Wild Hunger

by Chloe Neill

  “Seri’s a good person,” I said, but I didn’t disagree with what Lulu said. And I thought of Connor’s thin line. “And how do you know when you’ve stepped from brave right into reckless?”

  “When you can change into a wolf?”

  I dropped my head back to the seat, closed my eyes. “They’re going to tank the talks. If they go, there’s no way we’re going to get everyone together again. There’s no way we’re going to get peace in Europe.” Right now, it seemed like even peace in Chicago was in danger.

  Was that why this mattered so much to me? Because my parents had managed peace here?

  “I’m pretty sure the talks were already tanked.”

  I opened my eyes, gave her a piercing look.

  “You know it’s the truth, Lis. Murder doesn’t exactly whet the appetite for peace. And now the question isn’t how to get the talks moving again. It’s figuring out who wanted to derail them in the first place. Who wanted to ruin what we have? To change the balance of power?”

  I was fired up and prepared to argue with whatever she’d said. But she was absolutely right. My job was no longer escorting the French delegates.

  It was figuring out who had sent the French delegates home.

  * * *

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of the Portman Grand.

  A knot of paparazzi waited outside, their gazes avaricious. They were waiting to question me about murder, about the peace talks’ failure, and, depending on how long they’d been out here, the fact that the French delegates had taken their luggage and run.

  I sucked in a breath, put my hand on the car door. “I’m the brave one,” I murmured, but Lulu jerked the car away from the curb before I could get out.

  “Nope,” she said, continuing through the circular drive. “Can’t do it.”

  “Can’t do what? Where are you going?” I checked the side mirror, watched the possibility of a hot shower and minibar binge disappear behind me.

  “I’m getting you away from this hotel and all those bloodsucking reporters—no offense. You’ll stay with me.”

  “Stay with you?”

  “In the loft. There’s a second bedroom. Well, it’s storage, really. And it’s small. And Eleanor of Aquitaine might have peed on some stuff. I mean, I check in there and keep the door shut, but I think she does it out of spite.” She waved it away. “I’m sure it’s fine. We’ll just Febreze it.”

  I weighed cat pee against going back to Cadogan House and facing down my mother’s sword again. “Actually, that would be fantastic.”

  “Good. Because traffic is a bitch. Autos were supposed to clear this nightmare up,” she said, laying on the horn.

  “What about my stuff? My luggage?”

  “You can grab it tomorrow when the reporters have slithered back into their pits. You can borrow some stuff tonight.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” I said, marveling at how generous she was being, especially after I’d been dumped by vampires. For possibly the second time this week.

  With a half-cocked smile, she adjusted her rearview mirror. “I’d say we probably deserve each other.”

  * * *

  • • •

  This time, I tried to pay the proper respect as soon as I walked through the front door.

  “Hello, Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

  She just blinked and stared. And looked generally judgmental.

  “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Probably not,” Lulu said. “But she doesn’t really like anyone. I’m here because she allows it, and we both accept that.” She reached down, scratched the cat between the ears. The cat leaned into her hand and made a weird little bark when Lulu stood up again.

  “She barks.”

  “She talks,” Lulu corrected. “In her own particular accent.”

  As if offended by the comment, Eleanor of Aquitaine trotted away, tail in the air.

  “Where did you get her?”

  Lulu walked into the loft, pulled off her jacket, tossed it onto a stool at the kitchen island. “Honest to god, she was sitting outside my door one night, just staring up at it. No tags, no collar, no microchip. Just four pounds of attitude and expectation.”

  I lifted my brows. “Black cat just randomly shows up at the door of the daughter of two famous sorcerers?”

  “She was a kitten at the time,” Lulu said. “And she’s just a cat. She’s not a sorceress in disguise, or a familiar, or shifter, or whatever. She is particular, though. Keeps me on my toes. I bought her a cheap catnip toy one time and she could tell. Left a dead mouse on the kitchen counter. Found her sitting in front of it when I got up to make coffee, like she was daring me to clean it up.”

  “Maybe it was a gift?”

  “She hissed when I touched it. I had to wait until she was out of the room before I tossed it.”

  “She might be evil.”

  “Oh, she’s definitely evil.” She smiled broadly now. “That’s why I respect her space and her privacy.”

  “How much privacy does a cat need?”

  “You’d be surprised.” She yawned, stretched her arms over her head, then swiveled side to side. “Hell of a night, Sullivan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Insomnia will not be a problem tonight. Let’s go take a look.”

  “At the cat-pee room?”

  “At the cat-pee room.”

  We passed a bedroom and surprisingly large bathroom, and reached a closed door on the back side of the loft, farthest from the windows. So far, so good.

  She opened the door, flipped on the light.

  “Ta-da,” she said weakly.

  It was a decently sized room, maybe ten feet by twelve. But it looked like the set of a horror movie, right before things go bad. There was a four-foot-high ceramic clown, and a headless male mannequin wearing a pair of lacy underwear. Lulu rounded out the collection with some kind of taxidermied albino rodent and a long board punched with dozens of rusty nails.

  But the nightstand and bookshelf were fine.

  “Sidewalk finds for future art projects,” she said, dragging the clown toward the back wall. Then she put her hands on her hips, looked around. “At least it doesn’t smell like cat pee,” she said brightly.

  “No, it doesn’t.” But I eyed the mannequin warily.

  “His name is Steve.”

  “Where would you suggest I sleep? And that’s not sarcasm.”

  She wheeled the mannequin to one side. The wheels made a rusty grinding noise Eli Roth probably would have appreciated. Then she pulled down a panel of wooden slats that hung on the side wall. I’d thought it was an art piece, but it descended to the floor, making a neat platform bed.

  “Murphy bed,” I said. “That’s handy.”

  “I had a roommate for a few months. It didn’t take.”

  “What was wrong with her?”

  “She was . . . chipper. I don’t mind laughing, appreciate quality sarcasm. But she thought the world was a happy and wonderful place.”

  “And you know better?”

  “Parts of the world are great; parts of the world are garbage. I can’t abide optimism.”

  I pointed down. “Those are Snoopy sheets.”

  “Snoopy was a realist. Much respect for Snoopy. Woodstock was the asshole.”

  I had no response to that.

  “You still a T-shirt sleeper?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She gestured me to follow her, and we walked to the other bedroom. Unlike the rest of the space, it was nearly colorless. The walls were pale gray, and there was a low platform bed, the bedspread white with dots of a slightly paler gray. A nightstand held a windup clock, water glass, and magazine. The only thing on the walls was a large painting of the curvy women I realized was her signature
style, this time in shades of white, black, and gray.

  “Very different look in here,” I said.

  “Need it quiet when I sleep, loud when I’m awake.” She slipped around the bed to a gray chest of drawers, pulled one open.

  She pulled a bright pink “Magnificent Mile” T-shirt from a drawer and tossed it to me. The tags were still attached.

  “Haven’t gotten around to wearing this yet?” I asked, holding it up by the little plastic tie.

  She shrugged. “It was in a gift bag, I think, from some deal my mom talked at.”

  I walked to the painted canvas. Up close, I could see textures in the paint. Ridges from the brushstrokes. A grid from some sort of plastic embedded in the acrylic. Tiny spikes I really wanted to test with a fingertip. But I knew better than to smear my fingerprints all over her work.

  “I like the layers in this one,” I said. “You’re really good.”

  “I’m . . . determined,” she said. “I think sometimes that’s more important. Just putting a little bit out there, every day. You do the work or you don’t. The externalities don’t really matter.” She yawned. “The fight wore me out. I’m going to crash hard. I’ll be around tomorrow. I have a commission to finish up before I can go back to the mural. It’s for the Near North library branch.”

  “You’re famous.”

  “In a very different way than I figured,” she said gravely. “Anyway, I’ll be around.”

  I nodded. “I’ll probably go to Cadogan tomorrow. Tell them about the French Houses if they haven’t already heard, see if they’ve got any more information.”

  “And you’re cool with doing that on your own?”

  “I mean, you’re welcome to be my sidekick anytime. But, yeah, I can manage. You have a painting to finish.”

  She seemed relieved. “If you learn anything, let me know.”

  “I will.” I walked to the doorway, Eleanor of Aquitaine moving into the bedroom as I headed into the hall. “I really appreciate this, Lulu.”

  “Damn right you do.”

  SIXTEEN

  I was not murdered in my sleep. I couldn’t be sure Steve hadn’t moved in the night—had he been turned toward the bed?—but he hadn’t pushed me into the loft to face the sun, so I wouldn’t complain.

  I got dressed and found Lulu with arms and legs akimbo on the bed, her hair spread like a dark halo. I considered waking her up, but figured she could use the rest. She’d fought hard.

  And then there was her guard. Eleanor of Aquitaine eyed me suspiciously from the end of the bed. “We don’t have to be friends,” I whispered. “It’s good enough that you’re a friend of hers.”

  One tail swish, then she closed her eyes.

  I guessed I’d gotten all the time and attention she’d been willing to give.

  * * *

  • • •

  I took an Auto back to the hotel, jumped out half a block before the entrance, and slid into the lobby before the paparazzi realized who I was. I showered and changed clothes, pulling on a green V-neck T-shirt, skinny jeans, and boots, and repacked my one and only suitcase again. Twenty minutes later I was in another Auto, headed to Cadogan House.

  I’d done the right thing, asked my parents and Theo to meet me at the House to discuss what had happened the night before, what we’d learned from it, and why I hadn’t violated the Ombuds’ deal.

  It was going to be ugly all around. I’d left the hotel early, hoping I could get some time with my parents to warn them about my theory. They’d be angry enough about the fairy visit. Telling them I didn’t consider myself a Cadogan Novitiate wasn’t going to help things.

  “It can’t be helped,” I murmured, trying to reassure myself.

  “Please repeat command,” the Auto said, in a stiff female voice that tried to thread the needle between comforting and authoritative.

  “I didn’t give a command. I was having an emotion out loud.”

  “Increase motion sensitivity?”

  “No. Do not increase motion sensitivity.” I didn’t even know what that was, but it proved Autos weren’t all created equal. “Continue to destination, please.”

  “Continuing to destination.”

  I thought about applauding her, but didn’t want to risk it.

  * * *

  • • •

  The House was quiet. There were vampires in the foyer and front parlor, whispering as I walked through. They smiled or offered nods but didn’t speak.

  I could feel the Egregore as I got closer to my father’s office, and knew my mother’s sword was there. The monster called to it, trying to push through me to move closer to the magic contained there.

  When I stepped into the doorway, the throbbing of power was nearly loud enough to drown out my heartbeat.

  It doesn’t matter, I told myself. It can’t matter.

  My mother leaned over the conference table and a spread of paper, katana belted at her side over jeans and a black top. My father was at his desk in his typical suit.

  “Hey,” she said, standing straight. The word was an echo behind the pulse of magic, and I made myself concentrate on the lingering buzz of power my parents put into the room, which was lighter and brighter than the sword’s.

  The monster wasn’t interested in that, so it receded. For now.

  “I was just looking over the proposed security updates,” she said, but her smile faded as she squinted, looked at my face. “What happened?” She strode toward me, steel in her eyes. Not just my mother, but Sentinel of Cadogan House.

  My father frowned and moved around his desk. “What happened to your face?”

  “My face?”

  When he reached me, he brushed fingers over my cheek.

  Damn. The bruise hadn’t faded completely, and I’d totally forgotten about it. “We’ll get to that.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Will we?”

  There was a knock at the threshold. Theo stood in the doorway, Yuen behind him. Yuen wore a dark suit; Theo, jeans and a fitted button-down shirt in pale blue gingham.

  I gave Theo a hard look. He was supposed to show up alone, then report back to the Ombuds and save me the trouble of having to face them directly.

  And I still hadn’t briefed my father. I opened my mouth to ask them to give us a minute, but Yuen strode inside with fury etched into his face.

  “Ruadan called the Ombudsman’s office,” he said, settling angry eyes on my father. “Complained that Elisa visited them, attacked, instigated violence among the fairies.”

  My first reaction was fury at the lie, but my father’s gaze—cold and icy—kept me silent. And the seconds that elapsed while he turned that gaze on me seemed to take a lifetime.

  “Are you out of your mind?” His words were chilly and as sharp as his gaze. It wasn’t the first time that I’d angered him, and might not be the last. But even at twenty-three, I didn’t care for the feeling.

  Then Gabriel stepped into the room, Connor behind him.

  “And she was joined by Connor Keene,” Yuen said.

  “I guess we’ve come at just the right moment,” Gabriel said, but my father’s eyes stayed on me.

  “We didn’t attack the fairies,” I said. “Lulu and I went to the castle to talk to them—just to talk.” I pointed to the fading bruise on my face. “They took a different position.”

  “Why did you need to talk to the fairies?” My mother’s eyes had silvered with emotion.

  “Because of this.” I pulled out the handkerchief and the pin and handed them to my father. His eyes widened.

  “Fairy made?”

  Of course he’d know that, I thought ruefully, wishing I’d shown it to him first. “As it turns out,” I said, then pulled out my screen and showed him the still I’d saved yesterday. “Worn by a fairy at the reception. I found it near the patio after we talked yesterd
ay.”

  My father’s expression didn’t change as he tucked the handkerchief away, handed the pin to Yuen. But my mother’s went thoughtful. “You inspected the crime scene.”

  “Sentinel,” my father warned, probably detecting the hint of approval in her voice.

  “Yes,” I said, looking back at him. “I found it, and we found the fairy wearing it in the video.”

  “And you didn’t report this because?”

  “I didn’t know if it had anything to do with the murder. He could have been at the party as a guest, and it happened to fall off. We wanted to see if it meant anything first.” I glanced at Yuen. “Especially if the Ombudsman’s office already thinks Riley’s guilty.

  “We decided we’d ask them about it,” I continued. “So we drove out there. And they were . . . less than accommodating.”

  My mother snorted a laugh, then covered her mouth at my father’s glower. “Sorry. Inappropriate. That was just . . . such a Sullivan thing to say.”

  The glower deepened. “Sentinel.”

  “And so is that,” she said, and made an effort at a serious face.

  “They attacked you,” my father said, looking at me again.

  “Yeah. We didn’t see Claudia, but Ruadan was there.”

  “What instigated the violence?” Yuen asked.

  “They’re sociopaths?” Connor said dryly.

  “They were fine at first,” I said. “Ruadan seemed interested that we were there. But we asked about Tomas, if they had any information about his death. It went downhill from there. I asked about the pin, and they attacked.”

  “They attacked you?” Yuen asked.

  “They made the first move. Lulu and I defended.”

  “Lulu?” my mother asked.

  “Wakizashi,” I said. “Catcher trained her.”

  “Of course he did.” I could tell she wanted to ask more—probably about her skills, the dance of the battle, and how I’d handled myself. But she managed to hold her tongue.