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

to the constructive criticism.
    “There’s no point denying relations between humans and vampires in Chicago are on a rather unfortunate course. Perhaps that course could have been avoided; perhaps not.” He looked over at me. “It is crucial that the Master of this House be capable of handling that course, whatever it may be.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Is Ethan Sullivan capable of leading this house?”
    My heart began to pound. He wasn’t here to evaluate me. This meeting wasn’t about my role in the House, or the manner in which I’d been made a vampire.
    Darius hadn’t come to Chicago to take a long, last look at Cadogan House before enforcing the shofet ’s decision.
    He’d come to Chicago to take a long, last look at Ethan.
    Unfortunately, I was long ago tired of politics and strategies and games. “What are you afraid of?” I asked.
    Darius looked startled. “Excuse me?”
    “Are you afraid of what he’ll do if you disown the House . . . or if you don’t?”
    He looked at me for a moment, and I felt a bolt of panic that I’d thoroughly overstepped my bounds.
    But then he called my bluff. He leaned forward, his face only inches away from mine, and his voice dropped. “You tell me, Sentinel. You tell me about the man Ethan has become. He was raised from the dead by a witch who wanted to control him, to make him a thing to be used in the effectuation of her magic. That woman would destroy the world if allowed to do so. Can you tell me, with one hundred percent certainty, that Ethan bears no scars from his experience with her? That he is one hundred percent free of her influence?”
    I’d never been a good liar. I’d always believed in a truth—the unassailable facts that either were or were not.
    But what could I tell Darius? That Ethan and Mallory still had a connection? That she had the ability to drive him to his knees and assault him with pain?
    That the Master of one of the country’s twelve Houses—the fourth-oldest House in the United States—was at a witch’s mercy?
    My heart pounded in my chest, but I forced myself to meet his eyes, to fight through the fear, and to say the words that needed to be said, even if they weren’t the absolute truth.
    “Ethan Sullivan is the man he always was. A better man, perhaps, because of what he’s been through.”
    “A very strategic answer. I don’t approve of relations between Master and Novitiate. I didn’t approve when Lacey and Ethan were involved, and I don’t approve now. I find such relationships to be essentially incestuous. Regardless, you are his confidante. You have his ear, Merit. Steer him straight, Sentinel. Steer him straight . . . or his future will be considerably darker than it is tonight. I’m going to speak with the dueling Masters now. I’ll not mention we had this discussion.”
    With that, he moved past me and climbed inside again.
    I closed my eyes and blew out a breath, then stood there for a moment on the roof, the world dark and quiet, the breeze cold. A light rain began to fall. With my heart heavier than it had been when I’d arrived, I climbed back inside and closed the window behind me.
    It was gonna be a long night.
    I’d just opened my door when Margot came rushing down the hallway, a worried expression on her face. She still wore chef’s whites stained with vegetal green, and a vibrant scarf covered her hair. Whatever brought her up to the third floor, she’d left in a hurry.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Ethan and Malik just went in to talk to Darius, but someone is here. You need to come downstairs.”
    “Who is it?”
    “I’m . . . not entirely sure.”
    Without waiting for me to agree, she turned and headed toward the stairs. I followed her, and I was just panicked enough that the trip seemed to take twice as long as usual. Wasn’t that always the way? Maybe it was anticipation that stretched out the seconds, much in the same way that a trip to some exotic destination seemed to take twice as long as the return voyage.
    We took the stairs at a trot and found a protective net of vampires between the stairs and the front door. They split to make room for me, and I stepped between them, my eyes widening at the dark-haired figure at the door.
    “See?” Margot whispered.
    I nodded, my brain reeling as I tried to figure out what to do.
    “Hello, Ballerina,” he said, and I whipped my sword from its sheath.

C HAPTER S IXTEEN

    YOU TAKE THE GOOD, YOU TAKE THE BAD
    H e looked tired. Tall, handsome, and