Wild Hunger (An Heirs of Chicagoland Novel)

by Chloe Neill

  “Are you excited to see Chicago?” I asked her.

  “I am excited to see the city,” she said, “if not optimistic about what will come of the talks. Consider Calais.”

  The most recent attack had taken place in Calais a week ago. Vampires from Paris’s Maison Solignac had attacked Maison Saint-Germaine because they believed they weren’t getting a big enough cut of the city port’s profits. In the process, four vampires and two humans had been killed.

  The European Houses had lived together peacefully, at least by human standards, for hundreds of years. But after the GP’s dissolution, all bets were off. There was power to be had, and vampires found that irresistible.

  More than a dozen delegates from France, including Seri and Marion, the Master of Maison Dumas, would participate in the talks. Marion and Seri would be accompanied by nearly a dozen staff, including Marion’s bodyguard, Seri’s assistant, Odette, and me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know how successful it will be, either. But refusing to talk certainly isn’t doing much good.”

  Seri nodded and drank the last of her champagne as two guards passed us—one human, one vampire—and silenced the chatter. They wore black fatigues and berets, and looked suspiciously at everyone they passed. Part of the joint task force created by the Paris Police Prefecture to keep the city safe.

  The vampire’s eyes shifted to me, then Seri. He acknowledged us, scanned the rest of the crowd, and kept walking, katana belted at his waist.

  Vampires in the US and Western Europe used the long and slightly curved Japanese swords, which were sharp and deadly as fangs, but with a much longer reach.

  Sorcerers had magic. Shifters had their animal forms. Vampires had katanas.

  “There’s Javí,” Seraphine whispered, and watched as they kept moving, then disappeared around the corner. Javí was a Dumas vampire doing his year of service.

  These weren’t the only guards at the Eiffel Tower. Humans and vampires alike stood at the edge of the crowd below, wearing body armor and weapons and trying to keep safe the tourists and residents enjoying a warm night in the Champ de Mars.

  We turned back to the rail, looked over the city. So much white stone, so many slate roofs, so many people enjoying the warm night. But the specter of violence, of fear, hung over it. And that was hard to shake. No city was perfect, not when people lived in it.

  “Let us take a photo,” Seri said, clearly trying to lift the mood. She put an arm around me, then pulled out her screen and angled the narrow strip of glass and silicon for a perfect shot.

  “To Paris!” she said, and we smiled.

  The moment recorded, she checked the time before putting the device away again. “We should get back. The Auto will arrive in a few hours.” She slipped an arm through mine. “This will be an adventure, and we will be optimists. And I look forward to pizza and Chicago dogs and . . . Comment dites-on ‘milk shake de gateau’?”

  “Cake shake,” I said with a smile. “You and my mother are going to get along just fine.”

  We’d only just turned to head toward the elevator when screams sliced through the air, followed by a wave of nervous, fearful magic that rolled up from the ground.

  We looked back and over the rail.

  Even from this height, they were visible. Five vampires in gleaming red leather running through the green space with katanas in one hand and small weapons in the other.

  Not knives; there was no gleam from the flashing lights on the Tower.

  What was shaped like a knife, but held no metal, and would turn a vampire to dust?

  Humans had been wrong about vampires and crosses, but they’d been absolutely right about stakes. An aspen stake through the heart was a guaranteed way to put the “mortal” in “immortal.”

  I didn’t know which House the vampires were from. I was too high to see their faces, and the gleaming red leather didn’t give anything away. Leather was a vampire favorite, and French vampire Houses appreciated fashion as much as the French fashion houses did.

  But their intent was clear enough. They ran through the crowd, weapons drawn, and took aim at everyone in their path. Screams, sharp and terrified, filled the air. I watched one person fall, another dive to the ground to avoid the strike, a third try unsuccessfully to fight back against the vampire’s increased strength.

  Paris was under attack. My stomach clenched with nerves and anger.

  I wanted to help. I was stronger and faster than most humans, and trained as well as any vampire from Maison Dumas would have been. But there were rules. There were roles and responsibilities. The Paris police, the task force members, were supposed to respond to events. I was just a civilian, and only a temporary one at that. I worked for Dumas, and should have been focused on getting Seri safely back to Maison Dumas.

  But the screams . . .

  The guards who’d walked past minutes before ran back to the rail beside us and stared at the scene below in horror. And neither of them made a move toward the ground. It took only a second to guess why.

  “Can you jump?” I asked Javí, the vampire.

  He looked at me, eyes wide. “Quoi?”

  I had to remember where I was, shook my head, tried again. “Pouvez-vous sauter?”

  “Non.” Javí looked down. “Non. Trop haut.”

  Too high. Most vampires could jump higher and farther than humans, and we could jump down from heights that would easily kill humans. But the trick required training, which I’d learned the hard way—believing I could fly from the widow’s walk atop Cadogan House. I’d broken my arm, but vampires healed quickly, so that hadn’t been much of a deterrent. My mother had taught me the rest.

  Javí couldn’t jump, so he’d have to wait for the elevator or take the hundreds of stairs down to ground level.

  But I didn’t have to wait.

  I squeezed Seri’s hand, told Javí to take care of her, and hoped he’d obey.

  Before anyone could argue, or I could think better of it, I slid the katana from his scabbard, climbed onto the railing, and walked into space.

  * * *

  • • •

  I descended through rushing darkness. A human might have had a few seconds of free fall before the deadly landing. But for a vampire, it was less a fall than a long and lazy step. Maybe we compressed space; maybe we elongated time. I didn’t understand the physics, but I loved the sensation. It was as close to flying as I was likely to get.

  The first level of the Eiffel Tower was wider than the second, so I had to jump down to the first level—causing more than a few humans to scream—before making it to the soft grass below. I landed in a crouch, katana firmly in hand.

  My fangs descended, the predator preparing to battle. While I couldn’t see it, I knew my eyes had silvered, as they did when vampires experienced strong emotions. It was a reminder—to humans, to prey, to enemies—that the vampire wasn’t human, but something altogether different. Something altogether more dangerous.

  Two humans were dead a few feet away, their eyes open and staring, blood spilling onto the grass from the lacerations at their necks. The vampires who’d murdered them hadn’t even bothered to bite, to drink. This attack wasn’t about need. It was about hatred.

  I was allowed only a moment of shocked horror—of seeing how quickly two lives had been snuffed out—before the scent of blood blossomed in the air again, unfurling like the petals of a crimson poppy.

  I looked back.

  A vampire kneeled over a human woman. She was in her early twenties, with pale skin, blond hair, and terror in her eyes. The vampire was even paler, blood pumping through indigo veins just below the surface. His hair was short and ice blond, his eyes silver. And the knife he held above the woman’s chest was covered with someone else’s blood.

  Anger rose, hot and intense, and I could feel the monster stir inside, awakened by the she
er power of the emotion. But I was still in Paris. And here, I was in control. I shoved it back down, refused to let it surface.

  “Arrêtez!” I yelled out, and to emphasize the order, held my borrowed katana in front of me, the silver blade reflecting the lights from the Eiffel Tower.

  The vampire growled, lip curled to reveal a pair of needle-sharp fangs, hatred burning in his eyes. I didn’t recognize him, and I doubted he recognized me beyond the fact that I was a vampire not from his House—and that made me an enemy.

  He rose, stepping away from the human as if she were nothing more than a bit of trash he’d left behind. His knuckles around the stake were bone white, tensed and ready.

  Released from his clutches, the human took one look at my silvered eyes and screamed, then began to scramble away from us. She’d survive—if I could lure him away from her.

  The vampire slapped my katana away with one hand, drove the stake toward me with the other.

  I might have been young for a vampire, but I was well trained. I moved back, putting us both clear of the human, and kicked. I made contact with his hand, sent the stake spinning through the air. He found his footing and picked up the stake. Undeterred, he moved toward me. This time, he kicked. I blocked it, but the force of the blow sent pain rippling through my arm.

  He thrust the stake toward me like a fencer with a foil.

  The movement sent light glimmering against the gold on his right hand. A signet ring, crowned by a star ruby—and the symbol of Maison Saint-Germaine.

  I doubted it was a coincidence Saint-Germaine vampires were attacking the ultimate symbol of Paris only a few nights after they’d been attacked by a Paris House. While I understood why they’d want revenge, terrorizing and murdering humans wasn’t the way to do it. It wasn’t fair to make our issues their problems.

  I darted back to avoid the stake, then sliced down with the katana when he advanced again.

  “You should have stayed in Calais,” I said in French, and got no response but a gleam in his eyes. He spun to avoid that move, but I managed to nick his arm. Blood scented the air, and my stomach clenched with sudden hunger and need. But ignoring that hunger was one of the first lessons my parents had taught me. There was a time and a place to drink, and this wasn’t it.

  I swept out a leg, which had him hopping backward, then rotated into a kick that sent him to his knees. He grabbed my legs, shifting his weight so we both fell forward onto the grass. The katana rolled from my grasp.

  My head rapped against the ground, and it took a moment to realize that he’d climbed over me and grabbed the stake. He raised it, his eyes flashing in the brilliantly colored lights that reflected across the grass from the shining monument behind us.

  I looked at that stake—thought of what it could do and was almost certainly about to do to me—and my mind went absolutely blank. I could see him, hear the blood rushing in my ears, and didn’t have the foggiest idea what I was supposed to do, like the adrenaline had forced a hiccup in my brain.

  Fortunately, beyond fear, and beneath it, was instinct. And I didn’t need to think of what would bring a man down. He may have been immortal, and he may have been a vampire. Didn’t matter. This move didn’t discriminate.

  I kicked him in the groin.

  He groaned, hunched over, and fell over on the grass, body curled over his manhood.

  “Asshole,” I muttered, chest heaving as I climbed to my feet and kicked him over, then added a kick to the back of his ribs to encourage him, politely, to stay there.

  Two guards ran over, looked at me, then him.

  “Elisa Sullivan,” I said. “Maison Dumas.” Most vampires who weren’t Masters used only their first name. I’d gotten an exception since it wasn’t practical for a kid to have just one name.

  They nodded, confiscated the stake, and went about the business of handcuffing the vampire. I picked up the katana, wiped the blade against my pant leg, and dared a look at the field around me.

  Two of the other Saint-Germaine vampires were alive, both on their knees, hands behind their heads. I didn’t see the others, and unless they’d run away, which seemed unlikely, they’d probably been taken down by the Paris police or Eiffel Tower guards. Fallen into cones of ash due to a deadly encounter with aspen.

  Humans swarmed at the periphery of the park, where Paris police worked to set up a barrier.

  Some of the humans who’d survived the attack were helping the wounded. Others stood with wide eyes, shaking with shock and fear. And more yet had pulled out their screens to capture video of the fight. The entire world was probably watching, whether they wanted to see or not.

  I found Seri standing at the edge of the park, her eyes silver, her expression fierce and angry. She wasn’t a fighter, but she knew injustice when she saw it.

  I walked toward her, my right hip aching a bit from hitting the ground, and figured I’d passed my first field test.

  I suddenly wasn’t so sad to be leaving Paris.

  TWO

  Twenty-four hours later, I woke several thousand feet in the air, senses stirred by the whir of the automatic shutters. The jet’s windows had been covered while we slept, protecting us from burning to a crisp in the sunshine.

  Through the window, orange and white lights glowed like circuits against the long, dark stretch of Lake Michigan. And I could feel the monster inside me reaching out, stretching as if it could touch the familiar energy.

  The monster had a connection to Chicago—to the city and the sword that waited in the Cadogan House armory—that made it harder to control here. That was one of the reasons I’d gone to Paris, and one of the things I couldn’t explain to my father on the tarmac before I left.

  My heart began to beat faster as the monster’s magic rose, and I had to work to slow it down again, to stay in control. I breathed out through pursed lips, concentrating to send it back into darkness again.

  I can do this, I told myself.

  I wasn’t the same girl I’d been four years ago. I was returning with more strength and experience, and four more years of practice in holding it down, keeping it buried. Which is where I meant it to stay. I’d be here for only a few days, and then I’d be on my way back to Paris, far from its reach. I would manage it until then, because there was no other choice.

  Because I wouldn’t hurt anyone else, ever again.

  “Are you all right?”

  I glanced at Seri, unclenching my fingers from the armrest and giving her what smile I could manage. “Fine. A little groggy.”

  Her brows lifted, and the expression said she didn’t believe me. Seri was a Strong Psych, and had a sense about people, about emotions, about truth and fiction. And she’d almost certainly felt the magic.

  “Jet lag,” I said, which was mostly true. Vampirism and time-zone changes didn’t mix well for me even in the best of times. I’d spent most of my first week in Paris napping.

  She didn’t look entirely satisfied, but she nodded. “I’m glad we have only the reception tonight.” She smiled at the attendant, wiped her hands with the hot towel he offered. “I’m not ready to listen to hours of arguing.”

  “Me, either.” And I didn’t need to be a Strong Psych to know that no one on the plane was feeling especially optimistic. “But they’ll have wine or champagne or both. And we’ll only have to go back upstairs when the party’s over.”

  The opening reception would be held at the Portman Grand, one of Chicago’s poshest hotels—and our home for the next few days. I’d said no to Marion when she offered to let me stay at Cadogan House. There was nothing to be gained from baiting the monster.

  “You could still change your mind about the hotel,” Seri said. “Stay at Cadogan so you can see your parents more often.”

  I made myself smile at her. “I’ll be working. Diplomatic responsibilities, remember?”

  And a little more peace.
>
  * * *

  • • •

  We landed safely, and half the passengers applauded the pilot, which I always found weird. The flight crew had done exactly what they’d been hired to do—get us safely across the ocean. Would we have heckled the pilot if the plane had gone down?

  I unbuckled my seat belt and stood, then picked up my bag and katana. The scabbard was the marbled green of malachite, the handle corded with silk of the same color. The blade was pristine, the edge so thin and sharp that even Muramasa himself, one of the masters of Japanese sword making, would have approved. It had been a gift from my mother for my eighteenth birthday, the first sharpened sword I’d been allowed to wield. And I had learned to wield it—to unsheathe it, to defend with it, to attack with it.

  I was well trained, and I’d been in skirmishes before. But I’d never killed with it. I hadn’t seen violent death at all until the Eiffel Tower incident. Before then, I hadn’t seen empty and staring eyes—the visible proof of how quickly and ruthlessly life could be stolen. And I had a very bad feeling those memories wouldn’t fade as quickly.

  The vampire seated in front of us rose and stretched, startling me from the memory.

  He glanced around the plane, smiled in our direction. He was tall and lean, with taut, pale skin. His hair was silvery gray, his eyes pale blue and deep-set, topped by darker brows.

  “Ladies,” he said in accented English. “Did you enjoy your flight? It is better than flying across the Atlantic on the wings of the bat, no?” His smile was halfway between smarmy and silly.

  His name was Victor, and he was of the high-ranking vampires from Maison Chevalier, another House in Paris. Unlike Marion, who liked to think and consider, Victor was a politician all the way through. Strategic, as all vampires were, and skilled at getting his way. But he was honest about it, and seemed to always be smiling, so it was hard not to like him.