“We’re just looking for information, actually. We’re trying to identify swords that were recently used in a crime.”
Nan put a hand on her chest, leaned in. “Oh my God, are you here about the murder at that church? We saw it on television last night. Horrible thing. I certainly hope you find out who did it.”
“So do we,” Jonah said. He pulled out his phone, offered her photographs of the tsubas. “Do these look familiar at all?”
Nan squinted down at the phone, then glanced surreptitiously around and pulled a pair of funky leopard reading glasses from a beaded chain hidden beneath her shirt. She fitted them on, stared down at the phone.
“These are nice. Nice pictures, and very well rendered. Good three-dimensional qualities, good detail. We tend to stay away from fish images. We prefer dragons and bamboo.”
“Any idea who does prefer fish?” Jonah asked.
“Actually, yes.” She pointed at the phone’s display. “The colored enameling’s the giveaway—it’s called cloisonné. Gained traction in Japan in the seventeen hundreds. You don’t see it very often, and when you do, it’s usually an older piece. Not many craftsmen making it these days. Did you get any photos of the edge?”
“Let me see,” Jonah said, taking the phone back and moving through pictures. “I got one—there were markings there, and I thought maybe it was an artist’s mark.”
He handed the phone back, and she peered at it, tilted her head, leaned closer.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Not an artist’s mark per se, but similar. And you got very, very lucky.”
“Oh?” Jonah asked.
She held the phone out, the photograph zoomed in on a couple of small, raised squiggles on the edge of the tsuba. “See those?”
“Looks like an ‘M’ and an ‘S,’” I said.
“Precisely. Stands for the Magic Shoppe. Located right here in Chicago. Hipsters, if you ask me.” By her flat expression and tone, she was not impressed with the Magic Shoppe. “They sell replicas, but they customize. Pick your blade length, your cording, your tsuba design. They have tsubas made at a small workshop in Kyoto, have the store’s initials added to the side.
“They also do the con circuit, but they aren’t here. No loss, in my opinion. Yes, they have good merch. Some nice pieces. But they’re disorganized. Snooty. Expensive. And despite all that, they’re convinced they’re the best vendor at any con.”
She shook her head, but smiled. “Different con, same drama. I certainly hope the store isn’t directly involved. We get enough of a bad rap as geeks and nerds. We certainly don’t need to add murder to the equation.”
“No, we don’t,” Jonah said, taking the phone from her and tucking it away again. “As always, Nan, you’ve been invaluable.”
She blushed, swished her hand in front of her face to downplay the compliment. “You stop it.”
“I’ll call you in a week or two about those bokken we were talking about.”
“I’ll be ready and waiting,” she assured him, smoothing her skirts. “Oh, and here.” She offered up two pens featuring the images of lusty wenches holding very large bastard swords.
“A little souvenir,” she said with a wink. “We look forward to serving your future melee needs.”
With the Magic Shoppe as a promising lead, we turned toward the exit and began maneuvering through the crowd. We’d nearly reached the door when I stopped short, grinned.
It seemed kismet that the last booth I’d see was an homage to Jakob’s Quest, Jeff’s favorite online role-playing game. Fifteen-foot-tall shelves were filled with green T-shirts featuring the Jakob’s Quest logo, images of the characters in battle, and quotes I assumed were from the game. There were plastic figurines, plush dolls, hats, and even bags of Jakob’s Munch trail mix, perfect for the gamer on the go.
I spied a bobblehead doll of Roland, the brown-haired warrior that Jeff preferred to play. I flicked the head, which, appropriately enough, bobbled wildly.
This had to go home with me. It was possible Jeff already had one; hell, there was a good chance he had one for each character in the game. But since his last office—my grandfather’s basement—had been torched, he probably wouldn’t argue overmuch with a new one.
“Tap the button.”
I turned to find a curvy girl with a crop of bright red hair behind me. Along with her staff credentials, she wore a JQ-appropriate costume: green tunic and tights, soft brown leather boots.
“Okay,” I said, and tapped the square button on the doll’s square plastic base.
“Bravely into battle!” said a digitized male voice. “And victory for all.”
“Oh my God, just take my money,” I said, grinning as I imagined how much Jeff would love it and shoving a wad of bills from my pocket into her hand.
“I’ll grab one that’s boxed,” the clerk said, moving back to the register.
“There you are.” I turned, found Jonah grinning at me. “Have you suddenly become a gamer?”
I answered with another tap of the bobblehead’s button. “Bravely into battle! And victory for all.”
“That’s my counter to that question.”
“Nerd,” he said with a grin.
“It’s for Jeff. I couldn’t pass it up.”
The clerk returned with a plastic bag and change. I tucked the bag under my arm, stuffed the change into my pocket.
“If you’re ready,” Jonah said with a half bow, extending an arm toward the exit.
With an offer like that . . .
We reached the doors, were about to walk through, when a hand gripped my arm. I instantly reached for my katana, and then I looked at the grabber.
She wore black leather pants and a burgundy tank that showed a lot of cleavage. Her hair was dark and straight, with a fringe of bangs and a long ponytail. Her features were voluptuous: apple cheekbones, pert nose, lush lips. In her hand was a plastic katana.
“Dear God,” I murmured, looking over the woman who apparently had tried to look like me.
“It’s not a bad costume.”
I made my way back to her face, found her expression appraising. Her lips were pursed as she looked me over.
“What?” I asked.
“The sword’s a really nice touch—did you get it at Faire Makers?—but I’m not buying the attitude. It’s not really Merit. You should be channeling your inner vampire sex warrior. Like this,” she said, then put her hands on her hips, canted out one leg, and smiled sensually.
“What?” was all I could think to say.
“Maybe a little more cleavage, too.”
“Cleavage.”
She nodded, winked. “A vampire sex warrior can never show too much cleavage.” She waved at a man who gestured to her a few feet away. “Good luck,” she said, before sauntering to greet him.
Jonah joined me, and we watched silently as she stopped to pose with a couple of teenagers in white T-shirts. They took pictures, and she signed their T-shirts and pressed lipsticky kisses to their cheeks while they stared down at her double-Ds.
“You have a doppelgänger,” he said.
“That woman had the balls to tell me I didn’t look like Merit.”
“I doubt she had balls,” Jonah said, smile wide as he took in her enviable curves. “And I told you people would think you’re in costume.”
I humphed. “I’m not in a Merit costume. I’m Merit—the actual Merit. I know how I dress.”
“But you aren’t Merit right now. Not really. Not stalwart, ass-kicking Cadogan Sentinel. You’re in Diana Prince mode.”
“Who’s Diana Prince?”
“Wonder Woman,” he said with a smile. “You’re in an investigation frame of mind, and that shows in your face, your body language. Lose the jacket, unsheathe that sword, and give her the same ragey expression you’re giving me right now, and she’ll see exactly what you’re made of.”
I considered that. “She did say I had a vampire-sex-warrior quality.”
“Since I like my very pretty face just the way it is, I’m going to leave that one alone.”
“Wise choice,” I said, and we left Merit 2.0 behind and headed for the escalator. “There could be Jonah doppelgängers walking around here, too, you know,” I said, when he fell into step beside me.
“There could be.” He smiled cheekily. “And they would undoubtedly be vampire sex warriors.”
I decided it was best not to comment. “I think I need a drink,” I said instead.
Ten minutes later, I was drinking the smallest bottle of water I’d ever seen, which Jonah had pulled from his glove box. Two good sips and I’d finished it off, but at least we’d made it back to his car, where I very much looked like Merit.
The most like Merit of anyone, as a matter of fact.
While he looked for directions to the Magic Shoppe, I checked in with the House, found the crew safe and Ethan ensconced in his office, which was fine by me. A slightly overworked vampire was a safe vampire in my book.
We were en route when my phone rang. It was Ethan, which made my heart stutter with nerves. I answered it immediately.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “But I need you back at the House.”
I felt Jonah’s gaze snap to mine, probably because of the spike of magic I’d shoved through the car. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing yet,” Ethan said. “But I expect that may change. Darius is in Chicago.”
Jonah drove me back to the House. In addition to the patience-melting stop-and-go of Chicago’s traffic, we debated the possibilities that awaited us at the House—and I interrogated Jonah just as Ethan had requested.
“By coming back to Chicago, you think he means to challenge Ethan?”
“That would be the obvious reason,” I said. “Have you heard anything about his intentions? Any rumors about GP activity against the House?”
“Not a peep,” Jonah said. “And I hope you know that I’d tell you.”
He had a point. He’d tell me—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill me in transit. I gripped the armrest as Jonah stopped short to avoid hitting the minivan in front of us. The cabbie behind us honked furiously.
“Sometimes,” Jonah said, glancing into the rearview mirror and staring down the cabbie, “I wish I had a message board on my car—like the scrolling ones they use for stock reports. I’d tell this asshole I’ll eat him for lunch if he doesn’t lay off the horn. I have got to start taking the El.”
“According to the Canon, Darius could challenge Ethan to a duel,” I said. “Or a battle of wits.”
“Like, they play bar trivia for the throne?”
“I guess,” I said, wishing it would be that simple. I hadn’t been to Temple Bar, the official Cadogan House watering hole, in much too long. I’d much rather squeeze into a booth with Ethan, Darius, and a gin and tonic than watch them square off with weapons, winner take all.
The thought of it made my stomach ache. It was the note, I thought. That goddamned note that Ethan wouldn’t tell me about.
Jonah pulled in front of the House. “I’ve always liked the look of Cadogan,” he said, gaze on the building. “Always thought it had good bones.”
“It does. And good vampires. And hopefully they’ll still be safe and sound at the end of the night.”
“You want me to come in?”
I appreciated the gesture, but if Darius and the GP had turned their wrath on Cadogan House, I didn’t want that spilling onto Jonah and his friends.
“Better not,” I said, climbing out of the car. “But I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do,” he said. “I’ll call your grandfather, tell him about the Magic Shoppe. The more I think about it, the more I suspect they’ll want to do that part of the investigation themselves. Warrants and legalities, and all that.”
“Good thought. And thanks for that.”
“That’s what partners are for. Take care, Merit.”
I nodded and closed the door, and Jonah drove off into the night.
Chapter Seven
DATE NIGHT!
Fear sitting over me like an ominous storm, I didn’t take the time to make nice with the guards, but ran through the gate, into the House, and to Ethan’s office.
The door was open. Luc, Malik, and Ethan were in the sitting area, tense magic in the air between them. Ethan had removed his tie and his jacket, and the first button of his shirt was undone. His hair was down but tucked behind his ears, and worry had tightened his forehead.
“Sentinel,” Ethan said. “Come in and close the door.”
It was times like this that could drive a vampire to drink, I thought, which explained why all three of them had glasses in hand.
“Scotch?” Luc asked, holding up his glass. Scotch floated over cubes of ice and a curlicue of lemon zest.
“No, thanks,” I said, taking a seat beside Ethan on the tailored leather couch.
“Your trip?” he asked.
“Successful. Swords came from a place called the Magic Shoppe. Jonah’s going to tell my grandfather.”
Ethan cocked his head. “How can you tell?”
“The tsubas. Colored enameling, which is rare, and they’re stamped ‘MS’ on the edge. The store orders them that way.” I didn’t bother with a segue. “Why is Darius coming to Chicago?”
