Wild Hunger (An Heirs of Chicagoland Novel)

by Chloe Neill

  “Elisa, you are dear to me, and while I would be happy to have your company this evening, this is the first time you’ve been home in years.” She put a hand on my arm. “You should take this opportunity to visit friends and family. I’m sure they have missed you.”

  “I’m working,” I reminded her. “I’m your escort.”

  “Odette will be with me.” She glanced around. “Besides, we are at your parents’ home, surrounded by allies and guards. The talks proceeded without violence, if with a bit more drama than I’d have appreciated, and there’s no reason to think there will be violence here tonight. Even if there was, there are plenty here to assist.” She squeezed the hand already on my arm. “There is no need to be concerned.”

  “You’re sure?” I didn’t mind a good party, but I didn’t want to shirk my duties.

  “I am sure. I spoke with Marion, as well, and we agreed you should be able to visit with your loved ones.”

  “All right,” I said, figuring I’d do both. I could enjoy the party, but stay within sight of Seri and Marion in case I needed to intervene. And she was right: The guards and vampires here were more than capable.

  “In that case, I’ll see you later.”

  And I walked toward Cadogan House to face the monster again.

  EIGHT

  It had been four years, but Cadogan House smelled exactly the same: like wood polish and fresh flowers, the scent from the enormous vase of wildflowers on the pedestal table in the foyer. There were parlors off to each side, a curving oak staircase that led to the first floor, and a long, central hallway that led to the cafeteria and offices.

  I walked to the pedestal table, let fingers trail across slick and smooth wood. And the memory crept into view like a photograph.

  I’d been sixteen, coming downstairs to the foyer to wait for Lulu; she was going to sleep over.

  I’d found Connor slouched on a wooden bench—back against the wall and long legs stretched out in front of him. He wore snug jeans and a T-shirt beneath a black moto-style jacket. His arms had been crossed over his chest and his eyes were closed, so a fan of dark lashes brushed his cheeks. His hair had been longer than it was now—thick, dark locks that brushed his shoulders—and his lips had been curved in a smile.

  He’d looked, I’d thought, like a very wicked and happy angel.

  “What’s up, brat?” he’d asked, without opening his eyes.

  “Do you call all vampires ‘brat’ these days?” I’d asked, walking closer.

  “I can smell your perfume.”

  I’d blinked. I’d worn the same fragrance for years—a pale pink liquid in a square bottle that smelled like spring flowers—but I’d never have thought he’d noticed.

  “Wolf,” he’d said, opening his eyes drowsily. “Predatory sense of smell.”

  “So you say. Making yourself at home?” I’d asked, nudging the toe of his boot.

  “The Pack’s an ally,” he’d said. “Aren’t we supposed to make ourselves at home?”

  “You want a drink and a snack plate, too? Maybe a blanket?”

  “Sure,” he’d said with a grin, sitting upright and clasping his hands between his knees. “You going to get that for me?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  He’d actually clucked his tongue. “That’s poor vampire hospitality. And before you can interrogate me, Mini Sentinel, my dad’s talking to yours. I’m waiting.”

  “Not interested enough in the Pack to join in?”

  That had hit the mark, and something flashed in his eyes. But before he could answer, the front door had opened and Lulu had walked inside.

  “What’s up, other brat?”

  “What’s up, Labradoodle?” She dropped her bag on the floor with a resounding thud.

  Connor had hated that name, which is exactly why Lulu used it. But his expression stayed the same—lazily confident.

  “What will you two maniacs be doing tonight? Alphabetizing the books in the library?”

  “At least we know how to alphabetize.”

  Gabriel had walked into the foyer, smiled when he’d seen us. Connor sat up straight, which had had me biting back a grin. “Elisa. Lulu.”

  I’d offered a wave. “Hey, Mr. Keene.”

  He’d given me a wink, then looked at this son. “Let’s go, Con.”

  Connor had risen from the bench, offering us a salute as he’d followed his father outside again.

  “At least you get ‘brat,’” Lulu had said when the door closed again. “You’re the original. I’m the other.”

  She walked to one of the windows that flanked the door, watched the pair walk down the sidewalk. “It’s a damn shame he’s such a punk. Because he would be stupid hot if it wasn’t for the attitude.”

  “Maybe,” I’d said. That Connor Keene was gorgeous was undeniable. “But he’ll always be a punk.”

  Seven years later, I ran my fingers along the table, then headed for the staircase that led to the third floor.

  He was still hot. And maybe, surprisingly, a little less of a punk.

  * * *

  • • •

  The apartments—our home within Cadogan House—opened into a pretty sitting room. My parents’ bedroom was to the left. To the right was the smaller suite they’d created for me: a bedroom, bathroom, and closet I’d learned later had been carved out of the House’s “consort” suite. TMI, but there you go.

  I walked toward my bedroom, wondered if it would feel the same to be surrounded with stuff from another part of my life, or if everything would feel distant, strange.

  There was nothing pink, no photographs under the mirror, no freeze-dried roses or trophies. Striped bedspread, matching lamps on the nightstand, and a desk with everything arranged just so, which is how I’d liked it. A small table held the turntable I’d saved my allowance to buy, the vinyl organized alphabetically beneath it.

  A bookshelf held a few books and a lot of coffee mugs from my favorite spots in Chicago. There were mementos, but they were organized in the scrapbooks on the second shelf. Plenty of photos of Lulu in those, occasional shots of Connor. Family trips to amusement parks and cities with enough nightlife to give us something to do when the sun was down.

  I walked back into the sitting room. And that’s when I felt it.

  The katana, pulsing with magic, was only a few yards away.

  I knew it would be in the House, had hoped the fact that I hadn’t sensed it the moment I’d walked in the door meant the calm I’d managed at the hotel was giving me the cushion I’d needed. But just like that first step into Chicago, I’d guessed wrong again. I was susceptible. Vulnerable.

  And I didn’t like being either.

  I moved closer, walking toward my parents’ bedroom, and the magic pounded harder, so it felt like concert-worthy bass rattling the floor to a song I couldn’t hear. But everything was still—the frames on the wall, the vase of flowers on the table, the inkwell on the secretary in the corner.

  I stepped over the threshold. The walls here were pale blue, the wood dark brown, the accents white and silver.

  The package of red brocade silk lay on my parents’ bed, a shock of color across a crisply white duvet. It was tied with a braided and tasseled ivory silk cord, and it was close enough to touch.

  My mother had taken the sword out of the armory again. Probably because of the fairies’ interruption, and just in case she needed to protect the House. She wasn’t wearing it tonight; the rest of the guards would be protecting the House, and I was part of the Dumas contingent. And she had diplomatic responsibilities.

  Magic throbbed in my chest, pulsing like a foreign heartbeat.

  I moved into the bedroom, untied the cord, and unwrapped the fabric, revealing the gleaming red scabbard.

  Visually, it looked exactly like what it was—a sheathed katana. There was nothing esp
ecially unusual about the lacquer or the cord around the handle, and I knew the blade would look well crafted and lethally sharp.

  It was the magic that mattered, the power bound to the sword, and the trace of it that had bound itself inside me.

  I was here, alone with it. If there would be a reckoning, this was the time. So I squeezed my hands into fists, closed my eyes, and relaxed the mental barriers I’d erected against the magic’s cries.

  They called to each other. Not because they wanted to be bound together inside me or inside the sword, but because they wanted to be free so they could spread their anger around the city.

  “Not going to happen,” I gritted out.

  Its reaction was instant and painful. The monster lashed out, fury flashing across my skin like fire, hot enough to singe.

  I stumbled backward, reaching out to the wall behind me to steady myself, green silk pooling around me, my heartbeat racing as magic tried to fight back. I swallowed hard and bore down, then stood up again. “You aren’t in charge,” I said, and took a step forward.

  Anger spread again, and I breathed through pursed lips to deal with it, but tears still sprang to my eyes.

  “You don’t own me,” I said, taking another step forward and staring down at the inert metal. “And you never will. So do us both a favor and give up the fight.”

  I’d come to say my piece, and I’d said it. It took the rest of my strength to wrap the scabbard in silk again, to knot the cords, to straighten the blanket beneath the package. That seemed important somehow, that the blanket was straight.

  I stepped back, the tightness in my chest easing up as I put distance between myself and the sword. But I could feel the pulse beneath my ribs, the refusal to give up.

  I’d won this battle. But the war would continue, and we’d all see who won.

  * * *

  • • •

  In the bathroom attached to my bedroom, I pressed a damp cloth against my neck until my heart had slowed and my eyes faded to green again. Until I felt like Elisa.

  Then I tossed the towel into the laundry and walked out of the room, giving the apartment one last look before I closed the door. The monster hadn’t bothered me as a child, not until I’d been old enough—or it had been old enough—to reach for my attention. That wasn’t true anymore.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to do when my service for Maison Dumas was complete. I’d thought about it, and had nearly nine months to keep thinking about it. But one thing seemed certain.

  I couldn’t live in Cadogan House.

  Not while the magic lived here, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  My father’s office was as elegant as the rest of his House. It held the carefully curated souvenirs of his life amid the pretty furniture: a desk, a conversation area with armchairs, and a long conference table where he could hash out issues with his staff.

  He sat at his desk, frowning at something on the sleek glass screen perched there. He wore a black tuxedo, perfectly fitted, his hair tied back at his nape.

  “Burning the midnight oil?”

  He smiled but kept his gaze on the screen. “Just finishing up a project,” he said, then swiped a finger against the glass and looked up at me. “And don’t you look lovely?”

  He rose, came over, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “My smart and kind and beautiful girl.”

  He liked to say that, had been saying it for years, and had always put “beautiful” last. Whether it was true or not, he’d tell me it was the least important of the three. “You are smart,” he’d say. “You should be kind. And if you are, you’ll always be beautiful.”

  “Thank you. The House looks great. Luc did a very nice job getting things ready.”

  Luc had been Captain of the House’s guards, and he’d been promoted when Malik became Master of his own House. Kelley had taken over for Luc.

  My father grinned. “He has an unusually good hand with decorations. And Kelley has done an excellent job in his stead on security.”

  “Do you think there’ll be trouble tonight?”

  “I don’t know. The Ombudsman’s office doesn’t believe so.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  A sly look crossed his face. “I believe the issue is in their hands, and I trust them to handle the investigation. And in the meantime, we have guards posted in and around the House.”

  “So I saw.” I looked around the room, at the mementos he’d chosen to keep in sight. A few stood on glossy white floating shelves under glass covers. “Do you ever miss it?”

  “Miss what?” he asked.

  “The adventures.”

  He smiled, tucked his hands into his pockets. “They didn’t always feel like adventures. More often, they were terrifying or constraining or infuriating. It is hard to be an enemy, Elisa. It wears.”

  “And you’re less of an enemy now?”

  “It would be more accurate to say we don’t involve ourselves in situations in which we could cause harm—even collaterally—to the city. And, more important, we found a different kind of adventure.” He smiled at me. “But no less terrifying . . . or infuriating.”

  “Is this your segue into the trials and tribulations of parenthood?”

  He raised a golden eyebrow, my dad’s signature move. He’d scared off a couple of human boyfriends with that one. “Fewer trials than tribulations, but yes. We wanted to be parents, and we wanted to keep you safe. We tried to do that.”

  He looked at me, considering. “Have you given any thought to what you’d like to do after Paris?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I promised.

  “The House is always hiring,” he said with a knowing smile. “And you have an in with the Master.”

  “No nepotism. We’ve talked about that. I earn my way or I don’t.”

  He walked toward me, took my hand. “I didn’t think I could be prouder of you, and then I saw you fighting at the Eiffel Tower for someone who wasn’t able. That’s who you are, Elisa. You just need to figure out what you’d like to do with it.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  We looked back and found Malik Washington in the doorway, wearing an impeccable navy suit, a gingham square tucked into the pocket. His skin was dark, his head shaved, his eyes pale green.

  “Uncle Malik!”

  We strode to each other, met in the middle.

  “Congratulations on the House!” I said as we embraced. “And sorry I couldn’t make it to the reception.”

  He smiled. “Thank you. We appreciated the card and the macarons. They were truly excellent.”

  At least I’d gotten that present right. “Paris is very good at macarons. How’s life as a Master?”

  “There is, somehow, more paperwork. Vampires and bureaucracy are strange bedfellows.”

  “So Dad always said. How’s Aunt Aaliyah?”

  “She’s good. On a deadline.”

  “She always is,” I said with a smile, which he returned.

  “She sends her best, and hopes we can get together before you leave again.”

  “That would be great, if you can keep the fairies and vampires in line.”

  “We’ll do our best,” he said earnestly. “How are you? How is Paris?”

  “I’m good, and Paris is great.” I pointed to the ceiling. “It’s been a while since I was upstairs, so I gave the apartments a walk-through.”

  “That must be a very strange feeling, to walk through your childhood room.”

  “It was . . . odd,” was all I’d admit to.

  * * *

  • • •

  Since I’d faced down my old monsters, it was time to go watch the new ones. Leaving my father and Uncle Malik to talk, and leaving my katana in his office for safekeeping, I took the House’s main hallway through the c
afeteria—which was empty, given the spread on the lawn—and out onto the brick patio that stretched in a half moon along the back of the House.

  Urns of white flowers scented the air, and while there was an abundance of magic along with it, the mix stifled the thrumming of my mother’s sword, so I wasn’t about to complain.

  Vampires and other supernaturals strolled in the grass and near the long buffet tables set up a few dozen yards away near an oak tree whose branches nearly skimmed the ground.

  I found Seri and Marion speaking with Scott Grey and Morgan Greer, Chicago’s other two Masters, who laughed as they watched the screen Scott held out.

  Probably puppy videos. Even vampires liked puppy videos.

  Having confirmed they were safe and sound, I looked for the waiter with the champagne I’d seen earlier. I’d earned a little relaxation.

  And I turned to face down a wolf, albeit one in human clothes.

  Connor stood behind me in a black tux that enhanced every bit of hard and sleek muscle and seemed to make his blue eyes glow. One dark lock curled across his forehead, and a day’s growth of stubble darkened his jaw. He looked, somehow, even more dangerous. Even more wicked.

  That probably suited his escort just fine. Tabby stood beside him, gorgeous again tonight in a gold sequin dress with a deep V-neck and long sleeves that reflected sparks of light across her amazing face and carved cheekbones.

  “Hello,” Connor said.

  “Hello.” I shifted my gaze to his girlfriend. “And hello.”

  “Brat, this is Tabby.”

  “Hey,” Tabby said, fingers tangling in a lock of Connor’s hair in a way that looked more irritating than seductive. And the expression on her face was one of absolute boredom.

  “It’s nice to meet you. Your magic at the reception was impressive.”

  “Just part of what we do.” She dropped her hand, propped it on her hip. “I want something to drink. You?” she asked, glancing at Connor.