by Neill, Chloe
But unlike the human demonstrations, this protest carried the signature sensation of magic. A lot of it—chaotic and unfocused, like eddies of water swirling in the rapids of a rocky stream.
Jonah rounded the corner, walked toward me. There was no denying it: The Grey House guard captain was a looker.
Tall and trim, with shoulder-length auburn hair that framed clear blue eyes. He’d gotten his fangs in Kansas City, but he looked more like a warrior from a windswept cliff in Ireland, with his honed cheekbones and chiseled chin. Tonight he wore jeans and a navy pea coat, which only added to the effect. I half expected him to speak with a lilting accent but probably would have enjoyed it too much if he had.
“Hey,” I said, a little shyly. I hadn’t seen Jonah in a few days, and I spent so much time dealing with drama on behalf of Cadogan House that I didn’t have much time to serve as his partner in the RG.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s the House?”
“Nervous. They don’t like Ethan being out of reach. How’s Scott?”
“Fine. Pissed. There are a few Grey House vamps out there tonight. He didn’t want them to come but didn’t bar them outright.”
“Ditto at Cadogan.”
Jonah nodded. “Let’s get moving.”
We walked down the street and toward the plaza, each step bringing us closer to the noise and magic.
“Who organized this?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “Word of mouth, I assume.”
It was a completely rational assumption, but that didn’t make me feel any better about walking into it.
“Plan?” I asked him, now forced to raise my voice to account for the noise.
“We’re monitoring. We’re here as peacekeepers, and we’ll stay on the perimeter. Help anyone who looks like they’re in trouble, or help disperse the crowd if things get dangerous.”
I’d left my katana in the car—all the better to keep the CPD from harassing me about it—but the dagger was tucked into my boot. It was the only weapon I’d have if things got ugly. On the other hand, if things got ugly here, even a sword might not have helped.
Daley Plaza was open on three sides, bounded by Clark, Dear- born, and Washington streets and the Daley Center. It was a large expanse of concrete, punctuated by an insectlike metal Picasso sculpture reaching fifty feet into the air and a square fountain currently closed for the winter.
The plaza was packed with people, the crowd thick and heavy like deep water, so that each person was leaned or shoved into his or her neighbors, sending the wave forward.
Cops in black gear were visible on the edges, as were a few journalists with video cameras on their shoulders, and a few vampires standing in pairs outside the main crush. RG members, I thought, trying to keep the city’s supernaturals safe.
“There are a lot of people here,” he said.
“There are. And a lot of magic.” It was rising and falling like the movement of a symphony, raising uncomfortable prickles on my arms. “Itchy magic,” I said, scratching absently at the back of one hand.
It occurred to me that I was probably within telepathic distance of Ethan, and I called out to him silently but could practically feel the words bouncing back to me. Too much magical interference, perhaps.
“Let’s walk the perimeter,” he said, and I nodded, fell into step beside him. The night was cold, but the crush of bodies in front of us worked like a furnace to push heat in our direction.
The crowd was diverse, from obviously smitten teenagers who grinned with excitement at the cause to vampires and shifters I didn’t recognize, wearing bleak expressions and repeating their pleas for Ethan’s relief over and over and over again.
“Your man has a lot of support,” Jonah said.
“The cause has support,” I corrected, stopping short when two twentysomethings in coats and scarves bounded out of a cab and into the fray with neon posters demanding supernatural rights and Ethan’s release. “I can’t believe how many of them know who Ethan is.”
“He has fan sites, Merit.”
I stopped, looked at him, and found a bemused expression on his face. “He does not.”
“Next time you’re online, look up EthanSullivanIsMyMaster-dot-net. It has fan fiction. You’re not doing a very good job of keeping up with Ethan’s many admirers.”
“There is no such place, and there is no such fan fiction.”
This time, he stopped and looked at me, his expression flat.
My mind whirled at the possibility of hordes of human women lusting over my very vampiric boyfriend. I decided I found it endearing, since I wasn’t worried about his fidelity. Although my Internet research was clearly lacking. I made a mental note to catch up when I had some free time.
Still, the reminder of Ethan dimmed my mood. “Do you think they’ll release him?”
“In his lifetime? Yes. Unfortunately, that lifetime may last an eternity.”
Not exactly the most inspiring of thoughts.
We passed a man and woman who wore Midnight High T-shirts beneath unbuttoned coats. The man was tall and gaunt, with pale skin and thick sideburns; the woman was petite, with dark skin and curls. He was Horace, a Civil War volunteer and member of the Red Guard. I hadn’t yet learned her name.
Horace exchanged the slightest of nods with Jonah as we passed. An acknowledgment of our membership, our partnership, our vampiric fence around the plaza.
We edged around the perimeter and turned to the other side of the crowd just as a woman, petite and dark haired, walked up the sidewalk in a satin coat and four-inch platform shoes, a red dress visible beneath and a cloak of magic flowing around her.
She was barely five feet tall, but with each step, another man or woman in her vicinity trained their eyes on her, awestruck. Like all nymphs, she had the big-eyed beauty of an anime character.
I glanced at Jonah, saw the same glazed expression on his face.
“River nymph approaching,” I warned, a little late. “Although I forget which part of the river she controls.”
“North Branch,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Her name’s Cassie.”
Cassie looked up, discovered us standing there, and rushed over in her platform heels, her coat swirling behind her.
“You’re Chuck’s granddaughter!” she said as she batted her lashes. But when she looked at Jonah, her smile turned pouty. “Where’s Jeff?”
I winced sympathetically for Jonah and for any other man in Chicago who was not Jeff Christopher. Geek or not, he had a way with the nymphs.
“He’s not here tonight. I’m sorry.”
Tears bloomed in her large eyes, and her lower lip quivered.
I did not have time for a nymph on a crying jag. “Jeff mentioned you,” I said. “Just last night. Said he thought you were terribly pretty.”
She clasped her hands together with obvious glee. “Did he?”
“He did,” I assured her, then glanced cautiously at the roaring crowd. I wasn’t sure that was exactly River nymph territory. “Are you here for the protest?”
“I am,” she said brightly. “There’s a party tonight. I got a gorgeous invitation!”
I wouldn’t have called it a party, but before I could protest, she launched forward and slipped into the crowd.
I glanced at Jonah. “A ‘gorgeous invitation’? To a protest?”
That sounded suspicious. And manipulative.
“Regan?” I wondered.
“I think we should keep an eye on her,” Jonah said.
I nodded. “Stay close. If we get separated, meet at the fountain.”
“Roger,” he said, and I moved into the crowd.
Cassie was small, but the crowd parted to let her move forward, as if they were the river she controlled. I kept my gaze on her spot in the crowd as she moved deeper.
“You
got her?” Jonah yelled out behind me, the crowd growing thicker and tighter as we advanced, the decibels higher.
“I see her!” I yelled back, holding out my hand behind me so he might grab it and keep us connected in the crowd.
Our fingers brushed just as shoving erupted to my right side, elbows pointing into my back and hips. I pulled back my arm, keeping my gaze on the divot Cassie had made in the crowd, and pressed my feet into the asphalt, trying to gain purchase. But the shoving grew stronger.
My irritation began to rise.
I pushed in the direction I thought she’d gone, panicking when I couldn’t see the shine of her satin jacket or feel the bubble of magic around her.
“Crap,” I murmured, wincing as a foot stomped on mine. The crowd tightened, contracted like a heartbeat. I breathed out slowly through pursed lips as bodies snugged against me, magic and smells and sounds crowding me on all sides.
After a moment, the press of bodies moved in the other direction, freeing me up enough to stand on tiptoes, scan the crowd for Cassie.
I found her, ten or twelve feet away, her arm on a man’s shoulder as she smiled and strained to see over the crowd.
I had only an instant of relief.
She turned around to look, her expression pained, as if she’d been surprised. And her eyes, wide and innocent, went blank. I’d seen those eyes before. The same dead expression, the absence of will. The harpies had worn it well.
Things were about to get very, very bad.
“Cassie!” I called out over the crowd. “Cassie! Are you all right?”
She didn’t turn, but her eyes rolled back, and her head began to loll. And there, only feet away from her, was a girl in a red cape.
I swore, began pushing through the crowd. Regan had found a perfect spot to disappear another supernatural, and she was doing it right before my eyes.
“Cassie!” I screamed out, wedging my body in an effort to push through the crowd, but the people around me were wedged in tight and looked around in irritation as I used elbows and knees to shove through them.
“Get out of the way!” I pled, looking over the top of the crowd for her hair or the barker’s, trying to trace where they’d gone. “Stop! Stop those girls!”
The man beside me threw out an arm, catching me in the stomach. I sucked in breath and swore out a curse that widened his eyes and had him moving back.
“Back off,” I told him, and the sight of my silvered eyes had him raising his hands and giving me what little room he could.
I scanned the crowd but saw nothing. No dark hair, no nymph and captor sliding quickly through the crowd to make their getaway.
“Damn it!” I yelled, loud enough that the people around me gave me nasty looks. I ignored them, just as they ignored my panic and pleas for assistance.
I needed higher ground, so I ran to the Picasso and scrambled up the incline that marked its base, then jumped onto the next ridge of metal, which put me just above the crowd. I surveyed the bodies, looking for Regan.
After a moment I found her, the cape’s hood still lifted, slithering through the crowd, dragging the nymph behind her. They were headed toward Dearborn. If they got clear of the crowd or jumped in a cab, I’d lose them. I didn’t have time to find Jonah. I only had time to haul ass.
I jumped down, hit the ground in a crouch, and took off.
This ended tonight.
She got to the edge of the protestors before I did and slowed her jog to a walk, Cassie walking awkwardly behind her, her wrist in Regan’s hand. To anyone paying attention, it would have looked like Cassie’d had a little too much fun at the protest. But not many were paying attention. The crowd was growing, their calls for Ethan’s release louder with each round.
I reached the perimeter just as she reached the street and took off to the north, toward the River. Appropriate location for a nymph, but not when the nymph was being dragged while under the influence of drugs or magic.
I spied a woman in a red T-shirt as I ran to the sidewalk and yelled, “Find Jonah!” as I passed her, hoping she was an RG member and actually knew who Jonah was.
Regan and Cassie were nearly a block ahead. They dodged the entrance to the Daley Center’s underground parking lot and crossed the street, Cassie jogging along awkwardly behind.
“Regan!” I yelled out, dodging a speeding cab and the curses of the driver, who lowered his window to make sure I’d heard them. “Stop right now!”
She ignored the demand and darted across Dearborn, barely missing the front end of a CTA bus. She hopped the curb but lost her balance in the frozen mountain of ice on the other side and hit the ground, Cassie behind her.
Regan glanced behind, then took off, leaving Cassie in the snow.
I’d gained half a block but stopped at Cassie’s side, taking in her dilated pupils and vague expression.
“I’ll take care of her, Merit!” Jonah said, running across the street and signaling me onward. “Go get the girl!”
I took his word for it and took off. Regan kept running north, dodging people and disappearing into the shadows of an El track that covered Lake Street. I quickened my pace as she began to climb one of the vertical supports that kept the train tracks in the air.
She climbed clumsily, was five feet in the air when I reached her, jumped up, and grabbed her ankle. She kicked it off, catching me in the shoulder. I ignored the shot of pain and grabbed again.
Arms pinwheeling in the air, she fell, pushing me down behind her and landing on top of me with enough verve to leave me momentarily breathless.
She turned, began pummeling me with her fists. A train rushed by overhead, the roar blocking the dull thud of her fist against my breastbone, the crack of her knuckles against concrete when I dodged a second blow.
I reared back, pulled up my legs, and made contact with her abdomen. With a whoop of air, she fell backward, hit the ground, and skidded a few feet behind her.
I climbed to my feet, hobbled toward her, and reached down to pull back the cape’s hood.
The girl who blinked back at me was definitely not Regan.
Chapter Nineteen
REDEMPTION SONG
The girl also wasn’t entirely in our plane of existence.
She sat on a chair we’d placed in the middle of the Cadogan training room, completely unmoving. She was approximately Regan’s height and build but had short, dark curls in place of Regan’s shock of platinum hair. Her eyes were deeply brown, and at the moment, open and blank.
She hadn’t spoken at all, hadn’t even acknowledged where we were or how we’d gotten there. I’d driven Moneypenny home; she’d been in the back of Jonah’s car.
Cassie had snapped out of her trance and was upstairs in the foyer, where Lindsey had volunteered to entertain her with fashion magazines while they awaited Jeff’s calming presence.
The training room door opened, and Paige walked inside, her vibrantly red hair set off by jeans and a long-sleeved, pale blue shirt with a V-neck. Even in jeans, she had a smoldering sensuality, like a magical, rusty-haired version of Marilyn Monroe.
Eyes mild, she surveyed the room, nodding at me and Luc before her gaze fell onto the girl. She stared at her for a moment, tilting her head at the girl with obvious fascination.
“She hasn’t spoken?”
“Not a word,” I said. “Not the entire time.”
“You said she tried to grab a nymph?”
“Did grab her,” I said. “But we grabbed her back before she could make it to wherever she was going.”
Paige dropped to one knee, looking into the girl’s eyes, then leaned forward and sniffed delicately at the cape. Sniffing out magic wasn’t unusual among sups; it had, actually, been the way Malik had first figured out Mallory’s sorcery.
Her nose wrinkled and she jerked back, looked at me. “Sulfur, as we suspected.”
/> “Her?” I wondered.
“No, not this girl,” Paige said. She took to her feet again, fisted her hands on her hips. “It’s in the fabric. The girl’s been ensorcelled, but I use that term loosely. This isn’t Order magic. It’s”—she frowned, pursed her lips—“something else.”
“Can you bring her out of whatever this is so we can ask her some questions?” Luc asked.
“I can certainly try.” She glanced at us, wiggled her fingers. “Move back, please. Behind me.”
We did as she directed without objection. I knew what magic sorcerers could make—and the balls of light and fire that usually accompanied it—and I didn’t want to be downwind of it.
Paige stood, shimmied her hair from her shoulders, and looked down at the girl. “On three, you’ll awaken. Refreshed, perhaps a bit confused, and ready to talk.” She lifted curled fingers in front of the girl’s face. “One, two, and three.” Paige snapped her fingers.
Like she’d flicked a switch, the girl looked up, around, and blinked back confusion.
“That was it?” I asked, not disappointed exactly, but certainly surprised by the lack of flash and magic.
“Recall,” Paige patiently said, “that you don’t see everything. Every sorcerer has their own style. In situations like this, I try to keep the physical manifestations as mild as possible. She’ll remember what she saw; it’ll be better for her if it wasn’t traumatic.”
The girl focused glazed eyes on Paige, then us. There was fear in her eyes; if she’d had a run-in with Regan, I didn’t find that surprising. On the other hand, she could be an accomplice. Just as guilty, but a very good actor.
“Are you all right?” Paige asked.
She swallowed thickly, nodded, her eyes still darting around the room, hesitating as she took in the antique weapons that hung on the walls. “I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me. It was her.”
