On my way north, I tried to shrug off the job tension. It wasn’t that I was the first girl to have boss issues, but how many bosses were four-hundred-year-old Master vampires or sword-wielding sorcerers? It didn’t help that the same sword-wielding sorcerer was one-fourth of Mal’s party.

Once in the ’hood, I opted to leave my sword in the car. Since I was off duty and off Cadogan House turf, it was unlikely that I’d need it and, more importantly, the act felt like a tiny rebellion. A wonderful rebellion. A rebellion I needed.

Mal opened the door as soon as I popped up the steps. “Hi, honey,” she said. “Bad day at the office?”

I held up booze and chocolate.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, holding open the door for me. When I was inside and the door was closed and locked behind us, I handed over the gifts.

“Chocolate and booze,” she said. “You do know how to woo a girl. You’ve got mail, by the way.” She bobbed her head toward the side table, then headed for the kitchen.

“Thanks,” I mumbled after her, picking up the pile. Apparently the post office hadn’t completely caught up with my change of address. I set aside magazines, interesting catalogs and bills, and dumped credit card offers addressed to “Merit, Vampire” into a pile for shredding. There was also a wedding invitation from a cousin and, at the bottom of the stack, a small crimson envelope.

I flipped it over. The envelope was blank but for my name and address, both written in elegant white calligraphy. I slid a finger beneath the flap and found a thick, cream-colored card tucked inside. I pulled it out. It bore a single phrase in the same calligraphy, this time in bloodred ink:

That was it. No event, no date, no time, and the back was completely blank. The card contained nothing but the phrase, as if the writer had forgotten, mid-invite, exactly what party she’d been inviting me to.

“Weird,” I muttered. But the folks my parents hung out with could be a little flighty; maybe the printer was in a hurry, couldn’t finish the stack. Whatever the reason, I stuffed the half-finished invite back into the pile, dropped the pile back on the table, and headed for the kitchen.

“So, my boss,” I said, “is kind of an ass.”

“Which boss did you mean?” Catcher stood at the stove, stirring something in a saucepan. He glanced back at me. “The asshole vampire or the asshole sorcerer?”

“Oh, I think the name applies pretty well to either.” I took a seat at the kitchen island.

“Don’t take Darth Sullivan personally,” Mallory said, twisting a corkscrew into the wine like a seasoned expert. “And really don’t take Catcher personally. He’s full of shit.”

“That’s charming, Mallory,” he said.

Mallory winked at me and filled three wineglasses. We clinked, and I took a sip. Not bad for a last-minute quick-stop find. “What’s on the menu for dinner?”

“Salmon, asparagus, rice,” Catcher said, “and probably too much talk about girly shit and vampires.”

I appreciated the light mood. If he could leave our issues in the Sparring Room back in Cadogan House, I could, too. “You are aware that you’re dating girly, right?” I asked. Mal may have loved soccer and the occult, but she was all girly-girl, from the blue hair to the patent leather flats.

Mal rolled her eyes. “Our Mr. Bell is in denial about certain issues.”

“It’s lotion, Mallory, for God’s sake.” Catcher used a long, flat spatula and the tips of his fingers to flip salmon in his sauté pan.

“Lotion?” I asked, crossing my legs on the island stool and prepping for some good drama. I could always appreciate being the audience for a domestic squabble that had nothing to do with me. And God knows Mal and Catcher were a constant source—I’d been able to give up TMZ completely, my need for gossip sated by Carmichael-Bell disputes.

“She has, like, fourteen kinds of lotion.” He had trouble getting out the words, his shock and chagrin at Mallory’s moisturizer stockpile apparently that intense.

Mallory waved her glass at me. “Tell him.”

“Women moisturize,” I reminded him. “Different lotions for different body parts, different scents for different occasions.”

“Different thicknesses for different seasons,” Mallory added. “It’s pretty complicated, actually.”

Catcher dumped a cutting board of trimmed asparagus into a steamer pot. “It’s lotion. I’m pretty sure science has advanced to the point that you can buy a single bottle that will take care of all that.”

“Missing the point,” I said.

“He’s missing the point,” Mallory parroted. “You’re totally missing the point.”

Catcher snorted and turned to face us, arms crossed over a Marquette T-shirt. “You two would agree that the world is flat if it meant you could gang up on me.”

Mallory bobbed her head. “True. That is true.”

I nodded and grinned at Catcher. “That’s what makes us awesome. A force of nature.”

“What’s bad about this conversation,” Catcher said, pointing at Mallory as he stalked toward her, then waggling his finger between their bodies, “is that we’re dating. You’re supposed to side with me.”

Mallory burst out laughing, just in time for Catcher to reach her and nab her glass of wine before Cabernet sloshed over the top. “Catch, you’re a boy. I’ve known you for like a week.” Two months, actually, but who was counting? “I’ve known Merit for years. I mean, the sex is great and all, but she’s my BFF.”

For the first time since I’d known Catcher, he was speechless. Oh, he sputtered a little, tried to get something out, but Mallory’s pronouncement stopped him short. He looked to me for help. If I hadn’t been amused, the desperation in his eyes would have moved me.

“You’re the one that moved in, Slugger,” I said with a shrug. “She’s right. Maybe next time you should do a little of that famous Bell investigatory work before you sign up for the full ride.”

“You two are impossible,” he said, but wrapped his free arm around Mal’s waist and pressed his lips to her temple. Just as I was visited by a pang of jealousy that tightened my stomach, I heard a car door shut outside.

“Morgan’s here,” I said, uncrossing my legs and bounding off my stool. I glanced back at both of them and pressed my hands together. “Please, for the love of God, have clothes on when I get back.”

I smoothed my hair as I traveled the hallway, then pulled open the front door. He’d parked an SUV in front of the brownstone.

Correction, I thought, as Morgan popped out of the passenger side—Morgan’s driver parked the SUV. I guess Morgan preferred to be chauffeured these days.

I stepped outside, hands on my hips as I waited for him on the stoop. He strode toward the house, dressed in jeans and a couple of layered T-shirts, a shamelessly happy grin on his face, a paper sleeve of flowers in his hand.

“Hello, Chicago’s newest Master.”

Morgan shook his head, grinned. “I come in peace,” he said, and bounded up the stairs. He stood on the step below mine, which put us nearly at eye level. “Hello, beautiful.”

I smiled down at him.

“In the interest of détente between our Houses,” he said, leaning in and lowering his voice to a whisper, “and to celebrate this historic meeting of vampires, I’m going to kiss you.”

“Fair enough.”

He did, his lips soft and cool against mine, the length of his body warm as he pressed in. The kiss was sweet and very, very eager. He nipped at my lips, whispering my name as he did it, hinting at the depths of his desire. But before we’d gone further than propriety would have allowed, given that we were standing on the stoop in full view of the street, he pulled back.

“You look”—he shook his head as if in awe—“outstanding.” He grinned up at me, dark blue eyes alight with pleasure . . . and what looked like pride.

“Thank you. You don’t look half bad yourself. I mean, you’re a vampire, but that’s not really your fault.”

Morgan clucked his tongue and leaned around me, gazing through the open door. “You should be affording me the Grateful Condescension I’m due. Is that salmon?”

I appreciated that the boy’s love of food was nearly as big as mine. “That’s what I hear.”

“Sweet. Let’s go in.”

He leaned in, smelling of bright, grassy cologne. It was kind of an odd smell on a night-dwelling vampire.

“I really didn’t get a chance to say hello and good night properly,” he murmured.

“I think you were gearing up for the salmon.”

His voice was barely audible, a sultry rustling of sound. “Exactly. I got distracted, and I really don’t think I gave it my best.”

“In that case . . .” was all I got out before his lips found mine. This kiss was just as eager as his last had been, his mouth hungry and urgent, tongue teasing and insistent. His hands slid around my back, enveloping me in his arms and his spring-green scent. He sighed at the contact.

“Hey, did Morgan ever—Oh, dear God.”

Morgan’s head popped up, and we both looked to find Mallory just outside the kitchen door, hands over her eyes. She waved.

“Uh, hi, Morgan. Hi. Oh, God. Sorry,” she sputtered, and immediately turned on her heel and walked back into the kitchen.

I grinned happily. “And now she knows what it feels like.”

“Except we were actually clothed,” Morgan pointed out, then looked back at me with a knowing smile. “But we could remedy that pretty easily.”

“Yeah, getting naked to teach Mallory a lesson ain’t real high on my priority list.”

He barked out a laugh, leaning back with the force of it, our bodies still pressed together at the hips, then smiled down at me, eyes bright, grin wide. “I missed you, Mer.”

I couldn’t help it—my smile faltered, and I hated myself for it. I hated that I couldn’t return that careless, joyous smile. I hated that I didn’t—or maybe just didn’t yet?—feel that same spark that lit Morgan’s eyes. I wondered if it could grow, with time and with nearness. I wondered if I was being too hard on myself, expecting too much to think that I could fall for someone after just a few weeks. Maybe I needed more time. Maybe I was vastly overthinking it.

Morgan’s smile dipped a bit at one corner. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just . . . It’s been a really long night.” That was entirely true, so it was really only a lie of omission.

“Yeah?” He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nah, let’s go get some food and make fun of Mallory and Catcher.”

He closed his eyes, a tightness at the corners. I’d hurt him, by not telling him about my night, by not sharing more of myself with him, and I slapped myself mentally for it. But when he opened his eyes again, his expression was forgiving, a corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile. “You’re going to have to help me out here, Merit. I can’t be the only one doing this.”

I gave him points for honesty, and for not saying that I owed it to him to try, given that Ethan had all but ordered our courtship. I half smiled back at him, simultaneously feeling a sense of relief, that at least he’d put the relationship issue out there, and a sense of foreboding, that I was going to be the one to bring that relationship down around us.

“I know,” I said. “I know. I’m really about as good at relationships as I am at being a vampire. I’m kind of a smart but surprisingly inept girl.” That was the entire truth.

Morgan laughed full out, then pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Come on, genius. Let’s eat.”

“Oh, these are gorgeous.” She enveloped him in a hug he didn’t look like he was expecting, but seemed inordinately pleased by. “And you’re welcome. We’re glad you could come.”

Mallory gave him a bright smile, and gave me a concealed thumbs-up, then set about finding a vase for the flowers while Morgan and Catcher said their manly hellos—consisting of a symbolic head bob from Catcher (of the “You’re in my lair now” variety) and a responding nod from Morgan (of the “You are clearly the king of this castle” variety).

A vase in one hand and the flowers in the other, Mallory paused at the threshold of the kitchen. “Merit, do you need blood?”

I didn’t even need to think about it. Although I hadn’t had a run of overwhelming bloodlust since my first week as a vampire—the First Hunger that had led me to nearly plant my fangs in Ethan’s neck, and a second bout of drinking roused by an unpleasant discussion with my father—I wasn’t going to risk it, and tried to be preventative by drinking the Canon’s recommended pint every other day. Vampires were hardly the monsters we were made out to be in fairy tales and television shows. We were hardly different from humans, but for the genetic mutation, fangs, silvering eyes, and periodic penchant for blood.

What? I said hardly different.

“Yes, I need blood,” I told her, petulant as a teenager reminded to take her vitamins, and snatched a bag of Blood4You Type A from the refrigerator. Although Mallory, as a now-former ad exec, found the name embarrassingly sophomoric, she appreciated not being my lunch.

I glanced back at Morgan, waved the bag at him. “Hungry?”

He moved closer to me, gaze surprisingly possessive, arms crossed over his chest, and leaned down. “You realize that we’d be sharing blood?”

“Is that a problem?”

His brow furrowed in confusion. “No, no. It’s just. . . .”

He paused, and I blinked. Did I miss something? I tried to flip mentally back through chapter three of the Canon (“Drink Me”), which discussed some of the etiquette of vampire drinking. Vampires could drink directly from humans or other vampires, and I’d witnessed firsthand the sensuality of it when Amber had been Ethan’s beverage of choice. But the intimacy of drinking prepackaged blood in front of an audience escaped me. I’d seen Ethan do it just the other day.

On the other hand, Morgan was a Navarre vampire, prohibited from drinking blood directly from humans. The Canon didn’t get into the emotions of it, but maybe even drinking from plastic assumed a greater importance when it was the only way you could share the act.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

He must have reconciled my ignorance, as he finally smiled back. “Must be a House thing. Yeah, I’ll take a pint. B if you have it.”

There was a bag of B in the refrigerator, and I concluded his palate was more sensitive than mine if he could taste the difference in the coagulant qualities of a bag of blood. I was about to reach for two glasses when I realized that, in addition to the apparent philosophical differences, he might ingest differently, too.

My hand on the open cabinet door, I turned back to him. “How do you take it?”

“Just pour it into a glass.” He frowned, scratched absently at his temple. “You know, maybe we need to have some kind of mixer. Get Cadogan and Navarre vamps together, get them talking. It seems like there’s a lot we don’t know about each other.”

“I was just thinking that the other day, actually,” I said, thinking Ethan would be thrilled at the opportunity to build rapport, and potentially an alliance, with the folks from Navarre.

I pulled down waffle-etched glasses from a cabinet and opened the plastic valves in the top of the bags, filling a glass for each of us. I handed one to Morgan, and took a sip of mine.

Morgan sipped from his own glass, eyes on me as he drank. His eyes didn’t silver, but his predatory, seductive gaze left little doubt about his line of thinking. He drained the glass without taking a breath, chest heaving when he finally finished it.

And then, with the tip of his tongue, he grabbed a single drop that had caught on his upper lip.

“I win,” he said, very softly.

It took Mallory’s voice to drag my gaze away from his mouth. “All right, kids,” she said from the dining room, “I think we’re ready.”

I took the final drink from my glass, put both our glasses into the sink, and accompanied Morgan into the dining room. His tulips were in the vase and the accessories of fancy dining—place mats, cloth napkins, silverware, and wineglasses—lay on the table before each of the four chairs. Our plates were already laden with food—fillets of salmon, herb-sprinkled rice, and spears of steamed asparagus—larger portions for the calorie-sucks that were modern-day vampires.

Catcher and Mallory were already seated on two sides of the table. We took the remaining two chairs, then Morgan picked up his wineglass and raised it to both of them. “To good friends,” he said.

“To vampires,” Mallory said, clinking her glass against mine.

“No,” Catcher said. “To Chicago.”

Of course, because I’d been a grad student the entire time that I’d known her, there weren’t that many antics to report. There were, however, plenty of stories about my geekiness, including the tale of what she called my “Juilliard” stage.

“She’d been in the middle of some kind of musical obsession,” Mallory began, grinning at me. She’d pushed back her plate and crossed her legs on her chair, clearly prepped for a lengthy tale. I pre-cut the last of my salmon into tiny bites, ready to intervene should things get dicey.

“She’d rented, like, every musical DVD she could find, from Chicago to Oklahoma. Girl could not get enough of the singing and dancing.”

Morgan leaned forward. “Did she watch Newsies? Tell me she watched Newsies.”

Mallory pursed her lips to bite back a laugh, then held up two fingers. “Twice.”

“Do go on,” Morgan said, giving me a sideways glance. “I’m fascinated.”

“Well,” Mallory said, lifting a hand to push blue hair behind her ear, “you know Merit used to dance—ballet—but she eventually came to her senses. And by the way, I don’t know what kind of freaky shit vampires are into, but if at all possible, stay away from her feet.”

“Mallory Carmichael!” My cheeks heated with a blush I’m sure was crimson red.

“What?” she asked with a nonchalant shrug. “You danced in toe shoes. It happens.”

I put an elbow on the table, my forehead in my hand. This, I bet, is what my life would have been like had my sister Charlotte and I been closer—the kind of intimate humiliation that only siblings could provide. For better or for worse and, God willing, in sickness and in health, Mallory was a sister.

A hand caressed my back. Morgan leaned over, whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, babe. I still like you.”

I gave him a sardonic look. “That feeling is not mutual at the moment.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” he said, then turned back to Mallory. “So our former ballerina was hooked on musicals.”

“Not so much the musicals, but the style.” Mallory looked at me, made an apologetic face.

I waved her off. “Just put it out there.”

“Keep in mind, she went to NYU, then Stanford, then lands back in Chicago. And our Merit loved the Big Apple. The Windy City is a little more akin to New York living than California was, but it’s far from having a walkup in the Village. But Mer decides she can make up for it. With clothes. So this one winter, she starts wearing leggings, big floppy sweaters, and always a scarf. She never left the house without a scarf kind of”—Mallory waggled her arms in the air—“draped all around her. She had a pair of brown knee-high boots, wore them every day. It was this whole ‘ballerina chic’ thing.” Mallory adjusted on her seat, leaned forward, and crooked a finger at Morgan and Catcher. They both leaned forward, obviously entranced. The girl knew how to work a crowd.

“There was a beret.”

They both let out groans, sat up again. “How could you?” Morgan asked with a mock horror that was belied by the laugh that was threatening to escape him. “A beret, Merit? Really?”

“You will never give me shit again,” Catcher said. “I own you now. I own your ass.”

I plucked at a bite of salmon, chewed it with careful deliberation, then waved my fork at them. “You are all on my shit list. All of you.”

Morgan sighed happily, drained the last of his glass of wine. “This is good,” he said. “This is really helpful. What else do I need to know?”

“Oh, she has tons of secrets,” Mallory confided, with a grin to me. “And I know all of them.”

Morgan, one arm slung on the back of his chair, made a beckoning movement with his free hand. “Let’s go. Keep ’em coming.”

“Mallory,” I warned, but she only laughed.

“Well, let’s see. I bet you didn’t tell him about the secret kitchen drawer. You should clean that out while you’re over here.”

Morgan sat up straight and slid a glance behind him at the kitchen door. “Secret kitchen drawer?” Then he looked back at me, winged up eyebrows.

My answer was quick and vehement. “No.”

He slid back his chair.

“Morgan, no.”

He was halfway to the kitchen before I was out of my chair, laughing as I rushed after him. “Morgan! Damn it, stop! She was kidding. There’s no such thing.”

By the time I made it to the kitchen, he was pulling drawers open left and right. I jumped on his back and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “She was kidding! I swear.”

I expected him to throw me off, but he laughed, pulled my legs around his waist, and kept searching.

“Merit, Merit, Merit. You’re too quiet. So many secrets.”

“She was kidding, Morgan.” In a desperate attempt to keep my secret drawer, well, secret, I kissed the top curve of his ear. He paused and cocked his head to the side to give me better access. But after I put my chin on the top of his head and said, “Thank you,” he started searching again.

“Hey! I thought you were going to stop!”

“Then you’re naïve.” He pulled open another drawer, froze. “Holy shit.”

I sighed and slid down his back. “I can explain this.”

He pulled out the drawer—a long, flat bay intended for silverware—as far as it would go, and stared into it. He gaped, mouth open, at its contents before turning his head to look at me. “Anything you want to say?”

I gnawed the edge of my lip. “My parents didn’t let me have candy?”

Morgan reached in and grabbed a handful of the drawer’s contents—South American chocolate bars, bags of chocolate-covered dried cherries, chocolate pastiches, chocolate buttons, chocolate stars, chocolate lollipops, chocolate shells, chocolate-covered gingerbread Christmas tree cookies, a white-chocolate-covered Twinkie, chocolate caramels, cocoa from a small-batch chocolatier and a foot-long Toblerone bar. He looked at me, tried not to laugh, and, for all that effort, made a strangled, hiccupped sound. “And so you’re compensating for that?”

I crossed my arms. “Do you have a problem with my stash?”

He made that sound again. “No?”

“Quit laughing at me,” I ordered, but I was grinning when I said it. Morgan redeposited his handful of chocolate, closed the drawer, grabbed my hips, and arranged my body between his and the island.

He looked down at me with an expression of mock gravity. “I’m not laughing at you, Mer. Chortling, maybe, but not laughing.”

“Ha.” I gave him a baleful look that even I knew was unconvincing.

“Um, not to get personal, but I saw that dessert you brought. Were you planning on sharing that, or was that just your portion?”

“HA,” I repeated.

“It’s a good thing you’re not obsessive. Oh, wait,” he said dryly, “yes, you are.”

“Some people like wine. Some like cars. Some,” I said, tugging at the hem of his undoubtedly designer T-shirt, “like fantastically expensive clothes. I like chocolate.”

“Yeah, Mer, I can see that. But the real question is, do you apply that passion to other areas of your life?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Liar,” he said, closing his eyes and lowering his lips to mine. Our lips had just touched when the silence was broken.

“Would you please stop feeling up my Sentinel?”