As I moved closer, the confidence got a little easier to fake. Although they wore the expressions of men hell-bent on getting the Next Great Shot, the smell of fear tingled the air. Maybe their proximity to the RDI guards, maybe their proximity to vampires.
Ironic, wasn't it, that they were afraid of the people (ahem) that they were obsessively trying to capture on film?
When I was younger, and still well integrated into the Merit clan, I'd been photographed with my family at charity gatherings, sporting events, the razing or raising of important Chicago buildings. But the reporters were different this time around, and so was my role. I was the main dish, not just the cute kid being dragged around Chicago by social-climbing parents. As I neared them, they began calling my name, clamoring for my attention, for the perfect head shot.
Flashbulbs popped, the afterimages blinding to my noctur nally adjusted eyes. Calling up some of my newfound fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, I tapped the fingers of my left hand against the handle of my sword, and reveled in the way their eyes tightened at the corners.
Like prey.
I nibbled the edge of my lip provocatively.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
The questions came so fast I could hardly differentiate them. "Merit, show us the sword!"
"Merit, Merit, over here!"
"Merit, how are things in Cadogan House tonight?"
"It's a beautiful spring night in Chicago," I said, smiling can nily, "and we're proud to be in the Windy City."
They asked questions. I kept to the talking points Luc had provided us last night; thank God I'd taken the time to look them over. Not that there was much to them - mostly blurbs about our love of Chicago and our desire to assimilate, to be part of the neighborhoods around us. Fortunately, those were the subjects of their questions. At least at first.
"Were you surprised to learn that the perpetrator of the park killings was a vampire?" a voice barked out. "Were you satisfied by the extradition of Celina Desaulniers ?"
My smile flattened, and my heart thudded in my chest. That sounded like the kind of question Ethan and Luc feared. The kind Jamie was supposed to ask.
"No response?" the reporter asked, stepping to the front of the pack.
This time my heart nearly stopped altogether. It was a Breckenridge, but not the one I'd have expected to see. I guess everybody, vampires and humans alike, came back to Chicago eventually. "Nicholas?"
He looked the same, but older. More grave, somehow. Caesar-cut brown hair, blue eyes. The boy was gorgeous in a stoic kind of way. That lean, stoic form was currently wrapped in jeans, Dr. Martens, and a fitted gray T-shirt. He also wore a blank expression - no indication in his eyes that he knew me or that he was willing to acknowledge our shared history.
I'd often wondered what it would be like to see Nick again, if there'd be camaraderie or something more detached. The latter, apparently, given his businesslike posture, his opening volleys.
So much for the warm reunion.
Apparently undeterred, Nick kept going. "Was the extradition of Celina Desaulniers sufficient punishment given the heinous crimes she helped commit in Chicago? For the deaths of Jennifer Porter and Patricia Long?"
Since we were apparently playing dumb about our relationship, I gave back the same all-business, vaguely condescending stare. "Celina Desaulniers committed a terrible crime against Ms. Long and Ms. Porter," I said. I had been graciously allowed to keep my own attack secret. The fact that a Merit had become a vampire was common knowledge; the manner of my making was not, at least among humans.
"As a result of her role in their murders, she was punished. She gave up her life in the United States and her freedom for having taken part in those crimes."
My stomach curled at the omission, at the fact that I hadn't mentioned that Celina had been released and was, in fact, no longer serving out her sentence of imprisonment. But that little admission would invite a shit storm of panic that I'd prefer to leave to Ethan and the other Masters.
I put on my most professional face. "If you have questions about the Houses' reactions to that punishment," I added, "I can direct you to our public relations staff."
Take that, Breckenridge.
He did, arching back an arrogant brow. "Is this what the citizens of Chicago have to expect from vampires living among us? Murder? Mayhem?"
"Vampires have been in Chicago for many years, Nick." Calling him by name was enough to invite curious stares among the other photographers. Some lowered their cameras, glanced between us, probably wondering at the dialogue. "And we've lived peacefully together for a very long time."
"So you say," Nick said. "But how do we know that all of the city's unsolved murders weren't perpetrated by vamps?"
"Judging all vampires based on the actions of a single bad apple? That's classy, Nick."
"You're all fanged."
"So that justifies the prejudice?"
He shrugged again. "If the shoe fits."
There was no mistaking the animosity in his voice. But what confused me was its source. Nick and I had broken off our high school relationship when we departed for our respective colleges - Yale's journalism program for Nicholas, NYU's English program for me. Our breakup hadn't been very dramatic, both of us having reached the conclusion that we made better friends than partners. Occasional telephone calls and e-mails kept us in contact, and we'd gone our separate directions with no bad blood between us. Or so I'd thought.
That wasn't the only strange thing. If vampires were taking hits from the Breckenridge corner, why was it Nick, not Jamie, throwing the punches? Something very odd was going on.
"Merit, Merit!"
I dragged my gaze away from Nicholas, from the bitterness in his eyes.
"Merit, any truth to the rumor that you're seeing Morgan Greer?"
Okay, now we were back on track. Justice be damned if there was sex to discuss.
"As Cadogan House Sentinel, I see Mr. Greer quite a bit. He's one of Chicago's Masters, as you all know."
They chuckled at the diversion, but pushed forward.
"How about a little romance, Merit? Are you two a hot item? That's what our sources say."
I smiled brightly at the reporter, a thin man with thick blond hair and a week's worth of stubble. "You tell me who your sources are," I said, "and I'll answer that question."
"Sorry, Merit. Can't reveal a source. But they're reliable. My word on it."
The gaggle of reporters chuckled at the exchange.
I grinned back. "Hate to burst your bubble, but I'm not paid to take your word on things."