Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(29)

Yes, it does, he finally agreed, and we surveyed the building.

They’ll recognize us if we just walk in, I said. There were probably few supernaturals in Chicago who wouldn’t have recognized Ethan as the Master of Cadogan House. And my photograph in the Tribune wouldn’t have helped, either.

Likely. Although . . . , he added, and glanced at me, giving me an up-and-down appraisal. I wasn’t sure I’d like whatever he had in mind.

“Although” what?

I can use glamour.

Glamour was the classic vampiric power, a way of inducing someone else to do or see what you intended. You couldn’t convince someone to do something they wouldn’t otherwise do, but you could encourage them to see things your way. Glamour was, to my mind, one of the primary reasons vampires had been feared throughout history—because they could unlock a human’s deepest desires.

I’d initially had immunity to glamour. Faux Balthasar had managed to knock that loose. Like a hound toying with its prey, he’d terrorized me with my newfound sensitivity.

I’d lost that defense, but I’d gained something, too. Glamour was part of the intimate psychic connection between vampires, and something Ethan and I hadn’t been able to share before. When he was finally able to “call” me, to reach inside with that powerful magic, it had been one of the most stirring experiences of my life.

It had also been one of the few times since Balthasar that I’d come into contact with glamour without panic.

I looked back at Ethan, realized he’d been watching me. Probably working through the same mental gymnastics, and wondering how I’d handle it.

How, exactly, could you do that? I asked him.

He glanced at the building. I believe I’d create a band of magic around us.

I didn’t know that was possible.

Frankly, I hadn’t thought of it before. His gaze narrowed. The Imposter showed it was possible.

That was what Ethan had taken to calling Faux Balthasar—the Imposter. He could rot in hell, by whichever name.

Ethan glanced back at me. Do you think you could handle it?

Maybe. Maybe not. But I wasn’t going to say no. There was too much on the line, and we’d come this far already. Yes.

Ethan watched me, brow furrowed as if he was debating whether I was telling him the truth.

All right, he finally said. If you change your mind, you need only tell me.

Before I could argue that I wouldn’t change my mind, he leaned in and kissed me softly and, with his lips on mine, began to work his magic.

When he’d called me, I felt the pull in my gut, as if he’d reached into my soul and drawn it toward him, tugged on the emotional and biological connection between us. Ethan’s magic had been both a comfort . . . and an enticement.

The point of this magic was different—he sought to tie us together in a cloud of glamour that would fool others—but the effect was nearly identical. Desire grew as his magic bloomed and enveloped us, pushing heat through my limbs and filling my body with need, with arousal and desire for him.

I dropped my head to his chest, clenched fingers into his shirt as the magic burned through me. Ethan.

You’re making this difficult, he said. Even in silence, his voice was hoarse with desire, his body hard with it.

You’re making it difficult, I retorted. It’s your magic.

It’s responding to you. His lips fell to my neck, traced a line against the soft skin there, drawing goose bumps along my arms.

Maybe this is a bad idea, I said, tilting my head to give him better access. We won’t be able to get anything done if we can’t keep our hands off each other.

Considering where we’re going, I expect we’ll fit right in. His lips found mine, his mouth firm and insistent, driving me forward into pleasure, his hands drawing me toward him, closer.

Moved by magic, I slid my hands into his hair. If only we weren’t standing in a creepily abandoned park, in an even creepier abandoned neighborhood, and on the trail of a killer.

Nearly there, Ethan said, and I hoped that wasn’t a euphemism. Not that I’d deny him pleasure, but I didn’t want to be the only one left wanting.

Suddenly, like tumblers clicking into place, the magic firmed and settled. Relief replaced impatience, and the breeze cooled our heated skin. Still, we didn’t move for a full minute.

“I believe that will do it,” Ethan whispered, his arms banded around me, his head resting atop mine. “And as for the rest of it . . .”

“Later,” I promised.

“Oh, most definitely, Sentinel.”

“Did you manage it?”

Ethan squinted into the darkness around us, as if checking the outlines of the zone of magic he’d created. “I believe I did.” There was quiet amazement in his voice. Perhaps there’d been some silver lining from the trouble the Imposter had caused.

“What will they see when they look at me?”

“Marilyn Monroe.”

His answer was remarkably quick. “I wouldn’t have figured you for a Marilyn type.”

“I’m joking. I haven’t changed your appearance. Merely softened it so you’re unrecognizable.”

“These are not the vampires you’re looking for.”

Ethan just looked at me. “I don’t know what that means.”

“For a man we call Darth Sullivan, you know surprisingly little about Star Wars.”