Chloe Neill - Wild Things

Tonight, the news showed Diane Kowalcyzk posing in front of a poster propped on an easel. Shots of Ethan, Scott, Morgan, the Masters of the three Chicago Houses, were pictured beneath a headline that read ENEMIES OF CHICAGO?

The question mark, probably the brainchild of some lawyer who thought it would protect the city against a libel charge, was laughable. Who’d see the photographs, read the headline, and think she was posing a question?

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Luc said, pushing back from the table with enough force to rattle the entire twelve feet of it.

“She’s made a Wanted poster,” Lindsey said, eyes wide as she stared at the screen. “People will want his blood. All of their blood.”

“Kelley, get in touch with Jonah and Will,” Luc ordered, eyes still on the screen. “Make sure they’re seeing this.” Kelley nodded, plucked up her phone from the table, started dialing.

“We have to do something,” Lindsey said, looking back at Luc with obvious fear in her eyes. “We can’t just let this go on.”

“We are doing something,” Luc said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “We’ve hired lawyers, and we’ve connected with reporters. That’s what we can do right now.”

“The lawyers and reporters aren’t helping,” I said. “We can’t leave him in there. He’s an enemy of the state and he’s surrounded by law enforcement officers and felons.”

“And what, exactly, would you like me to do, Merit? Beg the mayor to release your boyfriend because you’re afraid for him?”

I flinched from the heat of his words; Luc wiped a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Unfortunately, you’re right. They think he’s an enemy of the state; there’s no begging we can do that will release him.”

“What about your father?” Brody asked me, drawing groans from the rest of the room.

“Not an option,” Luc said. “So don’t even consider it.” He blew out a breath, ran his hands through his hair. “We have to let Andrew do his job.” But he sounded just as frustrated as I felt.

I put my head on my folded arms. “Why does my father have to be such an asshole?”

“Because we all have our burdens to bear. And if you’re even thinking about making that call,” Luc said, pointing a warning finger at me, “put that thought out of your head immediately. Ethan would lose his shit if he thought you asked your father for help.”

“I know,” I said, lifting my head. “And I know I can’t run in there with a sword or two. But I sure would like to.” I thought of what my grandfather had said about magic, about the darker forces that had affected the last mayor. “Maybe she’s got her own Dominic. A little evil twin who lives in her helmet hair and makes her do evil, dirty things.”

Luc laughed. “That is both perfectly absurd and perfectly appropriate.”

Speaking of evil twins, it was time to offer up the plan I’d been considering.

“I’d like to find Seth Tate.”

He just stared at me. “Sentinel, have you lost your damn mind?”

“No,” I said, and since the tone didn’t sound convincing, I said it again with feeling. “ No. I have not lost my mind, damned or otherwise. Look—Regan’s either a Messenger or she’s got a connection to Dominic Tate. Either way, Seth’s the only person we can ask about it. He can help us identify her—and tell us how to take her down.

“And, while I’m there, maybe I can talk to him about the mayor. Maybe he has an idea about how we can bring her around.”

That, he looked interested in.

“I don’t think he’s dangerous,” I offered. “Before he left, he told us he was looking for contrition. He sounded earnest and Ethan trusted him.”

“Respectfully, Sentinel, Ethan isn’t here, and I’m not one to invite trouble while he’s gone. Tate’s demonic half was stripped from his body, so sure, he shouldn’t be evil. But he’s still powerful. And we can’t exactly account for that.”

“Actually, I think she’d be okay,” Lindsey said. “Seth Tate has the hots for her.”

“He does not,” I protested, but I could feel the burn skimming up my cheeks. We had a history, yes, but it wasn’t romantic. At least not from my end.

“All right,” I said. “So you all think this is a bad idea.”

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard. It’s at least one or two up from the very bottom.” He scratched his head. “But I’m not thrilled about sending you to play with Seth Tate while Ethan’s incarcerated.”

“Ethan will live.”

“Easy for you to say. If you’re hurt, he’ll come after me.”

“Seth is our best option to figure out what Regan is— how she exists.”

Luc’s jaw worked. “Even if I said yes, you still have to find him.”

“Actually,” I said, “I have an idea about that.”

“He may not want to come back.”

“He probably won’t want to. It’s my job to convince him.”

Luc’s phone began to ring, and he glanced at the screen. “It’s Jonah. Grey’s seen the ad.” He lifted it to his ear, glanced at me. “Find him first. Then we’ll talk.”

• • •

I called Mallory first to confirm her location. She was still in Wicker Park, didn’t plan to head back to Little Red until Gabe returned to the city.

I didn’t show up empty-handed. Just as Mallory had brought me raspberry donuts, I showed up with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, which had been legal tender for much of our relationship.

Catcher opened the door, looked down at the goods and then up at me again. “I suppose you’re friends again?”

Normally, he’d have accompanied that statement with a solid dose of sarcasm. But this time, there was a kind of softness. Hope, instead of derision.

“I think we’re trying,” I said. “She said she was here?”

“In the basement.”

That made me cringe a bit, and then immediately regret it. The basement was where she’d “studied” for her magical exams—and where she’d prepared the magic that led her to Nebraska.

Once again, Catcher’s smile was understanding. Maybe he was evolving, too. “Checks and balances,” he said. “I’ve warded the basement, and alarms go off if the magic she works reaches a certain threshold. I’ve also put a baby monitor down there.”

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.