Chicagoland by Gail Martin (important books to read TXT) 📕

spent his whole life studying Egypt, including all the stories about gods and monsters. Now obviously, I couldn’t show him a picture, but I described the symbols in detail,” Sarah went on. “And he felt certain that at least some of those symbols were used to bind a vampire.”

I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Sarah’s comment confirmed my suspicion since the first time we laid eyes on those strange markings. West didn’t gape in surprise either.

“On my way out, I wandered through a temporary exhibition of sacred relics and art,” Sarah added. “Thought it wouldn’t hurt to know what they had on display, in case we needed to nick a piece or two for the case.”

Only Sarah would make a museum heist sound like snatching an apple from a street vendor. Then again, we’d broken into some high-class places with her once or twice before.

“We know the Mob families have vampire and werewolf factions in Chicago like some do in Cleveland,” West said as he took his empty plate to the side table and poured himself a drink from a flask in Sarah’s valise.

The other crime families in Chicago might not object to de-throning Capone for his excesses, but if Ness decided to go against all of them, he couldn’t win. I hoped he was smart enough to have figured that out.

“What was Capone doing with a vampire captive?” I mused. “Or was it just a windowless room for the vamp to sleep in and not a prison?”

West shook his head. “When Sarah and I were inside, the door into the hotel didn’t have hinges on the inside. It was steel. Sounds mighty unfriendly to me.”

“Harold wanted me to show the pictures to a friend of his at the museum who curates the Ancient Egypt exhibit. We had a nice discussion, and of course I didn’t tell him where the pictures came from,” Sarah added, with a look at West as if she could read his thoughts.

He raised his hands like she was about to shoot. “I didn’t say a word.”

Satisfied, Sarah continued. “The curator could be more detailed, since he examined the photos instead of having me just describe them. He recognized some of the languages that those ‘nonsense’ words were from—mostly ancient and rather obscure. Hardly something Capone would just happen upon in a thriller novel.” She held out her cup for a refill, and I brought her more tea, eager to hear the rest of her story.

“His impression was that the vampire prisoner was old and very strong. The words and symbols were meant to bind his power and weaken his strength so he could be…used,” Sarah went on, choosing her words carefully.

“Interrogated?” West asked. “Used—how?”

Sarah leaned back, smiling like a cat with cream. “Drained…maybe of blood, possibly of power. There were other words and symbols that meant ‘hidden’ or ‘cloaked,’ which he interpreted to mean helping to hide the prisoner so others couldn’t sense him.”

I took a drink from the too-small porcelain coffee cup that looked dwarfed by my big hands, then set it aside before I broke it. “That sounds more like a prisoner than someone Capone was protecting,” I said. West nodded, apparently thinking alike.

“Would Capone be ballsy enough to nab a vamp from one of the other Mob families as a hostage—or a ‘battery’ for someone’s dark magic?” I asked, then glanced at Sarah. “Pardon my language.”

She laughed as I knew she would, but old habits die hard. “Not a problem, Joe.”

“And the answer is…yes,” West replied. “Especially if he felt confident that he could keep the vampire under control.” He cleared his throat. “Which plays into something I was going to tell you. I’m meeting a contact at a speakeasy downtown tonight—you’re welcome to join me. He’s a shifter…more Irish Mob than Italian. He’s likely to have some insight or have heard rumors no one would mention to Ness.”

“Let me guess—and because his family runs the joint, we can also get good booze?”

West grinned. “That too. So we don’t drink all of Sarah’s stash.”

She waved a hand toward the valise. “Have at it. Not hard to find good hooch in Chicago, no matter what your buddy Ness thinks.”

West’s mouth firmed. “I wouldn’t say Eliot is my ‘buddy.’ Colleague? Source? Occasional backup? Yes. A little too hardline for me—obviously,” he added, waggling his glass of bootleg whiskey.

“And if we get raided?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow.

West patted his jacket where he kept his badge. “We’ll hope that having friends in Federal places will keep us out of the slammer,” he replied with a grin that said he relished the challenge.

Sarah took us to one of Chicago’s legendary chop houses for dinner, and the food lived up to its reputation. I had a huge prime rib, done just right, and a baked potato that was nearly the size of a football. West went for a Porterhouse, rare, with mushrooms and onions, and ate half my potato because neither of us could polish off a spud that size by ourselves. Sarah ordered a petit filet mignon, with asparagus and a side salad, but she stole bites of potato from my plate when she thought I wasn’t looking.

We had dressed to look good and still be able to move quickly if the night required it. West and I got by with black slacks, “Fed” shoes—dress shoes with rubber soles in case we had to run—dark shirts, mine black, his burgundy, and black jackets. Easy to blend in, and room enough to hide a few weapons.

Sarah wore a midnight-blue outfit with flowing, wide-legged pants and a matching top, wrapped up in a chic, drop-waist black velvet coat over low-heeled shoes. Stunning, as always, and carrying at least half a dozen weapons that I knew about.

After cheesecake for dessert, I checked the time—fashionably late enough to go looking for trouble. Sarah paid the bill, and we walked out with her between us, taking an arm on each side. Knowing Sarah, she loved