Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9)(79)
Author: Chloe Neill

“A vardo,” Jonah quietly said.

I glanced over at him. “What?”

“A traveling wagon. Often used by the Romani in Europe. Not often seen in Chicago.”

I closed my eyes, dropping the defenses that kept my sensitive vampire senses from overwhelming me, and listened for any sign of life. I heard nothing, felt nothing, magical or otherwise.

I opened my eyes again, glanced at him. His eyes were focused on the wagon, gaze intense. I wouldn’t have to worry about Jonah.

“I don’t think anyone’s in there.”

“Me, either,” he said. “Let’s go.”

I climbed the short wooden staircase, which squeaked beneath my feet, and peeked inside. It was dark and silent, with no sign of life. I tried the doorknob, found it unlocked, and glanced back at Jonah, ensuring he was ready.

When he nodded, I pushed it open.

Light spilled into the small space from the open door behind us. It was a single room, cozy and luxurious, with a small velvet settee and blankets and rugs on nearly every surface. Candles were scattered here and there, and a wooden trunk with brass strapping sat in front of the settee like a coffee table.

There was a hanging bar of clothes in one corner, and I recognized the ensemble I’d seen in Loring Park. The tiny hat she’d worn hung atop a small antique bureau topped by an oval mirror. Pots and bottles of makeup littered the surface.

And under it all were the scents of smoke and sulfur.

“She lives here,” I said, and Jonah nodded his agreement. “Harley said she stayed in her own place. Although it’s odd that she doesn’t stay with the collection.”

“Maybe she goes back and forth,” Jonah suggested. “Stays here when the carnival’s open, goes there when it’s closed. This gives her an office, a home base.

“Papers,” he said, moving toward a small folding table with X-shaped legs on the other side of the room. Two neat stacks of paper sat atop it.

While he checked out the table, I moved farther inside, running delicate fingers over the knickknacks and trinkets. A small Limoges box in the shape of a Scottish terrier. Foreign coins. And atop the trunk, inside a beautiful gilt frame, a photograph of a woman. She had hauntingly pale eyes and curls in perfect, thick spirals that framed her pretty face. MOTHER was printed in gold script across the bottom corner of the frame.

“Regan’s mom?” Jonah asked, stepping behind me.

“I don’t know. But it’s something.”

I pulled out my phone, took a picture of the photo, sent it to Jeff with a request: PHOTO MAY BE REGAN’S MOM. SCAN AND MATCH?

ON IT, he immediately messaged back.

I figured I might as well take the opportunity to check on her whereabouts. We were already out and about, after all. ANY REGAN UPDATE?

CHICAGO IS BIG.

I took that as a mild rebuke and put my phone away again, then propped the picture on the trunk again. “What about the papers? Anything there?”

“Nothing. It’s just maintenance logs for the rides. She might have another agenda, but it looks like she takes care of the day-to-day stuff.”

“That’s something. I just hope she takes care of her sups.”

Neither the wagon nor the carnival offered us anything more. While Jeff continued his search for Regan, her collection, and the woman in the photograph, we drove back to Cadogan House. Jonah, thankfully, made good on his promise of food, driving through a local burger joint and springing for a cheese-and-bacon-laden burger greasy enough to require a handful of napkins, and utterly delicious.

We returned to Cadogan to find Harley gone, Luc, Lindsey, and the temps in the Ops Room.

“Anything?” Luc asked, looking up.

“Just the photograph,” I said, skipping the explanation since Jeff sat at the table beside him. I sat down, too, and Jonah took the seat beside me.

“She has a wagon,” he said, “a vardo, but she wasn’t there.”

“No other sign of magic or Regan. That’s a dead end for now.” I glanced at Jeff, who was busily scanning images on his tablet. “Anything new on your end?”

“Nothing in the city, or with the picture,” he said. “I’ve found an image-comparison algorithm, and I’ve applied it to satellite images of Chicago, but every reflective set of windows on a skyscraper looks like the top of a silver truck trailer. Ditto the photograph. But I’m pushing it along. Moving as quickly as possible.”

He sounded as tired as Luc looked. It had been a long week, with political and supernatural drama, and it looked like we were all beginning to feel the fatigue.

My phone rang, and I pulled it out. The number was unfamiliar, although the caller had a Chicago area code.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Hello, Ballerina.”

I sat up so quickly the chair knocked the edge of the table. “Seth. It’s good to hear from you.”

All eyes in the room turned to me. Luc gestured toward the speakerphone, but I shook my head. I wasn’t entirely sure what this would involve, and it seemed better to handle it quietly.

“I’ve been thinking about our conversation.”

I was immortal, and a predator, and Sentinel of my House. And I still crossed my fingers under the table.

“I want to talk to you about Diane Kowalcyzk.”

My heart began to thud against my chest. “I’m listening.”

“I recruited her, Merit. She was a young alderman, fit right into my team. She worked hard, put in a lot of long hours. I’m not saying she’s taken the right path since then, but she was loyal.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you defending her?”

“Because I feel guilty for not coming clean earlier. It’s occurring to me, a little late, that doing good deeds isn’t going to be enough for me to wipe the slate clean. I still have a lot of baggage to unload.”

I understood his need to confess, but I’d latched on to the first thing he’d said. I leaned forward, gestured for pen and paper. “Come clean about what?”

He was silent for a moment. “Diane Kowalcyzk’s real name is Tammy Morelli.”

I blinked. “The mayor of Chicago has an alias?”

“She does. And if you employ your tech-savvy friend, I believe you’ll find plenty of information to provide leverage for you and the other sups to use.”

I wrote down the name, slid it to Luc, who immediately handed it off to Jeff. But that didn’t ease the greasy feeling in my stomach.

“Blackmail’s a little off-color for an angel, isn’t it?”