“We need to nail that down,” I said. “We can’t risk letting the magic spread again, or having six or seven tons of dragon fall onto downtown Chicago. We need to take the dragon down, and we need to keep that magic bound together.”
“Actually,” Mallory said, “Portnoy thought of that, too. Jeff?” she requested, and he panned the zoomed image on-screen to another corner of the arranged pages. There, the Egregore spark was enclosed in some kind of orb.
“He trapped it,” Ethan said.
“Technically,” Mallory said, “he bound it into quartz. But yeah, same effect.”
“So what do we use to bind it?” Gabriel asked with a grin. “World’s largest piece of Tupperware?”
“Could be anything,” Mallory said with a smile. “As long as it’s strong enough to hold the magic without breaking.”
“Maybe we can keep it simple,” I said. I unbelted my katana, placed it on the table, brilliant red scabbard gleaming beneath the lights. “We’ll already have our swords. Can you trap it in steel?”
Catcher opened his mouth, closed it again.
“Is that possible?” Ethan asked. “To bind magic in steel?”
“Like Mallory said, it just needs to be capable of holding magic, and we know it can. The tricky bit would be the size differential. The sword is not literally large enough to hold a dragon’s worth of magic. But we might be able to finagle it.” Catcher nodded as he considered. “You’ll need a protocol. Words, steps. I’ll let you know.”
My grandfather nodded. “In that case, we’ve got the place, the weapons, the bait, the binding.”
“And tomorrow at dusk,” Ethan said, “we finish the job.”
• • •
As dawn approached again, the Ombuddies returned to their offices, the vampires to their Houses. Mallory and Catcher returned to Wicker Park to ready the magic. We returned to our apartments. Ethan closed and locked the door, emotions heavy around us.
“This could all be over tomorrow,” I said.
He looked at me. “I’m not sure if you’re saying that with relief or regret.”
“Both, I think.”
He walked toward me, put a hand on my face. “How are you?”
“I’m managing. How about you?”
“Things feel . . .”
“Precarious,” I finished, and knew by the relief in his eyes that I’d captured it exactly. “I’ve had the same feeling. But, then, we talked about that.”
“So we did,” he said, careful not to let emotion peek through his voice.
“And I was wrong.”
His brows lifted, and a smile crossed his face. “Unfortunate that Nick Breckenridge isn’t here with his recorder.”
“I assume you mean that metaphorically.”
“I do,” he said. “What, precisely, were you wrong about?”
I put my arms around him, rested my head against his heart. “About family.” I thought of the terror and joy, equally matched, in the faces of Taylor and her mother. “There will always be fear. The possibility of loss. But that’s life. And what’s the point of living if you don’t take a chance on love?”
He went quiet. “And a child?”
“If we’re lucky enough, then yes.”
“Then yes,” Ethan said, and wasted no time. I was pressed against the door, his mouth frantic and possessive, as if each kiss might seal our connection to each other, brand his taste and scent onto me.
He pulled off the suit jacket I still wore with strong and questing hands, dropped it to the floor, and pressed his body against mine.
I only managed to slip one of his buttons before he threw away his jacket, pulled his shirt over his head, and pulled the tank over my head. And then his hands were on my breasts, and I dropped my head against the door, eyes closed as nimble and skilled fingers lit and tended the fire heating in my core.
And then I was in his arms, and he was carrying me effortlessly to the bed, placing me onto cool sheets with the care used for a priceless antique.
“I’m not delicate,” I reminded him, and crooked a finger at him. “Come here, husband of mine.”
His smile was slow, masculine, and very satisfied. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, his arousal heavy, and crawled toward me.
I reached for him, but he captured my hands, brought them together over my head.
He traveled down my body, removed the remaining scraps of clothing, and touched me until I was quivering with pleasure.
His own body quaking with restrained power, he covered my body again, shifted inside me with a thrust that was equally forceful and tender. We moved our bodies together, legs intertwined and hips rolling, pleasure building like a wave banking over us.
I tilted my neck toward him, offering him the intimacy, the connection, that only vampires could share. “Take,” I said to him, and, when his fangs pierced tender skin, and lightning bowed my body, called his name.
Forever, he said, our new mantra. Our love spell.
Forever, I agreed, and gave over to sensation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
DRINK WITH ME
At dusk, the dragon was back, perching on the Chicago Lighthouse, where the Red Guards that inhabited it stayed silent and monitored its activities.
The mayor and governor were eager to move. But we were waiting on our sorcerers and their magic.
Mallory’s text messages, which she sent me throughout the day when she should have been sleeping, and the rest of us were allayed by the sun, told quite a story:
BEGINNING WORK ON WEAPON MAGIC.
WEAPON MAGIC IS WEIRD.
SNACK BREAK! CREAM CHEESE DOUBLE BACON!
CB NEEDS “BACKGROUND NOISE.” TV MOVED INTO BASEMENT 4 LIFETIME MOVIES. HE IS ALSO WEIRD.
MINORISH BASEMENT FIRE.
. . . IS NOW BIGGISH BASEMENT FIRE.
FIRE CONTAINED. WE DIDN’T NEED THOSE NAT’L GEOGRAPHICS ANYWAY.
*YAWN*
I’D LIKE TO SEE ICELAND.
PROGRESS!
APPEARANCE BY MINORISH BASEMENT FIRE’S ANGRIER, MORE FIREY COUSIN.
FIRE CONTAINED TO CHAGRIN OF FIRE.
WEAPON MAGIC IS STILL WEIRD.
The later it got, the loopier the messages. Mallory and Catcher had been awake for thirty-six hours, refusing to sleep so they could figure out the binding magic.
They were still going at dusk. Being that we were vampires, and because we were headed into battle, there were of course ceremonies to be had while we waited.
According to the Canon of the North American Houses, Desk Reference, it was a tradition of Cadogan House, a tradition established long ago by Peter Cadogan, the House’s first Master, at dusk before a big battle. All the vampires of the House would gather together with mutton and ale, and the Master would give a rousing speech that called the House to victory.
The cafeteria was full, each space at each table taken, and vampires shoehorned into corners wherever room enough for a plate could be had. Someone had brought in folding chairs from the storage room, and the rest stood around the edge of the room, yawning and waiting for the ceremony to begin.
We’d been ready to go into battle before, when we thought we’d be facing down Sorcha, getting an opportunity to knock the smug smile from her face and close that particular chapter of our lives. Tonight, the mood was somber.
Ethan sat beside me at the table, a pewter stein in front of him.
“The Master’s chalice?” I asked.
Ethan smiled, reached out, turned the mug so I could see the neat inscription on the opposite side: CADOGAN HOUSE BOWLING LEAGUE, FIRST PLACE, 1979.
“Why haven’t we had a bowling league since I’ve been here? I can bowl.”
“You’re the social chair,” Ethan pointed out. “So that’s technically your fault.”
Tough, but fair. “I didn’t know you bowled.”
“I don’t,” he said with a smile. “But it’s my House, and to the sponsor goes the spoils.” He pushed back his chair and rose, buttoning the top button of his impeccable suit. Even before battle, Ethan would lead his people. He would Master them, and then soldier them.
A hush instantly fell over the room. “Novitiates.”
“Master,” they said in unison, as if responding to a pastor’s call-and-response.