Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9)(50)
Author: Chloe Neill

I nodded, then glanced up at the shopping center. The grocery store was closest to the carnival, and it was the only shop still open. A few people milled around inside, visible between the stems and serifs of the giant gilded letters that advised passersby of sales and specials.

I gestured toward the store. “Why don’t I check out the grocery store? I’ll ask when the carnival left, if they know where it’s going next.”

“Don’t get kidnapped this time,” Catcher said. “Ethan gets irritable when you get kidnapped.”

“That’s only one of the many reasons he gets irritable,” I pointed out. “And I’ll do my best. But I make no promises.”

Considering the crimes we were investigating, that seemed best.

It was late, but the grocery store glowed with light and welcome heat. Disco played on the store’s sound system, and the cashier nearest the door smiled when I entered.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty, and she didn’t seem to mind the late hour or the dearth of customers. She filed her nails and hummed along with the music, a headband with fuzzy cat’s ears poking from her otherwise straight jet-black hair. She looked up at me and took in the katana when I walked over. Her eyes widened.

“Nice sword,” she said in a whisper when I moved closer. “That’s a katana, right?”

“It is, yeah,” I said with a smile. I’d forgotten I’d worn it, and appreciated that she didn’t feel the urge to signal the manager.

“Cool.”

“Thanks. Question for you.” I hitched a thumb toward the window. “The carnival that was here—when did it pack up?”

“I don’t know. Why? Were you hoping to win a goldfish?”

“Not exactly.” My prey was significantly larger, but I didn’t mention that aloud. “I don’t suppose you know where they were headed next?”

The front doors shushed open. A woman with short blond hair walked into the grocery store. She wore snug jeans and a short red cape with a hood. It barely reached her waist and was perfectly cut, the type of garment you’d see on a New York runway. A very expensive leather handbag—the kind my sister, Charlotte, might have bought in the stores on Oak Street—was tucked on her arm. She looked, I thought with a smile, like a very chic Little Red Riding Hood.

“No clue,” said the cashier, drawing my gaze again. “I’m not really into kiddie carnivals, you know?”

I took in the cat’s ears, the Rainbow Brite T-shirt. “You’ll appreciate them when you’re older. Thanks for the help.”

She shrugged and went back to her nails.

I walked toward the door but caught another glimpse of the girl who’d come in. She grabbed a red basket from a stack near the door and headed to the pharmacy aisle.

She looked familiar. I squinted, trying to remember the face and where I might have seen her. She wasn’t a shifter. Not an elf, certainly, with that haircut or fashion sense. And she was down a bow and sense of entitlement.

I walked quietly closer, pretending to be interested in hot cocoa mix, dandruff shampoo, frozen chicken dinners. She pulled supplies—bandages, rubbing alcohol, gauze—into her basket.

A clerk stepped in front of me, blocking my view. He was another teenager, this time with dark skin, short braids, and suspicious eyes. “Can I help you?”

I grabbed a box of soda crackers from the Willis Tower–shaped display in front of me. “Are these, you know, on special?”

He looked at me for a moment, gestured toward the display. “The sign says they’re two ninety-nine.”

“Awesome!” I perkily said. I turned to a nearby shelf and pretended to be very, very interested in wasabi-flavored popcorn. Actually, I didn’t have to try that hard. It was wasabi-flavored popcorn. I was already intrigued.

I waited a beat. Apparently satisfied that I’d only been nosy, and not pre-felonious, he disappeared. When the sound of his footsteps dissipated, I peeked around the end of the aisle again. The girl inspected the medical tape, and when a clerk approached and offered help, she waved him off with a smile, dimples at the sides of her cheeks. She turned just slightly, and I caught sight of her singularly gray eyes.

That’s when I knew where I’d seen her.

Her hair was different now, and her clothes. She was no longer a brunette, no longer wearing her uniform, no longer enticing customers into the Tunnel of Horrors. But there was no denying the smile.

She was the carnival barker.

Like a deer scenting a predator, her head popped up, her eyes scanning for trouble.

She caught my gaze, and there was a hint of a smile on her face. But she turned back to the tape, fingers skimming the boxes.

I walked around the corner, checked out a rack of plastic sunglasses while Lionel Richie crooned on the store’s music system.

The girl moved forward, disappearing into an aisle that, according to the sign hanging above it, held chips and soda.

Ever so quietly, I shifted closer, and when I reached the aisle, looked around the corner.

She was gone, but the thick rubber flaps that covered the entrance to the back room were swinging, and her basket was on the floor, the contents strewn about. She’d definitely made me.

And that wasn’t my only problem.

In her wake were scents much too familiar—sulfur and smoke. Dominic Tate, Seth Tate’s vanquished worse half, had smelled the same. But Dominic was dead; I’d seen Seth destroy him. Seth had left Chicago, and his scent had been different—lemon and sugar, like freshly baked cookies.

We hadn’t known any other Messengers, as the dueling angels had once been called. And yet, here I was, standing in a grocery store that smelled like the devil’s front porch.

I muttered a curse and took off, following her through the flaps and into a cold room that stank of overripe produce and cardboard. The room was large, with a polished concrete floor and office built into a corner. I ran to the office. A man in a collared short-sleeved shirt sat at the desk, munching on a sandwich. Roast beef, by the smell of it.

“You can’t be back here!” he yelled, over a mouthful of beef and bread.

“Just passing through,” I promised, then hurried down a narrow hallway to a storage area. This one held ten-foot-high stacks of boxes and wooden pallets. There was a back door across the room, but no one in sight.

“Can we just talk?” I asked, peering around a mountain of soda cartons, and caught a glance of blond hair hurrying away when a skyscraper of pallets rocked like a children’s block-stacking game. As always, gravity won.