Drink Deep - Chloe Neill [9]
“I have no official position with respect to his douchery,” Malik said, pulling a box of fries out of the bag, applying a prodigious amount of ketchup, and digging in. I appreciated that Malik, unlike Ethan, didn’t need to be schooled on Chicago’s best and greasiest cuisine. He knew the difference between a red hot and a hot beef, had a favorite pizza joint, and had been known to take a late-night trip with Aaliyah to a roadside diner outside Milwaukee to get Wisconsin’s “best cheese curds.” More power to them.
“But we will allow him to hang himself with his own rope,” Malik added. “And in the meantime, we will monitor the vampires and intervene when the time is appropriate.”
The tone was all Master vampire, something Malik had gotten better at using over the last few weeks. I took the hint, dropped the subject and dug into my burger while Luc used a fry to point to various chess pieces he was again deciding between.
“Deliberative, isn’t he?” I whispered to Lindsey.
She smiled too knowingly for comfort. “You have no idea how deliberative he can be. How . . . thorough.” She leaned toward me, nibbling on a bit of bacon from her burger. “Have I ever waxed poetic about the glory that is the fuzzy-chested vampire wearing nothing but cowboy boots?”
Midbite, I squeezed my eyes closed, but it was too late to block the image of Luc wearing nothing but his birthday suit and sassy, red boots. “That’s my former boss you’re talking about,” I whispered. “And I’m trying to eat.”
“You’re thinking about him naked, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
She patted my arm. “And to think—I was actually hesitant about dating him. Oh, and speaking of which. Chaps. Enough said.”
“Enough most definitely said.” Lindsey was becoming my new, in-House Mallory, complete with conquest details. Sigh.
“In that case, I’ll leave you to your imagination. But I strongly recommend the therapeutic application of fuzzy-chested vampire to grief. It works miracles.”
“I am sincerely glad to hear that. But if you keep talking, I will poke your eyes out with a toothpick.” I shoved a handful of napkins in her general direction. “Shut up and eat your burger.”
Sometimes a girl had to lay down the law.
CHAPTER TWO
BITTERSWEET DREAMS
I stood on a high plain in my modern-style black leather—my long hair whipping in the chilling wind that rolled past, swirling the mist that curled at my feet.
The clothing might have been modern, but the setting was ancient. The landscape was bleak and empty, and the air smelled of sulfur and dampness.
I felt the footsteps before I heard them, the ground rumbling just slightly beneath my feet.
And then he appeared.
Like a warrior returning from battle, Ethan emerged through the mist in garb out of time and place for twenty-first century Chicago. Knee-high leather boots, rough-hewn pants, and a long leather tunic belted at the waist. There was a rust-red gash in the middle of his chest. His hair was long and wavy and golden-blond, and his eyes were vibrantly green.
I walked toward him, fear circling my heart, making a vise around it, squeezing my lungs until I was barely able to sip at air. I was glad to see him alive—but I knew he was a harbinger of death.
When I reached him, he put his hands on my arms, leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. Such a simple act, but so intimate. A precious affection that made my chest ache with sentiment. I closed my eyes and savored the moment as thunder rumbled across the plateau, shaking the ground again.
Suddenly, Ethan raised his head and glanced warily around. When he looked at me again, he began to speak, the words flowing in a lilting language that sounded like it came from a time and place far away.
I shook my head. “I can’t understand you.”
His expression tightened, a line of worry furrowing his forehead, the words coming more quickly as he tried to get his point across. But the speed didn’t help.
“Ethan, I don’t know what you’re saying. Can you speak English?”
Panic in his eyes, he glanced back over his shoulder, then grabbed my arm and pointed behind him.