It was a message, but not from an old friend—from a would-be new one. Noah had sent a simple question: “STILL DECIDING?”

Since I very definitely was, I erased the message—and the evidence.

“Good evening, sunshine.”

I glanced behind me at the main staircase as I slid my phone back into my pocket. Lindsey was bounding downstairs, her blond ponytail bouncing as she moved. She was on duty today and clearly prepped for a day in the House’s Operations Room, clad in Cadogan black, her katana belted at her side.

She reached the foyer, then walked toward me and propped her hands on her hips. “You don’t look nearly as tired as I expected. Maybe he was the cure for what ails you.”

I stared at her. “Excuse me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Mer. We all heard you two at it last night, and some of today, actually. But thank Christ, I say. About time you two did the deed.”

Her approval notwithstanding, a blush powered by profound mortification crept up my face. “You heard us?”

She grinned. “You shook the foundations. You threw a lot of magic in the air.”

I was too stunned to speak. It had occurred to me that word might slip out, from Margot or otherwise, that I’d been in Ethan’s apartments. It hadn’t occurred to me that people could have heard us, or felt the magic we’d spilled.

“Dear God,” I murmured.

Lindsey patted my arm. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s about time you two made the beast with two backs.”

I had to work to form words. “There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t know where to start.”

“Start with the details, Sister Sledge. How was it? How was he? Was he as phenomenal as we’ve all imagined him to be? Seriously. Spare no details, anatomical or otherwise.”

“I’m not giving you any details. Anatomical or otherwise,” I added, before she could amend her request.

There was disgust in her expression. “I can’t believe you. You make it with the Master and you’re being tight-lipped?” She clucked her tongue. “That is weak. At least give me the goods on the evening-after talk. Are you two official now? Dating? Relationshipping? What?”

“Well, we didn’t really get into the details, but he was still there when I woke up this evening. No evening-after regrets, as far as I know. And he knows I’m not interested in a fling. I’ve made that abundantly clear.” I grinned a little.

She grinned back. “That’s my girl. Way to show him who’s boss.”

“Are we actually debating who’s boss of this House?”

We glanced over simultaneously. Ethan stood at the bottom of the stairs, golden hair around his face, hands in his pockets, newspaper under his arm.

“Good evening, Liege o’ mine. How was your day?”

Ethan arched an imperious eyebrow at Lindsey, then glanced at me. “Nice shirt. We need to make a brief detour before we take on the shifters.”

“Oh,” Lindsey knowingly intoned. “You’re going to Navarre House?”

“We’re going to Navarre House,” Ethan confirmed.

I blinked. When he’d said “detour,” I’d immediately imagined grabbing a hostess gift; a trip to Navarre House wasn’t on the list. I’d never been there before, and the idea of going now didn’t thrill me. And why not, you ask? Brief review: I’d be facing down an ex-boyfriend for the first time since our official breakup, while on the arm of the boy he’d thought I’d been cheating with, and only hours after I’d actually had sex with him.

Fabulous.

“Does she know?” Lindsey asked, bobbing her head toward me.

“Standing right here. Do I know what?”

“I’m going to tell her,” Ethan said. “But we’re short on time. I forgot to call Luc—please tell him I want to talk before dawn to review plans for the convocation.”

“Aye, aye, Liege,” she said, but leaned in to me before she walked away. “Seriously, well done. And I mean that.”

I grinned after her and raised a quizzical gaze to Ethan. “What do I need to know? And why are we going to Navarre?”

He gestured for me to follow him, then headed toward the basement stairs. When I fell in line beside him, he pulled the paper out from under his arm. It was a copy of the day’s Chicago Sun-Times. He flipped it open, then turned it my way.

“Oh, my God,” I murmured, pulling the paper from his hands.

The headline on the front page—the front page—read, PONYTAILED AVENGER SAVES PATRONS IN SHOOT-OUT. A picture of me helping Berna into the ambulance was set below the headline. And there was one more surprise—the byline. Nick Breckenridge was listed as the author of the article.

As I carefully took the basement stairs behind him, I read through the first part of the story, which discussed the shooting and my emergency work. So far, so good. But I had no idea why Nick Breckenridge, of all people, had written it. It wasn’t that writing a front-page story wasn’t his thing; he was an investigative journalist with an impeccable reputation. He just didn’t like me very much.

“How—why?”

“Perhaps you turned the Breckenridge tide—from animosity to a cover story.”

We stopped beside the basement door. “This can’t be hero worship. You know how Nick feels about me.”

“You heard Gabriel’s hesitation when he mentioned the Breckenridge House. Maybe, like, Nick and Gabriel are still on the outs. Gabriel did apologize, after all. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about Nick’s pissing off vampires.”

“Okay, but convincing a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter to write a story glorifying a vampire—a vampire he isn’t particularly happy with—would take a lot of pushing. I’m not sure Gabe would want to waste political capital on me. Besides, I can’t imagine he’d put pressure on Nick to put us on the front page of the Sun-Times. Gabe doesn’t want that kind of attention. It would raise too many questions about why armed vampires were in the bar, or risk the paparazzi’s thinking it was some kind of new vampire hot spot. He definitely doesn’t want that. There has to be another reason.”

And that mysterious reason made me wonder what price I’d have to pay with Nick. I wasn’t sure whether it was better or worse if he wrote the story because he got an unsubtle nudge from his boss. “Probably about the same way I’d feel if I got a nudge from a Master,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. What does this have to do with going to Navarre House?”

“The story gets considerably nastier as it goes along.”

“What kind of nasty?”

“It reminds the reader that the vampires of Navarre House weren’t nearly as, shall we say, philanthropic as Cadogan vampires.”

“It talks about the park murders?” Those were the results of Celina’s murderous escapade through Chicago’s parks . . . and the U of C campus. I was supposed to have been victim number two, at least before Ethan found me.

He nodded. “That’s why Morgan wants to see us. Since you’re featured in the story and were friends with Nick, he probably assumes we had something to do with its creation.”

Calling us friends gave my relationship with Nicholas Breckenridge a lot more credit than it deserved.

Ethan punched in his code, then opened the basement door.

“And how are you feeling about said article?” I asked, following him into the garage.

“Well, evidently I’m dating the Ponytailed Avenger, so I feel pretty good about that.”

I stopped to offer him a snarky look. When he walked past me to the car, smug grin on his face, I rolled my eyes. But I hardly meant it. He had said “dating,” after all.

We were on the road a few minutes later, silence reigning in the Mercedes as I finished reading the story. The article read like a primer on Cadogan and Navarre, from the Houses’ leadership positions to their histories. It also mentioned that a woman named Nadia was Morgan’s new Second. I hadn’t known he’d promoted someone. On the other hand, I hadn’t really thought to ask him about it.

That omission probably said a lot about our lack of potential as a couple.

“Where’d the information come from?” I asked, glancing up to realize that we’d moved from Hyde Park to Lake Shore Drive. Navarre was located in Chicago’s Gold Coast, an area of chichi townhouses, condos, and mansions near the Lake and north of downtown Chicago.

“That was my second question,” Ethan answered darkly, “right behind wondering what impolitic acts our young Master of Navarre might take upon seeing it.” He glanced over at me. “Have you talked to him recently?”

“Not since the fight.”

There was a moment of silence in the car, the tension evident by the faint hum of magic. “I see,” he said.

There was disapproval in his voice. I tensed, anticipating an argument. “Is there something you’d like to say about that?”

When he looked over, his expression was mild. I couldn’t tell if it was forced or not.

“Not at all,” he said. “But it might add to his irritation at having seen the story.”

I thought back to the things Morgan had said in our last two conversations, the accusations he’d thrown, the condescension in his tone. “Yeah, he’s probably not going to be in the greatest of moods.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Barring a complete attitude adjustment, did you happen to bring along any of those chocolate mousse cake thingies?”

Navarre House, on the other hand, was big and garishly white and took up the corner of one of the city’s most expensive chunks of real estate. It was four stories tall and was marked by a giant turret at the corner, the entire facade wrapped in the same white marble.

“I think their turret is bigger than our turret,” I said as Ethan pulled up to the curb.

“Celina always had a flair for the dramatic,” he agreed.

I put a hand on his arm as we walked to the front door, which was all but hidden from the street by massive, leafy trees. He stopped and glanced down at my hand, then up at me.

“One of our disagreements—Morgan and me . . .” I picked over my words, trying to figure out a way to explain without being too, to use Lindsey’s word, anatomical.

“Morgan thought you and I were involved. Previously, I mean.” I stopped there, hoping Ethan got the point so that I wouldn’t have to spell out exactly what Morgan had accused me of doing with Ethan.

“Ah,” he said. “I see.”

“We weren’t, of course, but he wouldn’t be convinced. So, in addition to the other reasons he won’t be happy to see me, he may not be thrilled to see me with you.”

Ethan gave a half snort, then walked up the stairs. Without so much as knocking, he opened the front door and beckoned me inside.

“What’s funny?” I asked when I reached him.

“The irony. By accusing you of such wanton acts, he accomplished the very thing he sought to avoid.”

“I’m not sure I’d say ‘wanton.’ ”

Ethan leaned in, his lips at my ear. “I, Merit, would definitely say ‘wanton.’ ”

I couldn’t stop the grin that lifted a corner of my mouth, or the blush that warmed my cheeks.

“Besides,” Ethan whispered, following me into the House, “I’ve decided that if the Sun-Times story doesn’t top his list of things to accuse us of today, there is less hope for his skills as a Master than I might have imagined.”

There’d been no security outside the door of Navarre House, no ten-foot-high gate, no mercenary fairies keeping a watchful eye on the premises. Navarre vamps saved that fun for the foyer . . . but the guards weren’t the beefy types I expected.

Three women sat behind a semicircular reception desk made of glass and steel that was perched just inside the entrance. Each woman was posed in front of a sleek computer monitor. They all had dark hair and big brown eyes, and they all wore fitted white suit jackets. Each wore her hair up but in a different style—from left to right, funky bouffant, ponytail, and tidy bun.

They glanced up as we entered, then began to whisper and click keys on their respective keyboards.

I assume these are the gatekeepers? I silently asked.

Might as well be the Greek Fates, he replied.

“Name,” said the one in the middle, looking up from the monitor to gaze suspiciously at us.

“Ethan Sullivan, Master, Cadogan House,” Ethan said. “Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan House.”

The other two women stopped typing and looked at me. Their expressions showed a range of emotions—disgust, curiosity, sheer feminine appraisal. All emotions, I assumed, motivated by the run-ins I’d had with their former Master, Celina, and their current one, Morgan. I was zero for two in terms of Navarre Masters.

“Identification,” said the woman closest to Ethan. He reached inside his suit jacket and pulled a card from the interior pocket, then with two fingers handed it to the woman. She glanced at it, then began typing in earnest.

Thinking we were going to be here awhile, I took the opportunity to scope out the digs . . . and was surprised.

The open front room was huge, two staircases meeting at a second-floor balcony. The entire atrium was open to the roof, the room topped by a greenhouselike cage of Victorian skylights. Although those things seemed pretty European to me, the decor looked as if it had been taken from a modern-art museum. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture or knickknacks, and the few pieces there were had a sculptural quality. There was a white tufted leather sofa, a coffee table that consisted of a giant, curvaceous core of lacquered wood, and recessed lights shining onto giant canvases of black-and-white photography and pop art. All of it was set amongst gleaming, white marble floors and equally white walls.

“This is—,” I began, my gaze on a painting that looked to represent those rubbery grips that fit on number two pencils, but I found no words to describe it.

“Yes,” Ethan said. “It most definitely is.” He shifted beside me, probably not accustomed to waiting for service, then glanced down at the girls again. “We are expected.”

Without looking up, the girl in the middle pointed a long-nailed finger behind us. We both turned. A bench sat in an alcove beside the front door, three bored-looking, supernaturally attractive vampires filling it—two women and a man in between them. They all wore suits and had briefcases across their laps. They were all perfectly polished, but there was a weariness in their eyes and in the slump of their shoulders. They looked as if they’d been here a while.

“Fabulous,” I muttered.

Ethan blew out a breath, but his smile was back when he turned to face the Fates again. “At your convenience,” he grandly said.

“Fancy,” I said, then clipped the badge onto the bottom hem of my shirt.

“We have visitors’ passes, as well,” Ethan muttered, as if offended by the possibility that Navarre House was more organized—or more exclusive—than we were. He accepted a clip and added it to his suit, then looked at the women expectantly.

Silence.

He gestured toward the staircase. “Should we just—”

“Nadia will be down to retrieve you,” said the one in the middle.

“We appreciate your assistance,” Ethan said, then moved into the room’s main space.

“We need a four-story atrium,” I told him.

“Cadogan House is perfect as it is. We’re not changing it to fit the fancies of an architecturally jealous Sentinel. Ah,” he added brightly, “here she is.”

I glanced up.

A woman was trotting down the stairway, one delicate hand on the marble banister as she glided toward us.

No—not just a woman. A supermodel. She was all effortless beauty. Her eyes were wide and green, her nose thin and straight, her cheekbones high. Her body was long and lean, and she wore leggings, knee-high boots, and a long, belted knit top. It was the kind of outfit I might have worn while traipsing through the streets of Manhattan during my college days. Her hair was long and medium brown, and it spilled across her shoulders like silk.

I leaned toward Ethan. “You might have filled me in on the fact that Morgan’s new Second was practically a cover girl.”

“Jealous again?”

“Not even slightly,” I crisply answered, then elbowed him in the ribs. “But you’re panting, Sullivan.”

He offered a fake oof at the elbowing, then, hand outstretched, walked toward Nadia.

“Ethan,” Nadia said with a beatific smile, taking his hand. They exchanged cheek-to-cheek kisses and whispers that made something turn in my belly.

That would be the jealousy kicking in, I silently thought.

“Nadia, this is Merit, my Sentinel,” he said, gesturing at me. Nadia beamed at me, then held out both hands.

“Merit,” she intoned, leaning in to kiss my cheek, as well.

“It is lovely to meet you.” Her voice carried the faintest French accent, and her perfume was exotic. Equally complex and old-fashioned, like something you’d pick up in a boutique in a forgotten Parisian arrondissement. It sang of flowers and lemon and rich spice and sunlight, all bottled together.

“My liege is in his office, if you’ll follow me?”

Ethan nodded and fell in line behind Nadia, who trotted back up the stairs, her hair bouncing on her shoulders as she moved. Really—it was like watching a shampoo commercial. At the top of the staircase, we turned to the left, then took a wide marble hallway another twenty or thirty feet. The door was open. I blew out a breath and readied myself for drama.