Wild Things

I knew her again. As well as I’d known her before, but now as a sorceress, tested by magic and come through the other side. I might not ever forget the past, what she’d done. I wasn’t a child, or naive. But I could forgive her, and we could move on and try to build something better, something stronger, than what had been before.

But still, no one spoke. I could deal with comfortable silence, but this silence was not comfortable. I broke through it, clearing my throat. Ethan, Mallory, and Catcher frankly looked relieved by the intrusion.

“Harpies don’t exist,” Mallory said. “They aren’t supposed to exist.”

“I’m not certain they do exist,” Ethan said, glancing at Catcher. “I presume from their disappearing act they were magic?”

“A manifestation of some kind,” Catcher agreed. “They weren’t real.”

“They killed,” I said. “They fought and wounded. They were real.”

“They were tangible,” Catcher said. “But they weren’t real. Not real harpies, anyway,” he added at my questioning look. “They were magic—power shaped and molded into something three-dimensional and solid.”

Ethan glanced warily at the kitchen staff, then leaned forward. “That’s how you thought to use magic to destroy them at the end.”

Catcher nodded, glancing at Mallory. “She figured it out. They fought like real animals, fiercely, drawing blood, killing when they could. But their magical signature was wrong. The look in their eyes was wrong.”

“Blank,” I offered.

Mallory looked at me and nodded. “Exactly. More automaton than actual monster. So we unwound them.”

“You unwound them?” I asked. “What does that mean? And use nongeeky, layman’s terms.”

“There’s a formulaic element to magic,” Catcher said. “It can be a chant. A charm. A spell. Some start with that but deepen it. They layer it. Charms atop charms atop charms.” He glanced at me. “We took those layers, unfolded them, stripped them back to their elemental magic, and dispersed them. That spell wouldn’t have worked if they’d been real.”

“But this wasn’t just a monster,” Ethan said. “It was dozens of harpies, acting individually. Not just a walk and slap, but something with the look of a coordinated attack, and on shifter territory.”

“Walk and slap?” Mallory asked.

“An old European custom,” Ethan said. “Before the houses existed, certain feuding vampire covens engaged in petty slights, back and forth, to air their grievances.”

“Aristocratic vampire slap fights? With period costumes?” Mallory asked, looking at me with obvious delight. “I am all over that and the graphic novel it inspires.”

“Coordinated attacks,” Catcher said, returning to the point. “The magical layering is doable, but it would have required someone powerful and very talented.”

Ethan looked at Catcher for a minute. “You could have done it.”

Catcher’s jaw twitched at the insinuation. “With enough time, yes. Mallory, too.”

“There’s Paige, Simon, and Baumgartner,” Ethan said. “Could they do it?”

Paige was a magician formerly stationed in Nebraska and now in Chicago. She didn’t live in Cadogan House, but she was dating the House librarian, which was close enough. Baumgartner was head of the sorcerers’ union, which Catcher had been kicked out of, and Simon was Mallory’s former and utterly incompetent magical tutor.

Catcher drummed his fingers on the countertop, considering the question.

“Baumgartner has the magical capacity, but he wouldn’t have a reason to do it. It would upset his apple cart. Simon doesn’t have the mojo.”

“Paige?” Ethan asked.

“Maybe, but she doesn’t seem like the type. She’s interested in the mathematics of magic, the history. Not so much the execution, and certainly not wholesale destruction.”

Ethan sat back, drawing the attention of the kitchen staff, whose eyes narrowed suspiciously. Did they think he was plotting a revolt right here in the Brecks’ kitchen? I considered flashing my fangs but guessed it wouldn’t be easy to intimidate the staff of a shape-shifting family.

After a moment of silence, he glanced at Catcher. “If we’re going to tell the Pack we think this was a magical attack, we’re going to have to prove it, one way or the other. Talk to the sorcerers, confirm their whereabouts. If they are, as we suspect, not involved, find out who they think might have done it.”

“We aren’t errand boys,” Catcher testily said, lip curled.

But Ethan wasn’t fazed. “No, you aren’t. But we’re in Pack territory, surrounded by shifters who are angry and grieving. And they have us separated and under guard. Until we prove otherwise, we’re their suspects.” He glanced at Mallory, and my stomach curled. “And I imagine Mallory is suspect number one.”

• • •

We were summoned an hour later, still filthy and scarred from the battle. A man in a trim suit sent us to Papa Breck’s study, which had been one of my favorite rooms in the house as a child. Nick and I had stolen several summer days there, poring over antique books, inspecting mementos of Papa Breck’s travels, and nabbing lemon drops from a crystal dish he kept on his desk.

Tonight, the room was dark, cigar smoke swirling in the air. Gabe sat in a leather armchair, the Keene and Breck brothers surrounding him like men at arms. Papa Breck, silver haired and barrel-chested, sat behind his desk, a cigar between his teeth.

“Three dead,” Papa Breck said, ashing his cigar and beginning the inquest. “Three dead. Two missing. Fourteen injured.”

Ethan clasped his hands in front of him, met Gabe’s eyes. “We’re sorry for your losses.”

Michael sniffed. “I notice you aren’t injured.”

Ethan slid his gaze to Michael but didn’t alter his tone. “We incurred our share of injuries, but we heal. We fought alongside you, and as you may recall, Catcher and Mallory destroyed what remained of the harpies.” He glanced at Gabriel. “We also took care of your queen.”

“You showed up at our house,” Papa Breck said, “and all hell broke loose.”

“Again, we are sorry about tonight’s tragedy. But you should look elsewhere for the blame, as we had nothing to do with it. Merit and I are your guests because of circumstances in Chicago. Mallory and Catcher are your guests because she is a student of Gabriel’s. We fought with you against the harpies. We did not create them, nor did we lure them here.”

Papa Breck shook his head, looked away. He’d already decided we were guilty, and rational arguments weren’t going to sway him now.

Ethan looked at Gabriel. “I’ll ask the obvious question: Has the Pack made any new enemies lately? Or incited any old ones?”

“We always have enemies,” Gabe said. “And I don’t know of any new ones.”

“Then what about old ones?” Michael asked, looking at Mallory. “How did you know to use magic?”

I didn’t think sorcerers and shifters had been enemies, but Michael didn’t seem the type to be concerned with fact.

Still, Mallory stepped forward, shoulders squared against the doubt in their eyes and the fear in the room. I liked this Mallory.

“Their magic was too uniform,” she said. “Not even a hint of personality or distinctiveness. And their eyes were blank. Empty. We guessed—correctly as it turned out—that someone wound the magic to create them. Layered magic to create the harpies,” she said, when the shifters looked confused. “We unwound it. That’s what blew them apart.”

Gabriel bobbed his head, considering. “That was good work.”

But Michael snorted. “If they knew how to stop it, why didn’t they stop it earlier?”

“Are you kidding?” All eyes turned to Catcher, whose loathing was barely masked. “Are you seriously suggesting we knew what was going on and just let it continue?”

“Does it matter?” Michael asked, pleading with Gabe. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see him drop to his knees in supplication. “This was magic, and they have magic.”

“So what?” Gabriel challenged, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “What, precisely, would you have me do, Michael? String them up for coincidentally having magic? And even if they didn’t stop it soon enough, would you have me kill them for that? As far as I’m aware, you didn’t fight at all.”

Michael paled. “I was protecting the house.”

“You were protecting your own ass,” Gabe said, giving him a dismissive look and his father a warning one. “The two who are missing—who are they?”

Papa Breck’s eyes fairly bulged with shock. “You can’t possibly think they were involved.”

“What I think is irrelevant. What matters is the truth. Who’s missing?”

“Rowan and Aline,” Nick said.

Ethan’s eyebrows perked with interest. “Aline, who doesn’t like your father or your siblings?”

“The very same,” Gabriel said. The look in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t dismissing the coincidence.

“Shifters wouldn’t do this,” Papa Breck spat. But his voice was quiet. He disagreed with the Apex, but he wasn’t going to be overly loud about it.

“Frankly, we don’t know anything about who did this, except that they used complicated magic.” He offered Ethan an appraising glance. “Fortunately, we have right in our presence a group that’s pretty good at figuring those things out.”

Ethan’s magic spiked alarmingly, but he stayed silent.

“The vampires and sorcerers maintain they’re not responsible for what happened here. Considering their unique skills, they should be able to identify who is.”

“And if they can’t uncover who did this?” Papa Breck asked, as if we weren’t in the room and couldn’t hear the doubt that stained his voice.