize it from swordcraft canon,” Catcher said, glancing at Ethan and Jonah.

“Using two katanas is a high-level skill for vampires,” Ethan said. “It’s more often found among guards, those who soldier, than the average Novitiates. But as to the crossed swords, the placement in the chest . . .” He stood up and took a step back, head canted as he surveyed the scene. “It’s not familiar to me. Jonah?”

Jonah shook his head. “It’s unfamiliar because it’s not a thing. Not to vampires, anyway. There’s no specific ritual or kata associated with plunging two katanas in the chest, much less leaving two katanas in the body. A swordsman or woman, someone who trained with his or her katana, isn’t going to leave one, much less two of them, and just walk away. It’d be like leaving a friend behind in battle.”

“Another fact that leans against a vampire perp,” my grandfather said.

“Could this”—Stowe waved her hand in a circle around the upthrust handles—“be done in a fight? Just a lucky strike of some kind? A final blow?”

Jonah moved closer. “Could have been,” Jonah said. “But it probably wasn’t here.”

I caught the buzz of interest in her expression. “Why not?”

“Each type of bladed weapon has a purpose. Foils are for probing—for direct thrusts. Broadswords, big ancient weapons, were for hacking. Katanas, generally, are for slicing. But the body doesn’t show any signs of slicing. Or anything else.”

I walked incrementally closer. “He’s right. There aren’t any cuts on Brett’s body. No bruises. If this had been an honest-to-God fight, he’d have been scraped up. There would be injuries other than the obvious one. But I don’t see anything at all. It looks like the perp just walked up and plunged them in.”

“A vampire certainly would have had the strength to do that,” Jonah said. “But why wouldn’t anyone angry enough to do this get in a few shots first? And why didn’t Brett fight back?”

Before Stowe could ask her next question, a new voice intruded.

“There are a lot of people around my body.”

We glanced back. A man had moved into the plastic enclosure and stood behind us in a black jumpsuit with CORONER across the front in white block letters. His hair was short and dark, his eyes slightly tilted, his body compact but obviously muscled. He carried a black plastic box, probably a field kit, in his right hand.

“Grant Lin,” Stowe said. “He’s with the medical examiner’s office. And tonight, he’s late.”

“Good to see you, too, Detective. Unfortunately, Mr. Jacobs isn’t the first gentleman on my agenda tonight.” He glanced at the body, then at us. “Friends of the dearly departed?”

“Weapons consultants,” Stowe said.

“Never thought I’d see the day when vampires were consulting for the CPD.”

“That’s because immortality would put you out of a job, Grant. We take our experts as we find them. We’ll get out of your way. We’d appreciate knowing TOD and cause as soon as you’ve got it.”

Lin grunted and moved toward the body as we stepped back. He inspected the wounds, and with the help of an assistant gently tilted Brett’s body, surveying the ground beneath him.

“Volume of blood loss suggests the insult occurred before death,” Lin said. “That blood loss could have been the cause, but the body will tell us that.”

“We’d appreciate knowing your findings as soon as possible,” my grandfather said.

“Jacobs is a good man,” Lin said. “You’ll get them.”

“He’s very good at his work,” Stowe quietly said when we’d followed her out of the barrier and into the courtyard again. “Kind of an ass, but good at his work.” She glanced at me. “You were saying you didn’t think this looked like a fight.”

I nodded. “But I doubt Brett just let himself be used to make a statement—or let the perp just plunge the swords into him. Who just stands there and lets it happen?”

“Maybe he wasn’t just standing here,” Ethan said, hands on his hips. “He could have been drugged, intoxicated. Magicked, although that seems unlikely.”

“Why?” Stowe asked.

“Because there’s no magic here,” Catcher said. “Magic would have left a trace.”

Her eyes widened incrementally. She must not have dealt with many supernaturals. “Which you could feel?”

We all nodded.

“So there’s no magic, and there’s no evidence of a fight,” Stowe said, brows knitted as she surveyed the scene. “No evidence Brett was injured other than the obvious insult. But that insult is grandiose. Not just one sword, but two. And not just left for dead, but displayed in the middle of a church courtyard.”

“It’s a message,” Jonah said, tucking his phone away again.

“Then who’s the audience?” my grandfather asked.

“Vampires are the obvious target,” I said. “We’re the supernaturals who use katanas.”

“That was our concern,” my grandfather said, caterpillar eyebrows bunched in as he looked at me.

“So the perp is trying to send a message to us, or he’s trying to put the blame on us?” I asked.

“Hard to say without more information,” Ethan said.

“We’ll handle the forensics, canvass the neighborhood, speak to his friends,” Stowe said. “But if you can get any additional information about the origin of the swords, we’d appreciate it.”

Jonah glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time before sunrise, but we’ll check our connections, be in touch with you tomorrow.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Stowe said. “We’ll let you know if we obtain any further information that would help.”

When one of the forensic techs approached her to discuss the case, my grandfather gestured toward the small parking lot on the other side of the courtyard.

“Let’s get out of their way.”

“Where’s Jeff tonight?” I asked.

“Actually, he’s waiting to show you his new office.”

We walked across the courtyard. Ethan and Catcher walked behind me, and Jonah stuck close to Ethan, gaze on the courtyard and any potential threats that might emerge.

On the edge of the lot was a gleaming white panel van, OMBUDSMAN stenciled across the side in black block letters. Jeff was just climbing out the open back. When he saw us approaching, he offered a muted smile—the circumstances weren’t exactly cheery—and a wave.

“Hey, Merit,” he said. We exchanged hugs, and then he offered manly grunts and nods to the rest of the guys in the way that guys do.

“Crappy night,” Jeff said, putting his hands on his hips. He’d swagged out his wardrobe, exchanging his usual button-down shirt for a pullover with OMBUDSMAN embroidered on the chest.

“The crappiest. Did you know Brett?”

“Not really. Seemed like a good guy, superquiet. I hear he played a mean violin. Has a degree in it.”

“That’s what Stowe said. Horrible way to lose a child.”

“I’m not sure there’s any non-horrible way,” Ethan put in.

“Fair point,” Jeff said, then rapped his knuckles on the side of the van. “And that’s where I come in.” We followed him to the back of the van, where the double doors were already opened. “Step inside my lair.”

And it was a lair—and a tech whiz’s dream. The van was outfitted with walls of built-in computers and monitors and equipment I couldn’t name, but which I didn’t doubt cost a lot of money.

The fact that they’d gotten an official van—and that it was filled with Jeff’s favorite variety of toys—was a very good sign. Chicago’s mayor, Diane Kowalcyzk, had fired my grandfather and hired a maniacal ex-military type to replace him. We’d managed to take down the crazy replacement and, supplemented with a little blackmail, get my grandfather hired again.

I guess she knew a good deal when she saw it.

Jeff offered a hand, helped me up into the vehicle. I sat down at a stool, glanced at the screens, which currently showed aerial photographs of the church and surrounding streets.

“This is impressive,” I said, turning around on the stool to glance back at Jeff.

Catcher, Ethan, Jonah, and my grandfather gathered outside the doors and looked in. My grandfather nodded, a supportive arm on the doorframe. “We’ll be able to do a lot more out there. Quick response. On-site research. And a hell of a lot more credibility with an official vehicle.”

“Can you do all your officing here?” I asked.

“Just about,” Catcher said. “Certainly anything you’d need on a mobile basis.”

Ethan glanced at my grandfather. “And a permanent office?”

“The mayor has graciously set aside office space at a community service center on the south side. We move in next week.”

“Successful blackmail is the best blackmail,” Jonah murmured.

“No kidding,” I said, then looked at my grandfather. “This is great. I know you’ll be glad to be settled.” Before he’d been fired, my grandfather had rented a small office on the south side. After he’d been fired, the team worked out of my grandfather’s basement. And then McKetrick, my grandfather’s replacement, had it firebombed.

It had really been a tough year for the Ombuddies.

“It will be nice to put down some roots,” he agreed.

“And how is life at home?” While my grandfather recuperated, he was staying with my parents. They were very nearly his opposites: rich, fusty, and very, very fancy.

“Your father has been nothing but gracious,” he said with a smile that looked a little bit tight at the corners.

I smiled knowingly back. “You’re very kind. I’m sure he’s driving you batty.”

“Nothing but gracious,” he repeated. “He’s hired a physical therapist, nurse, and dietician to oversee my recovery.”

“Your Oreo stash?”

“Depleted.”

“We’ll restock you,” I assured him. “How is Dad?”

“Busy. He’s got a new project in the works—a high-rise in Streeterville. Towerline, it’s called. He’s very focused on getting it up.”

Real estate was Joshua Merit’s particular wheelhouse—and not houses in the suburbs. Entire suburbs. Skyscrapers. Condos along the lake. If it was big, splashy, and expensive—and mentioned in the architectural river or lake tours—he probably had a hand (or a dollar) in it.

“I hope it works well for him. I haven’t seen Charlotte and Robert in way too long.” They were my elder brother and sister, whom I hadn’t seen since I’d taken Ethan home to meet them. We weren’t especially close, but I knew I was lucky to have a family.

“Or Robert’s new baby,” my grandfather said. “Frankly, you could stand to visit the entire family.” It wasn’t often he pushed where the family was concerned—our long-running differences were well-known to him—so I knew he meant it this time. And since he was right, I gave him the victory.

“I should,” I agreed. “We should plan a dinner.”

“We could have them to the House,” Ethan said, but cast a glance at the eastern sky. The pink fingers of dawn were beginning to reach above the horizon, which was our cue to leave.

“We can discuss that later,” my grandfather said, offering me a hand to help me out of the van. I took it, jumped down, straightened the hem of my jacket.

“I’ve got some ideas on the swords,” Jonah said, with a glint of amusement in his eyes. He definitely had something planned. “I’ll check in with Merit at dusk, and we’ll check it out and report back.”

Ethan managed not to stiffen or swear at Jonah’s planning my schedule for the evening, but I felt the brush of irritated magic against my skin. It had all the subtlety of stampeding wasps. Assuming wasps stampeded.

“Appreciate it,” my grandfather said. “We’ll dig in a bit more here, see what we can see. Hopefully, we’ll make some headway and find some justice for Arthur and his family.”

Justice would be good. But I knew it wouldn’t be good enough.

Jonah walked us back to the SUV, just in case, and we scanned the tourists and alleyways for possible threats against Ethan. When we reached Lindsey’s SUV, I unlocked the car and opened the driver’s-side door.

“I’ll be in touch tomorrow,” Jonah said. “Don’t forget about our date.”

He offered Ethan a wave, then mixed back into the pedestrian traffic and headed down the street, drawing a handful of interested glances from the men and women he passed.

I glanced back at Ethan, found his gaze on me, his expression flat and a twinge of jealousy darkening his eyes. It would be a lie to say that twinge didn’t thrill me a teensy bit, but since I had to live with Ethan, it wasn’t in my best interest to let him stew all the way back to Cadogan House.

“Business date,” I reminded him. “Investigatory date. You’re the only vampire on my mind.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, opening the door. “If I thought for a moment he was making a serious move, I’d have beaten him senseless.”

I didn’t think he was joking.

Ethan was halfway inside the car when he stilled and reached outside, plucking something from beneath the windshield wiper.

In his hand was a piece of white paper, slightly larger than a business card. It was thin enough to see that there was print on one side—words that had his eyes instantaneously widening—before he stuffed it into his pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, Merit.” He climbed inside, closed the car door. “Let’s get home before the sun rises.”

“Is it from the driver?”

“It’s nothing, Merit.”

“Ethan—,” I began, but he shook his head.

“It’s just . . . a flyer. For a restaurant down the street.” He looked at me, smiled lightly, and pulled the door shut. “Let’s be on our way, Sentinel.”

He was lying. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. He’d seen something on that paper, and he’d lied to me about it.

That scared me more than whatever might have been written there. But dawn was approaching. Seeking shelter from the rising sun was paramount, so I pulled the car into traffic and drove us both home.

He made conversation on the way back to the House, as casual as ever. By the time we’d pulled up to the House, I was nearly convinced.

Nearly.

We reported to Luc, briefly told him about the murder, the swords, the evidence so far.

Luc confirmed they’d seen no more of the driver, and the guards were preparing to turn the safety of the House to the human patrol at the gates.

We’d had a bad run of luck staffing the guards who watched the gate, a necessity when we were unconscious during the daylight hours. We’d previously hired mercenary fairies, strong supernaturals with serious fighting skills, but they’d betrayed us for an ancient artifact they were convinced we’d stolen. (We hadn’t.) We’d then hired humans, but two had been killed in the line of duty by Harold Monmonth, a former member of the GP, who’d himself been killed. (We were responsible for that one.) We’d stuck with humans but turned to off-duty officers, who we hoped stood a greater chance of survival.

It was an unfortunate irony that the monsters they guarded were the least of their worries.

Our report given, we took the stairs to our apartments on the third floor. The lights had already been dimmed to a soft glow, and classical music played quietly in the background. And because Margot was the coolest chick ever, there was a tray of snacks and water. Turndown service was one of the better perks of dating the Master.

The other was the Master himself, who stood on the other side of the room, one hand on his hip, perusing a stack of papers as he removed his cuff links and placed them on a bureau.

I watched him, looking for a hint of worry or deceit, for the truth of what he’d seen on that small piece of paper.

Perhaps sensing my gaze, he looked up at me. “Sentinel?”

I had no idea what to say, but we’d been through many trials together, and this wasn’t the time to bury fear.

“The paper you found—it wasn’t a flyer for a restaurant.”

Ethan didn’t answer. He finished with his cuff links, began unbuttoning his shirt, revealing the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen.

“What would you like me to say?”

“Obviously, I’d like you to tell me the truth. What was in the note? Was it a message from the driver? Another threat?”

He watched me, his eyes colder than I’d seen them in a very long time. “Don’t you trust me, Sentinel?”

I felt like we were having two different conversations. “I want to know if someone is out there gunning for you.”

“It’s something I need to handle.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s the answer I’m prepared to give right now.” His features had tightened into Master vampire haughtiness, which drove me crazy. He looked at me, green eyes alight. “Do you think I’m not capable of handling my own problems? I managed to run this House before you were named Sentinel, and I can run it now.”

He wasn’t angry at me. But in true Sullivan style, he was pushing my buttons because he was angry at something else, and I was here.

That only irritated me more. I was here because I cared about him. Because I worried for him. My own anger rose swiftly.

“I don’t doubt it, or that you’ll push me away because you’re angry or afraid. But that’s not how this works. That’s not how you and I work, and it’s not how the House works.”

His expression went stony. “That’s how this will work.”

I took a step forward. “Ethan, you’re in danger. And if it’s a threat, I need to know about it. This isn’t something you pretend not to see.”

“No, it’s something I see very clearly, and something I’ll handle on my own.”

He turned, walked into the closet, where I heard the shuffling of fabric.

My eyelids felt suddenly heavier, both because of the rising of the sun and because this conversation was exhausting.

I walked to the closet, ignoring Ethan, kicked off my boots and pulled off my jacket. I left the rest of my clothes in a pile on the floor, pulled on a tank and shorts, and headed back to the bed. Ethan walked in and sat on the edge, wearing his Cadogan medal and emerald silk pajama bottoms, phone in his hand.

I stood there for a moment, waited until he put the phone down and looked up at me again.

“Come here, Sentinel,” he drowsily said, and I stepped between his thighs, threaded my fingers into his golden hair. Ethan wrapped his arms around me, rested his head against my chest.

“Be still,” he said. “For tonight, let’s both be still.”

The automatic shades closed over the windows with a mechanical buzz. I fell into bed beside Ethan, and he turned off the lamp, leaving us in darkness.