Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [43]
There were many truths about the events of that night, and Tate couldn’t relieve me of the burden of my own guilt. But I knew—as sure as I knew anything else—that I’d gone into his office to stop the spread of drugs, to help the Houses, and to help the city’s vampires. Whatever the GP may ultimately decide, I knew what had gone down in that room, and I wasn’t going to stand trial for a crime I hadn’t committed.
I looked back at Tate, and felt a little of the weight in my chest ease.
He beamed. “There we are,” he said, his voice a bit deeper, his cold blue eyes gleaming with pleasure. “Now we’re back to interesting again. You came because you aren’t afraid to. Because as much as you believe you relied on Sullivan, you are your own person. I’ve always known that about you. For better or worse, your father made you the woman you are today. Maybe he was cold. But you are self-reliant because of it.”
A wave of magic thickened the air again as he spoke the words, sounding a lot like a mentor imparting wisdom to a student. That only confused me more.
“What do you want from me?”
His eyes gleamed. “Nothing at all, Merit, except for you to be who you are.”
“Which is?”
“A fitting adversary.” Perhaps at the chilled expression on my face, he sat back in his chair, a smug expression on his. “And I do think I’ll enjoy this particular round.”
I had the distinct impression I wouldn’t.
“I’m not engaging in games with you, Tate.”
He clucked his tongue. “Don’t you see, Merit? The games have already begun. And I believe it’s my move.”
There was something comforting about the scratchy gravel beneath my feet and the cool fall air. The air in the room had been heavy, Tate’s magic unnerving. I sucked in a few deep breaths and tried to slow my racing heart again.
Catcher and my grandfather stood a few feet away from the building and walked toward me as I exited.
“You’re all right?” my grandfather asked.
We stopped together thirty or so feet from the building. I glanced back at it. From the distance, it looked so completely innocuous—just a small brick building that had once upon a time housed time cards and invoices. And now—it held a supernatural being of unknown origin.
“I’m fine,” I told him. “Glad to be outside again. There was a lot of magic in there.”
“Insidious magic,” Catcher explained. “You rarely feel it until it’s too late. Did you learn anything helpful?”
“No. He played coy, although he seems to truly believe I was responsible for what happened that night.”
That seemed to be enough to satisfy the both of them. Silently, we climbed back into the golf cart and made our way back to the gate. A breeze was picking up. I huddled into my jacket, not sure if it was the looming winter, or the experience, that had chilled me to the bone.
As it happened, I’d previously been to the heliport where my grandfather directed me to meet the helicopter for the flight to Lorelei’s island.
My father, a member of the Chicago Growth Council, had fought for two years to get a heliport installed in Streeterville, an area north of downtown Chicago along the lakefront, despite concerns that that part of the city was too thick with skyscrapers to safely provide helicopter service. That heliport was breaking news for the four months it took politicians to decide whether it was electorally riskier to veto the heliport or allow it. As was often the case when money was involved, the CGC won out, and the heliport was installed.
I parked on the street in front of the sleek, silver building that housed the landing pad and walked inside. A security guard took my name and then sent me to the elevator.
The doors opened at the building’s top floor, a giant asphalt circle with an “H” marking the center. The pilot met me with a wave—the only way she could communicate given the vicious wind and noise from the smallish helicopter, whose rotors were already spinning.
She motioned me toward the door, indicating I’d get headphones when I got inside. I nodded and made a run for it, ducking farther than I probably needed to avoid