NEVER GONNA GIVE

I woke drowsy to find Ethan on the other side of the bed, tying his hair back with a bit of leather cord. He was shirtless, but wore martial arts pants.

"Going somewhere?"

"Workout," he said. "The tension of the last few days has built up. I need to work through it."

I propped myself up on my side, grinning at him. "And last night wasn't workout enough?"

"Less so for me than for you, although I bless the day you decided to train as a ballerina and work on your flexibility."

I could feel the blush to my feet.

Ethan headed toward the window. I pulled the sheet around my body, then padded to the window, a train of Egyptian cotton behind me.

Outside, the night was overcast and still, like the precursor to a winter storm.

"Snow later tonight," Ethan said.

"It feels like it." I looked back at him. "What are you doing after your workout?"

"Working with Michael regarding our security protocols. Since an RG member was able to enter and exit the premises in fairly quick order, we've obviously got holes to fill."

"Good call," I said, although I wasn't sure anything other than alarms on the bedroom doors and interior cameras would have solved that particular problem.

"I presume you're heading to the Ops Room when you're up and around?"

"That's my plan. Luc was looking at the Navarre vamps, so I'm hoping something popped up there. I also want to call Jeff to see if he's found anything new. And I visited my father," I added.

Ethan looked at me, obviously startled. "When?"

"During our escalation of tensions."

"What did he have to say?"

"He apologized for the vampire thing, in his way. I asked him to get information about the owner of the building where Oliver and Eve were killed. Jeff didn't find anything, and maybe it's a throwaway fact, but I thought it was worth asking."

"It's a good thought, Sentinel. Perhaps you'll get your clue. I'll see you later."

He kissed my cheek and headed for the door, feet padding across the hardwood floors. With one crisis down, but one substantial crisis yet to go, I dropped the sheet and dived into the shower, where I dunked myself under steaming hot water, thanking God I was still in Cadogan House and not at a hotel across town, living from a suitcase as I contemplated my vampiric future.

When I reached the Ops Room, everyone was engaged in a task of some kind, but Luc was nowhere to be seen. In fact, the Ops Room was virtually empty except for Lindsey and a few of the temps.

"Where is everyone?" I wondered.

"I believe you'll want to go next door," Lindsey said. "Ethan and Jonah are sparring."

"Oh, you cannot be serious," I said, positive she was joking.

But she definitely, definitely was not.

They stood in the middle of the mats, both shirtless, Jonah also wearing martial arts pants. The air was thick with magic and the smells of sweat and blood.

In the time I'd gotten dressed and come downstairs, they'd been beating the crap out of each other, and they clearly hadn't pulled any punches. Jonah's eye was bruised, and his lip was cut and swollen. Ethan limped, his left foot obviously tender, and his knuckles were bloody and torn.

I walked into the room as Jonah wiped a smear of blood from his jaw. He nudged Ethan, who looked back at me.

I crossed my arms and stared back at him.

"Jonah volunteered for a little sparring practice," Ethan said.

The liar.

But Jonah, who'd worked out the cover story with him, nodded. "The old man picked a fight. I thought it was a good idea, so I went along with it."

I glanced up at the balcony, which was full of well-entertained vampires. "Could you excuse us for a moment?" I asked.

Seeing as I had no authority over them, they all looked at Ethan, who nodded; then they filed out of the room. When it was empty, I looked back at Ethan and unloaded the cannons.

"There's a vampire assassin on the loose in Chicago," I said, "and I could use a little cooperation. What the hell is going on?"

"We needed to clear the air," Ethan said, silver eyes blazing as he stared at Jonah.

Jonah, his expression surprisingly serene, nodded in agreement.

"About what?"

"You," they simultaneously said.

I was completely flabbergasted that two grown men - more than grown, chronologically - would waste their time throwing punches at each other.

"And this was the best way you could do it?"

"Yes," they simultaneously answered.

I put my hands on my hips and closed my eyes. "This is completely ridiculous, and completely insulting."

"It was necessary," Ethan gritted out. "Boundaries needed to be set."

"As if there was any risk of boundaries being breached," Jonah countered, magic rising again, and it was clear they hadn't really settled anything.

"You've deemed yourself her 'partner,'" Ethan said.

"In the RG. You're her romantic partner."

"So I am. Can you remember that?"

Jonah's eyes flattened, not, I thought, because he was jealous, but because Ethan had taken a stab at his honor.

"She is my partner," Jonah said, "because she agreed to fight with me to protect the vampires in this city. If you don't understand that, or can't respect it, you're the one with the problem, not me."

"Hey," I interrupted, "I am not a toy to be fought over." I pointed at Jonah. "I'm his colleague" - I pointed at Ethan - "and his girlfriend. Those are the boundaries, and that's where they'll stay."

"We needed to be sure of it," Ethan said.

"You needed to whip them out and compare notes," I countered. I looked at Jonah. "I'm still learning who you are. And you're my partner, so I appreciate that you're willing to take a punch for me."

I walked to Ethan and glared up at him. "But you know better than this, Ethan Sullivan."

I strode toward the door, then peeked back to watch Ethan reach out his hand. After a moment, Jonah shook it.

God save me from boys.

* * *

While Ethan and Jonah finished their testosterone fest, I went back to the Ops Room to stare at our whiteboard. Unfortunately, no clues had miraculously appeared overnight.

"It looks like you've gotten a lot done," I said to Luc, but the Navarre vampire photos on the projector screen answered the question. Every photograph had been covered with an "X."

"Yeah, but not the kind I prefer. I talked to Will; there's not a single option in the group," Luc said, swiveling around in his chair in a full circle before landing at the head of the table again. "They're either alibied or completely motiveless."

I frowned. "But how is that possible? We know it was a Navarre vampire, right? So it has to be one of them."

Luc ran his hands through his curls. "You'd certainly think so, wouldn't you? But unless Will is lying, which I highly doubt, they're all off the hook."

I grimaced. "Is there any chance Will's the killer?"

"There's a chance of everything you can imagine, Sentinel," Luc said, going philosophical on me. "But that doesn't mean the chance is large."

"What about the biometrics?" Lindsey asked. "Have we heard from Jeff about that?"

"We have not," I said, picking up the phone. "Let's do that now."

Jeff answered the call almost immediately, but there was such a cacophony of music and screeching in the background that I could hardly hear him.

"Turn the music down!" I yelled, holding the speaker away from my ear until the volume was only slightly above bar brawl. "What's going on over there?"

"Nymph birthday party!" he yelled over the remaining musical din.

I rolled my eyes. "Could you maybe go outside?"

"Oh, yeah! Sure!"

A moment later, I heard the slamming of the screen door and the din quieted considerably.

"Sorry. It's a nymph obligation thing. I was going to call you as soon as we were done."

"Got anything on the biometrics?"

"Actually, yeah. Turns out this is pretty state-of-the-art stuff. It's not a scanner for fingerprints or retinas - it scans your blood."

"Your blood? How? And for what?"

"Tiny pinprick," he said. "A little lance pops up and scans the blood. But it's not looking for type or anything - it's looking for vampiric heredity. It only lets in vampires who were made by Celina."

And we had a winner.

"So to get in, you don't have to be a current Navarre vampire - you just have to be one of Celina's vampires."

"Correctamundo."

"Thank you, Jeff. That's great. Have fun at your party."

"Later, Mer."

He hung up the phone, and I did so gratefully, rubbing my ear a bit for good measure. I was pretty sure I'd just heard Rick Astley at eardrum-popping decibels, which wasn't anything I needed to ever experience again. Ever.

"News?"

"One of the nymphs is celebrating, and the biometric scanner at Navarre determines whether you were sired by Celina."

Luc whistled. "That's nice technology. And it gives us suspects." He walked to the whiteboard, scratched out NAVARRE VAMPIRE under the suspect list, and added SIRED BY CELINA.

"Would there be a lot of Celina-sired vampires not in Navarre House right now?"

"I have no clue. Typically, you wouldn't think many, but Celina was an odd duck. There's no telling exactly how she ran her House."

Since we had to identify the killer she'd made, not terribly well, in my opinion.

* * *

A little while later, I was nominated to make a snack run to the kitchen. Although I wouldn't wish murder on anyone, it was nice to be back in the Ops Room and operating on a relatively normal schedule.

After taking the roll of any other Ops Room food requests, I walked upstairs and down the hallway to the kitchen. Ethan's office was still closed, and I expected he and Michael were working on our revised security plans.

I peeked into the kitchen, making sure I wasn't about to barrel over anyone headed out of the swinging door with breakables, and found the room abuzz with activity. It looked like they were preparing for a cold-fusion experiment.

The stainless-steel countertops were covered in vials and beakers, and two-foot-tall assemblages of glass pipettes and other assorted equipment.

"What's going on in here?" I wondered aloud.

Margot, who'd paired her white chef jacket with the loudest pants I'd ever seen - an insanely bright neon chartreuse that looked nearly radioactive - glanced back and smiled.

"We're making condensations," she explained. "We're reducing food to its chemical essentials to get to the heart of the flavor."

"Cool," I said, although I still preferred a hamburger over any whip, mousse, or elixir I'd tasted at my father's house.

"Yeah. This seemed like the kind of night to try something new." Her voice had gotten quieter and more solemn. "Like we're on the verge of something, you know?"

"Believe me," I said. "I get it."

Margot helped me fill a tray with beverages and snacks - including bottles of the sarsaparilla that Luc favored.

I was halfway down the hall when Ethan - now in jeans and a three-quarter-sleeved T-shirt - stepped out of his office. "Would you like to go have dinner?"

I looked down at the tray in my hands. "I have dinner."

"I was thinking about an actual meal, with tables and waitresses. I'm starving, and I don't want to eat at my desk. I'd like to grab a quick bite, just a few minutes away from the House. I don't suppose you'd happen to know a place?"

Of course I knew a place; I knew plenty of places. If only the questions he usually asked were so easy to answer.

"What are you in the mood for?" I asked.

He ran a hand through his hair. "A burger, maybe? But nothing trendy, and nothing kitschy. No shade-grown beef or organic spring mix or beet consomme," he said, mirroring the thoughts I'd just been having.

"Shade-grown beef. That's funny." I bobbed my head back and forth, debating a couple of options. Chicago was a food-friendly town. Shade-grown beef was an option if you wanted it; so were modernist foams, authentic pho, and diners where the waitress offered you just-fried donuts when you walked through the door. I didn't mean to put Chicago on a pedestal. Undeniably, it had issues: poverty, crime, and strife between folks - including vampires - who thought they were all "different" from each other. But you truly couldn't fault the food.

When I settled on a restaurant, I looked at Ethan. "I'll drive."

"You have to. I don't have a car anymore," he reminded me. "But, out of curiosity, why do you need to drive?"

"Because we're going to a place for locals. Low-key. Good food. Good atmosphere. Whatever car you might borrow would be . . . too much."

"Despite the fact that I've lived in this city longer than most anyone alive, you're afraid they'll think I'm a tourist."

"Your cars are always so flashy."

"Your car is so . . . orange." The distaste in his voice was obvious. Not that he was wrong.

"My car is also very mine, and very paid off. I'm driving." I lifted the tray in my hands. "I'll take this downstairs. You grab your coat."

He grumbled a few choice words, but only because he knew I'd won. Heaven forbid Ethan Sullivan should let me get in the last word.

* * *

Giant neon capitals above the sidewalk read CHRIS'S BROILER. When we opened the door, a giant brass bell on the handle chimed our arrival. The decor was simple and homey, the restaurant populated by small tables, plastic chairs, and a line of orange vinyl booths along one wall.

"Take a seat," said a waitress in a black uniform dress and white apron who breezed past us with a tray of what could only have been manna from the gods. I didn't see what it was, but it smelled like heaven on a plate.

"Shall we?" Ethan asked, putting a hand at my back and guiding me toward a booth.

We weren't seated for more than fifteen seconds before a blond waitress with a ponytail put water glasses and laminated menus in front of us. "Get you something to drink?"

Ethan's gaze didn't waver from the menu he'd already snatched up.

"Water's fine," I said, and she smiled and moved along, giving us time to consider our orders.

We sat quietly in the booth, the few other diners around us enjoying their late-night meals.

The bell on the door rang, and two uniformed officers walked inside and headed to the counter, where they took seats and began chatting with the waitress.

"What do you recommend?" Ethan finally asked, oblivious to my mental wranglings.

"Patty melt," I said, pointing to its spot on the menu. "With fries. It's their specialty."

"And it appears I can add any number of toppings. Peanut butter. Eggs. Pickles." He looked up at me. "What's a jalape?o popper?"

"Nothing that's made it into the awareness of a four-hundred-year-old vampire, evidently. It's a cheese-filled jalape?o."

"Ah. Sounds . . . unhealthy."

"I wasn't finished," I said. "It's also breaded and deep-fried."

His eyes widened comically. I needed to get him to a state fair and a booth where everything was fried and served on a stick. He'd probably have a heart attack just looking at it.

"Pick the patty melt," I repeated, looking at my menu and scanning the options. What was the best thing to eat when you were trying not to think about the murder you couldn't solve? Salad? It was the classic food of self-denial. The meatloaf platter was a protein  -  and carb-laden behemoth - more an indulgence than a punishment.

In the end, I settled on something simple. Foods that would sit easy in my gut, even if my conscience wasn't sitting easy.

"Morning special," I said when the waitress returned, handing the menu back to her.

"I suppose I'll have the patty melt special," Ethan said, giving the waitress a smile and returning his menu, as well.

"Anything you want, sugar," she said with a wink, tapping the edges of our menus on the tabletop to straighten them, then disappearing into the back. I wondered whether they had a Mallory in the back of Chris's Broiler - a disgraced witch doing her best to atone for her sins with dishwashing and onion chopping.

I sprinkled salt on the table, then put my water glass over the salt.

"What's that for?"

I smiled a little. "It's supposed to keep the glass from sticking to the table if you don't have a coaster. I don't know the science of it or if it even works. I've just seen it done."

"Hmm," he said, then mimicked my movement and sprinkled salt on the table in front of him. "We'll test the theory and see if it works." He glanced up at me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm good. Tired."

I could see a hint of sadness in his eyes, too. He'd reached the end of an era, and certainly the end of Ethan's particular brand of international strategy.

"You're mourning, aren't you?"

He looked up at me. "Mourning?"

"You're grieving about leaving the GP, not being involved in international machinations. Your world - the House's world - is contracting. You aren't thrilled about that."

"I am a very strong Strat," he said. Vampire strengths were divided into categories - psychic, physical, strategic - and levels - very weak, weak, strong, and very strong. Ethan was as strategic as they came, quite literally.

"It will be a different kind of politicking from here on out," he admitted, pausing while the waitress placed plates in front of each of us.

We checked out our meals. It was clear after a moment that Ethan was coveting my stack of hash browns, biscuits, and gravy; frankly, his patty melt looked pretty delicious, too.

"Switch?" I asked.

"I knew I loved you for a reason," he said, switching our plates' positions and diving into the biscuits and gravy with the abandon of a starved man. Not that there was anything wrong with a patty melt. It was hot and greasy and just the right balance of salty and cheesy.

I flipped the bread from my sandwich and doused the meat with ketchup - an abomination to some, but delicious to me. I also poured a separate puddle for my fries. When the ketchup bottle was in place again and I'd settled my sandwich in hand, I took a bite, and then another, and another. We ate quietly and companionably, two emotionally exhausted vampires struggling for energy.

When I'd finished off half my sandwich, I took the paper wrapper from my napkin and folded it lengthwise into a thin strip, and then around into a ring, tucking the ends together. I handed it to him. "Now you have a memento of this wonderful date at Chris's Broiler."

"Sentinel, are you giving me a ring?"

"Only the temporary kind."

After glancing at the check, Ethan pulled his long, thin wallet from his interior coat pocket, slid out bills, and placed them on the table. Minutes later, we were in the car, driving home again.

* * *

We'd only just parked my car when Lindsey ran out to meet us on the sidewalk.

"You need to get inside," she said. "Margot's hurt."

A bolt of adrenaline sent me running down the sidewalk, Ethan's footsteps behind me.

When I stepped into the House, I stopped short. Malik stood in the middle of the foyer, Margot in his arms. Her eyes were closed, and there was a smear of blood around her neck.

Holding in a scream, I covered my mouth with a hand.

Malik carried Margot into the sitting room and laid her carefully on the couch, brushing the hair back from her eyes. Her chef's jacket was red with blood from a gash on her neck.

"Is Delia here?" Ethan asked.

"Delia?" I asked.

"She's a doctor," Malik said. "And a friend of Aaliyah's." Aaliyah was Malik's wife. "She usually works a split shift. I'm not sure if she's in the House."

"Someone get her," Ethan snapped.

"I'll do it," said one of the vampires behind us, rushing out of the room.

"What happened?" I asked, falling to my knees beside the couch. Someone handed me a scarf, and I pressed it to Margot's neck to stanch the bleeding.

My heart pounded, my fear and anguish matched only by the fury I felt on Margot's behalf. Someone hurt Margot. My friend. My culinary ally.

But not just hurt - someone had tried to kill Margot. And given the wound at her neck - an unsuccessful decapitation? - our serial killer was the number one suspect.

"I was talking to her a minute ago in my office," Malik said. "She was asking me about kale. She said there were winter vegetables outside in the garden and she was going to pick some things. I don't know what happened after that. Next thing I know, she's stumbling into my doorway."

Ethan's eyes went silver. "Someone attacked here? In my home?"

Now our attacker wasn't just a Navarre vampire, but a Cadogan vampire, too?

"I'm here," said Delia, stepping into the room with the vampire who'd fetched her. Delia was tall, with dark skin and straight dark hair that reached her shoulders. She wore pale blue scrubs and flip-flops.

"I was about to hop into the shower. What happened?"

"She was attacked outside the House," Ethan said. "Her throat was cut."

I moved out of the way so she could get closer to the sofa. "Someone applied pressure," she said. "Good."

Carefully, she peeked beneath the scarf I'd put on the wound. She grimaced a bit. "It's a very clean cut - sharp weapon. Those often don't heal as well as more jagged cuts. It's deep enough that it will take a bit yet to stitch together, but if I can get some blood into her, we can keep her stable until she heals completely." She glanced back and found Helen in a corner of the room. "Can you get me the House emergency medical kit, some water, clean towels, and a knife? I want to get her cleaned up so it heals well. Less risk of a scar that way."

Helen nodded and disappeared.

"A knife?" Ethan asked.

"We'll need a blood donor," Delia said. "Not everyone prefers to break skin with teeth."

"She came to me," Malik said. "When she was injured, she came to me. I'll give her blood. And I don't need the knife."

Without waiting for approval, Malik bit into his own wrist, and the smell of sweet and powerful blood and magic filled the air. I closed my eyes, enjoying the scent before Delia cleared her throat and gestured toward us.

"This isn't exactly a sterile environment, and you're not making it any cleaner. Disperse, please. I'll keep you updated."

Her authoritative tone didn't leave any room for argument, so we climbed to our feet and walked into the hallway just as Malik placed his open wrist to Margot's lips.

"A knife wound at the neck," Luc said. "Similar MO, if we assume he ran out of time."

"We so assume," Ethan said. "Check the security video. I want to know exactly what happened out there. We work from the presumption this was another act of violence by our killer. And until he's caught, no one leaves this House. Not without the express permission of a senior staff member. I don't care if they're going to work, to dinner, to the bar, or to do a good deed."

Luc grimaced. "Liege - " he began, but Ethan stopped him.

"No excuses. I don't want to hear how it can't happen. I want to hear how it will happen. Figure out a way. Make it clear to them that they don't have a choice. That asshole has targeted my vampire, which means he's under my authority now."

"On it," Luc said, trotting toward the basement stairs.

Ethan looked at me, helplessness in his eyes. He didn't have to speak for me to know what he was feeling: fear that he'd somehow allowed Margot to be hurt.

"What could we have done differently?"

"I don't know," I told him. "But we'll find out."

The front door opened and shut behind us, and we glanced around.

My father stood in the foyer in a crisp tuxedo, a large set of rolled papers in his hands. The security guards had let him through the gate, probably given our family ties. I sincerely hoped he had evidence in hands.

"Merit, Ethan," my father said.

"Joshua," Ethan said. "What brings you by?"

"Meredith and I are on our way home. We were downtown, and we picked these up while we were there."

"It's nice to see you," Ethan said, "but if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to this."

Ethan disappeared. Given the drama in the front parlor, I opted to guide my father toward the front door. "Why don't we just chat outside?"

Brows knitted, my father glanced back as we stepped outside. "Is everything all right?"

"Unfortunately not. One of our vampires was attacked. We think the murderer might have done it. What have you got there?"

My father unfurled the roll, revealing several large sheets of white paper. There was a building plan, several contract documents, and a map of land plots, dozens of square and rectangular puzzle pieces fitted together to form some part of Cook County.

My first thought was that he'd discovered something about the property in Little Italy, but I didn't recognize anything on the map. The boundaries were strangely drawn, and there were no buildings to be seen.

"What am I looking at?"

He tapped a spot on the map. "That is the address you asked about. These parcels are owned by a limited liability company. That company is, in turn, owned by another limited liability company, and so on up the chain. Ultimately, you get to a single owner: Carlos Anthony Martinez."

"Who is that?"

"I have no idea. I thought you might."

Unfortunately, I didn't. My heart sank. I'd been holding out hope the property was owned by Vampire H. Killer or some equivalent name that would ring obvious bells and send me in his direction.

My father looked at me for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "The land is valuable. If you have discovered untoward activities there . . ."

"You can jump in, buy the property for a song from the current owner, and turn it into something else."

He nodded. "It's a good location. An area that's troubled, but it's up-and-coming. It could be a positive arrangement if we can make it work."

And that was how my father operated, and probably the secret of his success. There was always a deal to be done, money to be made. And if the opportunity arose, you didn't let little things like murder - or your strained relationship with your daughter - impede your financial progress.

"Thank you for the information. If this leads to anything, I'll let you know."

My father looked appreciative, which seemed a fair trade for the information. Problem was, I was left standing on the front porch with a map and a reference to a man named Carlos. What was I supposed to do with that?