Hard Bitten - Chloe Neill [49]
“They don’t,” Jonah said simply. “The interior architecture of the House is organized so you never have to cross the atrium space to get to any living quarters or exits.” He pointed below. “The rooms on the sides of the atrium are nonessential—offices and the like—and there are shaded walkways in any event.”
He turned and began walking down the hallway, and I followed him to an elevator and a basement parking level that was pretty similar to ours: long concrete vault, lots of expensive cars.
I stopped short when we passed a platinum silver convertible. It was small and curvy, with round lights, a hood vent, and wire wheels, and it looked exactly like the kind of car James Bond would drive.
“Is this—is that an Aston Martin?”
He glanced over. “Yeah. That’s Scott’s car. He’s been alive for nearly two hundred years. A man accumulates prizes in that time.”
“So I see,” I said, clenching my hands to fight back the urge to run my fingers across the spotless paint. I’d never seen one in person. Never seen one at all outside the movies. But it was stunning. I didn’t consider myself to be a car person, but it was hard not to like long lines and sweet curves. And what I’d imagine was a pretty fast engine.
“Lots of, you know, horsepowers or whatever?”
He smiled and unlocked his hybrid’s door, and was still grinning when we climbed inside. “Not much of a car buff?”
“I can appreciate a beautiful thing. But cars are only a skindeep infatuation for me.”
“Duly noted.”
We drove from Wrigleyville back to Magnificent Mile and my car. And I totally lucked out—my car had been parked in the same spot for nearly twenty-four hours, but while there was a ticket under the wiper, there was no boot on the tire. Street parking in Chicago was a hazardous activity.
“Are you going to get hassled for sleeping over?” he asked through the open window as I unlocked my door.
Only if Ethan thinks I’m sleeping with Noah, I thought to myself.
“I’m good,” I told Jonah. “Besides, it’s not like you could escort me home. You’d blow your cover.”
“True. We should probably plan to talk again. I expect this isn’t the last time we’ll hear about what went down last night.”
“Probably not.” My stomach turned over. I wasn’t thrilled at the possibility of heading back into another “rave,” if that’s what we were calling it. I had the skills for war, but not the stomach for it. It was easy to help someone in need, but it would have been nicer if the need didn’t exist in the first place.
“I’ll talk to the bartenders at Temple Bar, see if they’ve noticed anything suspicious. And I’ll let you know if I find out anything about the phone number. I’ll also talk to them about the drugs. They’ll want to know if illegal substances are being spread around, and what the effects are.”
“Sounds like a plan. Keep me posted.”
“I will. Thank you again for the help.”
Jonah smiled thinly. “That’s what partners are for.”
“Don’t jump the gun. We aren’t partners yet.”
With a final, knowing smile, he pulled away from the curb, leaving me on the sidewalk beside my lonely Volvo. What had Mallory said about not wanting to go back to your life again? And what had I told her? Something about accepting the choices you were presented with and getting the nasty stuff done regardless?
I climbed into the Volvo and shut the door behind me, blowing the bangs from my forehead as I started the car.
“Good times,” I muttered, as I turned the wheel into traffic. “Good times.”
When I was parked in front of the House, I took a moment to get the next part of the investigation in motion. I dialed up Jeff’s number.
His answer was enthusiastic. “Merit! We heard some shit went down last night. You okay?”
“Hey, Jeff. I’m good. I’ll fill you in later. But for now I need a favor.”
“The Jeff abides. What’s up?”
I rattled off the phone number Jonah had given me. “It’s the number that sent out a text about the party, which may or may not have been a rave. Can you trace it?”
“On it,” he said, and I heard the rhythmic clack of keys. “Nothing in the first round,” he said after a moment. “Give me a