Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9)(44)
Author: Chloe Neill

The crowd snorted with laughter. I bit back a grin, deciding conclusively that I liked Emma. I also cast a glance at Damien, saw pride shine in his eyes.

But Lethal wanted his bit of infamy, and he wasn’t about to give that up to Emma. “And who are you to talk about it? Are you even old enough to drink?”

Emma’s expression didn’t change, but she did put her hands on her hips. “Plenty. And I bet I can hold my liquor better than you can, Mervin.”

It wasn’t a very shiftery name, which was probably why Mervin preferred to go by “Lethal.” But he wasn’t happy about Emma pointing that out. His face went beet red.

“You think your sister’s being married to a Keene’s gonna save you? You think I won’t hit you because you’re one of them? Or because you’re a girl?”

“No, I think you won’t hit me because you’re a bully who talks a lot and doesn’t do shit about it.”

“Come over here and say that to my face.”

Her courage bobbled, and for a moment there was nothing but fear in her face. But she pushed it back, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze. And then she moved toward us, hands fisted at her sides as if courage were a bird and if she didn’t hold tight enough it would fly away and out of sight.

She stopped a few feet from him. Together, we formed a triangle of dissension. Or a game of rock, paper, vampires.

Ethan? I silently whispered, thinking she looked small and frail staring down Lethal and his buddies. But I didn’t want to step forward if that would weaken her position.

This is her fight, he confirmed.

“All right,” Lethal said. “You wanna play?” He walked forward, shoved her.

I saw Damien jerk beside me, his eyes lined with concern, but before he could even think about moving, Emma moved.

He must have had a foot in height and eighty pounds on her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Emma reached out, grabbed one of his wrists to hold him, then rotated her other elbow and brought it hard against the side of his head. She released him, and he stumbled backward.

“Fucking bitch,” he murmured, rotating his jaw, setting himself, and lunging again.

He came at her like a bull, head down and forward, apparently intent on tackling her to the ground. But she was lighter, faster, more spritely. She turned to the side, neatly dodging his dive, and lifted a knee to catch him in the gut.

Magic rose in the room again, and the rest of the shifters began shuffling, obviously eager to join the fun.

The shifter in front of me—a tall woman with a long blond braid—grinned wolfishly. She wore the same leather jacket as the others, and ROSIE was embroidered into the front.

I dipped my chin, pursed my lips, and grinned at her. “Shall we, Rosie?”

The silver in my eyes spooked her; she swallowed hard and clenched her fingers, clearly rethinking her plan.

A boom on the other side of the room drew our attention away.

Lethal hit the hardwood floor on his back, then slid ten feet backward. His eyes were closed.

We looked at Emma, who shook her right hand, the knuckles split and dotted with blood. A hank of brown fair fell over her eyes, and she blew it up and out of her face.

I was in absolute awe, and a little bit in love.

Emma looked around at the crowd. “We’ve lost four people, have one missing, and you still want to fight? How stupid and stubborn do you have to be to think going forward with Lup is a good idea? So we haven’t finished it this year. Who cares? Since when are we defined by whether or not we have a party?”

“Lup isn’t just a party!” called a smart-ass from somewhere in the crowd.

“It’s not just,” she agreed. “And neither are we. We are the shifters of the North American Central Pack. And we’ve chosen Gabriel Keene to lead us. Until one of you has teeth enough to step forward and take it from him, then shut the hell up about it.”

Without another word, she stepped forward and marched out of the room with a dignified tilt to her chin.

“I really like her,” Ethan murmured.

“I seriously want to be her best friend,” Mallory said, glancing at me. “No offense.”

I smiled at her. “I thought the exact same thing.”

Curious, I glanced at Damien. By the avaricious glint in his eyes, I guessed Damien liked her, too.

Damien lifted his head, glanced around the room, daring the shifters to step forward. “I think we’re done here.”

Magic hovered for a moment but dissipated, and shifters began filing out of the room.

“Crisis number three?” I wondered, as we watched them leave.

Catcher laughed mirthlessly. “If we start counting crises, we won’t have time to do anything else.”

And thus was the state of supernaturals in Chicago.

Chapter Twelve

COME ON, ALINE

We found Gabriel in Papa Breck’s office, sitting on the floor with Tanya and Connor, who sat on a colorful mat and gnawed on the ear of a plastic giraffe. He wore a long-sleeved baby-sized NAC shirt and baby jeans, which were stupidly adorable. I had an urge—the first, as far as I’m aware—to nibble his little sausage toes. I decided the urge would not necessarily be welcome from someone with fangs, and kept my place.

Gabriel looked up, scanned us. “Good evening.”

“You left a mess back there,” Ethan said. “I presume that was intentional?”

“Intentional enough,” Gabriel allowed. “We had to cancel Lup. There’s no sense in continuing to risk the Pack to whatever’s out there—or whatever presumptively extinct group of supernatural ass**les decide to show up on our doorstep tonight.”

“They weren’t happy about the decision,” Ethan carefully said, considering Gabriel.

“Of course they aren’t. They’re shifters. They don’t give up, and they don’t give in.”

“Which is why you made the decision for them,” I said.

Gabriel nodded, pleased. “Well done, Kitten. If the Pack can’t make the hard choices, I do it for them. If they decide the choice was wrong, they can confirm someone else as Apex.”

We’d seen that before, when Adam Keene challenged Gabriel for control of the NAC. The fight hadn’t been successful, and we hadn’t seen or heard from Adam since.

“It’s the way of our world,” Gabriel said. “Out of curiosity, who threw the fit?”

“A delicate flower named Lethal,” Ethan said. “I presume the moniker was well earned.”