Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9)(35)
Author: Chloe Neill

“Is that a coincidence?” Mallory asked, face scrunched with the question.

“I don’t know. But it seems significant. Harpies aren’t an obvious weapon, and elves aren’t an obvious target. So the person—or people—behind this have good information about supernaturals.”

“So probably not a human,” Ethan said.

“Not unless they have better knowledge than even you,” I said. “And you believe yourself to be quite knowledgeable.”

Ethan arched an eyebrow. “I resemble that remark.”

“She has a point,” Catcher said, crossing his arms and leaning back into his stance, preparing for some serious consideration and analysis. “Knowledge of supernaturals, and very serious intent. This isn’t just a nymph pissed off because they ran a rubber-duck parade through the Chicago River without her approval.”

“That didn’t really happen,” I said. But Catcher’s flat look said different.

“Could and did. And cost me a week’s worth of time.”

“And a slew of gift cards for the stores on State Street,” Mallory said with a smile. “I know what nymphs like,” she added, in a singsong voice.

“The point is,” Catcher said, sliding her a glance, “this isn’t a run-of-the-mill issue, a minor grudge between sups.”

“It’s a full-out attack in the first instance,” Ethan said. “And something else in the second. The glamour the elves mentioned—does it ring any bells?” He glanced at Mallory, Catcher, Gabriel.

Gabe leaned against the island. “Not for me. All due respect, it sounded like typical vampire mojo. Elves acting like zombies? Doing what someone telepathically directed them to do? Fighting? Fucking? Passing out?”

“Glamour doesn’t work that way,” Ethan flatly said. “It doesn’t work over distance.”

“And you’re sure no vampire was nearby the elves when the attack occurred?”

At Gabe’s question, Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “I am not,” he finally admitted. “But glamour doesn’t make zombies of anyone. It is suggestive, not unlike what Mallory tried a moment ago to calm us down.”

Mal blushed prettily. “Just trying to help.”

Catcher put an arm around her shoulder, squeezed.

But they’d given me an idea. “Maybe that’s part of it—both times, the attacker mimicked some other kind of magic. In the first attack, the magic mimicked harpies. In the second, the magic mimicked vampire glamour. The attacker wasn’t actually a harpy or a vampire—he was someone with magic enough to pretend to be both.”

“That’s powerful magic,” Catcher said. “And magic with range.”

“Range,” Gabriel said, standing straight again. “How close would someone have to be to work magic that powerful?”

Catcher’s brows lifted. “I’d actually meant the other kind of range—the ability to imitate different kinds of sups—but that’s a good point.”

I drummed my fingers on the countertop. “So someone is using a lot of magic—variable magic—relatively nearby to attack two groups of sups.”

“Groups,” Ethan said, tapping a finger against my hand. “Both were in groups—the shifters were gathered together for Lupercalia. The elves were together in their village.”

Mallory reached out to a crock on the island that held spoons and spatulas and plucked out a rubberized whisk. “So they attacked when they could do the most damage?” she asked, as she toyed absently with the bent wires of the utensil.

“Maybe,” I said. “But why? If this was a political thing, a grudge thing, wouldn’t we know it? Wouldn’t there have been a statement? Overt blame? They aren’t even really framing someone, because they’ve used different magic both times. There’s no obvious motive.”

“Perhaps it comes back to the victims,” Ethan said. “To the shifters who passed.”

I glanced at Gabe. “The shifters you lost. Is there anything controversial in their histories? Anything that suggests they were targeted?”

Gabe leaned over the counter again, propping his elbows on it and linking his hands together again. “Not that I’m aware of. They weren’t related, weren’t friends. One was from Memphis—young guy who I think had some leadership ambitions. Messy childhood. Woman from New Orleans. Lawyer who went to Tulane. Excellent cook, and a very spicy woman.”

Ethan and Catcher grunted in some kind of vague male agreement. Mallory and I shared a dubious look.

“Third was a man from Chicago. Assimilated. Lived with a human family, although the wife knew what he was.” Gabe shook his head ruefully. “That phone call sucked. And you know about Rowan.”

I reached out, touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, using the two words that were always woefully inadequate to ease anyone’s grief, but still seemed the only appropriate thing to say.

Gabe nodded, patted my hand. “Appreciate it, Kitten.”

“Then perhaps the key isn’t the deceased,” Ethan said, “but the missing.”

We’d seen vampire disappearances before, and they hadn’t been coincidental. They’d been the work of an assassin hungry for revenge, and he’d be difficult to catch and stop. But in that case, the key was the killings—the vampires were killed as warnings to the rest of us to leave Chicago. The bodies had been left for us to find.

“So we’re back to Aline and the elf,” Mallory said. “What was her name again?”

“Niera,” Catcher said.

“Aline is definitely gone,” I said, realizing I hadn’t had a chance to report what we’d found at her house. The kidnapping and threats had interrupted our investigation.

“She’s a hoarder—there was stuff everywhere in her house, but nothing really helpful until we found her computer. Jeff found a receipt for a plane ticket to Anchorage. She also has a storage locker, but the only thing in there was a box of ephemera. We haven’t had a chance to look through it yet.”

“Did the flight to Alaska look legit?” Catcher wondered. “Or planted?”

“It looked legit to me, but if you’ve got the ability to create winged monsters from thin air and turn elves into zombies, who knows?”

“Could they have something in common?” Mallory wondered. “Aline and Niera?” Apparently bored of the whisk, she stuck it back in the canister again to mingle with its colleagues.