antithetical to mansions. The vampire design aesthetic was far from chains, skull candles, and black lace, and it wasn't as if Cadogan House was a hovel. It had been elegant before the attack, and it was becoming elegant again.
But Navarre House set a new standard for vampire opulence. First, it was tucked into the Gold Coast neighborhood, one of Chicago's ritziest areas, full of Gilded Era mansions and celebrity retreats. Second, the interior was awe inspiring. Giant spaces, weird art, and the kind of furniture you saw in design magazines. (The kind of furniture you thought was neat in a museum kind of way, but wouldn't actually want to sit on when watching a game on the flat screen on a Saturday afternoon.)
Did I mention Navarre had a reception desk?
Having parked the Volvo and freshened up as much as possible in the rearview mirror, I went inside and prepared to face the three dark-haired women who controlled access to Navarre and its Master.
Ethan and I had dubbed them the three Fates, a la Greek myth, because they exercised a similar amount of power. They looked petite, but I had the sense that one false move - or one unauthorized step past the reception desk - and you'd be in trouble.
Today they mostly seemed overwhelmed. The House's lobby was swamped with people. None fit into obvious categories - no reporters, no vampires, no one who seemed like a member of McKetrick's crew doing a little in-House surveying. Most wore standard black suits, more of the accountant variety than the Cadogan House variety, and they carried notepads or nondescript black bags.
I maneuvered through them to the reception desk and waited until I got the attention of the Fate on the left.
After a moment, she looked up at me, obviously frazzled, her fingers flying across the keys even as she made eye contact.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan, here to see Morgan if he's available?"
She blew out a breath, finally glanced down at her screen, and continued her marathon typing. A man bumped beside me at the desk and looked down at her.
"I had an appointment fifteen minutes ago."
"Nadia is working as quickly as possible, sir.
She'll be with you shortly." She pointed a long-fingered nail at the benches behind the desk.
"Have a seat."
The man clearly didn't like her answer, but he bit his tongue and squeezed back through.
I leaned forward a bit. "What's going on in here today? I thought Tate wasn't allowing humans in the Houses?"
She rolled her eyes. "He's offered an exception to that rule. We're in the process of selecting our vendors for the next calendar year.
The mayor suggested Nadia talk with representatives of the human businesses in town to get their bids."
Nadia was the Navarre Second, Morgan's vice president. She was also supermodel gorgeous, which was a shocking thing to learn the first time you walked into your ex-boyfriend's abode.
The Fate cast an unhappy glance out across the crowd. "I seriously doubt they can meet our needs."
I'd assumed we had a cleaning crew and a grounds staff, and I knew one of the House chefs. But it hadn't occurred to me that vampires needed vendors. But someone had to stock the House kitchens, keep folders and highlighters in the Ops Room, and ensure the crystal decanters in Ethan's office were filled with fine liquor.
Here, that duty fell to Nadia and a boatload of vendors vying for the privilege of selling their wares.
I wondered if Malik did the same thing for Cadogan House, interviewing vendors, considering bids and quotes, and reviewing contracts. It certainly would have made sense.
Ethan was the House's chief executive officer, which made Malik its chief operating officer.
A blonde with tightly hot-rolled hair and a lot of black eyeliner stepped up to the desk. "Is Mr.Greer available? Perhaps I could just speak with him if Nadia is too busy?"
Expression flat, the Fate glanced at me. "Do you remember where his office is?"
"I can find my way up," I assured her, walking away to the unhappy squeals of the woman I'd displaced in line.
Not that she'd had any chance.
I walked across the House's gigantic first floor to the arching staircase that led to the second floor. Morgan's office was there, a modern suite with a garden view. The door was closed, so I rapped my knuckles against it.
"Come in."
I stepped inside . . . and nearly lost my breath.
Morgan was half-naked, clad only in black trousers, pulling a short-sleeved white undershirt over his head, the muscles in his stomach