THE SAVAGE BEAST

The air was thick and damp, the sharp smell of ozone signaling rain. The lake looked like it was already in the middle of a squall: whitecaps rolled across the water like jagged teeth, and waves pounded the rocky shoreline.

I glanced up at the sky. The anvil-shaped marker of a gigantic thunderstorm was swelling in the southwestern sky, visible each time lightning flashed across it.

Without warning, a crack split the air.

I jumped and looked back at the building, thinking it had been struck by an early bolt of lightning. But the building was quiet and still, and when another crack shattered the silence, I realized the sound had come from a stand of trees on the other side of the building.

I walked around to investigate and found Ethan standing at the base of a pine tree like a fighter facing down a forty-foot-tall opponent.

His fists were up, his body bladed.

"Every time!" he yelled. "Every time I manage to bring things under control, we become enmeshed in bullshit again!"

And then he pivoted and thrust out - and punched the tree.

Crack.

The tree wobbled like it had been rammed by a truck, needles whooshing as limbs moved. The smell of pine resin - and blood - lifted in the breeze. And those weren't the only things in the air. Magic rippled off Ethan's body in waves, leaving its telltale tingle around us.

And that, I thought, explained why he'd driven here instead of the House. With that much anger banked, there was no way Ethan could have gone home. Cadogan's vampires - even those who weren't as sensitive to magic as I was - would have known something was wrong, and that certainly wasn't going to ease the anticipatory mood. It was an obvious downside of being a Master vampire - to be all riled up with nowhere to go.

"Do you have any idea how long - how hard - I've worked to make this House successful? And this human - this temporary blip in the chronology of the world - threatens to take it all away."

Ethan reared back for a second strike, but he'd already split his knuckles and the poor tree probably wasn't faring much better. I understood the urge to rail out when you were being held accountable for another's evils, but hurting himself wasn't going to solve the problem. It was time to intervene.

I was standing on the lawn between the building and the lake; I figured that was a perfect place to work off a little tension. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" I called out.

He looked over, one eyebrow defiantly arched.

"Don't tempt me, Sentinel."

I peeled off my suit jacket and dropped it onto the ground, then put my hands on my hips and, hopefully for the last time tonight, pulled out my vampire bravado. "Are you afraid you can't handle me?"

His expression was priceless - equal parts tempted and irritated - the masculinity warring with the urge to tamp down the challenge to his authority. "Watch your mouth."

"It was a legitimate question," I countered.

Ethan was already walking closer, the smell of his blood growing stronger.

I won't deny it - my hunger was perked. I'd bitten Ethan twice before, and both times had been memorable. Sensual, in ways I wasn't entirely comfortable admitting. The scent of his blood triggered those memories again, and I knew my own eyes had silvered, even if I wasn't thrilled about bring tempted.

"It was a childish question," he growled out, taking another step forward.

"I disagree. If you want to fight, try a vampire."

"Your attempts at being clever aren't serving you, Sentinel."

He moved within striking range, blood dripping from his right knuckles, which were split nearly to the bone. They'd heal, and quickly, but they must have hurt.

"And yet," I said, squeezing my own hands into fists, "here you are."

His eyes flashed silver. "Remember your position."

"Does putting me in my place make you feel better?"

"I am your Master."

"Yes, you are. In Hyde Park and in Creeley Creek, and wherever else vampires are gathered, you're my Master. But out here, it's just you and me and the chip Tate put on your shoulder. You can't go back to the House like this. You're pouring magic, and that's going to worry everyone even more than they already are."

There was a tic above his eyebrow, but Ethan held his tongue.

"Out here," I quietly said, "it's just you and me."

"Then don't say I didn't warn you." With no more warning, he offered up his favorite move, a roundhouse kick that he swiveled toward my head. But I dropped my arm and shoulder and blocked it.

That move thwarted, Ethan bounced back into position. "Don't get cocky, Sentinel. You've only taken me down once."

I tried a roundhouse of my own, but he dodged it, ducking and spinning around the kick, before popping up again. "Maybe so," I said. "But how many Novitiates have beaten you before?"

He scowled and offered a jab combination that I easily rebuffed. For all the vampiric power we could put behind our shots, this wasn't a real battle. This was play-fighting. The release of tension.

"Never fear," he said. "You may have gotten me down, but I've been above you before, and I'm sure I'll manage it again."

He was being arrogant, letting the gentle, insistent veneer he'd been wearing lately slip.

But I'd managed to transmute his anger into romantic steam, which softened his punches.

I swatted away a halfhearted jab. "Don't get your hopes up. I'm not that kind of hungry."

"My hopes, as you call them, are perpetually up when you're in the vicinity."

"Then I'll try to stay farther away," I sweetly responded.

"That won't exactly be conducive to your standing Sentinel."

"Neither will your being arrested," I said, bringing him back to the point.

Ethan ran his hands through his blond locks, then linked his fingers together atop his head. "I am doing everything I can to keep the city together. And it's only getting harder. And now, within a few hours, we see the ugly side of freedom of speech, we learn Chicago has a militia, and we discover Tate's out for blood. My blood."

My heart clenched in sympathy, but I resisted the urge to reach out to him. We were colleagues, I reminded myself. Nothing more.

"I know it's frustrating," I said, "and I know Tate was out of line with the warrant. But what can we do but try to solve the problem?"

Frowning, Ethan turned back to the lake, then walked toward it. The edge of the peninsula was terraced into stone rings that formed giant steps into the water. He shed his suit jacket, placing it gingerly on the stone ledge before sitting down beside it.

Was it wrong that I was a wee bit disappointed he didn't just shed the shirt altogether?

When I joined him, he picked up a pebble and pitched it. Even with the chop, it flew like a bullet across the water.

"This doesn't sound like a rave," I said. "What Mr. Jackson described, I mean, at least not like how you've described them before. This didn't sound like it was about seduction or glamour.

This isn't some underground hobby." As I waited for him to answer, I pushed the bangs from my face. The wind was picking up.

Ethan wound up and threw another pebble, the rock zinging as it skipped ahead. "Continue," he said, and I incrementally relaxed. We were back to politics and strategy. That was a good sign.

"I've experienced First Hunger, and First Hunger Part Deux. There was a sensual component to both, sure, but at base they were about the blood - the thirst. Not about conquering humans or killing them."

"We are vampires," he dryly pointed out.

"Yes, because we drink blood, not because we're psychopaths. I'm not saying there aren't psychopathic vampires, or vampires who wouldn't kill for blood if they were starving for it, but it doesn't sound like that's what happened here. It sounds like violence, pure and simple."

Ethan was quiet for a moment. "The hunger for blood is antithetical to violence. If anything, it's about seduction, about drawing the human closer. That is the quintessential purpose of vampire glamour."

Glamour was old-school vampire mojo - the ability of vampires to entrance others, either by manipulating their targets or by adjusting their own appearances to make themselves more attractive to their victims. I couldn't glamour worth a damn, but I seemed to have some immunity toward it.

"This is the second time raves have gotten us in trouble," I pointed out. "We've avoided them until now, and it's time we shut them down. But we can't go in assuming this is some run-ofthe-mill party that got out of hand. This just sounds . . . different. And if you want a silver lining, at least Tate's giving you a chance to resolve the problem."

"Giving me a chance? That's putting it mildly.

He's doing precisely what Nick Breckenridge attempted to do - blackmailing us into taking action."

"Or he's giving us an opportunity we didn't have before."

"How do you figure that?"

"He's forcing our hands," I said. "Which means that instead of tiptoeing around the GP and worrying what this House or that might think of us, we're forced to get out there and do something about it. We get to spend some of that political capital you're always harping about."

Ethan arched an eyebrow imperiously.

"Talking about. Talking about in well-reasoned and measured tones."

This time, he rolled his eyes.

"Look," I continued. "The last time we worked on the raves, you made me focus on the media risk. Tonight, we've proven that worrying someone might find out about the problem doesn't actually solve the problem. We need to get in front of the issue. We need to close them down."

"You want to tell vampires they can no longer engage in human blood orgies?"

"Well, I wasn't going to use those words, exactly. And I did plan to take my sword."

He smiled a little. "You are quite a thing to behold when you've got steel in your hands."

"Yes," I agreed. I touched a hand to my stomach. "And now that we're looking on the bright side, let's find some grub. I am starving."

"Are you ever not starving?"

"Har-har." I nudged his arm. "Come on. Let's get an Italian beef."

He glanced over at me. "I assume that has some meaning important within Chicago culinary circles?"

I just stood there, both saddened that he hadn't experienced the joy of a good Italian beef sandwich - and irritated that he'd lived in Chicago for so long and had so completely sequestered himself from the stuff that made it Chicago.

"As important as red hots and deep dish. Let's go, Liege. It's your turn to get schooled."

He growled, but relented.

We drove to University Village, parked along the street, and took our places in line with the thirdshifters on lunch breaks and the UIC students needing late-night snacks. Eventually we placed our orders and moved to a counter, where I taught Ethan to stand the way God intended Chicagoans to stand - feet apart, elbows on the table, sandwiches in hand.

Ethan hadn't spoken since his own eight-inch Italian beef sandwich had been delivered, still dripping from its dip in gravy. When his first bite left a trail of juice on the floor in front of his feet - and not on his expensive Italian shoes - he smiled grandly at me.

"Well done, Sentinel."

I nodded through my bite of bread, beef, and peppers, happy that Ethan was in a better mood.

Say what you might about my obsession with all things meat and carbohydrate, but never underestimate the ability of a stack of thin-sliced beef on a bun to make a man happy - vampire or human.

And speaking of happiness, I wondered what else Ethan had been missing out on. "Have you ever been to a Cubs game?"

Ethan dabbed his mouth with a paper napkin, and I got a glimpse of his knuckles - already healed from the blows. "No, I have not. As you know, I'm not much of a baseball fan."

He wasn't much of a fan, but he'd still tracked down a signed Cubs baseball to replace one I'd lost. That was the kind of move that threw me off balance, but I managed to keep things lighthearted.

"Just stake me now," I said. "Seriously  - you've been in Chicago how long and you've never been to Wrigley? That's a shame. You need to get out there. I mean, for a night game,obviously."

"Obviously."

A couple of large men with mustaches and Bears T-shirts moved toward the high bar where we stood, sandwiches in hand. They took a spot beside Ethan, spread their feet, unwrapped their own Italian beefs, and dug in.

It wasn't until bite number two that they glanced over and noticed two vampires were standing beside them.

The one closest to Ethan ran a napkin across his dripping mustache, his gaze shifting from me to Ethan. "You two look familiar. I know you?"

Since my photo had been smeared across the front page of the paper a couple of months ago, and Ethan had made the local news more than once since the attack on Cadogan, we probably did look familiar.

"I'm a vampire from Cadogan House," Ethan said.

Our area of the restaurant, not full but still dotted with late-night munchers, went silent.

This time, the man looked suspiciously at the sandwich. "You like that?"

"It's great," Ethan said, then gestured toward me. "This is Merit. She's from Chicago. She decided I had to try one."

The man and his companion leaned forward to look at me. "That so?"

"It is."

He was quiet for a moment. "You had deep dish yet? Or a red hot?"

My heart warmed. We might have been vampires, but at least these guys recognized that we were first and foremost Chicagoans. We knew Wrigley Field and Navy Pier, Daley and rush hour traffic, Soldier Field in December and Oak Street Beach in July. We knew freak snowstorms and freakier heat waves.

But most of all, we knew food: taquerias, red hots, deep dish, great beer. We baked it, fried it, sauteit, and grilled it, and in our quest to enjoy the sunshine and warmth while we could, we shared that food together.

"Both," I said. "I got him pizza from Saul's."

The man's bushy eyebrows popped up. "You know about Saul's?"

I smiled slyly. "Cream cheese and double bacon."

"Oooh," the man said, grinning ear to ear. He dropped his napkin and threw his hands into the air. "Cream cheese and double bacon. Our fanged friend here knows about Saul's Best!" He raised his giant paper cup of soda in a toast. "To you, my friend. Good eats and whatnot."

"And to you," Ethan said, raising his sandwich and taking a bite.

Hot beef in the name of peace. I liked it.

"I'm surprised you told him we were vampires," I told Ethan on the way back to the car. "That you admitted to it, I mean, given what we saw earlier tonight."

"Sometimes the only way to counter prejudice is to remind them how similar we are. To challenge their perceptions of what it means to be vampire . . . or human. Besides, he wouldn't have asked who we were if he hadn't at least suspected, and lying probably would have irritated him further."

"Quite possibly."

He smiled magnanimously. "Besides, you clearly wooed them with your cream cheese and double-bacon talk."

"Who wouldn't be wooed by cream cheese and double-bacon talk? I mean, other than vegetarians, I guess. But as we have thoroughly established, vegetarianism is not my gig."

Ethan opened my car door. "No, Sentinel, it is not."

I'd climbed inside and he did the same, but he didn't start the car right away.

"Problems?" I asked.

He frowned. "I'm not sure I'm ready to return to the House. Not that I'd prefer to be at Creeley Creek, of course, but until I go back to Hyde Park, the drama hasn't quite solidified." He glanced at me. "Does that make sense?"

Only a four-hundred-year-old Master vampire would wonder if a grad student could understand procrastination. "Of course it does.

Procrastination is a very human emotion."

"I'm not sure humans have a monopoly on procrastination. And, more important, I'm not sure this counts as procrastination." He turned back again and started the ignition. "Unlike what you're doing."

"What I'm doing?"

He smiled just a little - a tease of a smile.

"Procrastinating," he said. "Avoiding the inevitability of you and me."

"How long does 'inevitability' take when you're immortal?"

He grinned and pulled the Mercedes away from the curb. "I suppose we'll find out."

One summer night in Chicago. Three sets of battle lines drawn.

The protesters were still outside when we returned, their apparent hatred of us undiminished. On the other hand, their energy did seem to be a little diminished; this time, they were sitting on the narrow strip of grass between the sidewalk and street. Some sat in pop-up camping chairs. Others sat on blankets in pairs, one's head on the other's shoulder, given the late hour. Late-night prejudice was apparently exhausting.

Malik met us at the door, folder in hand; Ethan had given him a heads-up call in the car on the way back to the House.

Malik was tall, with cocoa skin, pale green eyes, and closely cropped hair. He had the regal bearing of a prince in training - shoulders back, jaw set, eyes scanning and alert, as if waiting for marauders to scale the castle walls.

"Militiamen and arrest warrants," Malik said.

"I'm not sure it's advisable for you two to leave the House together anymore."

Ethan made a snort of agreement. "At this point, I'd tend to agree with you."

"Tate indicated the supposed incident was violent?"

"Exceptionally so, according to the firsthand account," Ethan said.

Once we were in Ethan's office and he'd closed the door behind us, he got to the heart of it. "The story is, the vamps lost control and killed three humans. But Mr. Jackson's description rang more of uncontrolled bloodlust than of a typical rave."

"Mr. Jackson?" Malik asked.

Ethan headed for his desk. "Our eyewitness.

Potentially under the influence, but sober enough that Tate was apparently convinced. And by convinced, I mean he's threatening my arrest if we don't fix the problem, whatever it is."

Malik, eyes wide, looked between the two of us. "He's serious, then."

Ethan nodded. "He's had the warrant drawn.

And that makes this problem our current focus.

Tate said the incident occurred in West Town.

Look through your rave intel again. Any connections to that neighborhood? Any talk about violence? Anything that would suggest the scale the witness talked about?"

That assignment given, Ethan looked at me.

"When the sun sets, talk to your grandfather.

Ask him to track down what they can about the Jackson incident - the vampires involved, Houses, whatever - and any new information they've gotten about the raves. This may not actually be one, but at the moment it's the best lead we've got. And one way or the other," he added, looking between us, "let's close these things down, shall we?"

"Liege," I agreed with a nod. I'd definitely visit my grandfather, but my circle of friends had grown a little wider over the last few months. I'd recently been asked to join the Red Guard, a kind of vampire watchdog group that kept an eye on Master vamps and the GP. I'd declined the invitation, but I'd made use of the resource, calling on the RG for backup during the attack on the House. This might be the time to make that call again. . . .

"And this McKetrick fellow?" Malik asked.

"He'll wait," Ethan said, determination in his eyes. "He'll wait until hell freezes over, because we're not leaving Chicago."

I'd visit my grandfather when the sun set. But first, I had a couple more hours of darkness and many hours of daylight to get through.

All the bedrooms in the House, which accommodated about ninety of Cadogan's threehundred-odd vampires, looked like small dorm rooms. A bed. A bureau. A nightstand. Small closet, small bathroom. They weren't exactly fancy, but they gave us a respite from vampire drama. Given the messes we tended to get into, drama free was definitely a good thing.

My second-floor room - just like the rest of the House - still smelled like construction. New paint. Varnish. Drywall. Plastic. It smelled good somehow, like a new beginning. A fresh start.

The storm broke overhead just as I shut my door, rain beginning to pelt the shuttered window in my room. I peeled off my suit and toed off Mary Jane heels, then headed to my small bathroom, where I scrubbed my face. The makeup washed off easily. The memories, on the other hand, weren't going anywhere.

Those were the tough things to ignore - the sounds, the expressions, the sensation of Ethan and his body. I'd tried to lock the memories away, to keep my mind clear of them in order to get my work done. But they were still there.

They stung a little less now, but you couldn't unring the bell. For better or worse, I'd probably always have those memories with me.

When I'd dressed again in a tank top and shorts, I glanced back at the clock. I had two hours to kill until dawn, which meant I had an hour to kill until my weekly date with my other favorite blond vampire.

My first task - taking care of basic vampiric necessities. I walked down the hallway to the second-floor kitchen, smiling at a couple of vaguely familiar-looking vampires as I passed them. Each of the House's aboveground floors had a kitchen, a very handy thing since vampiric emergencies didn't respect cafeteria hours. I opened the fridge and plucked out two drink boxes of type A blood (prepared by the lamely named Blood4You, our delivery service), then headed back to my room. Most vamps were fortunate enough to retain a pretty good hold on their bloodlust, me included. But just because I wasn't ripping at the seams of the boxes didn't mean I didn't need the blood. Most of the time, bloodlust in vamps was kind of like thirst in humans; if you waited to drink until you were truly thirsty, it was probably already too late.

While waiting for her highness's arrival, I poked a straw into one of the drink boxes and pored through the stack of books that was beginning to crawl its way up my bedroom wall.

It was my TBR - my To Be Read stack. The usual subjects were there. Chick lit. Action. A Pulitzer Prize winner. A romance novel about a pirate and a damsel in a low-cut blouse. (What? Even a vampire enjoys a little bodice ripping now and again.)

Even though I'd spent the final hours of more than a few evenings in my vampire dorm room, my TBR stack hadn't gotten any shorter. With each book I finished, I found a replacement in the House's library. And I'd occasionally wake at dusk to find a pile of books outside my door, presumably left by the House librarian, another Novitiate vampire. His selections were usually related to politics: stories about the ancient conflicts between vampires and shape-shifters; biographies of the one hundred most vampirefriendly politicians in Western history; time lines of vampiric events in history. Unfortunately, no matter how serious the topic, the names were usually just silly.

Get to the Point: Vampire Contributions in Western Architecture.

Fangs and Balances: Vampire Politicians in History.

To Drink or Not to Drink: A Vampire Dialectic.

Blood Sausage, Blood Stew, Blood Orange:

Food for All Seasons.

And the awfully named Plasmatlas, which contained maps of important vampire locales.

Maybe the managing editor of the vampire press was the same guy who wrote the chapter titles for the Canon of the North American Houses, my vampire guidebook. Both were equally punny - and just as ridiculous.

The names aside, let's be honest - with Ethan running around the House, there were definitely advantages to reading in my room. Was it Master avoidance? Absolutely. But when faced with the temptation of something you couldn't have, why not find something more productive to do?

Put another way, why order dessert if you couldn't take a bite?

So there I was - in a tank and boxers - crosslegged on my bed with To Drink or Not to Drink in hand, the rain pummeling the roof above me. I sighed, leaned back against the pillows, and sank into the words, hoping that I might find something moderately edutaining. Or infotaining.

Whatever.

An hour later, Lindsey knocked, and I dog-eared the book (a bad habit, I know, but I never had a bookmark handy).

The book had actually been informative, discussing the earliest recorded instances of a condition the author called hemoanhedonia - the inability to take pleasure from drinking blood.

Vamps with the condition tended to demonize those who drank. Add that to the fact that being a "practicing" vampire was dangerous in its own right - humans didn't usually take kindly to being treated like sippy cups - and vampires began drinking together privately, away from the criticism. Abracadabra, raves are born.

With that historical nugget in mind, I put the book on the nightstand and opened the door.

Lindsey, fellow guard and my best friend in the House (assuming Ethan didn't count, and I don't think he did), stood in the hallway with a blond ponytail, killer figure, and silly smile on her face. She wore jeans and a black T-shirt with CADOGAN printed in white block letters across the front. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted gleaming gold.

"Hi, blondie."

"Merit. I like those duds." She cast an appraising glance at my ILLINOIS IS FOR LOVERS! tank top and shamrock-patterned Cubs shorts.

"Off-duty Cadogan Sentinel at your service. Come on in."

She hit the bed. I shut the door behind her.

One of our earliest dates as new friends had been a night in her room with pizza and reality television. It wasn't exactly cerebral, but it gave us a chance to be silly for a little while, to be concerned with which celebutante was dating which rock star or who was winning this week's crazy challenge . . . instead of worrying about which groups of people were trying to kill us. The latter was exhausting after a while.

I flipped on my tiny television (my Sentinel stipend at work) and changed the channel to tonight's reality opera, which involved male contestants solving puzzles so they could escape from an island of ex-girlfriends.

It was high-quality stuff. Classy stuff.

I joined Linds on the bed and pulled a pillow behind my head.

"How was the meeting with Tate?" she asked.

"Drama, drama, drama. Luc will fill you in.

Suffice it to say, Ethan could be in Cook County lockup next week."

"Sullivan may have a heart of coal, but I bet he looks really good in orange. And stripes.

Rawr," she said, curling her fingers like a cat.

Lindsey was even less convinced that Ethan had had a legitimate post-breakup change of heart. But that didn't make him any less pretty.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate your compliments when he's climbing into that jumpsuit," I said.

"Although Luc might get jealous."

As a guard, Luc was Lindsey's boss. He was tall and touslehaired, his dark blond locks sun streaked from years, I imagined, as a bootswearing cowboy on some high-plains ranch where cattle and horses outnumbered humans and vampires. Luc kept the boots after becoming a vampire, and he'd developed a monumental crush on Lindsey. Long story short, nothing had come of it until the attack on the House. Then they started spending more time together.

I didn't think it was uberserious - more like a movie night here, a snack at sunset there. But it did seem like he'd finally managed to push through the emotional barriers she'd erected to keep him at a distance. I completely approved of that development. Luc had pined pretty hard; it was about time he tasted victory.

"Luc can take care of himself," Lindsey said, her voice dry.

"He'd enjoy it more if you were doing the caring."

Lindsey held up a hand. "Enough boy talk. If you keep harping about Luc, I'm going to hit you with a Sullivan one-two combination, in which case I'll be quizzing you about his hot bod and emotional iciness for the rest of the evening."

"Spoilsport." I pouted, but let it go. I knew she wasn't completely convinced about Luc, even if she was spending more time with him, and I didn't want to push her too far too fast. And to be fair, just because I thought they'd be good together didn't mean she was obligated to date him. It was her life, and I could respect that.

So I let it go and settled into a comfy position beside her, and then let my mind drift on the waves of prerecorded, trashy television. As relaxation went, it didn't exactly rank up there with a hotrock massage and mud bath, but a vampire took what a vampire could get.