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

amusement.
    The grill and prep areas were alight with activity, as the rest of the staff cheered on a man and woman who were sweating over sauté pans filled with what looked like asparagus.
    I sidled up to Margot. “What’s going on?”
    She smiled. “We’re having an entrée competition. T.J. and Alice get two ingredients, and they have to make an edible entrée we could actually serve in the cafeteria. Edible ,” she repeated, slowly and loudly, so the staff and contestants could hear.
    She glanced at me. “What can I do for you?”
    “Darius is here. Are you making a big dinner for him and Ethan?”
    Margot grinned at me. “Wouldn’t you know better than anyone what Ethan’s plans are?”
    Not tonight , I thought. “Actually, I don’t, but this isn’t about Ethan. It’s for the guard crew. I was thinking we might cater in, if you’re not whipping up something exotic for Darius.”
    She snorted. “When it comes to food, he doesn’t want exotic. He wants simple and very, very specific.” She reached out and grabbed a clipboard that hung from a wall peg. “Charlie faxed this over last night. It’s Darius’s hospitality rider.”
    Charlie was Darius’s majordomo, and a hospitality rider was a list of demands and snacks a band required at a concert venue.
    “How long is Darius going to be here that he needs a hospitality rider?”
    “Too long if you ask me.” She handed over the clipboard and I scanned through the rider. Some of the stuff was innocuous—type A blood, bottled water, mint gum, Earl Grey tea. (He was British, after all.)
    But the list was two single-spaced pages long. Darius was particular about everything from the thread count of his sheets (six hundred) to the content of his meals (preferring raw foods and green juices).
    I handed back the clipboard. “Did he do this the last time he was here?”
    “He did not,” Margot said, hanging it up again. “It’s no skin off my back—I can cook anything. It just doesn’t bode well if he’s setting up house, you know? Anyway, he’s going to Navarre House tonight.”
    More power to Morgan Greer, the Master of Navarre House. Morgan threw tantrums that would impress a two-year-old, but I still wouldn’t wish a GP dinner on him.
    “In that case, how many favors would I need to owe you for a good Chicago-style meal for the Ops Room? Is that something you can whip up?”
    “I can whip up anything,” she said with a cocky expression. “I’ll send it down when it’s ready.”
    I thanked Margot and left her to her refereeing. I could admit dinner was a distraction, something to keep me occupied while I let my subconscious roll around the status of my relationship with Ethan and Tate’s recent rampage. But I still had to function—including eating—even with Tates on the loose. Besides, it wasn’t like I had any better idea where to look for them. I walked back through what we did know.
    Seth Tate was a magical being of unknown origin. He was possibly an old creature and smelled like lemon and sugar.
He’d split into two “things” when he touched the Maleficium and Mallory triggered the spell.
One of those two “things” killed a former accomplice and those unfortunate enough to be around him, but not with magic.
    I stopped. If the spell had triggered his split into two creatures, maybe learning more about the spell would give us some clue to his identity and how he could be stopped. I ducked into the back staircase and pulled out my cell phone. I wasn’t sure if Mallory had even been allowed a phone or anything else from the outside, but I knew one person who had.
    “Catcher Bell,” he gruffly, but quietly, answered.
    “It’s Merit. You heard about Paulie?”
    “I did. Jeff texted me.”
    “Listen, we’re at a dead end. I need to know what kind of spell Mallory used to trigger the Maleficium this time. Can you find out?”
    “She’s actually not supposed to be talking about it. She’s supposed to be focused on the here and now, not the magic that went down.”
    I took a seat on the stairs. “I get that. But Tate’s already shown a willingness to kill, and I don’t know who he’ll go after next.”
    Silence, then, “I’ll find out what I can.”
    “Thank you. Catcher, are you doing okay?”
    That question took him longer to answer. “I’m coping. With her failures. With mine.”
    When he didn’t elaborate, I assumed we were at the end of our conversation. “Okay. Call me when you know