"Military?" I asked Ethan, my heart beating wildly.
"It's unlikely official military would approach us this way. Not when there are significantly easier means with less potential collateral damage."
"Whatever else they are, I assume they're anti-vamp."
Two of the three men in front of the car unholstered their weapons, approached us, and pulled open the doors.
"Out," they said in unison. I took mental inventory—I had my dagger, but not my sword. I hoped I wouldn't need it.
"Anti-vamp, indeed," Ethan muttered, then slowly lifted his hands into the air. I did the same.
Steady, Sentinel, he telepathically told me. Say nothing aloud unless it's absolutely necessary.
You're the boss, I replied.
All evidence to the contrary. The words were silent, but the snark was obvious.
We stepped outside onto the dark Chicago street. The vibration in the air—the buzz of steel I could feel after my katana had been tempered with blood—was intense. These guys, whoever they were, were well armed. Our hands in the air, their weapons trained on our hearts, we were escorted in front of the Mercedes. As vampires, we healed quickly enough that bullets wouldn't generally do us in. An aspen stake to the heart, however, would do the trick without question.
Now that I thought about it, their guns didn't exactly look off-the-rack; they looked like custom units, with muzzles a little wider than those in the House's arsenal.
Is it possible to modify a gun to shoot aspen stakes? I asked Ethan.
I'd prefer not to find out, he replied.
My stomach churned with nerves. I'd become used to the fact that my job called for violence, usually perpetrated by crazy paranormals against me and mine. But these weren't paranormals.
These were gun-wielding humans who apparently believed they were beyond the reach of the law, who believed they had the authority to stop us and hold us at gunpoint within the bounds of our own city.
The third man in front of us—big and bulky, with acne-marked skin and a military haircut —stepped forward.
Watch him, echoed Ethan's voice in my head.
Hard to miss a human tank heading right for me."
You think we don't know what you're doing to our city?" Tank asked. "You're killing us.
Sneaking around in the night, pulling us from our beds. Enticing us, then drinking us down until there's nothing left."
My chest tightened at his words. I certainly hadn't done any of those things, nor did I know of any other vampires who had, at least not since Celina Desaulniers, Chicago's vampire bad girl,
had disappeared from the scene. But Tank seemed very convinced he was telling the truth.
"I've done nothing to you," I told him. "I've never met you, and you don't know anything about me except that I'm a vampire."
"Bitch," he muttered, but he snapped his head back when the rear door opened on the left-hand SUV. Two booted feet hit the pavement, followed by another man in the same black uniform. Unlike the others, this one was handsome, with long, wide eyes and high, pert cheekbones, his dark hair perfectly parted. His hands behind his back, he walked toward us while Tank closed the SUV's door.
I guessed New Guy was the one in charge.
"Mr. Sullivan. Ms. Merit," he said.
"And you are?" Ethan asked.
New Guy smiled grandly. "You can call me . . . McKetrick." The pause made it sound like he'd only just decided on the name. "These are some of my friends. Fellow believers, if you will."
"Your manners leave something to be desired." Ethan's tone was flat, but angry magic peppered the air.
McKetrick crossed his arms over his chest. "I find that insult rather comical, Mr. Sullivan, coming from an interloper in our city."