Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [41]
Only the first step will suck, I reminded myself, and headed inside.
There were plenty of beautiful people who’d been successful—actors, rock stars, models. But there were probably just as many who’d squandered their genetic gifts on drugs, crime, lust, greed, and various other deadly sins.
Tate, unfortunately, fell into the latter category.
He’d been swiftly climbing the political ladder, his brooding good looks helping him woo Chicago voters. But he hadn’t been satisfied with a meteoric political career. He’d traded it all in for the chance to control the city’s vampires, and he’d wound up in an orange jumpsuit that wasn’t nearly as flattering as his Armani had been.
But for all that, Seth Tate still looked good.
He sat at an aluminum table, one leg crossed over the other, one elbow back on the chair, his eyes alert and scanning the room . . . and me when I walked in.
He looked a bit leaner than he had when I’d last seen him, his cheekbones a bit more hewn. But his hair was still dark and perfectly arranged, his eyes still piercingly blue, his body still lean and mean. Seth Tate was the kind of handsome that packed a punch, and it was a shame all that pretty was going to waste in a lonely part of town.
Except for the part about him being a murderous bastard.
There was also a faint scent of lemon and sugar in the air, which always seemed to be the case around Tate. It wasn’t unpleasant—quite the contrary. It just wasn’t the kind of scent you expected from a man as cold-blooded as Tate.
The prickle of magic in the air, however, seemed very appropriate. This was only the second time I’d been able to detect Tate’s magic; he’d done a bang-up job of hiding it before. I hated the feel of it: oily, heavy, and old, like the incense you’d find in the sanctuary of a Gothic church.
“Ballerina,” Tate said.
I’d danced when I was younger, and Tate had seen me in toe shoes and tutus. He’d decided on “Ballerina” as a nickname. Of course, since he was the man responsible for the death of my lover and Master, I wasn’t keen on his use of the familiar.
“I prefer Merit,” I said, taking the seat across from him. The aluminum chair was cold, and I crossed my arms over my chest, as much from the chill as protection against the magic in the air.
As I took a seat, the room’s steel door closed with a resounding thunk that shook the room a bit. My stomach jumped with nerves.
We sat quietly for a moment, Tate gazing at me with concentration.
The pressure in the room suddenly thickened, and the smell became stronger, both cloyingly sweet and sour enough to make my mouth water. The room seemed to sway back and forth. It wasn’t like any other magic I’d felt. This was magic of a different caliber. Of a different age, maybe. Like magic that had been born in a different time. In an ancient era.
I put one hand on the chair beneath me to keep from falling over and another on the bit of worry wood in my pocket. I kept my gaze trained on Tate, like a ballerina spotting during a pirouette to keep from getting dizzy, and squeezed the wood so hard I feared it would splinter beneath my fingers.
After a few seconds, the swaying stopped and the room stilled again.
Tate sat heavily back in his chair again and frowned at me. That’s when I realized what he’d been trying to do. “Did you just try to glamour me?”
“Ineffectively, it seems. Worry wood?”
I smiled demurely and focused on keeping my cool. I wasn’t sure if it was the wood or my natural resistance to glamour, but I wasn’t about to give that away to him. I slid my hand from my pocket again. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”
“Hmph,” he said, shuffling in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked back at me, head tilted, studying me. Each time he moved, a bit of magic sifted through the air. However he’d hidden it before, he didn’t seem to be bothering now. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.
“I wondered when you’d pay me a visit.”
“I’m sure you did. But to be honest, I’ve had a difficult time deciding what to do with you.” I leaned