Wild Hunger (An Heirs of Chicagoland Novel)

by Chloe Neill

  With a yellow pencil, she drew another waving line across the unpainted portion of the wall. “Thanks, but I don’t need any more coffee, Berna,” she said without looking back.

  “Good,” I said. “Because I didn’t bring any.”

  Lulu glanced back, hair falling over her right eye. Her skin was pale, her eyes pale green in a heart-shaped face. Her lips were a perfect cupid’s bow, and there was stubbornness in the set of her chin.

  For a second she just stared at me, as if trying to reconcile the fact that I wasn’t Berna. And then her scream cut through the air like a knife. She dropped the pencil, ran toward me, and jumped into my arms.

  “Lis! You’re here!” she said, wrapping her legs around my waist like a toddler.

  I put my arms beneath her and tried to keep both of us upright. “You might be tiny,” I grunted, “but you’re way too heavy for this.”

  Even this close, I couldn’t detect a hint of the magic I knew she carried as the daughter of two powerful sorcerers. Her parents had embraced their magic; Lulu was a teetotaler. I wondered if the apparent absence of it meant she’d lost her skill completely—or she’d just gotten better at hiding it.

  “You’re a vampire. You can handle it.” She pressed a kiss to my cheek, then unfolded her legs and hit the ground again. “Let me look at you.”

  Before I could argue, she took a step back, gave me an up-and-down appraisal. “Your hair’s long.”

  She’d come to Paris to see me a couple of years ago, but our communications had been mostly electronic since then.

  “Yeah. It’s better that way.”

  “So much. You trying for the Sabrina thing?” she asked with a grin. “The one with Audrey Hepburn? Full of newfound sexiness and charm?”

  I gave her an arched eyebrow worthy of my father. “You’re saying I wasn’t sexy or charming before?”

  “You didn’t believe you were sexy, and you can’t convince anyone else of something you don’t believe.”

  “You’re really good at backhanded compliments.”

  She patted my cheek. “Honesty is an undervalued commodity in this day and age, Lis. If people were a little more honest, the world would turn a hell of a lot smoother.”

  I didn’t think this was the time to bring up her hidden magic, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Anyway, it looks like Paris did you some good. And I’m glad to see you.”

  “I’m glad to see you, too.”

  Then she held out a hand.

  I looked down at it, then up at her. “What?”

  “Where’s my souvenir?”

  Damn it. I should have gone with the airport macarons. “Still in Paris?”

  She made a noise of exaggerated frustration. “You owe me a drink for that.” She pointed at me with a paint-smeared finger. “And colcannon.”

  Lulu had discovered colcannon at Temple Bar, the official Cadogan House watering hole. It also served Irish pub food, including the mashed potato–cabbage combination I didn’t understand.

  My lip curled involuntarily. “Colcannon is disgusting, and I’m not buying it. But I’ll buy you a Guinness.”

  “Deal.”

  “This looks amazing,” I said, hoping to change the subject from cabbage, and gestured at the mural.

  She walked closer, flicked at a smudge. “It’s not bad. Still a lot of work to go, but it’s not bad. You want to help?”

  “You know I can’t draw my way out of a paper bag.”

  “I know. I was kidding. I love you, but I don’t want you touching this.”

  I took a step closer, tilted my head at the four women, whose skin tones ranged from milky white to dark brown. Their limbs—some bent and some outstretched—flowed together like they were reaching for each other.

  “What’s the story?”

  Lulu picked up the discarded pencil. “What do you think it is?”

  Analyzing art wasn’t my thing. But I stepped up, took a swing, and gestured to the woman on the far left. “Maybe something about women sharing their knowledge, their experiences?” I pointed to a swath of golden paint. “And how that helps them grow, enriches their communities.”

  She grinned. “That’s not bad, Sullivan. Dead wrong, but not bad.”

  I was more disappointed than I should have been. “Then what is it?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Sexy hotness. The Pack wanted naked ladies, so I gave them naked ladies. Gorgeous, curvy, mostly naked ladies in a rainbow of shades and textures, and not a nipple in sight.”

  “Because a woman has to draw a damn line.”

  “Damn straight,” she said, and made a small adjustment to one of the new lines. “They argued about this building, the plans, the design, for nearly a year before they finally broke ground. Ended up having to build the bar first, the rest of the building over it. It was a whole thing.”

  “Drama or not, it turned out pretty well.”

  “Yeah, it did.” Lip between her teeth, she made another adjustment. “How was the shindig?”

  “The reception was weird,” I said, thinking of Ruadan. “I took some video to show Seri. We can watch it when you have time. The talks were a mess. The fairies interrupted, and it was a whole thing.”

  She glanced back. “The fairies? Interesting.”

  “They threw a fit about not being included, and then they were included, and vampires were still vampires.”

  “So, arrogance and arguing?”

  “Pretty much. How’s the family?” I asked carefully.

  Lulu’s mother, Mallory, had taken an evil turn before we’d been born. She’d gotten addicted to dark magic and wreaked her own havoc on Chicago. If my parents were seen as the saviors of Chicago, Lulu’s mom was the sorceress who’d tried to bring it down. That she’d later helped save the city apparently wasn’t nearly as sexy a memory, and people seemed to have forgotten it.

  Lulu had her own guilt about what her mother had done, and it hadn’t helped that she’d been teased and bullied by humans as a kid. They’d called her mother the devil or worse, and Lulu had wanted nothing more than distance from the magical.

  “Dad is still bitching about ‘all the weirdos,’” she said, “which makes me wonder why he agreed to move to Portland in the first place. Probably at least in part so he’d have something to bitch about. Mom’s one hundred percent in her element. She’s teaching classes, hosting ‘Magic-Ins’ for Wiccans. I think it was a good change for them. She’d wanted to start over. Even years after, she felt like she couldn’t move on in Chicago.”

  I nodded. “Since I’ve been in Paris for four years, I can’t really argue with that.”

  She snorted a laugh, glanced back at me. “For two people with pretty good childhoods, we’re pretty screwed up about it.”

  I couldn’t argue with that, either.

  “How’s the Mayor of Vampireville?” she asked.

  That’s what she called my father. “Diplomatic, as always. And Mom’s good, although I think she misses yours.”

  “BFFs,” she said with a shrug, as if that explained everything. “You been to the House yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Diplomatic responsibilities. I’m going over there tonight for the Cadogan House party.” And I declined the monster’s invitation to dwell on that a little.

  “Oh, right. I got an invite to that.” She grimaced. “I wasn’t going to go. That cool with you? You like people a lot more than me, anyway.”

  I smiled. “Your call. I’d love to wine and dine you on my parents’ dime, but it’s going to be fancy, and it’s going to be vampires.”

  “You had me at ‘wining and dining,’ but lost me at ‘fancy.’” She bobbed her head toward the mural. “The Pack wants this done by the end of next week, so I think I’m going to put in a late night. Speaking of which, have you said hi to Connor yet?”
<
br />   “I saw him at the reception. Looked older, acted pretty much the same.” And my dry tone should have indicated I wasn’t impressed with that.

  “You punch him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. He’s coming around, you know.”

  I gave her a dour look.

  “What? He’s had four years to mature. And has to mature if he wants the Pack.”

  “There’s a joke in there about animals being in charge, but I’m going to rise above it. I would like to talk to him, though.” I hadn’t planned on it, but since I was here, I wouldn’t mind getting his take on the fairies. “Do you know if he’s around?”

  “I don’t. But you can look.” She used the brush, gestured to a door on the opposite side of the room. “If he’s in the building, he’s in the bar or the garage. Through that door.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll check my schedule,” she said, “have my people call your people.” Then she turned back to her mural. “And Lis?” she called out, when I was halfway to the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful in there. It is a den of wolves, after all.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The bar portion of Little Red had been a dive, with dirty linoleum, gritty walls, and sticky, mismatched tables. The new version worked very hard to pull off the same level of comfortable grunge. And did a pretty good job of it.

  The room was big, with concrete floors and brick walls. There was a stage on one end, an empty space in the floor for dancing or fighting, and a lot of mismatched tables and chairs.

  The shifters watched as I walked through, eyes turning to me. Low growls and grunts mixed with the magic in the air.

  They shouldn’t have minded having a vampire in their territory, much less one who’d been raised with their crown prince. But none of these shifters looked familiar. Maybe the Pack had been recruiting.

  “I’m looking for Connor,” I said, and waited for someone to acknowledge me.

  Two of them, big men with broad shoulders and leather jackets—like walking shifter stereotypes—rose and walked toward me. “Why you want him?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “We don’t like vampires in our place.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But this is a public place, so I can’t help you.”

  One of them growled, began flexing his fingers. The other cracked his neck.

  I figured they were bluffing—even if they didn’t know who I was, surely they were smart enough not to start a fight with a random vampire—but I wasn’t entirely certain. I was certain that shifters didn’t much care for sups who cowered, so I amped up the bravado.

  “I didn’t come here looking for trouble,” I said. “But I had to pass up a fight earlier, and I’d be happy to take one on now.”

  A woman walked into the bar, from a door on the other side. I guessed she was about my age. Light brown skin and a scattering of freckles across her nose. Dark eyes topped by thick lashes and brows, and a generous mouth. Her hair was a dark cap of soft, loose waves. She was petite, noticeably smaller than most of the men in the room, but her body was athletic, strong. She wore jeans and a tank top, a bundle of thin necklaces shimmering around her neck. And plenty of magic buzzed around her.

  “Who’s this, Jax?” she asked, striding toward us.

  Her energy was different from that of the other shifters in the room. The vibration faster, like someone had plucked a different string on a violin.

  “Vampire,” Jax said.

  “Vampire,” she said, looking me over. “Elisa Sullivan. I recognize your face.”

  “I don’t recognize yours.”

  “Miranda. North American Central Pack. I work for Gabriel. You don’t.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m here to see Connor.”

  Emotion flashed across her face, but she hid it away again before I could guess what it meant. “Why?”

  “For reasons I’d like to discuss with him.”

  She took a step forward, and the fingers on my arm tightened. “You aren’t in charge here.”

  “I didn’t suggest otherwise. But I doubt you are, either. Do you want to tell Connor I’m here, or should we just start fighting and I can apologize to him later?”

  I might have needed the bravado to get past the shifters, but beyond that, I really didn’t like bullies. Standing up to them was one of my particular joys.

  “Vampires don’t own Chicago,” Miranda said. “You can’t just waltz into our place, expect to take control.”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at each of them. “Seems like this place could use a vampire. Maybe a class on etiquette and manners?”

  “Bitch.”

  “Vampire,” I reminded her. “So, yeah.”

  “What the hell’s going on in here?”

  I knew it was Connor before I turned around. Not just from the sound of his voice, but from the aura of scent and magic that sliced through the air and left behind a charge of its own.

  It commanded.

  It was impressive. And another surprising change for the prince of wolves.

  I glanced back. Betraying nothing, Connor met my gaze. “A little out of your territory, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I’m here to see Lulu, and while I was here, I had a few questions for you. You want to explain why these guys attempted to manhandle me?”

  Connor’s expression didn’t change. “Attempted?”

  I smiled slyly. “I’m better than I was.”

  “She was sniffing around,” said the taller one, stepping forward beside me.

  “I’m not a dog,” I said with a brittle smile, my gaze on Connor. “I don’t sniff.”

  “So you’re just here to cause trouble, dead girl?”

  The challenge in his eyes was marked by a glint of humor, and I guessed the performance wasn’t for me, but for the shifters around us. No problem. I knew my part.

  “I’m not dead.”

  “You sure about that?” He took a step closer. “You seem pretty frosty to me.”

  “Frosty” was one of the adjectives the media had liked to use about vampires generally, and about me specifically. I was pale and blond and careful, not the wild child they expected of young supernaturals. Like Connor Keene.

  The shifters snickered, and I let my eyes silver, took a step forward that had them reaching for weapons to protect the crown prince.

  I looked around the room, counted. “I mean, ten-to-one odds aren’t great, but I’m willing to slow things down, give you a fighting chance.”

  Connor stepped forward, took my arm just above the elbow. And before I could argue, pulled me through the room to a door at the other end, then looked back at the shifters. “You hear any screaming, ignore it.”

  Then he shut the door.

  SEVEN

  We stood in a garage with flecked gray floors and towering ceilings, the walls covered in ancient Triumph and Harley signs. A muscle car was parked in one corner, and several motorcycles were parked here and there, including a beast of a low bike in matte black and gray.

  I gestured to the closed door. “What was that all about?”

  “A little performance for Miranda. She’s one of the gunners.”

  “For your dad’s spot?” Being the son of the Apex made Connor the most likely candidate to lead the pack when Gabriel decided to turn over the reins, but it didn’t guarantee him the position. Still, I hadn’t given much thought to his competitors.

  Connor nodded. “She likes to throw her weight around. She’s a mountain lion, comes from a family that’s opposed to the mixing of the species.”

  That explained the unusual magic. “She is not charming.”

  “They lived alone for a very long time. Miranda and her bro
thers are the first to live in Chicago, participate in Pack activities.”

  “And how do you feel about having competition?”

  “The Pack will do what the Pack will do.” He crossed his arms. “Sounds like nonsense, but it’s the truth. Doesn’t matter how strong, smart, brave, capable an alpha is. What matters is what the Pack says. Miranda and those like her are looking to prove themselves, and there are others who want to befriend the potentials with wine, women, and song. That’s the Pack way. Part hazing, part ass-kissing, part the promise of things to come.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “I love women and song, but not when they feel obliged, or when they’re trying to prove a point, or when they’re trying to make a score. I don’t play that way.” He gestured to the matte black bike on the other side of the garage. “You mind? I’m trying to finish the carburetor.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, walking closer. “She’s gorgeous.”

  I hadn’t been a motorcycle person, had only ridden a couple of times with Riley, and he’d tried to terrify me on both trips. But there was no mistaking the appeal of this one. It looked powerful. Intense. Dangerous. It was a shadow, made for a man who could walk in darkness as easily as he could in light.

  “It’s Thelma,” Connor said behind me.

  “No way,” I said, and squinted at her. Thelma had been his sixteenth-birthday present—a pile of rusted Harley bones spread on a blue tarp. And he’d been thrilled.

  “Way,” he said with a Valley Girl accent. “I’ve been working on her for the past four years.”

  “You’ve been busy.” I ran the tips of my fingers over the quilted black seat, the leather as buttery as leather could be. “Looks like she’s nearly done.”

  “I’m close,” he said, and glanced up at me. “What brings you by?”

  I sat down on a nearby chrome stool with a padded red leather top. Connor picked up a hunk of metal from the counter along the wall, began to work its fittings with a cloth.