Dark Debt

  I can no longer walk into a room in Navarre without assessing its cost, Ethan confessed.

  Me, too. I suppose Morgan could always hold a tag sale if things got too bad.

  Why would he sell tags?

  I just shook my head.

  Juliet stood in a corner near the door in full Cadogan black, a yellow katana scabbard belted at her waist. She nodded when we walked in, and Ethan did the same.

  Morgan, Malik, and a woman I didn’t recognize sat at the opposite end of the conference table, a laptop in front of each of them. Malik wore Cadogan black; Morgan wore a fitted blue-gray T-shirt and jeans.

  The woman had a thick bob of wavy blond hair that hit two inches above her shoulders and framed vividly blue eyes. Her skin was pale, her generous lips perfectly shaded with crimson. She’d paired a pale blue sweater with a capelet together with an ochre pencil skirt and deadly looking stilettos. She was effortlessly beautiful, the type of woman others seemed to hate, or at least envy. And she didn’t look as though she’d much care either way.

  I didn’t know her, but Ethan seemed to, and he stiffened at the sight of her.

  She and Malik stood; Morgan kept his seat at the head of the table.

  “Ethan Sullivan and Merit,” Morgan said. “This is my new Second, Irina. I don’t know if you heard Nadia requested a different position after Katya’s death.”

  “We hadn’t heard,” Ethan said. That was an important fact not to have made its way to Cadogan House, but Navarre was insular. Considering that it had also hidden its evidently thorough connection to the Circle, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  From the tightness around Morgan’s eyes, I wondered what else we hadn’t heard about Nadia. Were she and Morgan on the outs, too? There certainly hadn’t been any noticeable heat between them—or even acknowledgment—when she’d dropped us off. She hadn’t even entered the room.

  “Nice to see you again, Irina,” Ethan said. “I’m sure you’ll flourish in your new role.”

  Irina nodded regally, clearly certain she’d flourish.

  “We’ve reviewed most of the basic debt and asset information,” Morgan said. “Tried to give Malik a sense of the big picture.”

  Ethan nodded. “Are Will and Zane still in custody?”

  “They are. The lawyers think a deal would be in their best interest, and in the House’s. I don’t know how much leniency they’ll get, circumstances being what they are.”

  Ethan nodded. “Has the Circle made a new demand?”

  Morgan shook his head. “I’m not naive enough to think they’ll let us off the hook when the attempt went south, so I assume they’re formulating their next step.”

  Or it’s already in play, I said, frustrated that Morgan didn’t seem to have considered it. That was the most frustrating thing about him—he was wickedly intelligent, had a great sense of humor, and clearly was dedicated to his vampires. But something—perhaps all those years under Celina’s tutelage—had blinded him to the ever-present dangers of life as a vampire. Perhaps Navarre vampires really had lived a charmed life until Celina’s death. And maybe it was our experience with adversity—and the fear and paranoia it spawned—that kept us prepared.

  “I don’t think we need either of you right now,” Morgan said. “I believe we have this under control.”

  It couldn’t be called lack of cooperation, since Malik had a literal seat at the table. But it wasn’t exactly collegial. It probably was, like the request that Ethan sign in at the front desk, a stretching of masterly muscle—especially in front of his new Second.

  Not that animosity by Navarre vampires toward Cadogan was new. They’d typically imagined themselves better and more genteel than the rest of us. That prejudice, ironically, was due in part because Cadogan historically allowed drinking from humans or vampires. Like in many other Houses, Navarre’s vampires only drank bagged or bottled blood. That was one of the reasons they felt superior to us, classier certainly, even if they were denying part of their biological heritage.

  Whatever the reason, those prejudices, which should have been long past, seemed to be in full effect tonight. But Ethan was no wilting lily, and hardly the type to wither under Morgan’s stare. Instead he kept his gaze on Morgan, let the silence build. I could only imagine the silent conversation he and Malik were having. Likely not suitable for children.

  Morgan blinked first. “You can stay if you think it’d be helpful, but I’m sure Malik’s skilled enough.”

  It was, apparently, enough of a retreat for Ethan. He smiled, slid that slow gaze to Malik.

  “I believe I’ve got it covered,” Malik said with an admirably straight face and smooth tone. “But I wouldn’t mind taking a break before getting to the next round. Grabbing a bite to eat.”

  Ethan glanced at me, questioning eyebrow arched. Have you infected him?

  You’re hilarious, I said.

  “Perhaps we could arrange for food?” Ethan offered. “We’d be happy to do so. Especially if you don’t need us.”

  Morgan didn’t miss the snark, and his voice was bland. “Fine by me.”

  “Any preferences?”

  “None.” Morgan didn’t bother to ask Irina. Maybe they were also communicating silently.

  “In that case, we’ll get out of your hair.”

  Malik rose and pushed back his chair. “I’m going to step outside with my colleagues for a few minutes.”

  Irina didn’t bother to respond but looked away in reprobation, as if it was bad form for him to leave, and despite the fact that he was doing a favor by being there at all.

  I’d always liked Malik, but felt a new and fierce protectiveness. I don’t think she likes Malik, I said silently. How could anyone not like Malik?

  She doesn’t like the rest of us, either, if that gives you comfort.

  Then I look forward to that story.

  We followed Malik toward the door. Juliet made no move to follow us but kept her eyes on Morgan and Irina. That, I suspected, was the result of a bit of silent direction from Ethan, in the hope of gathering casual intel from the Navarre vampires while we were away.

  “Let’s go outside,” Malik said. “I could use some fresh air.”

  We stayed silent for the trip back down the stairs and, instead of walking toward the front of the House, snaked around behind them to a set of glass double doors that led to the House’s garden.

  The rectangle of neatly clipped grass was divided by a long and narrow granite stream that trickled as it stepped down across the courtyard. There was a row of boxwoods cut into perfect spheres along one long wall, the sticks and orbs of white allium growing between them. A row of bright green hostas, only just beginning to unfurl, lined the other. Rectangular benches of polished marble were placed at intervals through the neatly clipped grass, and a large, low deck of dark wood planks rose slightly over the grass on the garden’s opposite end. The garden’s design was careful and precise, but didn’t look especially cozy. It wasn’t a place for barbecues or romantic walks. But it did seem weirdly appropriate for a frank accounting discussion.

  We walked to the middle of the courtyard, away from as many prying ears as possible. Unable to resist, I reached down and skimmed fingers over soft, thick grass, comforted by the confirmation that spring was on its way.

  When I rose again, Malik’s eyes were on me, concern tightening the corners of his eyes. “You’re all right?”

  Luc must have called him. I nodded, but the mere fact of his asking was nearly enough to move me to tears again. “I’m okay.”

  “The attack was psychic?”

  Ethan nodded.

  Malik’s eyebrows lifted with interest. “Does that match your memories of him?” he asked Ethan.

  “I knew him as ‘strong,’ sometimes frighteningly so. And always with a sensual bent.”

  Malik nodded.

&nbs
p; “Tell me about Navarre,” Ethan said.

  “I’ve only reviewed the first layer, but it’s bad enough. Celina did no favors for the House; Navarre and the Circle are entwined as intimately as lovers.”

  “So not just debts?”

  “Not just,” Malik said. “The House certainly owes money, including several large promissory notes. As Morgan suggested, Celina was not well accustomed to thrift. She had excellent taste, and liked to dabble in the finer things. She got some return on her investment—she purchased some art and antiques that have retained their value—but much was spent on consumables. Clothing. Shoes. A very well-stocked wine cellar. We’re still determining the full scope. Celina and Carlos are both dead, and she apparently didn’t confide in anyone else about her arrangements.”

  “The Circle just kept giving her the money?” I asked.

  “Considering the interest rates we’ve seen so far,” Malik said darkly, “it was a good strategy for them.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  “And beyond the debt?” Ethan asked.

  “She gave limited powers of attorney over several of the House’s investments and bank accounts to a variety of questionable corporate entities, and put some House properties in trust for the benefit of others. I’d bet all of them are connected to the Circle.”

  “Can you get the list of companies to Mr. Merit? Perhaps the CPD can use them to ID the Circle’s members.”

  “Of course. But I expect linking them will be difficult.” Malik rubbed the back of his head. It wasn’t even his House, but his concern was obvious. “They look like anonymous LLCs—limited liability companies—and the names are all random three-letter acronyms. FAH, GLR, OMQ, that kind of thing. You take that much care to set up bogus LLCs, you’re probably pretty good at laundering the money that comes out of them. It would take time to unravel.”

  Ethan nodded. “We’ll leave that to the CPD.”

  “How long has this been going on?” I asked.

  “She began incurring the debts approximately seven years ago—or that’s the earliest we’ve seen so far.”

  “Before she outed vampires,” I realized, and Malik nodded.

  “She was fairly social, as you know. Morgan has suggested she might have made a connection to the Circle that way, through some social engagement or other. The Circle would have known much about the House’s operation—and probably about the existence of vampires well before she announced it to the rest of the city.”

  We considered that silently. “Is that why she outed us?” I wondered. “Because the Circle forced her hand? Blackmail, maybe?”

  Ethan whistled. “This keeps getting better. Riddle me this,” he said. “If the Circle’s so worried about King, why haven’t they made contact again with Navarre?”

  “And why haven’t they skipped asking altogether and just taken the properties and investments they apparently have an interest in?” I asked.

  “Both are excellent questions,” Ethan said, then glanced back at Malik. “And another one: Since when is Irina Second?”

  “Since Nadia resigned two weeks ago. That’s all I know.”

  “You were going to tell me about Irina,” I reminded him.

  “She was one of Celina’s very close friends,” Malik said. “Many thought she’d be appointed Celina’s Second after Carlos. When Morgan got the job instead, there was dissention in the ranks. Those who supported Irina were vocal about their belief Morgan got the position because he and Celina were sleeping together.”

  I’d suspected Celina’s and Morgan’s relationship had been intimate, but I hadn’t known his promotion to Second had been controversial.

  “So that group was probably especially pissed when he got the House,” I guessed.

  “They were,” Malik said. “The faction only strengthened—because now they had something specific to be pissed about, particularly when he appointed Nadia as his Second.”

  “She didn’t have a position in the House before that,” Ethan explained. “She was Russian, had protected her sister during the revolution. She was fearless. She was not a bad pick for Second, but nor was she the most connected to the pro-Celina contingent.”

  “So now he’s appointed Irina to keep that contingent happy,” I suggested, and paused to consider Morgan’s difficult history as Master. He’d had the Circle to contend with, and now I realized he had also been trying to prevent Celina’s supporters from revolting.

  “What a mess,” I said.

  “It is,” Malik agreed. “And given the faction’s love of Celina, I’d strongly suspect no one has any idea how bad things truly are. And we’re only through the surface layers.”

  My stomach picked that moment to grumble, and I squinted with mild embarrassment.

  “Let’s not delay the inevitable,” Ethan said. “We’ll get some food. Keep at it,” he said to Malik. “Don’t hesitate to call if any problems arise.”

  “Let us hope it doesn’t,” Malik said.

  For vampires, hope literally sprang eternal.

  Chapter Fourteen

  SHE BECKONS

  We trekked back to the first floor, handed back our guest passes, and signed out again. The guards were no more enthused by our exit than they had been by our entrance.

  “Glum dudes,” I said quietly as we pushed open the heavy door and walked outside.

  “Would you want that job?”

  “Excellent point, and no.”

  The mood between us was lighter now, perhaps buoyed by the reminder that ours wasn’t the only House with troubles. I knew denial wasn’t going to improve my comfort level, not really, but for the moment—and with Ethan at my side—I was happy to pretend Balthasar was merely a memory from Ethan’s past.

  “Did you have a place in mind for food?” I asked when we reached the sidewalk that ran in front of the House.

  Ethan glanced left, right, at me. “Actually, I thought I’d let you follow your nose.”

  “That’s very nearly insulting.”

  “You don’t think you can sniff out the best restaurant in Gold Coast?”

  I probably could, but that didn’t make the question any less insulting. “I’m not a bloodhound. But pizza sounds good.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “And in this neighborhood?”

  “Lou Malnati’s, Gino’s East, Birbiglia’s.” Three more possibilities sprang to mind, but I stopped offering them when I realized I was only helping his argument. “Those are from memory. Not scent.”

  Ethan chuckled. “Which way, Sherlock?”

  “I’d suggest you go to hell, but if you mean pizza, we should go left. You think it’s safe?”

  “Rarely,” he said grimly. “But I think it’s unlikely Balthasar would have followed us here, plans to attack us as we walk down the street for pizza.”

  “Not enough ceremony,” I said, following the train of thought, and he nodded.

  “Precisely.”

  So we set off down the quiet street in the warm spring air. He’d normally have taken my hand, or put his long fingers at the small of my back to remind me he was there, or to remind others I was taken. I didn’t mind the machismo, but either he could tell I still needed space, or he was still stinging from my last physical rebuke.

  I couldn’t think about that, I told myself. Had to worry about my own needs, had to take care of myself. And hopefully, when all was said and done—and all would be said and done—we could find each other again.

  * * *

  Six blocks later, we stood in front of Two Brothers’ Pizza, a new-to-me shop squeezed in a small commercial chunk of the neighborhood between a coffee shop and luxe real estate agency.

  Two gold pots stood beside the door, each holding tropical flowers that looked decidedly genital—a white-cupped petal with blushes of pink in the center, and a large protruding stamen
right in the middle.

  I snickered like a fourteen-year-old boy.

  “Interesting décor,” Ethan said, glancing through the window.

  The restaurant was entirely white—white tile floor and walls, white stone bar, white leather bar stools on spindly brass legs. Even the liquor had been poured into white bottles. A giant chalkboard hung behind the bar, a list of apparent possible pizza toppings written in pretty chalk script.

  “Intriguing,” Ethan said, scanning the list.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t really see carrots on pizza. Or radishes.” I had an unpleasant memory of Catcher eating “shepherd’s pie” pizza covered in mashed potatoes, peas, and meat. I wasn’t exaggerating to say it was a felony against pizza, and the mere idea of it put me off vegetable toppings completely. If it wasn’t meat or cheese, it had no business atop a pie.

  “The vitamins are good for you.”

  “I’m immortal.”

  “Strong fangs,” Ethan said, walking inside and stepping up to the counter.

  * * *

  Fortunately, he was willing to compromise. He’d try the triple meat I selected, and I’d try his beet, carrot, and mortadella concoction. Being the gentleman that he was, Ethan offered to carry the boxes back to Navarre House.

  The night was beautiful—a light breeze, white clouds moving across the darkened sky, humans walking dogs or chatting with neighbors in the small, gated entryways that characterized the houses in the Gold Coast. It was a neighborhood of wealth, of luxury and relative safety. No turf wars, no abandoned lots, very little crime. Those who lived there were lucky, at least materially.

  We were two blocks from Navarre when Ethan’s phone beeped. He pulled it out and stopped short, his magic filling the air. Even the flavor of Ethan’s fear and hatred for his maker was becoming recognizable.

  “Where is he?” I asked, my stomach knotting with nerves.

  He handed me the phone. Luc had messaged him a photograph—a grainy black-and-white of Balthasar standing on the sidewalk across the street from Cadogan, his coat billowing around his ankles as he stared at the House.