"And how long did you two see each other?"
I resisted the urge to ask how he knew Nicholas and I had been an item, realizing that Ethan was at least as well connected as my money-hungry father and was equally keen a purveyor of information. I'd wondered if Ethan was my grandfather's secret source. At the very least, his access to information was as deep.
"Nearly two years while we were in high school," I told him.
Nicholas Etherell Arbuckle Breckenridge (and yes, his brothers and mine had tortured him about the name) had been totally dreamy - wavy brown hair, blue eyes, Romeo in our junior production of Shakespeare, editor of the school paper. He was funny, confident, and heir, if you didn't count Michael and Finley, to the fortune that was Breckenridge Industries.
Started by their great-great-great-grandfather, the conglomerate manufactured steel components for the construction industry. That meant the Breckenridges were reported to own a good chunk of the Loop. But while the Breck boys lacked for nothing, they were brought up with a very commonsensical attitude toward their money. Public school, high school jobs, paying their own way through college. After college, Michael and Finley headed for the family business, while Nick skipped B-school and law school for a master's in journalism from Northwestern, followed by a trek across sub-Saharan Africa to study the impact of Western medical relief efforts. When he returned to the States with a Pulitzer to his credit, he joined the New York Times as a bureau reporter.
Jamie, on the other hand, was the family black sheep - although even sheep were productive from a wool-making perspective. From what I'd heard, word having passed from Mrs. Breckenridge to my mother during a meeting of one of their ubiquitous clubs - golf club, book club, cotillion club, travel club, heirloom asparagus club, etc. -
Jamie mooched off his parents, occasionally dabbling in a get-rich-quick scheme, Internet start-up, or "surefire invention," most of which fizzled as quickly as his temporary interest in working. That Ethan and Luc believed it was Jamie, not Nick, who'd taken up the reins of a vampire investigation was a surprise.
I leaned back against the conference table and checked out the picture of Jamie. Tall and brown-haired like his brothers, he had been photographed walking down the street in jeans and a T-shirt, cell phone in his hand. The picture was taken in front of what looked like a neighborhood bar, although I didn't recognize the location. Whatever the setting, the expression on his face was unmistakable - he looked, and this was a first as far as I was aware, determined.
I glanced over at Ethan. "How did he go from slacker to pounding the pavement for the journalistic equivalent of The Jerry Springer Show?"
"Luc," Ethan prompted.
"First of all, was that really such a leap?" Luc asked. He rose from the desk, went to the section of the bookshelves that I knew held a built-in liquor cabinet, and after a nod from
Ethan, poured amber liquid - Scotch, maybe - into a chubby glass. He raised his glass to Ethan, who looked vaguely amused by the gesture, and took a sip.
"We've heard Jamie is feeling some pressure from Mr. Breckenridge about making something of his life," Luc said. "Apparently, Daddy referred to Nicholas as a model of how to flourish outside the family fold, and young Jamie took offense. Our guess is he figured that if big brother could make a living as a journalist, he'd take a stab at it, too."
I frowned. "I guess," I said. "But that really doesn't sound like Jamie. He wanted to outpace Nicholas, so he hired on with a tabloid? And no offense, but to investigate vampires?"
"Not just vampires," Ethan noted, relaxing back into his chair. "Celebrity vampires."
"Or even better, bloodsucking vampires taking advantage of poor defenseless humans."
Luc lowered himself onto the buttery leather couch on the left-hand side of the room and cradled his drink in his hands. "Not the kind of headline we want inked across the city, but exactly the kind of headline that could make a name for young Breckenridge."
"Especially if he's the one to break the second-biggest story since our coming-out - if he gets to spill the beans about the inherent evilness of vampires," Ethan said, rising and making his own trip to the liquor cabinet. But instead of pouring a stash of undoubtedly expensive alcohol, he opened a small refrigerator and pulled out what looked like a juice box. As Ethan was the type to use fine china and silverware to eat a hot dog, I had a feeling it didn't contain juice. Blood4You usually sent its wares in plastic medical bags. I guess it had upgraded to convenience products.
"Not Nicholas with his Pulitzer," he continued, "but Jamie. The youngest Breckenridge, and a man who has little, academically or professionally, to his credit." Having offered his theory, Ethan poked in the plastic straw attached to his "juice" box.
"Cocktail," he said, his tongue flicking the edge of one suddenly extended canine. My heart skipped a disconcerting beat. His eyes stayed emerald green as he sipped, a sign of his ability to control his emotions, his hunger.
Ethan drank the blood in seconds, then crushed the packaging in his hand and threw it into a silver trash can. Apparently refreshed, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leaned back against the cabinet. "We won't be popular forever," he said.
"We got lucky with regard to the murders - lucky that most humans were willing to direct their ire toward Celina while embracing the rest of us. The idea of magic, of there being more to the world than meets the eye, remains very attractive to many."
Ethan's expression darkened. "But people fear what they don't understand. We may not be able to avoid that fear forever. And popularity invites criticism, fuels jealousy. It is, for better or worse, human nature." That's when his head lifted, and he looked at me. His eyes sparkled, orbs of emerald green ice, and I knew he was about to make his pitch.
Voice low, grave, he said, "We maintain alliances, Merit, form connections, in order to protect ourselves. To give ourselves what advantages we can - advantages that we need in order to survive, to safeguard ourselves, our Houses." He paused. "You have these connections."
"Shit," I muttered, squeezing my eyes closed, already knowing what he wanted me to do.
"You grew up with the Breckenridges. Your families are friends. You are, for better or worse, part of that world."
I felt my hackles rising, my heart beginning to beat faster. I was already beginning to sweat, and he hadn't even gotten to the meat of it yet. "You know I'm not like them."