House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,47

made a decidedly sarcastic sound and pushed off the gate, then lined up beside me on the sidewalk. “Nine miles,” he said, then identified the landmarks that would mark our loop around the neighborhood and back to the House again. The trip would be long for humans, but a bit of light exercise for vampires.

“I can only assume you’re telling me where to go because you know I’ll be out front?”

“Or because I’ll completely lap you,” he said.

“Does your ego know no bounds?”

Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House, smiled wickedly and slapped my ass. “Not when it’s well deserved. I’m ready when you are, Sentinel.”

I didn’t give him the opportunity for a faster push-off. “Go!” I yelled, but I was already past him and sprinting feet away toward our first landmark—the church four blocks down the street. Vampires were predators, and we were naturally faster than humans. But like humans—or cheetahs or lions or any large predators—the superspeed could last only so long.

Ethan let me take the lead, and I took full advantage, pushing myself at a sprinter’s pace to get as large a lead as I could. I was lighter, but he was taller and had longer legs. He’d also been running for centuries. There seemed little possibility I could outpace him to the end of the race, so I did what I could for now.

It wasn’t enough.

He caught up two blocks later, and I risked a glance behind me at the sound of his footfalls. His arms and legs were swinging, every muscle honed and triggered, his form impeccable. If only Olympic races were run at night.

He caught up to me, his breathing barely increased, and jogged beside me. “I believe you cheated, Sentinel.”

“Sentinel’s prerogative. I’m sure there’s a rule in the Canon about it.”

He made a sound of doubt. “Grateful Condescension requires total obsequiousness to the Master of the House.”

“You’ve been a Master for a matter of mere hours and you’re already a cruel despot.”

“Hardly, although you are a Sentinel in need of an attitude adjustment.”

I opened my mouth, and would have given back the same snark he was giving me, but some silent alarm went off in a marginal part of my psyche.

I slowed to a jog, then a stop, hands on my hips, my breathing still elevated, as I looked around.

Ethan realized something was wrong, stopped. He’d moved a few steps ahead; ever cautious, he walked back to where I stood.

“What is it?”

I scanned the neighborhood, opening all my senses to figure out what had tripped my trigger. Other than the rasp of our breathing, there were no other unusual sounds. A car door opening up the block. A mewling cat in an alley. The rumble of traffic on nearby avenues. I saw nothing unusual, and even the smells were typical—the cold, smoky scents of a night in the city.

“I don’t know. I just had a feeling. Internal alarm bells.”

I’d probably have made a sarcastic comment if Ethan had said the same thing to me, but there was no humor in his eyes. I took it as a grave compliment that he trusted I’d sensed something, even if I wasn’t sure what it was.

“Instinct is important,” he said. “Occasionally the senses detect things the rational mind can’t yet analyze.”

I reached out and squeezed his hand, moving my body closer to his and pushing him a little farther away from the street and a little closer to the retaining wall that bounded this part of the sidewalk.

Being the good Sentinel, and an Ethan Sullivan trainee, I began to plan. We weren’t far from the House, and we could easily run back if necessary, but that would leave both of us more exposed than I liked. A phone call to Luc, asking him to pick us up, would be safer, but I didn’t want to give myself over to an agoraphobic fear without some kind of evidence.

“Merit?” Ethan asked.

“I hate to pull rank,” I told him, “but I’m playing Sentinel, and I’m getting you back to the House in one piece. And without argument. Stay at my side.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and I was pretty sure he meant it lasciviously.

“Keep jogging to the end of the block. Human pace. And no showy stuff.”

He grunted with disdain at the idea of dialing back his effort, but complied. We made a slow and silent jog toward the end of the block . . . and that was when I heard it.

The slow scratch of tires on gravel.

Hear it? I