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that development. Luc had pined pretty hard; it
was about time he tasted victory.
 Luc can take care of himself, Lindsey said,
her voice dry.
 He d enjoy it more if you were doing the
caring.
Lindsey held up a hand.  Enough boy talk. If
you keep harping about Luc, I m going to hit you
with a Sullivan one-two combination, in which
case I ll be quizzing you about his hot bod and
emotional iciness for the rest of the evening.
 Spoilsport. I pouted, but let it go. I knew she
wasn t completely convinced about Luc, even if
she was spending more time with him, and I
didn t want to push her too far too fast. And to
be fair, just because I thought they d be good
together didn t mean she was obligated to date
him. It was her life, and I could respect that.
So I let it go and settled into a comfy position
beside her, and then let my mind drift on the
waves of prerecorded, trashy television. As
relaxation went, it didn t exactly rank up there
with a hotrock massage and mud bath, but a
vampire took what a vampire could get.
CHAPTER FIVE
DOWN BY THE RIVER
When I awoke again, I dressed in my personal
uniform jeans and a tank top over high-heeled
boots, my Cadogan medal, my sword, and my
beeper and headed out.
I stopped at the House gate, intending to get a
sense of the gauntlet I d have to walk to get to
my car. One of the two fairies at the gate guessed
my game.
 They are quiet tonight, he said.  Ethan
planned ahead.
I glanced over at him.  He planned ahead?
The fairy pointed down the street. I peeked
outside the gate, smiling when I realized Ethan s
strategy. A food truck hawking Italian beefs was
parked at the corner, a dozen protesters standing
beside it, sandwiches in hand, their signs propped
against the side of the truck.
Ethan must have made a phone call.
 Hot beef in the name of peace, I murmured,
then hustled across the street to my ride, a boxy
orange Volvo. The car was old and had seen
better days, but it got me where I needed to go.
Tonight, I needed to go south.
You d think a name as fancy as
 Ombudsman (which really meant  liaison )
would have gotten my grandfather a nice office
in some fancy city building in the Loop.
But Chuck Merit, cop turned supernatural
administrator, was a man of the people,
supernatural or otherwise. So instead of a swank
office with a river view, he had a squat brick
building on the South Side in a neighborhood
where the lawns were surrounded by chain-link
fences.
Normally, the street was quiet. But tonight,
cars spilled across the office s yard and down the
street a couple of blocks. I d seen my grandfather
surrounded by cars before at his house in the
midst of a water-nymph catfight. Those vehicles
had been roadsters with recognizable vanity
plates; these were beat-up, harddriven vehicles
with rusty bumpers and paint splatter.
I parked and made my way across the yard.
The door was unlocked, unusual for the office,
and music Johnny Cash s rumbling voice
echoed throughout.
The building s decor was all 1970s, but the
problems were modern and paranormally driven.
So, I assumed, were the boxy men and women
who mingled in the hallways, plastic cups of
orange drink in hand. They turned and stared at
me as I wove through them, their smallish eyes
watching as I walked down the hallway. Their
features were similar, like they might have been
cousins related by common grandparents. All had
slightly porcine faces, upturned noses, and apple
cheeks.
On my way back to the office Catcher shared
with Jeff Christopher an adorable shifter with
mad tech skills and a former crush on me I
passed a large table of fruit: spears of pineapple
and red-orange papaya in a watermelon bowl;
blood orange slices dotted with pomegranate
seeds; and a pineapple shell full of blueberries
and grapes. Snacks for the office guests, I
assumed.
 Merit! Jeff s head popped out from a
doorway, and he beckoned me inside. I squeezed
through a few more men and women and into the
office. Catcher was nowhere in sight.
 We saw you on the security monitor, Jeff
said, moving to the chair behind his bank of
computer monitors. His brown hair was getting
longer, and nearly reached his shoulders now. It
was straight and parted down the middle, and
currently tucked behind his ears. Jeff had paired
a button-up shirt, as he always did, with khakis,
his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows,
presumably to give him room to maneuver over
his monstrous keyboard. Jeff was tall and lanky,
but what he lacked in mass he more than made
up for in fighting skills. He was a shifter, and a
force to be reckoned with.
 Thanks for finding me, I told him.  What s
going on out there?
 Open house for river trolls.
Of course it was.  I thought the water nymphs
controlled the river?
 They do. They draw the lines; the trolls
enforce them.
 And the fruit?
Jeff smiled.  Good catch. River trolls are
vegetarians. Fruitarians, really. Offer up fruit and
you can lure them out from beneath the bridges.
 And they prefer not to leave the bridges.
I glanced back. Catcher stood in the doorway,
plate of fruit in hand and, just as Mallory had
said, rectangular frames perched on his nose.
They were an interesting contrast with the
shaved head and pale green eyes, but they totally
worked. He d gone from buff martial arts expert
to ripped smart-boy. The Sentinel definitely
approved. I also approved of his typically snarky
T-shirt. Today s read I GOT OUT OF BED FOR
THIS?
 Mr. Bell, I said, offering a small salute to my
former katana trainer.  I like the glasses.
 I appreciate your approval. He moved to his
desk and began stabbing the fruit with a
toothpick.
So, Catcher was a sorcerer, and Jeff was a
shifter. Vampires were also represented, at least
partly. Because Chicago s Masters were pretty
tight-lipped about House goings-on, my
grandfather had a secret vampire employee who
offered up information a vampire I suspected,
largely without evidence, was Malik.
 Do they live under the bridges? I wondered
aloud, returning to the trolls.
 Rain or shine, summer or winter, Catcher
said.
 And why the open house? Is that just
maintaining good supernatural relations?
 Now that things are escalating, Catcher said,
frowning as he used the toothpick to push out the
seeds from a chunk of watermelon,  we re
working through the phone book. Every
population gets a visit an evening with the
Ombudsman.
 Things are definitely changing, Jeff agreed.
 Things are getting louder.
We all looked back as a broad-shouldered
river troll with short, ginger hair looked into the
office. His wide-set eyes blinked curiously at us.
He didn t have much neck to speak of, so his
entire torso swiveled as he looked us over. A
light breeze of magic stirred the air.
 Hey, George, Catcher said.
George nodded and offered a small wave.  It s
getting louder. The voices. The talk. The winds
are changing. There s anger in the air, I think.
He paused.  We don t like it. He shifted his
gaze to me, a question in his eyes: Was I part of
the problem? Making the city louder? Adding to
the anger?
 This is Merit, Catcher quietly explained.
 Chuck s granddaughter.
Awareness blossomed in George s expression.
 Chuck is a friend to us. He is . . . quieter than
the rest.
I wasn t entirely sure what George meant by [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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