Biting Cold: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (CHICAGOLAND VAMPIRES SERIES)

steward appeared at my side, presented me with a silver-domed plate, and then whipped off the dome.
    The sight and smell of sizzling steak made my mouth instantaneously water. And beside it, a tidy pile of bright green broccoli, a scoop of garlic-permeated mashed potatoes, and a Thermos of blood. As I stared down at it, she delivered a similar plate to Paige.
    “Oh, sweet God,” I said appreciatively, my eyes all but eating the food.
    “Omaha’s finest,” Ethan said with a smile. “For a good night’s work.”
    The man procured steak to reward me. Say what you might about Ethan Sullivan, but he knew just how to butter me up. On the other hand, I wasn’t convinced I’d done anything right. “When we arrived here, we had one Tate and one book. We now have two Tates and zero books.”
    “The book is a move in the right direction.”
    “And the Tates?”
    There was fear in his eyes. “If you have a preferred god, Sentinel, I suggest you start praying. And soon.”
    I couldn’t fault the ride on a multimillion-dollar jet. It was even smoother than a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes, and a helluva lot faster.
    We flew out across the dark waters of Lake Michigan before landing at O’Hare, my delightful meat coma giving way to relief as the steward unlocked the door and we prepared to descend the stairs.
    The weather was miserable—the ground wet from earlier rain, the air cold and damp. Not exactly a warm greeting from my hometown, but that didn’t make me any less glad to step down onto the tarmac. It was good to be home, even though the trip was short and there was no doubt we’d find just as much drama in Illinois as we had in Nebraska.
    Hopefully, this time, it would be our kind of drama.
    A sleek, silver sedan with a grill like a wide grin was waiting for us a few steps away from the plane. A guy in a Windbreaker and khakis stood beside the car, a set of keys in hand.
    “Is that an Aston Martin?” Paige asked.
    I slid Ethan a glance, but his gaze was already caressing the car’s lines and curves.
    “You’ll recall my car was quite totaled,” he said, without taking his eyes off his new ride.
    “And how much did it cost to have this nice gentleman bring a new ride to you at the airport?”
    “A drop in the bucket compared to the overall cost, Sentinel.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    He checked his watch. “Gabriel won’t have made it back to Nebraska, even as fast as they likely drove.” He looked at me. “We can go to the House. You can shower and get changed, and we can get Paige settled.”
    “A shower sounds glorious,” I agreed.
    “For me, too,” Paige said.
    Ethan held out a hand toward the car. “In that case, ladies, let’s be on our way.”
    There was no faulting that ride, either. On the way, in the smooth comfort of Ethan’s new Aston Martin, I texted Jonah again to let him know more GP trouble was brewing. I didn’t know what the shofet had decided, but it didn’t portend anything good that they were coming here to announce it. That was just the kind of thing the Red Guard needed to be prepared for.
    It also didn’t surprise me that Darius wanted a look at Ethan, to assure himself that Ethan was the vampire who’d earned the Masterdom of the House. There were only twelve vampire Houses in the United States. That meant Ethan had, relatively speaking, a good bit of power. I’d have wanted a look at the reincarnated vamp, too. But I didn’t think it wise to voice that particular opinion to Ethan.
    We drove to Hyde Park, where the pale stone of Cadogan House emerged from darkness. It was a large, three-story mansion with features from another time—an arched entrance, a turret, and a widow’s walk around the roof. The grounds were even larger than the House and offered a bit of the gated outdoors for itchy vampires who needed fresh air and space from vampire drama.
    The sidewalk in front of the House was peppered with protestors; they’d become a fixture over the past few months, and Mallory’s recent shenanigans certainly hadn’t helped. They were citizens of all ages and genders and ethnicities, but the hatred in their hand-painted signs was similar: GO HOME, VAMPS. NO VAMPS IN ILLINOIS. WINDY CITY, NOT VAMPIRE CITY . What they lacked in creativity, they made up in good old-fashioned discrimination.
    They sat in lawn chairs, bundled up against the cold, many eating dinners like they’d pulled up to a drive-in movie instead of a vampire hate fest.
    Normally, I’d have