by Chloe Neill
***
We asked the pilot to hold the jet and gathered together on a rugged hill at the head of the valley, the same hill we’d emerged onto the night before. Tom, Rowan, and a few of his trusted shifters. Vincent and Nessa. Me and Ethan.
“Well, Merit,” Tom said. “This is your party. Go right ahead.”
I nodded, glanced at Vincent. “You said some of Fiona’s possessions were missing, so they believed she was dead. What was missing?”
Vincent frowned. “I don’t see how that would—”
“Just humor me,” I gently said.
“I don’t recall precisely. A sweater. The brooch. Her good boots.”
“What about art supplies—paints or sketchbooks?”
“Not that I recall,” Vincent said, frowning. “But she wasn’t an artist.”
“Actually, that’s not true,” I said. “Fiona was learning to paint. Taran had some of Christophe’s old papers, and Christophe mentioned it. Fiona knew how much Christophe loved the valley and the Barrymore paintings, and she knew that he planned to give her the brooch. She wanted to give him something in return. Something he’d appreciate.”
I paused, let that sink in for a moment. “I think she decided to give him the landscape that he loved. Both of the paintings—the big one and the little one—were of the valley and from this hill, slightly different angles. I think Fiona got up before Christophe and came out here with her good boots, her sweater, maybe the brooch because she thought it would be hers one day. Maybe for inspiration. She settled in to paint, and something happened.”
“What?” Vincent asked, obviously intrigued.
“I don’t know. But that’s what we’re here for.”
Very well done, Sentinel, Ethan said.
Thanks. Let’s see if we can do some “well done” for Fiona.
Tom looked at me, and everyone else looked at Tom, waiting for his verdict.
“You heard the lady,” Tom finally said. “Get out your flashlights, and let’s have our search party.”
***
We searched for an hour and found nothing. We’d picked carefully across the rugged terrain, across loose gravel, jagged rocks, and warrens of rabbits and foxes that had made the valley their home. We’d identified two more entrances to the mineshaft, the bones of what we believed was an elk, and very little else.
That is, until I literally stumbled onto it.
I mistook a rock for a shadow, my toe catching beneath the overhang. I fell forward and hit the ground on my hands, sending sharp pain radiating as tender skin met ragged gravel . . . and realized the rock was a long sheet of granite that partially sheltered a hole in the ground.
I scrambled for the flashlight I’d dropped, shined the light into the opening.
It was narrow, but eight or ten feet deep, covered by the granite shelf. And in the bottom lay the remains of a body, a simple dress in pale pink fabric with tiny green leaves, leather boots, and a small leather satchel. By the look of it, both of her legs had been broken.
A century had passed since her death, and dirt had fallen over her bones and dress like snow. But so many years later, she was still Fiona.
I stood up, whistled, and let the rest of them find me.
“What is it?” Tom quietly asked. Wordlessly, I shined my flashlight into the hole. There were gasps, curses, prayers.
“You found her,” Nessa said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “You found her.”
“I think she broke her legs in the fall,” I said, using the flashlight to point.
“The space must have been too small for her to shift,” Ethan quietly said.
“So she couldn’t heal herself,” Vincent said, remembering what I’d told him.
I nodded. “She wouldn’t have been able to climb out, and the overhang would have made it nearly impossible to see her. I didn’t see her until I hit the ground. And there’s something else,” I said, pointing my flashlight at the glimmer on the lapel of her dress—at the gold and gems of the laurel brooch. She’d been wearing it when she fell.
“Did she run away?” Rowan asked. “Did he kill her? Did he put her here?”
Rowan was not, among other things, an optimist.
Tom looked into the hole again, sighed. “We’ll get the forensics team up here, and we’ll see what Ms. McKenzie has to tell us.”
***
We waited while the scientists were called, the lights prepared, plastic sheeting arranged so her body could be carefully extracted.
After taking copious pictures, they used long tongs to bring up her remains and her effects, including a canvas bag of her art supplies: nibs and holders, some colored chalks, a small bottle of ink. It also held several sheets thick, folded paper that had miraculously survived. I crouched by the plastic, used a stick to carefully unfold the first page.
Some of the ink was faded to invisibility, but the visible words were enough to get the point across.
Christophe, my love, I have done——. I have disappeared into “—— warrens” of this beautiful—— wild land. I’ve—— myself—— stuck, without room to change or——. For that, above all——, I—— sorry.
I aimed to sketch our valley, to—— reveal it—— pigment as well as—— Mr. Barrymore. It—— my gift—— you. I try to—— amusement,——, in how easily our plans are torn—— by fate. And six days later—— I am.
I fear this is my final——, that immortality is not a—— I—— receive. If you—— not find——,—— pray that your mind will be soothed, as mine——, that—— passed so many months together.—— weep for me in sadness, but in joy, in—— of all that we have seen of—— world. Seek solace—— family; let them comfort and console—— not fear for me. I am not afraid—— for the darkness comes for all of us.
—— love, and—— eternally, Fiona
“Six days,” Rowan said, when he’d taken his turn reading the words, his voice choked with emotion. “She was here for six days.”
Hot tears fell from my cheeks like coins of tribute. Fiona hadn’t run away, and Christophe hadn’t killed her. She’d taken a hike, intent on drawing a picture of the valley for Christophe, had fallen and been injured, and hadn’t been able to make her way out again.
Christophe couldn’t weep for Fiona anymore, couldn’t experience the dual joy and despair of having found her. So I wept for him, for her, and for all those who’d come after them, locked in a battle no one had ever intended to fight.
“Let’s give her a moment of silence,” Tom said, and every person on the hill stopped moving as we counted down a minute in silence. Tom sniffed when the minute was up, wiped dampness from his eyes, as well.
“I’d like to say some words,” Rowan said.
Tom nodded, and we moved aside to give him space.
Shifters were romantics in the classical sense, their connection to the natural world deep and profound. I’d heard Gabriel recite Yeats, invoking a poem from his In the Seven Woods, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that Rowan chose another Yeats verse.
“‘And then you came with those red mournful lips,’” he began, voice clear and ringing. “‘And with you came the whole of the world’s tears, / And all the sorrows of her labouring ships, / And all the burden of her myriad years.’”
Rowan paused, teeth gritted while he made an obviously heroic effort to hold back his emotions. A quick shake of the head, a drawing of his hand across his jaw, a haggard intake of breath. When he was sure of his control, he clasped his hands in front of him, began again.
“‘And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, / The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, / And the loud chanting of the unquiet leaves—’”
Despite his efforts, his eyes welled, and he sniffed angrily, as if his body had betrayed his emotions. “‘Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.’”
That was his implicit signal, and his shifters howled their mourning dirges, their voices unified and so utterly sad.
When they finished, I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Christophe’s ashes,” I quietly said, breaching the silence and looking at Vincent. “Where are they?”
It took him a moment to answer. “In our tomb, in the graveyard at the other end of the valley.”
“He should be with her now.” I glanced back at him, at Rowan. “After all this time, after all this misery, they should be together, in love.”
For a long and quiet moment, Rowan and Vincent looked at each other. The air was heavy with the weight of their anger, their regret, their fear, both of them waiting for the other to give ground.
To my relief and surprise, Rowan spoke first. “She should be in the ground, among the trees, so the cycle of her life can continue. Maybe . . . we can find a place that would work for both of them.”
One of the younger shifters opened his mouth to protest, but Rowan put up a stifling hand, and he was bright enough to quiet down.
“I would be happy to discuss it,” Vincent said.
It was a start.
***
We started back to the road, walked silently through darkness, grief still thick in the air.
“Look up,” Ethan said, and I tipped back my head.
The clouds had broken and revealed a masterpiece: the midnight blue of the universe, streaked by the scattering of diamonds that made up the Milky Way. Stars twinkled like brilliant stones in the darkness, as we flew through the universe on our blue and green globe.
“Beautiful,” I said, tears nearly blooming for the second time.
Beautiful, but sad. This had been a battleground and was a place of war and loss, where hatred had rooted, been sown, for generations.
I glanced back. Vincent and Rowan, vampire and shifter, stood side by side, their gazes on the glowing spectacle above us.
I wasn’t naive enough to think resolving the mystery of Fiona McKenzie’s whereabouts and solving Taran McKenzie’s murder would be enough to erase all the history that had happened here. There’d simply been too much strife, too much sadness, too much violence, and sups weren’t much for turning the other cheek. History couldn’t be rewritten.
But it could be accepted, acknowledged. It could serve as the foundation for something new. Something better. We’d done what we could here. The rest would be up to them.
And as for us . . . I thought of Catcher and Mallory, Luc and Lindsey. Of our apartments in Cadogan House, of the Hancock building and the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier, the reflection of streetlights in the Chicago River.
Chicago wasn’t perfect. There was strife and violence that had proven difficult to overcome. But those trials and tribulations were mine to share, and mine to help heal.
I slipped my hand into Ethan’s. “That’s enough vacation for me. Let’s go home.”
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Read on for an exclusive preview of Dark Debt, the new Chicagoland Vampires novel, coming March 2015 from New American Library.
Chapter One
Clever Girl
Early April
Chicago, Illinois
There were two seasons in Chicago: winter and construction. If it wasn’t snowing, orange cones narrowed the Dan Ryan or lower Wacker was closed. Snow and traffic defined our lives as Chicagoans.
Nested within those seasons were the other activities that defined life for many in Chicago. During baseball season, it was Cubs versus Sox. During tourist season, you served them, you screamed at them, or if you worked at Billy Goat’s, both. During summer, the beaches were open. And for a few spare weeks, the water of Lake Michigan was even warm enough for a dip.
Not that I’d had much occasion to sunbathe or swim recently. They didn’t make sunscreen strong enough for vampires.
But when spring rolled around and construction cones popped onto asphalt like neon flowers, even vampires shook off winter. We exchanged quilted jackets, electric blankets, heavy boots, and balaclavas for tanks, sandals, and nights in the warm spring air.
Tonight, we sat on a blanket on the grass at Milton Lee Olive Park, an expanse of green and fountains near Navy Pier honoring a soldier who’d given his life to save others, and won a Medal of Honor for his sacrifice. A burst of spring air had warmed the city, and we’d taken advantage, finding a quiet spot for a picnic to celebrate the end of a long, cold winter. At two o’clock in the morning, the park was definitely quiet.
Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House and now one of twelve members of the newly established Assembly of American Masters, sat beside me on a piecework quilt, one knee bent, one leg extended, his hand at the small of my back, rubbing small circles as we watched the lights of Chicago blink across the skyline in front of us.
He had a tall and rangy body of hard planes and sculpted muscle, and golden blond hair that just reached his shoulders and surrounded honed cheekbones, a straight nose, deep-set green eyes, and imperious eyebrows. I was his Novitiate and the Cadogan’s Sentinel, and I was utterly relieved that winter had finally weakened its grip on the city.
“This is not a bad way to spend an evening,” said the girl on the blanket beside ours, her striking blue hair drawn in a complicated braid that lay across her shoulder. Her Cupid’s bow mouth was drawn into a smile, her hand clasped in the long fingers of her boyfriend’s. He was well built and shaved-headed, with piercing green eyes and a generous mouth. And like her, he was a sorcerer. He had a thing for snarky T-shirts, and tonight’s gem was black with KEEP CALM AND FIREBALL in clean white text across the front.
Mallory Carmichael was my oldest friend, and Catcher Bell was her live-in beau. Catcher worked for my grandfather, Chuck Merit, the city’s supernatural Ombudsman.
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “This was a very good idea.” I sipped from a bottle of “Sweet Summer” Blood4You, a blend of blood and lemonade that I enjoyed against my own better judgment. The drink was good, and the air was sweet with spring and the scent of white flowers that drifted down from the trees like snow, forming constellations on the new grass. Ethan’s hand warmed the skin on my back. This was as close to a day at the beach as I was ever likely to get again. And it was a pretty good substitute.
“I thought some fresh air could do us good,” Mallory said. “It’s been a long winter.”
That was the understatement of all understatements. There’d been murder, magic, mayhem, and too much mourning to go around, including episodes that had put Mallory in the hands of a serial killer and nearly cost Ethan his life. He was fine and she was recovering, and the incident had seemed to bring her and Catcher even closer together.
Even the vacation Ethan and I had just taken—a trip to the Rocky Mountains of Colorado that should have been filled with relaxation, elk watching, and plenty of sex—had been interrupted by a century-old feud between vampires and shape-shifters.
We’d needed a break from our break, so we’d sipped and snacked with Mallory and Catcher on the goodies Margot, the House chef, had packed. Grapes, cheese (both regular and almost preternaturally stinky), thin crackers, small cookies coated in lemony powdered sugar with just the right balance of sweet and pucker.
“You’ve been eyeing that last lemon cookie for seven minutes.”
I glanced back at Ethan, gave him a dour look. “I have not.”
“Seven minutes and forty-three seconds,” Catcher said, glancing at his watch. “I’d grab it for you, but I’m afraid I’ll lose a finger.”
“Stop torturing her,” Mallory said, carefully picking up the cookie, handing it gingerly to me, then dusting powdered sugar from her hands. “She can’t help her obsession.”
I started to argue, but by then my mouth was full of cookie. “Not an obsession,” I said when I w
as done. “Fast metabolism and rigorous training schedule. Luc has us on two-a-days now that Ethan’s been upgraded.”
“Ooh, Ethan 2.0,” Mallory said.
“I think technically we’re now at Ethan 4.0,” Catcher pointed out. “Human, vampire, resurrected vampire, AAM member.”
Ethan snorted, but even he didn’t argue with the timeline. “I prefer to think of it as a promotion.”
“You get a raise out of it?” Catcher asked.
“In a manner of speaking. I’ll nearly be able to afford to keep Merit in the culinary style to which she’d like to become accustomed.”
“You’re the one with the expensive taste.” I gestured to the bottle of wine. “Do I even want to know how much that costs?”
Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “Likely not.”
“And there you go.”
“A vampire cannot survive on Italian hot beefs and Mallocakes alone.”
“Speak for yourself, fancy pants.”
“I’m not fancy,” Ethan said imperiously. “I’m particular. Which is actually a compliment to you.”
“He did pick you after four hundred years of wild-oat sowing,” Catcher pointed out, and earned an elbow from Mallory. He grunted, but he was smiling when he lay back on the blanket, hands crossed behind his head.
“You make it sound like Ethan picked her up at a farmers’ market,” Mallory complained.
“That would require Merit to eat vegetables,” Ethan said, grinning at me. “Could you differentiate between a rutabaga and rhubarb?”
“Yes, but only because my grandmother made the best strawberry-rhubarb pie you’ve ever tasted.”
“I don’t think that counts.”
“Oh, it counts,” I said with a nod. “That pie was sublime. I’ve got solid culinary chops.”
“My culinarily chopped vampire missed a spot of powdered sugar,” Ethan said, leaning forward, swiping his thumb across my lips, and just slowly enough to heat my blood.
“Get a room,” Catcher groused. He was grouchy but loyal, and had followed Mallory through her stint as a Maleficent wannabe and through to the other side. He was also unfailingly dedicated to my much-beloved grandfather, which gave him points in my book.
