by Chloe Neill
“No.” This time, Ethan said it. “Absolutely not.”
“Agreed,” I said. “When you poke the bear and it tries to tear your face off, you regroup and replan.”
Ethan rubbed the back of his head. “Or perhaps you can try again solo and give us the report later. While we’re several miles away.”
Mallory sat up but looked back at the ground, frowning. “Look, even if the answers are somehow automatic, if the delusions are just emotions trapped in the magic, and no thing is actually asking for help, we can still learn from it. If we keep asking questions, maybe we can get a sense of its spread, of its size, from the answers we get back.”
“Like echoes,” I offered.
“Like echoes,” she agreed. “We’re running out of time. She’s getting ready for something big, and that big is going to happen very, very soon. If we aren’t prepared for it, it’s going to be worse than Towerline.”
Towerline had been half success and half disaster, with plenty of injuries and destruction.
Ethan opened his mouth but closed it again and glanced at Catcher, who was rolling his head, then his shoulders, as if trying to loosen a stubborn ache. Then he looked at us.
“We’re all in one piece,” Catcher said. “I’m not suggesting you’re cowards if you don’t try again, but . . .”
“But you’re subtly implying it,” Ethan said.
Catcher grinned. “This is magic, friends. It’s a dangerous game. Maybe vampires can’t hack it.”
Ethan’s eyes blazed silver. “Is that a dare?”
“If that’s what it takes.” Catcher looked at me. “We have to try something. This is currently the only thing we know to try.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic, so I looked at Mallory. She’d pulled a small kraft-paper notebook from her bag, was thumbing through it. “Just give me a minute.”
I narrowed my gaze at Catcher. “Beer and pizza after this, and you’re paying.”
His lips curved into a smirk. “You’re a cheap date.”
“That is one of her finer qualities,” said my husband.
I elbowed him, and we settled back into our positions.
“It’s getting colder,” Catcher said. “We should probably move this along while we can still function.”
I made a sarcastic noise. “Go swimming in the river and then talk to me about cold.”
“My little mermaid,” Ethan murmured, as Mallory positioned a hand over the orb again.
This time, a single tap. “We’re here to listen,” she said, “not to harm you.”
We sat in the cold darkness, ears perked for any response. But there was none.
Mallory shook her head, wet her lips, and hit the orb again. “If you talk to us, we can try to help you.”
She nearly squealed when the orb pulsed with light, and jumped backward.
It started as a whisper, a faint and faraway call. And with each percussion the sound lengthened, heightened, grew.
help.
Help.
HELP.
HELP.
The voice was masculine. It was one sound and many, a singular cry and a million voices. That was probably the “depth” Winston had mentioned.
“Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,” Mallory murmured, as we stared at the thrumming orb.
HELLO. HELP ME.
The volume was huge, as if the sound was a room that had suddenly enclosed us, sucking out the air and leaving behind only the fear, the terror. It wasn’t just a cry, but a demand for attention. Not just a plea, but an order.
This was panic and anger and frustration and grief, a cocktail of hopelessness. And it wasn’t the kind of emotion that dulled the senses but the kind that heightened them. The kind that made every noise seem a timpani drum, every caress a blinding burn. Irritation began to itch under my skin, the emotion weighted with despair.
This had to be what the delusional had been hearing. Little wonder they’d been terrified, Winston and the others. Little wonder they’d begged for help, and had considered death to stop the pain.
“They weren’t delusional,” Catcher quietly whispered. “Not even close.”
“Hello,” Mallory said to the orb. “We are here in Chicago with you. Where are you? How can we help?”
HELLO. HELP ME.
“It sounds like a recording,” Ethan quietly said. “Just reflected thoughts.”
HELP ME. HELLO. HELP ME. HELLO. HELP ME. HELLO.
The words became faster, seemed more insistent, as if they carried more emotional push—and more magical baggage.
“We’re here,” Mallory said. “Can you tell us where you are? Can you tell us how to help you?”
Silence.
I AM . . .
The orb throbbed with each word.
I AM . . .
“It’s sentient,” Mallory quietly said.
“That’s not possible,” Ethan quietly said. “Latent magic isn’t alive.”
The magic disagreed. I AM! it screamed, loud enough that we clamped our hands over our ears.
I AM! The orb exploded, shooting the silver platter into the air.
Ethan threw an arm over me, pushed me to the ground as magic splintered the air around us. The concussion of sound echoed across the bandstand, back and forth across the buildings near us like a bomb.
And then, just as suddenly as the explosion had happened, the world became quiet again.
We sat up cautiously, looked around us. The orb was gone, and with it the platter and rosemary. And there was a hole in the middle of the blanket, the edges still marked by smoking char.
“Dibs on not telling Helen about the platter,” I said quickly, before Ethan could object.
Ethan growled his displeasure. “Everyone okay?”
“Fine here,” Catcher said, helping Mallory sit up. There was a streak of smoke on her face, but her limbs were still connected, which she confirmed by patting down each arm and leg.
“Well,” she said, then huffed. “The source of the city’s delusions is kind of an asshole.”
As if that source were insulted by the statement, a gust of icy wind sliced across the lawn, carrying with it the same chemical scent that had marked the others who’d heard the delusions. The smell surrounded us like a fog.
And this time, as we sat in the middle of downtown Chicago on a blanket in the snow, I realized how familiar that smell was.
No, I thought. Not smell. Smells.
It wasn’t really industrial, or chemical. It was industrial and chemical. It was exhaust and people and movement and life. It was river and lake and enormous sky. It was Chicago, as if the city had been distilled to its essence, to an elixir that carried hints of all the things that existed inside its borders.
Or inside the alchemical web Sorcha had created, the one that had stretched out from Towerline like a spider’s.
I thought of what Winston had painted in his small, tattered notebook, and the painting of what even Winston thought had been rows of teeth—jagged and uneven—from the mouth that had screamed his delusions.
They weren’t teeth, I realized, looking back at the uneven line of buildings to the east. He’d drawn the skyline. He’d drawn Chicago.
He’d heard Chicago. Somehow, because of magic I didn’t understand, he’d heard Chicago.
“Merit?” Mallory asked, head tilted as she studied me.
“Winston Styles painted images that came to him when he heard the voice. He drew the skyline,” I said. “He heard Chicago. The smell isn’t the magic, or a chemical. It’s Chicago. Squeezed down and distilled, but Chicago all the same.”
None of them looked convinced. “Close your eyes,” I said. “Close your eyes, and think about the scent.”
They looked even more skeptical about that idea. But they did it.
“Traffic,�
�� Mallory said after a minute. “Exhaust.”
“And beneath that?” I asked.
She frowned.
“Smoke. And the lake. And the wind blowing in from the prairies. Hot dogs and hot beef and summertime grills. Bodies and sweat and tears.” She opened her eyes. “It’s like someone made a perfume of Chicago—all of it together.”
Ethan and Catcher inhaled deeply, held the air in their bodies as if to measure its contents.
“Pizza,” Ethan said.
“Yeah,” Catcher said. “I mean, a lot of exhaust and smoke, but there’s a thread of sausage, maybe?”
“The delusions aren’t delusions,” I said. “They’re hearing Chicago.”
“The voice is sentient,” Catcher said. “Chicago isn’t. That’s not possible.”
“There shouldn’t be snow on the ground in August,” Mallory said. “There shouldn’t be people trying to harm themselves to alleviate their delusions. We don’t have the luxury of ‘possible’ right now. But,” she added, “I think you’re right about the city—Chicago is a really big place. If it was possible a city could be sentient, and if Chicago was that lucky, one-in-a-million city, I’m pretty sure there’d be more than a single voice and some stink.”
“Like dancing Chicago dogs?” Catcher asked.
“Something. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help us say what it is.” Mallory’s gaze narrowed dangerously. “But I aim to find out.”
• • •
We were less than an hour from dawn, so we skipped the previous food and beer plan, opted to head back to the House. The ride was silent, all of us thinking, wondering what was happening in Chicago. Catcher parked on the street, and we walked silently into the House.
Mallory yawned hugely but rolled her shoulders as if to shrug off exhaustion. “I need time to read and think,” she said. “I’m going to hole up in the library for a little while if that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine by me,” Ethan said. “But don’t forget to take care of yourself, to sleep.”
She nodded. “I’ll sleep when I feel better. When I’ve conquered this.”
“I’ll tell Chuck what we’ve found,” Catcher said.
“Will he want to tell the mayor?” Ethan asked, closing and locking the door behind us.
Catcher tugged his ear. “Not yet, I think. Not until we can really tell her what it is. But that will be his call.”
Ethan nodded. “Let’s meet at dusk. And no magic in the House.”
“Trust me,” Mallory said. “I want no more of this magic until we have some information.”
“A good plan for all of us,” Ethan said, and we headed upstairs.
• • •
“There is not a Margot basket big enough for this day,” I said when we were alone again. I pulled off my boots, let them drop heavily to the floor.
The voice had been so sad, so angry, so frustrated, and it felt like those emotions still clung to me. And when that door was opened, the other emotions I’d pushed aside—the grief I still felt from our visit to the green land—rushed forward again.
Gabriel, Claudia. The messages about the possibility of our child were getting grimmer, and the possibility of having a child seemed to slip further and further away.
Ethan grunted, walked to the desk, looked over the basket she had assembled. And then smiled. “I believe you may want to reconsider that statement, Sentinel.”
I doubted reconsideration was necessary, but indulged him with a look at the basket.
“Mmmph,” was the closest approximation to the sound that I made. “I’m not really hungry.”
I walked to the window, pushed back the heavy silk curtain with a finger. The world outside was dark and cold, frost already gathered on the glass.
“Not hungry?” Ethan joked, pulling his shirt over his head. “How is that possible?”
When I didn’t answer, he moved closer, turned me toward him, and frowned down at what he saw. “You’re troubled,” he said, stroking a thumb along my jaw.
I paused, fearing I’d sound ridiculous, but remembered he was my husband, my partner, my confidant and friend, so I trusted him with it.
“I was thinking about the green land, and the child we saw there. It hurt. Seeing her, and having her taken away.”
“We weren’t really there,” he said kindly, “and she wasn’t really taken away.”
“It felt real. It hurt like it was real, and Gabriel said nothing was guaranteed. What if that’s really our future? In our time, instead of Claudia’s, but the same kind of loss?”
“It wasn’t our future,” Ethan said. “It was an illusion.”
But sadness had gripped me, wrapped fingers around my heart, and wasn’t ready to let go. “And even if it was,” I began, and turned back to the window. “Look at the city, Ethan. This is our legacy: violent sorceresses, enemies on our doorstep, humans driven mad by magic. Why would we even want to bring a child into this world? Into Sorcha’s world?”
“It’s not Sorcha’s world,” Ethan said, his tone as sharp as a knife. “It is our world. She is intruding, and we will handle her as we always have.”
I shook my head. “Even if we could have a child, children are fragile.”
“Children are resilient, and our child will be immortal.”
“So we assume. But we don’t know that. Not really. We don’t know anything about the biology, how it would work. And if she’s the only one—the only vampire kid? What kind of life would that be? What kind of life would she have?”
“Where is this coming from?”
I flung a hand toward the window. “From out there. From in here. From every night we have to fight to stay alive. From wondering if that will ever end.”
“It’s not like you to be afraid.”
“It isn’t every night that I’m facing down a city that is somehow possessed with magic. Only an idiot wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Merit, it’s been a long night punctuated with fear and anger and magic. You just need sleep.” His voice was soft and kind, and that nearly brought me to tears again. I didn’t want pity or consolation; this sadness, this near grief, demanded my full attention.
“I don’t need sleep.” My voice sounded petulant even to me. And that only made me feel worse.
“Then perhaps I might have said that it’s not like you to back down in the face of fear.”
“Is that what we’d be doing? Backing down? Or just being logical?”
This time, his tone was firmer. “Nothing you’ve said is logical.”
“Don’t be condescending.”
Temper flashed in his eyes. “I am not condescending. I am expecting bravery from you. If you’re afraid, we’ll work through it. But we will not back down because of her. We will not let her destroy our family before we have a chance to begin it.”
“Nothing is certain,” I said, thinking of Gabe and Claudia. “And maybe I don’t want any more risk.”
“Then maybe you aren’t acting like the Sentinel of this House.”
I had no words for him, no possible response. I didn’t like feeling afraid, and certainly didn’t like showing that fear to him. But that didn’t seem to matter. The fear still gripped me, dark and icy, just as winter had apparently gripped the city.
We stared at each other in silence until automatic shades descended over the windows, until the sun breached the horizon.
We slept because the sun demanded it, but there was a cold gap between us.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SNOWBALL
I’d planned to go for a run at dusk, hoping the chill in the air would clear my head—and some of the tension that still lingered between Ethan and me.
Wondering what I should wear—how bundled I’d need to be against Sorcha’s chill—I pushed back one heavy curtain. And stared at the canvas of white that g
lowed beneath a clear, dark sky.
“Ethan.”
He was already dressed, was flipping through the Tribune. He moved behind me, and I heard the catch in his breath when he realized what we were facing.
It looked like the city had been dipped into liquid nitrogen—or dropped into an ice age. There was a foot of snow on the ground, and every surface above the ground—trees, fence, the houses beyond it—was covered in gleaming, blue-white ice or hanging with icicles as sharp as stilettos.
The street outside, usually busy into the early hours of the night, was empty of cars. The vehicles that had been parked on the side of the road were coated in snow and ice so thick it looked like rubber. If the entire city was like this, she’d have brought the city to a standstill.
Dread settled low in my gut.
“I hadn’t checked my phone yet,” Ethan said. “I was giving myself—us—a chance to talk first.”
I looked back at him, saw the same worry in his eyes. “There will be messages galore. My grandfather, the other Houses. The mayor.” I looked back at the window. Hell, if the rest of the city was like this, the Illinois National Guard would probably be beating down our door.
“Everyone,” he agreed. “This is not the type of thing we can push aside or ignore. This will require a response.”
There was a pounding on the door.
“And I guess we won’t have the luxury of that talk,” he said, and looked at me for a moment before turning for the door.
He opened it, found Luc with fist raised, ready to knock again. Luc wore a Cadogan House Track T-shirt with jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, his hair more tousled than usual.
“Sorry for the interruption, Sire, but I’m guessing you hadn’t checked your messages.” He met my gaze, nodded. “Mrs. Sire.”
“I hadn’t clocked in yet,” Ethan said. “What’s wrong?”
“If you’d come downstairs? Mallory and Catcher are already down there.”
Ethan nodded, glanced back at me, saw that I still wore pajamas. “We’ll be down in a moment. As soon as Merit’s dressed.”
