ONE
Immortality required expecting the unexpected. And occasionally, heels.
Sometimes the unexpected was a mercenary fairy with a very sharp sword, or a shapeshifting monster, or a detachment of angry vampires at the door. And sometimes it was a pizza box taped to an art gallery wall... with a five-thousand-dollar price tag.
“Reflections on Post-Consumerism,” the woman beside me said, reading aloud the tag beside the box. “A very interesting choice of media, don’t you think?”
Lulu Bell, nonpracticing sorcerer and my best friend since childhood, her chin-length dark hair falling across her face, was doing her best to look serious and Very Intellectual. She was an artist, and I was here to support her and offer up some much-needed bestie time, which had been hard to come by lately.
I was Elisa Sullivan—vampire and newest staff member of Chicago’s supernatural Ombudsman’s office. Chicago had always been a hot spot for supernatural surprises, and that was especially true lately, with the detachment of vampires and mercenary fairies. The increase in activity hadn’t been conducive to quality time with friends. So we were in this small white-walled gallery on a Saturday night, mingling with a crowd that was mostly human, who’d come to appreciate the art and sample tiny cheese cubes and listen to music that was part ocean wave, part jazz.
“I think pizza is best mid-consumption,” I said, with as much gravity as I could muster.
The woman gave me a withering look before stalking off, apparently unimpressed by my critique.
Lulu snorted. “The pizza box is nonsense, but some of the other pieces are pretty good.”
She wasn’t wrong. There was a portrait of a former president rendered in neon lights. Rainbow streamers of plastic letters hung from the ceiling and made different words depending on your position. A hyperrealistic panorama of a Chicago traffic jam—uncomfortable content but remarkably detailed execution.
“The wine is excellent,” I said, holding up the plastic cup of silver-gold liquid. “And the people watching is even better.”
The opening of an independent gallery in a neighborhood of warehouses and up-and-coming shops attracted all kinds. They ran the gamut from matrons with designer heels and pink-tipped hair to probable artists who were younger than us and had the hunger in their eyes. They wanted their own openings andsoldstickers, and the validation that came with both.
I wasn’t an artist—not by a long shot—but I had tried to look appropriately cool. I paired a flowy green top with black leggings and my favorite black boots. The green was a shade darker than my eyes, and I’d left my long, wavy blond hair down. I’d left my sheathed katana, a vampire’s favorite weapon, in the vehicle I’d borrowed for the night. And while I didn’t think there was much threat from this crowd, I still felt vulnerable without it.
“I like this,” I decided, and glanced at Lulu. “Thanks for inviting me.”
Her smile was warm. “You’re welcome, Lis. Thanks for coming with me.” She knocked her cup against mine. “To girls’ nights.”
I’d toast anything that put that kind of light in her eyes. A light I hadn’t seen in a while.
A human approached us—dark skin and dapper suit, trimly fit around a strong body. He smiled tentatively at me, then Lulu. “Lulu Bell?”
“That’s me,” Lulu said. “Hi.”
“I’m Clint Howard,” the man said, offering her a hand.
“Oh my god, sure!” Lulu said brightly, shaking and then gesturing to me. “Elisa, this is Clint. He owns the gallery.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “You’ve got a lovely space here. And... an eclectic collection.”
His grin was wide and a little sly. “We’re a space for emerging artists. And speaking of which, I saw your piece on Halsted. I’d love to talk to you about an installation.”
Lulu’s eyes went wide. She was a muralist and specialized in outdoor projects; her brightly colored creations covered at least a dozen brick walls in Chicago. We were here, in part, because she wanted to improve her connection to Chicago’s art community. Mission accomplished.
“I’d love to. I love the installation you organized at Garfield Park.”
Clint’s smile was wide and bright. “Thank you. That was nearly a year in the planning. Bureaucrats,” he added with an eye roll.
“Sups have them, too,” Lulu said. “Anyway, it’s gorgeous.”
He nodded. “We’re looking next at a spot in Hyde Park. Not far from Cadogan House, actually,” he said, offering me a smile.
Hyde Park, a Chicago neighborhood on the city’s South Side, was home to Cadogan House, one of the city’s four vampire houses. My dad, Ethan Sullivan, was the House’s Master, and my mother, Merit, was its Sentinel. I’d been born and raised there, although I rarely spent time at the House now.
Someone across the room called Clint’s name. He lifted a hand. “Right there,” he said, then smiled at Lulu. “I’ll call you,” he said, then nodded at me and moved across the room.
“Merry Christmas,” I said, grinning back at Lulu. “You got your present early.”