With a snort, he started the Mercedes and pulled it smoothly back onto the road. I guess I'd humored him out of his mood.
"You know, vampires are exhausting," I told him, parroting one of Catcher's favorite complaints.
"This time, Merit, I won't disagree with you."
Chapter Eight
PAPA DON'T PREACH
The Breckenridge estate, nestled in the Illinois countryside, was a massive would-be French chateau, modeled on Vanderbilt's Biltmore after one of the Breckenridge forefathers, swollen with profit, took a serendipitous trip to Asheville, North Carolina.
Although the Breck estate didn't nearly rival the size of George Vanderbilt's home, the pale stone mansion was a massive asymmetrical homage, complete with pointy spires, chimneys, and high windows dotting the steeply pitched roof.
Ethan pulled the Mercedes down the lengthy drive that ran through the park-sized front lawn to the front door, where a white-gloved valet signaled him to stop.
When an attendant opened my door, I carefully stepped out, the blade and holster an unfamiliar weight on my thigh. As the Mercedes - my getaway vehicle - zipped away, I craned my neck to look upward at the house. It had been six or seven years since I'd been here. My stomach knotted, a combination of nerves from the thought of reentering a life I'd escaped at the first opportunity and the possibility of a confrontation with my father.
Gravel scratched as Ethan stepped beside me. We headed for the front door, Mrs.
Breckenridge visible in the foyer through the open door in front of us, but before we stepped inside, Ethan stopped and put a hand at my elbow.
"We need an invitation," he quietly reminded me.
I'd forgotten. Unlike the bit about crucifixes and photographs, this vampire myth was actually true - we weren't to enter a home without an invitation. But this myth wasn't about magic or evil. It was, as so many other vampire issues were, about rules and regulations. About the vampire paradigm.
We waited a minute or so, long enough for Mrs. Breck to finish shaking hands and chatting up the couple that had arrived just before us. When they walked away, she looked up. I saw a blink of recognition as she realized that we were waiting outside. Her face lit up, and I hoped it was because she was pleased to see me darkening her doorway again.
She walked toward us as elegant and slender as Princess Grace, everything feminine despite having raised a brood of rowdy boys. Julia Breckenridge was a beautiful woman, tall and graceful in a simple champagne sheath, blond hair in a tidy knot at the back of her neck.
Ethan bowed slightly. "Madam. Ethan Sullivan, Master, Cadogan House. My companion and guard, Merit, Sentinel, Cadogan House. Upon your invitation" - he flicked the invitation I'd given to Luc from his pocket and held it between two long fingers before her, his proof of our legitimacy - "we seek admission to your home."
She held out her hand, and carefully, gracefully, Ethan lifted it, eyes on hers as he pressed his lips to her hand. Mrs. Breck, who'd probably dined with heads of state and movie stars, blushed, then smiled as Ethan released her hand.
"Upon this night," she said, "you and your companion may enter our home with our blessing."
Her answer was interesting, her invitation formal and specific to one night in the Breckenridge house, as if intended to limit our access.
"I had my people research the appropriate protocol," Mrs. Breck said, moving aside to allow us entry. When we were just inside the foyer, she reached up and cupped my face in her hands, the scent of warm jasmine rising from her wrists. "Merit, darling, you look beautiful. I'm so glad you could join us tonight."
"Thank you. It's nice to see you again, Mrs. Breckenridge."
She placed a kiss on my right cheek, then turned to Ethan, a glimmer of feminine appreciation in her eyes. I could sympathize. He looked, as was his irritating way, good enough to bite.
"You must be Mr. Sullivan."
He smiled slowly, wolfishly. "Ethan, please, Mrs. Breckenridge."
"Ethan, then. And you'll call me Julia." She gazed at Ethan for a few seconds, a kind of vague expression of pleasure on her face, until a shortish, bald man with round spectacles approached us and popped her on the elbow with his clipboard.
"Guests, Julia. Guests."
Mrs. Breck - I hadn't called her Julia when I was running through her hallways as a child, and I wasn't going to start now - shook her head as if to clear it, then nodded at the man at her elbow.
"I'm sorry, but I'll have to excuse myself. It was lovely to meet you, Ethan, and it's lovely to see you again, Merit. Please enjoy the party." She indicated the way to the ballroom and then moved back to the door to greet a new cluster of guests.
I made a guess that the vacant expression on her face had been Ethan's doing. "Ah," I whispered as we walked away, "but can he charm the humans without resorting to glamour?"
"Jealous?"
"Not on your life."
We were just outside the ballroom when he stopped and looked at me. "It's a tradition."
I stopped, too, frowning as I tried to puzzle out the context. " Glamouringthe host is a tradition? That explains why vampires were in hiding for so long."
"The blade. Your blade. The dagger I gave you. Malik researched the Canon. It's tradition for the Master to present a blade to the Sentinel of his House."
"Oh," I said, fingers pressing the spot on my dress that lay just above the blade. "Well.
Thank you."
He nodded crisply, then adjusted his tie, all verve and smooth confidence. "A bit of advice?"
I blew out a breath and smoothed my skirt. "What?"
"Remember who, and what, you are."
That made me chuckle. He really had no idea the gauntlet he was about to walk.
"What?" he asked, sliding me a sideways glance.
"Fangs or not, we're still outsiders." I bobbed my head toward the ballroom doors.
"They're sharks, waiting to circle. It's like Gossip Girl in there. That I come from money, and that we're vampires, doesn't guarantee us entree."
But as if on cue, two tuxedoed doormen pushed open the doors for us. Literally, they gave us access. Symbolically, they gave us access. But the judging hadn't yet begun.
I took a breath and adopted my best grin of Merit-worthy entitlement, then glanced up at my companion.
He of the golden hair and green eyes surveyed the glittering party before us. "Then, Merit, Sentinel of my House, let's show them who we are."
His hand at my back, a frisson of heat slipping down my spine, we stepped inside.
* * *
The ballroom was awash in the light of crystal chandeliers. Beneath them in the glow stood all the people I remembered. The society matrons. The two-doctor families. The bitter wives. The charming, cheating husbands. The children who were fawned over solely because they'd been spawned by the wealthy.