Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9)(67)
Author: Chloe Neill

He must have seen the shock on my face, as he snorted gleefully. “She’s not pregnant. It helps me keep track when I’m busy.”

I peeked into the living room, saw a half-empty bowl of cashews and a bottle of 312 on the coffee table, and a Lifetime movie on the television.

“Busy?” I asked.

He smiled lazily. “We all have our hobbies. Now, come in or not. You’re letting in the cold air.”

Catcher Bell. Twenty-nine going on sixty-five.

I walked inside, and Catcher closed the door behind me and immediately went for the couch. I moved through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, where the basement door was located. I stuck the ice cream in the freezer and headed downstairs.

And then I goggled.

What before could have been the setting for a horror movie—all dark corners, cobwebs, jars of questionable substances, and magical miscellany—had become Martha Stewart’s own bright and shiny craft studio. The walls has been painted cheery white, and the floor had been covered in long planks of honey-gold wood. The ceiling had been finished, and recessed lighting installed. The space was now lined with white cabinets and bookshelves, and the bookshelves were lined with matching glass jars with hanging labels. Foxglove, wolfsbane, St.-John’s-wort, and hundreds of others.

In the middle of the room there was a giant white island, the countertop balanced on shelves covered in old-fashioned books. Mal, wearing a T-shirt and long, feathered earrings, her hair in a messy blue bun, sat on a stool behind the island, crushing something green and fragrant with a marble mortar and pestle that rested beside the baby monitor Catcher mentioned. Mal smiled and whistled as she worked, earbuds in her ears, occasionally glancing at a sleek tablet while she mixed ingredients. It was very suburban, which wasn’t a term I associated with Mallory. And yet, somehow, it seemed to suit her perfectly.

Finally realizing she wasn’t alone, she glanced up and pulled the earbuds from her ears, dusting her hands on a gingham apron tied around her waist.

“Hey,” she said with a smile. “Welcome to the new abode.”

I twirled a hand in the air to indicate the space. “What the hell happened down here?”

“Catcher happened,” she said conspiratorially. “He didn’t feel like he’d done a very good job mentoring me during, you know, the unfortunate period. So he did this. Isn’t it phenomenal?”

“It’s astounding. It looks like a completely different place.”

“I think that was the point. Clean beginnings and all that. But that’s not even the best part.” She rose and leaned over the table, picking up a clipboard that had been decoupaged with magazine clippings. A piece of paper was stuck beneath the aluminum clip. “Good deeds,” read the title, with bullet points for a list not yet filled in.

“Good deeds?” I asked.

“It’s my to-do list,” she said. “It was Tanya’s suggestion, actually. That I learn to use magic—this time for real—with a charitable aim.”

I had a momentary stab of jealousy that Mallory and Tanya had become friends. Not that I begrudged her friendships, or the empathy that undoubtedly came with her exposing herself to other supernaturals in the world. I guess I was, as Ethan often accused, more human than most.

“What kind of good deeds?”

She put the clipboard back on the table. “That’s what we’re currently trying to figure out. I’m thinking I’m going to offer my services up to Chuck when he’s one hundred percent. Maybe the nymphs could use help? Or the River trolls? I don’t know. This is all very early in the planning stage. The point is, though, if I have this power, I should be doing something with it. Something good.” She shrugged. “We just have to work out the mechanics.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” I said. “Let me know how I can help.”

She smiled. “I had this sudden memory of that yard sale you offered to help with a few years ago.”

“What you call a ‘yard sale’ was two ponchos and a pair of worn Birkenstocks from your hippie phase.”

“And a Bob Marley rug.”

“And a Bob Marley rug,” I allowed with a grin. “You didn’t need my help. Besides, you had your crusty boyfriend. What was his name?”

“Akron.”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at her. “Right! Akron, named because he considered Akron the jewel of American cities.”

“Fun as this walk down memory lane is, it’s not why you’re here,” she said, smiling curiously. “You said something about a favor?”

“I did. I need to find someone. Magically.”

She frowned. “We talked about that. Decided it wouldn’t work for Regan or Aline.”

“I know. But I think the—what did you call it? magical signature?—will be different here. I have something you can use. Something good, I think.”

I pulled the velvet pouch from my pocket and emptied it onto the table. The gold glinted in the light, and Mallory’s smile slowly faded.

Silently, she looked at the medal for a moment, as if she could sense its magic and it scared her. I immediately regretted that I’d brought it. I reached out a hand to snatch it up again, but she shook her head.

“I just need to get Catcher.”

The baby monitor crackled. “I’m on my way,” he said. Seconds later, he trotted down the basement stairs. He really was paying attention.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking back and forth at us in search of the trouble he expected had brought him downstairs.

Mallory pointed to the medal. Catcher looked momentarily confused, but the magical signature must have been enough for him, too, to understand the gist. He looked at Mallory, then at me.

“Why is Tate’s magic all over this?”

“When he was imprisoned, I gave him my medal—used it to pay for information. He didn’t give it back until he left. By then, I’d already gotten a new House medal. And when we left the GP and turned our medals in, I kept this one. I just had a feeling about it.” I looked at both of them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would have that much magic left in it.”

“It doesn’t have much,” Catcher said. “Just memories, yes?” he asked, turning to Mallory.

She blew out a breath, clearly trying to compose herself, then nodded. “Memories. Very clear ones. Very”—she rubbed her hands over her arms, where goose bumps had lifted—“tangible memories.”