Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(50)

“You look beautiful and formidable,” Ethan said as he opened my door and offered a hand to help me out of the car.

“Let’s hope the latter more than the former.” Once out, I adjusted the skirt so it fell appropriately around my hips. Not that it wouldn’t make an impression regardless, which was surely part of the reason Ethan had chosen it.

The deep black tuxedo he’d selected for himself certainly made an impression. He’d brushed back his hair, tucked it behind his ears, and looked very much the rich magnate. Which was true, to a point.

He didn’t say anything, but offered me his arm, and when I slipped mine into it, we walked from the parking area to the main building, where a jazz ensemble played and Chicagoland’s wealthiest humans sipped champagne.

Just inside the door, two women sat behind a table with LADIES AUXILIARY printed across the tablecloth. Ethan offered our names, and one of the women provided small silver pins in the shape of tulips. No sticker name tags or Sharpies for this crowd.

The other woman gestured toward the door. “You’ll find the silent auction over there, cocktails and light snacks on the terrace. You’re welcome to explore the park. The lights of Evening Island are on, and it’s a lovely night for a walk.”

“That it is,” Ethan said with a smile, and handed me a pin as we walked inside. To the women and men who checked us out—or checked him out—he’d have looked cool and collected as he surveyed the room, evaluated his options. But I knew him better than most, and certainly well enough to recognize the tension in his shoulders, the low-level buzz of irritated magic around him.

“Do you see him?” he asked.

“No.” But this vibe wasn’t right for Adrien Reed. The crowd here was mostly young couples with young money. Louboutin rather than Chanel. It was different flash for different generations, but flash all the same. Reed liked ostentatious wealth—his palatial house was as baroque as it got—all gilding and velvet and dark wood. But this wasn’t his particular brand of it.

“I don’t think he’d be in here,” I said. “You’re sure he’s coming?”

“I’m sure.”

I wanted to hound him, to ask how my father had been sure, to get the details of the singular “phone call” he’d made. But this wasn’t the time or the place.

“Champagne?” he asked as a waiter in black walked by with delicate flutes on a silver tray.

“No. I’d rather have my wits.”

“Fair point,” he said. “I think you’re right, and he’s not in here.”

“I don’t suppose that means you’re ready to return to the House?” The question was rhetorical, I knew, but my tone was cutting.

“No,” Ethan said, eyes flashing, a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten his mission.

“Are you up for a walk?”

I’d have preferred Pumas to the heels I was currently wearing for that particular activity, but I knew what I’d gotten into.

“Why not?” I said, and we made our way through the crowd.

? ? ?

The Chicago Botanic Garden was actually composed of several themed gardens with weaving paths between. Evening Island was on the opposite side of the basin pond and was linked to other gardens by paths and bridges. We passed a rose garden and a small walled garden before reaching the meadow that surrounded the basin.

The night was lovely and crisp, and there were plenty of people out for a stroll. It wasn’t often you could walk through the gardens after dark, which explained why so many people had donated a pretty penny for the opportunity. Unfortunately—or not—none of those people was Adrien Reed.

The lights on Evening Island made a glow, reflecting lights like stars across the dark water that surrounded it. On a different kind of night, with a different kind of purpose, it would have been incredibly romantic. The kind of spot I could imagine Ethan proposing in. He’d want some kind of production, had already hinted that he’d given thought to the how and where, although it certainly wouldn’t be on the agenda tonight.

We crossed a wooden bridge, passed beneath budding willow trees, and stepped onto the island’s footpath, took a moment to survey the humans who’d gathered there.

The first face I recognized didn’t belong to Adrien Reed. It was even more familiar.

My father stood at a crossroads where two paths met, chatting with two silver-haired gentlemen, all three of them in tuxedos that probably cost more than most Chicagoans made in a month. My father was gesturing to the building across the water, probably waxing poetic about architecture or development, two of his favorite subjects.

He looked up, realized we’d arrived. “Excuse me,” he said, and walked toward us. The expressions of the men he left mixed curiosity and hostility.

“Merit. Ethan.”

“Have you seen him?” Ethan asked.

“Not yet. Although I was assured he planned to attend.”

“Did it occur to you that gathering information about him might put you in danger?” I asked. My tone was as sharp with my father as it had been with Ethan.

“He’s dangerous whether I’m here or not,” my father said, straightening his jacket. “It’s better for me if I’m here, where I can at least keep an eye on him. And, frankly, it’s necessary.”