Apparently intent on guaranteeing that fact, he flicked a finger, and the towel fell to the ground, heaping at his feet. Ethan stood there, still damp, golden hair around his shoulders, hands on his hips and a less-than-modest expression on his face. Considering his impressive erection, modesty would have been wasted on me anyway.
I ignored my body’s undeniable twinge of interest and dragged my gaze to his face. “Not that kind of personal concern.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re certain?”
“That you’ll be the only man on my mind?” Especially with the image of him standing there seared into my retinas and memory. “Yes. I’m quite certain. Positive, you could say.”
He smiled a little. “Sentinel, you’re mumbling.”
“I’m tired. And your nakedness is distracting.”
But I moved to him anyway. Because sometimes distraction was just the thing you needed.
Some hours later, darkness fell without a knock at our bedroom door or any other. But alarms weren’t always raised with fists.
Chapter Eleven
LOOK AT LITTLE SISTER
We were dressed the next evening and preparing to emerge from the bedroom when our phones rang simultaneously. I reached for mine, but Ethan found his first.
“Sullivan,” he said, answering it through the speakerphone.
“It’s Luc. Turn on the television. NBC affiliate. Now.”
Dread ran cold along my spine like a spill of ice water.
We ran for the door, pulled it open, found Mallory on the couch, yawning as she flipped through a magazine. Catcher was gone, but there was shuffling in the kitchen.
Ethan reached the television first, switched it on, and found the channel.
“What’s the emergency?” Mallory asked.
A newscaster’s solemn voice began to ring through the air, drawing my attention back to the television. And there on the screen was Scott Grey, his lip bruised and bleeding, one eye swollen, his arm in a make-do sling. He limped as he walked, two men in black suits escorting him from the police station. The man on his left whispered to him, close and confidential.
“Catcher,” Mallory said, the same look of mortification in her eyes, “you need to see this.”
Catcher emerged from the kitchen, a mug in hand and wearing only boxers. He nodded at me and Ethan, then fixed his eyes on the screen.
“Scott Grey, the quote-unquote Master of Chicago’s Grey House of vampires, was led away from the precinct tonight by his lawyers after a day of intense questioning. Police spokesmen say they spoke with Grey about the recent murders and riots that have racked the city.”
“Bastards,” Ethan gritted out with obvious temper, needles of magic spilling into the air. “They’ve beaten him like he’s a goddamned animal.”
“Police say Grey is not a suspect in those events, but he may have information which could lead to the arrest of those suspected. John Haymer has more live from the precinct steps.”
The shot switched to a young man with dark skin, sharp gray eyes, and a very serious expression. “Thank you, Linda. I’m here with Terry Fowler, a resident of Hyde Park, with commentary.”
Haymer tipped a black microphone toward Fowler, a man with bony shoulders and a gleaming pate.
“It’s about time,” Fowler said, with a thick Chicago accent and a waggling finger, “that the mayor took some action on the hooligans that are running loose in our streets.”
“Those hooligans,” Ethan bit out, “are not vampires.”
“And what do you think about the charges the city used inappropriate force against Mr. Grey?”
“Inappropriate force? He’s a predator. They all are. Rioting, plucking victims here and there, probably grab you right off the street if they had a mind to. ’Bout damn time, if you ask me.” He smiled with gusto at the camera, clearly happy about his forty seconds of fame.
There would never be a moment’s peace, I realized. Not as long as human civilization had its own problems, not when vampires made such an easy target. Not when blaming us was easier than addressing deeply rooted social ills.
This was Celina’s doing, the result of her outing vampires, the mess she’d made by announcing their existence to the public. It had been more than a year since she’d made the decision, held a press conference, brought vampires into a light they hadn’t asked for. And now we were paying the price. This wasn’t the age of the Inquisition or the Salem witch trials, but it was proving to be different only by mechanism and degree. Technology didn’t make humans less blind; it only made it easier for hate and ignorance to spread.
“The mayor maintains the city’s supernaturals are little better than domestic terrorists. What are your thoughts?”
“They’re violent,” Fowler said. “Creating chaos. Making good people afraid to go out at night. Isn’t that terrorism? She should put ’em away or take ’em out.”
“You mean the death penalty?”
“If that’s what it takes, yeah. If it’s good enough for humans, ain’t it good enough for vampires?”
My blood chilled. His voice stayed casual, like it was nothing at all to suggest our deaths.
“Thank you, Mr. Fowler,” said the reporter, looking straight into the camera again. “I’ve spoken with a number of individuals here outside the precinct. Although not all of them support the mayor’s actions, it’s clear they are concerned about the presence of vampires in their community.”
The shot switched back to the studio, where the anchor, every strand of platinum blond hair in place, nodded. “Thank you, John, for that report. The mayor has not issued a statement respecting Mr. Grey’s release. The mayor also has not yet identified a replacement for the head of the Office of Human Liaisons, who was arrested a few days ago for his role in the riots that have racked the city this week.”
The camera shifted to the man who sat beside her, a brunette with thick eyebrows and a long, straight nose. “Thank you, Patrice. And now to sports.”
Ethan flicked off the television.
“They actually think we’re threats to the public welfare?” I asked.
“The mayor thinks I’m a threat to the public welfare,” Ethan said. “And Scott is the bait they’re using. And they’re using him, well and thoroughly, after all we’ve done for the city. The times we’ve pulled it back from the brink. Assimilation didn’t work. Living in public doesn’t work. I’m not sure what our remaining options might be.”