Howling For You: A Chicagoland Vampires Novella (A Penguin Special from New American Library) by Chloe Neill Page A

brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I had need of you, Sentinel.”
    “You’ve got me,” I assured him with a smile. “But at the moment, we have need of speed.”
    “Not your best work,” he cannily said, but he put a hand on my cheek and gazed into my eyes as if he might discover the world’s secrets there. “What’s wrong?”
    “I’m nervous about leaving,” I admitted.
    “You’re worried about your grandfather.”
    I nodded. “He was asleep when I called. He’ll understand—he always does. I just wish I didn’t have to ask him to be understanding.”
    Ethan kissed my brow. “You are a good granddaughter, Caroline Evelyn Merit.”
    “I’m not sure about that. But I’m trying.” Sometimes, that was the best a girl could do.
    I gestured toward the gleaming silver bullet that sat in the House’s visitor spot, the antique Mercedes roadster Ethan had bought for me from the Pack leader himself. She was sweet and perfectly restored, and I called her Moneypenny. She was also still registered in Gabriel’s name, which seemed a better transportation option than taking Ethan’s car. But since he had decades’ more driving experience than me—and we were in a hurry—I held out the keys.
    “Shall we?”
    Ethan’s eyes widened with delight. He’d been attempting to buy Moneypenny for years and had probably wanted to slide behind the wheel for even longer.
    “If we’re going to run,” he said, taking the keys from me, a spark jumping across our fingertips as they brushed, “we might as well escape in style.”
    Sometimes that was the best a vampire could do.

Chapter Two
    Upstairs, Downstairs
    That the Breckenridges had money was undeniable when one was facing down their palatial estate in Loring Park. Chicago was a metropolis bounded by water on one side and farmland on the other. Loring Park managed to fit itself just outside the latter, a fancy suburb of rolling green hills a simple train ride away from hustle of the Second City.
    Loring Park itself was a small and tidy town, with a central square and pretty shopping centers, the area newly developed and decorated with dark iron streetlights and lots of landscaping. A winter carnival had even set up shop in a parking lot, and residents undoubtedly sick of winter were trundling around amid the games and handful of rides. It would be months before green would peek through the flattened brown grass, but the snow was nearly gone. It had been a strange winter in northeastern Illinois—the weather veering back and forth between frigidly cold and practically balmy.
    The estate was located a few miles outside the city center on the crest of a long, rolling hill. The house, with turrets and windows and several wings of rooms, was modeled after Biltmore and was surrounded by rolling hills of neatly manicured grass, and the back lawn sloped gently down into a forest.
    As hidey-holes went, it wasn’t a bad option.
    We pulled the car up to the door, covered by a stone arch, and got out, gravel crunching beneath our feet. The night was dark and moonless; the air was thick with wood smoke and magic.
    “Is that what you think?” A tall, dark-haired man burst through the door, and a wave of prickly, irritated magic followed him like a cresting wave. He was broad shouldered, and he came out with arm raised, pointing an accusing finger at us. “You want to let those bloodsuckers stay here? In our home?”
    The accusing gaze and shoulders belonged to Michael Breckenridge, Jr., the oldest of Papa Breck’s sons. He was in his thirties now, but he’d been a football player in his youth, and he hadn’t lost the muscle, or apparently the testosterone. He was the expected heir of Breckenridge Industries and the family fortune, and he apparently had a temper. Papa Breck was going to need to keep an eye on that.
    Michael Breckenridge, Jr.,
I silently told Ethan, using the telepathic connection between us.
    Charming,
was his reply. He was even sarcastic