UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS
That the Breckenridges had money was undeniable when one was facing down their palatial estate in Loring Park. Chicago was a metropolis bounded by water on one side and farmland on the other. Loring Park managed to fit itself just outside the latter, a fancy suburb of rolling green hills a simple train ride away from the hustle of the Second City.
Loring Park itself was a small and tidy town, with a central square and pretty shopping centers, the area newly developed and decorated with dark iron streetlights and lots of landscaping. A winter carnival had even set up shop in a parking lot, and residents undoubtedly sick of winter were trundling around amid the games and handful of rides. It would be months before green would peek through the flattened brown grass, but the snow was nearly gone. It had been a strange winter in northeastern Illinois—the weather veering back and forth between frigidly cold and practically balmy.
The estate was located a few miles outside the city center on the crest of a long, rolling hill. The house, with turrets and windows and several wings of rooms, was modeled after Biltmore and was surrounded by rolling hills of neatly manicured grass; the back lawn sloped gently down into a forest.
As hidey-holes went, it wasn't a bad option.
We pulled the car up to the door, covered by a stone arch, and got out, gravel crunching beneath our feet. The night was dark and moonless; the air was thick with wood smoke and magic.
"Is that what you think?" A tall, dark-haired man burst through the door, and a wave of prickly, irritated magic followed him like a cresting wave. He was broad shouldered, and he came out with arm raised, pointing an accusing finger at us. "You want to let those bloodsuckers stay here? In our home?"
The accusing gaze and shoulders belonged to Michael Breckenridge, Jr., the oldest of Papa Breck's sons. He was in his thirties now, but he'd been a football player in his youth, and he hadn't lost the muscle, or apparently the testosterone. He was the expected heir of Breckenridge Industries and the family fortune, and he evidently had a temper. Papa Breck was going to need to keep an eye on that.
Michael Breckenridge, Jr., I silently told Ethan, using the telepathic connection between us.
Charming, was his reply. He was even sarcastic telepathically.
"Be polite to the guests," said another voice in the doorway.
The man who stood there was tall and lean, with dark hair that waved over his forehead and a glint in his steely eyes. This was Finley Breckenridge, the second oldest of the Breck boys. There were two others—Nick, the one I'd dated, now a journalist, and Jamie, the youngest.
I guessed Finley and Michael had been in the middle of a disagreement regarding their father's decision to let us stay.
"Go back inside, Finn," Michael said. "This doesn't concern you."
Finley took another step outside, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers, but his eyes were cool, his body taut, ready for action.