It roared, swiped out, one nail catching a gap where rock had shredded leather and striping a slice across my ribs. The pain was outrageous, fire searing across my skin. But I didn’t have time to worry about that now.
I dodged and ran beneath its leg. “With darkness and steel I bind you!”
FEAR WILL ALWAYS EXIST. The dragon’s tail whipped to the side, and I jumped up to avoid it, hit the ground and rolled, sword in hand. I came up bruised and scraped again, but the sword was still in my hand.
“Maybe so,” I said. “But fear doesn’t have to be the only thing that exists.” I blew out a breath, narrowed my focus, and stared him down.
“With water and wind I bind you! With hope and fear I bind you!”
The sword heated in my hand, the blade going white-hot with the force of the spell. I ignored it, gripped it harder, and ran toward the dragon.
It opened its mouth and snapped, trying to pull the same trick it had pulled with Sorcha. I ducked beneath its mouth and thrust the sword up with both hands between two of the scales in the dragon’s neck.
Magic exploded.
Light shot from the katana as the dragon bucked, screamed with the pain of a million souls.
I let go of the sword, tried to scurry back from its thrashing legs and tail, from the magic that bloomed, huge and white, an unfolding flower of supernatural energy.
The dragon bucked as the flower enfolded it, then froze as if captured in glass, just like Portnoy’s drawing. But the flower kept growing.
I tried to run, slipped in blood and gravel and hit my knees again—and was too late. The blooming magic covered me. I instinctively braced against the impact of it, of the power I was sure would incinerate us both.
But unlike the Egregore, this magic wasn’t violent, and it wasn’t angry. It was familiar, because it arose from the connection that already existed between me and the katana, born when I’d tempered the steel with my own blood.
Even while the dragon was frozen, the magic moved through me, strengthening my bond to the sword . . . and the bond between me and the life that had only just begun to grow. A life I hadn’t known existed until the magic firmed its connection to me, binding it inside me, just as the magic bound dragon to blade.
Hope welled so powerfully that tears immediately spilled over. I moved my hand through thick magic, put a hand on my abdomen, felt the flutter that I’d been afraid I’d never feel, but which now seemed undeniably real.
“Hi,” I said with a silly grin. “Hi.”
Suddenly, with a high-pitched whine, the blossom began to retract, to shrink back toward the captured dragon, the bound dragon. I remembered I was still midbattle, inside a spell, and mere feet away from a magically petrified dragon. So, immediate priorities first.
When the magic freed me, I crawled back, putting space between us and the spell that folded itself over the dragon like a budding flower in reverse, condensing itself more and more until there was nothing in the darkness but a spear of light around my spinning blade, the dragon, the Egregore, condensed inside it.
One final flash of light, the sword white-hot with energy, and it stilled in the air, dropped to the roof with a heavy thud.
I fell to my knees, my body still buzzing with magic, the slice along my ribs burning outrageously. But I was alive, and we were safe, and Chicago would go on.
That was enough for tonight.
• • •
My blade had cooled, the steel going gray again, by the time everyone else reached the Towerline roof.
I felt the footsteps before I heard them, shudders across the roof. Ethan moved into my vision first, gaze searching frantically. Mallory and Catcher appeared behind him.
“The dragon is bound,” I said, “and I survived.” But my head was still spinning.
“Merit,” Mallory said, falling to her knees beside me. “You’re glowing.”
“Looks like you got a good dose of magic,” Catcher said, running a hand along my arm. “But I don’t see any lasting damage.” He looked back at the sword, and a grin pierced the fear on his face. “And there’s a helluva lot of magic in that sword.”
“Yeah. There’s a dragon in there. And I feel . . . kind of purple.” I looked up at Mallory, then Ethan. “Is that a thing? Feeling kind of purple?”
She smiled, pushed hair from my face. “It absolutely is a thing, you crazy vampire.”
“My crazy vampire,” Ethan said, and scooped me into his arms. “Who I very well may handcuff permanently to the House.”
“Not leaving anytime soon,” I said, and dropped my head to his shoulder. “Glad you found me. I got the bad guy.”
“So you did,” he said, and there was no mistaking the pride in his voice. “For now, be still.”
He’d said his magic words, and the lights went out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CRAVING
Winters in the Midwest were fearsome things, and summers often weren’t much better. But early fall, with clear skies and temperatures as crisp as autumn apples, was undeniably beautiful.
Two weeks after the dragon’s demise, when the wounded had been attended to and the city had begun to right itself again, we enjoyed that gorgeous autumn weather from the stage at Pritzker Pavilion—the place where we’d first heard the Egregore speak—while thousands of Chicagoans looked on.
Microphone in hand, Mayor Kowalcyzk stood in jeans, boots, and a windbreaker, her power suit abandoned for clothes better suited for walking Chicago’s broken streets and helping pick up the scattered pieces.
We stood behind her—vampires of Cadogan House, my grandfather and his staff, Mallory, CPD officers, and the men and women who’d served at Soldier Field.
“Not once,” the mayor said, “but twice, have supernaturals saved this city in clear and obvious ways, and at great cost to themselves and their loved ones. And at the head of that effort were the staff of the Ombudsman’s office, the vampires of Cadogan House, and sorcerer Mallory Carmichael. And those are only the efforts of which we are aware. How many more times have they acted in the dark of night, in the quiet, when we weren’t aware? Or when we didn’t believe them?”
She paused, hands at the edges of the podium, gaze downcast and contemplative. “Like you, I’ve had doubts and concerns. Supernaturals have wreaked havoc upon this city. But supernaturals have saved us, too.” She glanced at Ethan. “We owe those supernaturals a debt of gratitude. And to ensure that, in the future, we pay attention to their advice and their warnings, I am pleased to announce the Ombudsman’s office is hereby established as a permanent department of the city of Chicago.”
She walked back to my grandfather, offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Merit.”
He nodded gravely, well aware of the responsibility she’d placed on his shoulders. “You’re welcome, Madam Mayor.”
She shook Jeff’s hand, then Catcher’s, then returned to face the crowd. “Let’s hear it for the Chicagoland Vampires!” she said, and led the crowd in a roaring round of applause.
I looked at Ethan, saw the pride and contentment in his face. And beneath that, hope. He’d shepherded his vampires through many storms in his time as Master, and undoubtedly would again. But for now, there was peace, and there was acceptance. Both had been a long time coming.
Ethan looked at me and smiled. We did good, Sentinel.
I nodded back. We did good.
When the crowd finally died down, Kowalcyzk lifted the microphone again.
“Chicago has been saved from a most terrifying threat,” the mayor continued when she turned back to the crowd again. “But the rebuilding begins now. Let us begin it together. For now, and for the future, let us be one Chicago.”
• • •
Because it was Chicago, my grandfather took us for pizza after the event. And then we returned to Cadogan House for the movie night I’d arranged in the
House’s ballroom. There’d be food, alcohol, and ridiculous comedies, which, as the House’s official social chair, I thought was just the thing to reward the House.
But before that, before relaxation, there was one more bit of business. So I stopped Ethan on the steps of Cadogan House, kept my fingers entwined with his, and looked up at him.
“Sentinel?”
“There’s something I want to tell you.”
Predictably, he lifted an eyebrow. “All right.”
I’d waited until a doctor confirmed with science what I’d believed was true on the roof of the Towerline building. And even then, I’d waited until after the mayor’s commendation; I wanted to be sure of Chicago.
I steeled myself and said the words that would change everything.
“I’m pregnant.”
Ethan simply stared at me. His eyes went saucer-wide, then dropped to my abdomen, my face again. “What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re—how do you—how?”
“Well,” I said, thinking of the way he and Mallory had both teased me, “when a man and a woman—”
“Sentinel.” There was a joyous and impatient edge to his voice, like a child who can’t wait to open a Christmas present.
I smiled at him. “It was at Towerline. The binding magic.”
Ethan was as smart as they came, and realization dawned quickly in his face. “The side effect. It didn’t bind you inside the sword; you think it bound the child to you.”
I nodded. “That’s the theory. The binding magic made her stick, at least until she’s ready to pop. And ‘her’ is just a guess,” I said, before he could ask. “I don’t like saying ‘it.’”
“Some magical side effect,” he said after a moment.
I grinned at him. “Seriously. Nine months and eighteen years of side effect, give or take.”
“The test,” Ethan said. “The one that had to be passed. What was that?”
“I haven’t talked to Gabriel, but I have a pretty good feeling it was related to the dragon—facing down my fear of the monster, and the possibility of what he’d done, and could do, to Chicago.” I smiled up at him. “She’ll be the only one of her kind—the only vampire born as a vampire. I think she needed me to prove that I could be as brave as she’ll need to be.”
Ethan pulled me toward him, wrapped his arms around me, nestled my body against his. “My wife. My child.”
“Yep. Probably in May.”
“In May,” he said, wonder in the word. And then he froze, looked down at me with horror in his face.
My heart sped in answer. “What? What is it?”
“You’ll be eating for two.”
I slapped his chest. “Don’t do that. I thought something was really wrong.”
“Something is wrong. Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost me?”
I just shook my head at him. “You want to keep going? Just get it all out at once?”
He grinned with the delight of a child. “Can you imagine what your cravings will be like?”
I smiled at him. “Can you imagine bottle-feeding a vampire?”
His mouth opened, closed again. “I cannot. We will literally be writing the book.”
“We will. Although I’m sure there will be plenty of people—supernatural and otherwise—with sage advice to offer. My mother being the first in line.” I grinned at him. “And she’s going to want to throw a baby shower, probably with you in attendance.”
“I already did the wedding shower.”
“This is a separate thing. And attendance is mandatory.”
Ethan smiled slyly. “I may be sick that evening.”
“Vampires don’t get sick.”
“In fairness, they aren’t supposed to be pregnant, either.”
He had a point, so I smiled at him. “We’ll figure it out.”
Just as we’d done before, and just as we’d undoubtedly do again.
He caught my face in his hands, pressed his mouth to mine, and, on the steps of Cadogan House, kissed me madly, deeply. “I do love you, Sentinel.”
“I love you, too, Sullivan.”
We walked into Cadogan House. And this time, I hoped I wouldn’t need my sword, if only for a little while.
EPILOGUE
THE REMAINS OF THE CAKE
Twenty-one Months Later, Give or Take
Chicago, Illinois
Hands on my hips, I looked down at the year-old girl who bounced on chubby thighs, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the coffee table. Her golden curls moved as she did, bouncing up and down around her cherubic face, punctuated by emerald green eyes.
This beautiful little girl was stuffing Cheerios into her mouth with wild abandon, bouncing up and down on plump little legs that poked out beneath a blue dress sprigged with tiny white flowers. “Ree!”
It was her favorite sound, the word that meant “Yes,” “Cheerios,” “Here,” and every other phrase she couldn’t quite manage to articulate.
I nodded. “Like those, do you?”
Brow furrowed as she worked, she scooped a handful of Cheerios from the coffee table and offered them to me. “Ree.”
I walked to the coffee table, went to my knees, and slurped Cheerios out of her unsurprisingly sticky hand. She squealed happily, jogged in place on unsteady feet, and grabbed more Cheerios. Then she lifted the few she managed to corral to my mouth. I obliged her and munched them. Tasty, but five or six were more filling for a toddler than for a thirty-year-old vampire.
“Are you ready?” her father called out from the next room.
“Almost,” I said, and pulled a barrette from my pocket, used it to clip back one side of Elisa’s hair. It would keep her curls out of her face—and her sticky hands from getting tangled in the thick blond locks.
“Dress!”
“I know, sweetheart,” I said, smoothing out the skirt of her blue cotton dress. She was a rough-and-tumble girl, and she’d destroy the dress by the end of the evening, but she looked lovely in it now. I tucked her into white Mary Jane shoes. “Do you like your dress?”
“Pretty,” she seriously said.
“Yes, it is. Are you ready to go see Aunt Mallory and Baby Lulu?”
She nodded seriously. “Baby.”
Ethan stepped into the doorway, eyes glowing green with pleasure. “How’s my birthday girl?”
Elisa squealed, raised her chubby arms.
With the pride of a lion, Ethan walked forward, lifted her up. She wrapped her little arms around his neck, then kissed his cheek. “Ree! Ree! Ree!”
Ethan arched a brow at me. “Did she have coffee for breakfast?”
I patted her little bottom. “Not that I’m aware of. She’s in a really good mood, though. Probably because you’re so pretty.”
Elisa nodded solemnly and patted his face with one hand, the other hand wrapped tightly around his House medal. “Pretty.”
Ethan chomped at her hand, and she laughed wildly, swinging her head around.
“Not as pretty as Elisa or Mommy,” he said.
I grinned, always amused to hear a four-hundred-year-old vampire call me “Mommy.” And still awed that it had happened. That we’d conceived her, that my body had been able to nurture her, and that we’d brought her into the world.
It hadn’t been a perfect journey. The “morning” sickness (albeit at dusk) had been horrific, the cravings completely bizarre, and, at the end, labor that had to be halted twice when the sun rose. And there’d been a moment of complete and utter terror when we’d thought we’d lost her. Even now, when she was healthy and happy and here, the memory made my body clench with fear.
She was the first vampire child in history—the only vampire born of vampires. But more important, most important, she was ours. She had been born of love, and born into a Hous
e of vampires who loved her nearly as much as we did. She was part of me, and part of Ethan, and so much her own person. I loved her more than I’d have thought possible.
I owed my life to Ethan, and I gave him my heart. And now Elisa held them both.
• • •
We headed to the House’s first floor with a diaper bag; the House was big enough that it was faster and simpler than traversing it every time Elisa needed a diaper or clothes change. Which was often. I liked to joke that she was the only person who could throw up on one of Ethan’s expensive custom suits and live to tell the tale. There wasn’t a vampire in the House who wasn’t wrapped around her tiny little finger.
As far as we could tell, she hadn’t been negatively affected by the magic that made her. She was usually hungry, and had a quick temper, but those seemed perfectly explainable by biology and genetics, no magic required.
Mallory, Catcher, and Lulu sat on the couch in Ethan’s office, Lulu nestled in her mother’s arms. She was a tiny pale doll of a thing, except for the head of thick dark hair she’d been born with. Mallory had put a tiny polka-dot bow in it today.
“Hi, Elisa,” Catcher said.
“Catch!”
Elisa didn’t have a shy bone in her body.
I walked over, pressed a gentle kiss to Lulu’s forehead. “How’s the World’s Tiniest Yeti today?”
“Uninterested in sleep,” Mallory said with a yawn. There were circles under her eyes, and Catcher didn’t look much better. “I’ll give her to you for a dollar.”
“I will take you up on that temporarily,” I said, carefully taking the tiny package and sitting on the floor at their feet. Every newborn was tiny, but there was always something surreal about holding a creature so tiny, so delicate. She looked up at me, blinked Mallory’s blue eyes.
“Hi, baby Lulu.”
She blinked again, her lashes nearly as thick and long as her hair.
“You’re going to be on the porch with a rifle when she’s old enough,” I told Catcher, brushing her hair back.