Wild Hunger (An Heirs of Chicagoland Novel)

by Chloe Neill

  Since I made it back to the hotel with less than an hour to go before sunrise, I left a message for Seri, confirming I’d give her and Marion an update at dusk.

  I also got Lulu’s voice mail, so I also made a promise to her to give an update tomorrow.

  Once in my room, I stripped off my clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, and fell face-first onto the bed. And then tried to figure out how to get around the deal my father had made.

  I didn’t have any reason to doubt what I’d seen—Riley holding a knife over Tomas’s body—except for the ten years I’d known Riley and every instinct in my body. He wasn’t a killer. Either he’d happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or someone had made sure he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  The Ombudsman was looking for proof that he was guilty.

  I was going to find proof that he was innocent.

  ELEVEN

  I dreamed of knives, of spinning blades that sliced tiny nicks in my skin, until every inch of my body felt like it was on fire.

  I woke in a sweat, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and tried to slow my breathing.

  I was also starving, so I walked to the mini fridge to check out my options. Booze, soda, fruit juice. Four bottles of Blood4You, the old-school bottled blood my parents preferred. Four bottles of Hemo, my favorite. I thought Blood4You tasted like plastic, and the flavored varieties tasted like plastic plus imitations of actual food. I preferred the unadulterated variety, probably because I’d been drinking blood since birth. My parents had scared plenty of humans by handing me bottles of pink milk during evening walks—when the humans got past wondering why a baby was out of the house at midnight.

  I grabbed a bottle of Hemo, flipped the cap, and drank the entire bottle in seconds. Then I grabbed another and did the same. After three, I finally began to feel level again.

  I’d gotten sleep and nourishment, so it was time to get on with my evening—and figuring out a way to help Riley. I wanted to see what the humans were saying, so I plugged my screen into the hotel’s monitor and selected the twenty-four-hour news station.

  A panel of humans speculated about Riley’s motives. They stopped short of calling him a murderer, probably not because they believed him, but because they didn’t want to get sued. They called him a suspect, and I could all but hear the air quotes around the word. The photographs they’d picked just helped their narrative. They emphasized how large he was, how strong, how other. Not delicately handsome, but a hulk. A thug of a man. A man who obviously could have killed.

  They didn’t know Riley and didn’t care to. That it was totally out of character for him to hurt anyone wouldn’t have made a good story. Kindness wasn’t thrilling.

  But until there was evidence the Ombudsman would believe—that all of us could believe—nothing was going to change. And in the meantime, the real murderer was still out there with a motive we didn’t understand.

  Before I could turn it off, the image switched to a photo of Connor and Tabby arriving at the party, then shots of couples talking—Connor and me, then me and Dane, then Seri and Dane. They were stacked above a headline that read, “Love before Violence?”

  I rolled my eyes. Never mind that Connor and Tabby were the only ones actually dating, and the rest of us had just been chatting. Casual conversation at a party also apparently wasn’t thrilling enough.

  Irritation layered over the impotence and frustration I already felt about not being able to help Riley.

  But by the time I emerged from the shower, an idea had begun to blossom. A way that I could avoid breaching the mayor’s deal with Cadogan House so I could do some investigating, and my parents wouldn’t get tagged for it.

  Yes, I was Ethan and Merit’s daughter, and I’d lived in Cadogan for most of my life. But I wasn’t officially a Cadogan vampire. I’d been born into the House, so I hadn’t been officially Commended into it—the process through which Initiate vampires became Novitiates. I was technically a Rogue, a vampire unaffiliated with any particular House.

  If I wasn’t a Cadogan vampire, any deal with Cadogan House didn’t affect me.

  Was it a technicality? Maybe. But Riley was worth the argument.

  I got dressed, opting for jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved, flowy black top, and pulled my hair into a knot that I hoped made me look moderately professional. I had a report to give, and plenty of questions to ask.

  And if my parents and the Ombudsman learned what I was doing, plenty of explaining to do.

  I rose, walked to the door. It was time to do my part.

  * * *

  • • •

  Two human guards stood outside Seri’s hotel room. They wore head-to-toe black and eyed me suspiciously as I walked closer.

  “Elisa Sullivan to see Seraphine and Marion,” I said, and pulled out my identification.

  They looked at it, then me, then the ID again, just as they’d been instructed to do.

  Good. I liked it when people followed instructions.

  “Ma’am,” one of them said, then unlocked and opened the door.

  The suite was full of vampires and heavy magic. Seri saw me first, rushed over. She wore jeans and a striped top, her feet in red ballet flats and her hair in a messy knot that somehow managed to look fashionable.

  As she pressed kisses to each cheek, I could feel the frizzle of her nervous magic. “You are all right, Lis?”

  I nodded. “I’m fine. How are things here?”

  “They are . . . concerned,” she said quietly, sliding her gaze back to Marion and the others. They sat on couches near the large windows, talking quietly as they looked over the dark city.

  “Yesterday didn’t turn out the way any of us had planned.”

  “No, it did not.”

  Marion glanced back and rose, walking toward us with the other vampires in her wake.

  “Developments?” she asked.

  “I haven’t yet spoken to my father this evening. I wanted to speak with you first. We’re anticipating the Ombudsman’s office is going to be difficult to deal with,” I said, and explained what we’d heard last night from Dearborn, and how prickly we expected him to be.

  “Riley wouldn’t have killed Tomas,” I said, giving the words as much confidence as I could, and meeting their gazes as I said it.

  Marion tilted her head. “He was found with the murder weapon.”

  I had a feeling I was going to be having this same conversation a lot in the near future.

  “He was,” I agreed. “And he’d had a public altercation with Tomas at the party, which was after Tomas insulted shifters at the talks. But Riley wouldn’t have cared about any of that, and even if he’d been irritated, he wouldn’t have killed over it. Yes, his past is checkered. But I know him, and I’ve known him for a very long time. This isn’t his way.”

  “If you believe Riley is innocent, who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet.”

  I wasn’t sure how much to tell them, but decided my loyalties to Maison Dumas were at least as strong as those to Riley, if not stronger. So I told them about the missing video footage, the killer’s escape route, and the possibility magic had been used to skew Riley’s memory.

  “You think he was influenced?” Marion asked, gaze clear.

  “I think there was magic in the area of Tomas’s death,” I said carefully. “I think someone killed Tomas, and Riley made the perfect fall guy.”

  “Why kill Tomas?” she asked.

  “I don’t know that, either. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that there are no talks today, that the session was canceled.”

  “You believe someone wanted to disrupt the entire peace process,” Marion said.

  “That’s the only link we know of at the moment.”

  “The fae interrupted the session yesterday,” Marion said. “
Were they were involved in the murder?”

  “There’s no evidence of that so far,” I said. “There were fairies at the party, but they didn’t cause any trouble that I know of.”

  “I had the same thought,” Marion said, nodding as Odette handed her a cup of tea. “Thank you, ma chère.” Marion took a heartening sip, then set the cup down in its matching saucer. “And how can we assist in helping your friend?”

  The question nearly brought tears to my eyes, and reminded me once again why I’d felt such a connection to Dumas.

  “You could give me time,” I said. “I realize I’m here on behalf of Maison Dumas, but I’d like your permission to look into this, to try to find out what happened. Not just for Riley, but because the killer is still out there—and willing to kill—in order to get what they want. That makes them dangerous to all of us, including your house.”

  Marion sipped again, considered. “You have my permission to make inquiries,” she said, then grinned. “And how, pray tell, do you plan to get around Cadogan’s arrangement with the city?”

  I smiled back. “I’m still working on that one.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The Ombudsman’s office was located in the abandoned brick factory that also housed Cook County’s supernatural prisoners. The factory’s offices had been renovated, and a second building had been converted into a space for supernatural mediations and educational events. That had been my great-grandfather’s doing: adding a learning component to the office’s mission. The city’s politicians had, for once, done some long-term thinking and agreed with him.

  The property was fenced, but the gate was open, the entrance edged with shrubs and a sign bearing the office’s logo. That was also part of the deal my great-grandfather had made for rehabbing the factory. He’d agree to move his HQ from the South Side neighborhood he’d worked in before, but the gate had to stay open, the offices had to be inviting, because he’d wanted humans and supernaturals to feel comfortable visiting here. Now it looked more like a campus than an industrial relic.

  I walked to the admin building, waved at the guard who sat near the entrance. Clarence Pettiway had guarded the office since I’d been old enough to visit, and always had a book in hand.

  This time he looked up from a faded paperback and lifted a hand in a wave. His dark skin was liberally wrinkled, but his eyes were still sharp.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Elisa Sullivan. Although not so little now.”

  “Mr. Pettiway, it’s good to see you.” I gestured to the book. “What’s in the queue today?”

  He turned it over, revealing the creased cover of Homer’s The Odyssey. “Hope to get in a little classical reading this week. Working on one of those Top 100 Reads lists. What brings you by?”

  “I’d like to speak with one of your prisoners. Riley Sixkiller.”

  The smile disappeared, and his face went hard. Mr. Pettiway was retired from the CPD, but he was still a cop at heart. “He’s in lockup. And Mr. Dearborn didn’t authorize you through.”

  That was a tricky one.

  “He doesn’t know I’m here,” I confessed. “But Riley’s been a friend for a really long time, and I think someone set him up. I’d just like a few minutes to hear his side of the story. I know I’m asking you for a lot. But I promise I’d only need a few minutes.”

  It took nearly a minute for him to relent, to rise and put down his book, then walk me down the hallway to the dismal concrete corridor that led to the holding facility.

  Mr. Pettiway pressed a hand to the security plate, and the door popped open with a loud, mechanical click. He held it before it could close, looked back at me again.

  “I’m allowing this because of your great-grandfather, and because I figure you’re a pretty good judge of character. But you’ll be careful?”

  “I promise.”

  And I could handle myself better than Mr. Pettiway imagined.

  * * *

  • • •

  The room was enormous, big as a football field with walls twenty feet high. And it was empty except for the glass-and-concrete cubes arranged in a tidy grid. No steel, no bars. But cages all the same.

  The first cube in the first row was empty, as were most of the others. Riley’s cube was second from the end.

  I found him pacing behind the glass wall. He wore pale gray scrubs and white socks, and the thin fabric somehow made him seem smaller. Behind him, the cube was empty but for a slab bed built into the wall, a sink, and a toilet. The ceiling was glass, but the other three walls were concrete, to provide a little privacy. And like most prisons, I guessed, it was depressing.

  I waited until he lifted his gaze—and then saw hope flare and fade again. I was instantly sorry I’d put it there.

  “Elisa. You come to stare at the animal in the cage?”

  There were dark circles under his eyes and a bruise on his jaw, probably from fighting back against his arrest.

  “I came to check on you. And ask you some questions.”

  “I’ve already talked to the cops. The Pack.” His voice was dismissive, his words short. I couldn’t exactly blame him for being angry.

  “I know. And I know you didn’t hurt him, Riley. I know you didn’t kill Tomas.”

  His eyes widened, softened.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  “I don’t know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his temple. “And trying to remember makes my head scream.”

  “Okay,” I said, filing that away. “Then tell me what you do remember.”

  “Brisket.”

  Not what I’d expected him to say. “Brisket?”

  “The Pack supplied the meat for the party, including brisket we’d smoked at Little Red in the new kitchen—there’s a mesquite pit, but I guess that doesn’t matter. I got to the party same time as the van, helped unload the trays.” He held out his arms in a rough rectangle. “You know those big aluminum pans?”

  “Sure. The catering pans. I saw you carrying them.”

  He nodded. “I brought them in, got them situated.”

  “And then what?”

  “I went out to the party. Had a whiskey—Cadogan has the good stuff—and walked around, talked to people. I ate and drank and listened to the music, talked to my Pack mates about the Sox, this problem Cole is having with one of his cams.”

  “Cams?”

  “On his ride. Engine cam.”

  “Ah. Got it. Keep going.”

  “We thought about asking if we could take a dip in the pool, after the party died down. I figured Sullivan would be game. I wanted to check the water, so I kneeled down, put my fingers in. It was warm, but not too warm. And then”—he winced, rubbed his temple again. “And then I saw something. Or heard something? I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”

  “Something caught your attention?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know what. And then I smelled blood, and I looked around—” He stopped, brow furrowed, and pressed a clenched fist against his forehead. And, like he’d been holding in pain, exhaled loudly.

  I moved closer to the glass. “Do you need me to get someone, Riley? For the pain?”

  “No. I can handle it.” But he walked to the bed, sat down, and cradled his head in his hands.

  His size made it even harder to see him hurting. He was strong, so pain that brought him down would have probably been unbearable to me.

  “The next thing I knew,” he said without looking up, “you were standing in front of me, and the woman behind you was screaming. Then the cops showed up.” He looked up again, misery and anger warring in his eyes. “And here we fucking are.”

  “Have you ever had gaps in your memory like that?”

  “No. When my brain was working again, I recognized the man on the bricks. The delegate from Spain. The one who raged about shifters
and vampires working together, then nearly ran into me and tried to blame me for it.”

  “Did you know him before the event? Had you talked to him before?”

  He lifted his head and his eyes seemed clearer, as if the pain had vanished because we’d switched topics. Could magic have done this? Affected his memory, and made it painful to access?

  “Neither. His name, photo were probably in the security dossier.” He tried for a grin. “But I don’t pay much attention to vampires who live a continent away.”

  Since I hadn’t given much thought to shifters while I’d been in Paris, I couldn’t fault him for that.

  “Would anyone want to hurt you?” I asked.

  “I’m a shifter,” he said, as if that explained it completely. “I’ve got enemies like everyone else.” His eyes darkened. “But my enemies would come after me. They wouldn’t kill someone else.”

  “Who are those enemies?” I asked.

  He rose, walked back to the glass. “You know I did time—before the Pack.”

  “Yeah.” Lulu had explained it. Riley was born in a small town in Oklahoma, but left when he was sixteen, looking for excitement. He ended up in Memphis in an independent band of shifters—the Rogues of the shifter world—who didn’t recognize the authority of any Apex outside their own family. Unfortunately, it had been less a family than a gang, and he’d done time for assault and larceny before he tried to pull a con on the wrong shifter. Gabriel hadn’t fallen for it, and he’d apparently seen past the grift. He pulled Riley into the Pack, and Riley had been on the straight and narrow—or as straight and narrow as shifters’ paths got—since then.

  “Some of the family weren’t happy about my decision.”

  “They aren’t in Chicago, though, are they? Weren’t they in Memphis?”

  “Yeah, and I don’t see them traveling all the way out here to make trouble for me. They were pissed, but I wouldn’t say they were invested, if that makes sense.”