Dark Debt_ A Chicagoland Vampire - Chloe Neill Page 0,1

forty-three seconds,” Catcher said, glancing at his watch. “I’d grab it for you, but I’m afraid I’d lose a finger.”

“Stop torturing her,” Mallory said, carefully picking up the cookie, handing it gingerly to me, then dusting powdered sugar from her hands. “She can’t help her obsession.”

I started to argue, but by then my mouth was full of cookie. “Not an obsession,” I said when I was done. “Fast metabolism and rigorous training schedule. Luc has us on two-a-days now that Ethan’s been upgraded.”

“Ooh, Ethan two-point-oh,” Mallory said.

“I think technically we’re now at Ethan four-point-oh,” Catcher pointed out. “Human, vampire, resurrected vampire, AAM member.”

Ethan snorted, but even he didn’t argue with the timeline. “I prefer to think of it as a promotion.”

“You get a raise out of it?” Catcher asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I’ll nearly be able to afford to keep Merit in the culinary style to which she’d like to become accustomed.”

“You’re the one with the expensive taste.” I gestured to the bottle of wine. “Do I even want to know how much that cost?”

Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “Likely not.”

“And there you go.”

“A vampire cannot survive on Italian hot beefs and Mallocakes alone.”

“Speak for yourself, fancy pants.”

“I’m not fancy,” Ethan said imperiously. “I’m particular. Which is actually a compliment to you.”

“He did pick you after four hundred years of wild-oat sowing,” Catcher said, earning an elbow from Mallory. He grunted, but he was smiling when he lay back on the blanket, hands crossed behind his head.

“You make it sound like Ethan picked her up at a farmers’ market,” Mallory complained.

“That would require Merit to eat vegetables,” Ethan said, grinning at me. “Could you differentiate between a rutabaga and rhubarb?”

“Yes, but only because my grandmother made the best strawberry-rhubarb pie I’ve ever tasted.”

“I don’t think that counts.”

“Oh, it counts,” I said with a nod. “That pie was sublime. I’ve got solid culinary chops.”

“My culinarily chopped vampire missed a spot of powdered sugar,” Ethan said, leaning forward, swiping his thumb across my lips just slowly enough to heat my blood.

“Get a room,” Catcher groused. He was grouchy but loyal, and had followed Mallory through her stint as a Maleficent wannabe and on to the other side. He was also unfailingly dedicated to my much-beloved grandfather, which gave him points in my book.

But I still gave him the much-deserved stink eye. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you naked? You and Mallory considered the entire house your personal love shack.” Mallory and I had been roommates once upon a time, before Catcher had moved into the town house we’d shared, and I’d moved into Cadogan House to escape the nudity.

“Your”—I waved my hand at his body—“rod and tackle touched pretty much everything in the place.”

“My body is a wonderland” was his only response.

“Be that as it may,” Ethan said, “Merit is not your Alice. I’ll thank you to keep your rod and tackle away from her.”

“Nowhere near my agenda,” Catcher assured him.

Ethan’s phone beeped, and he pulled it out quickly, checked the screen.

“Just a media inquiry,” he said, tucking it away again.

Every phone call put us on high alert, because a ghost—or someone pretending to be one—had staked a claim on our lives. That ghost was Balthasar, the vampire who, on a battlefield nearly four hundred years ago, had made Ethan immortal and nearly turned him into a monster in his own image. Ethan had escaped his maker, made a new life for himself, and believed Balthasar had died shortly after he had escaped. Ethan hadn’t yet told me the details, but he hadn’t indicated any doubts about Balthasar’s death.

And yet, three weeks ago, a note had been left in our top-floor apartments in Cadogan House. A note purporting to be from Balthasar, who was alive and excited to see Ethan again.

A note . . . and then nothing.

He’d made no contact since then, and we’d found no evidence he was alive, much less in Chicago and waiting for an opportunity to wreak havoc, to wage war, to exert control over Ethan once again.

So we waited. Every phone call could be the call, the one that would change the life we’d begun to make together. And there were so many more calls these days. The AAM was still working out the operational details, but that hadn’t kept vampires from lining up outside Cadogan House like vassals, seeking protection, requesting Ethan’s intervention in some city dispute, or offering fealty.

And vampires weren’t the only ones interested. Chicago was home