businesses like Blood4You. Only four of the twelve American Houses, including Cadogan, still participated in the ritual of drinking straight from the tap. But those that drank did so in an officially sanctioned way - inside the House, after careful screening and after consent forms had been signed and notarized.
In triplicate. (Personally, I was far from mentally or emotionally prepared to sip from anything other than plastic.)
Unfortunately, vampires who drank from humans were considered out of sync, or at least that was the image perpetuated by Celina when she'd organized the vampire coming-out. Vamps drinking en masse and without oversight, even if the humans had consented to a sip, was a PR nightmare waiting to happen.
Since vampires who chose to drink from humans were supposed to follow those cover-your-ass safeguards, this blossoming PR nightmare begged a question: "Which Houses participate in the raves?" I asked.
"None of them, theoretically," Luc muttered, prompting a sympathetic nod from Ethan.
"As you know, a handful of the Houses remain pro-drinking," Ethan answered. "But none of the Houses condone raves."
"Could be sneaky Housed vamps or Rogues," Luc added, referring to the few vampires who lived outside the House system. "Maybe wandering vamps from other cities, other countries. Add those groups together and you've got a hornet's nest of thirsty vampires and na?ve, wannabe humans. Bad combination."
I crossed my arms and glanced at Ethan. "I understand your concerns, but is there a reason the House Sentinel is only hearing about these raves now?"
"We don't exactly advertise them," Ethan mildly replied. "However, now that you are in the know, we believe there are services you can provide." He pulled a gray folder to the top of the stack of papers on his desk, then flipped it open, revealing paper-clipped documents that were topped by a small color photograph.
"We understand the reporter is currently doing his background research." Ethan lifted the picture and flipped it around to show me. "And I believe you two are acquainted."
I reached out, gingerly took the picture from Ethan, and stared at the familiar image.
"Hello, Jamie."
Chapter Four
THE PRE-PARTY PLANNING COMMITTEE
"He's the youngest Breckenridge," I told Ethan and Luc, who'd swiveled in his seat to watch me pace the length of Ethan's office and back. "The youngest of four boys." I stopped pacing, stared down at the photograph between my fingers, and tried to recall the math. "Nicholas is three years older. Then Finley, and Michael's the oldest."
"Nicholas is your age?" Ethan asked.
I glanced back at him. "Yes. Twenty-eight."
"And how long did you two see each other?"
I resisted the urge to ask how he knew Nicholas and I had been an item, realizing that Ethan was at least as well connected as my money-hungry father and was equally keen a purveyor of information. I'd wondered if Ethan was my grandfather's secret source. At the very least, his access to information was as deep.
"Nearly two years while we were in high school," I told him.
Nicholas Etherell Arbuckle Breckenridge (and yes, his brothers and mine had tortured him about the name) had been totally dreamy - wavy brown hair, blue eyes, Romeo in our junior production of Shakespeare, editor of the school paper. He was funny, confident, and heir, if you didn't count Michael and Finley, to the fortune that was Breckenridge Industries.
Started by their great-great-great-grandfather, the conglomerate manufactured steel components for the construction industry. That meant the Breckenridges were reported to own a good chunk of the Loop. But while the Breck boys lacked for nothing, they were brought up with a very commonsensical attitude toward their money. Public school, high school jobs, paying their own way through college. After college, Michael and Finley headed for the family business, while Nick skipped B-school and law school for a master's in journalism from Northwestern, followed by a trek across sub-Saharan Africa to study the impact of Western medical relief efforts. When he returned to the States with a Pulitzer to his credit, he joined the New York Times as a bureau reporter.
Jamie, on the other hand, was the family black sheep - although even sheep were productive from a wool-making perspective. From what I'd heard, word having passed from Mrs. Breckenridge to my mother during a meeting of one of their ubiquitous clubs - golf club, book club, cotillion club, travel club, heirloom asparagus club, etc. -
Jamie mooched off his parents, occasionally dabbling in a get-rich-quick scheme, Internet start-up, or "surefire invention," most of which fizzled as quickly as his temporary interest in working. That Ethan and