Chloe Neill - Wild Things

“Where are their parents ?” I murmured, thinking I wasn’t thrilled that my “vampire boyfriend” had a fan club.

On the other hand, they had excellent taste.

“Anything new on the carnival?” I asked him, lest we forget about the other supernaturals potentially in danger.

“Actually, yes,” he said. “The librarian found one more location—Paul Revere Park. Carnival was there last year. But it’s empty again. They appear to be laying low.”

Which meant we had no other leads on where Regan, the carnival, or the missing sups might actually be—assuming our theory was correct and they were still alive. It was beginning to look like we’d have to wait for them to make a move, which didn’t thrill me. A harpy attack in the woods beside Loring Park was one thing; a harpy attack at Soldier Field would be something altogether different.

My phone beeped, a message from Jonah. NEED BODIES AT PROTEST. WEARING MIDNIGHT HIGH SHIRT?

It was an RG assignment, signaled by the reference to the Midnight High School T-shirt. The school was fake, but the T-shirts were real, worn by RG members to secretly signal their membership.

I glanced at Luc and the others. I could get away, but I was going to have to explain to him why I was leaving and where I was going. The odds I’d end up arrested or on television by the end of the night were too high otherwise.

I tucked the phone away again, leaned toward Luc. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

Luc’s brows lifted, but he nodded and followed me to the foyer.

We stopped in a quiet spot beyond the staircase, where he crossed his arms, looked down at me with chin tipped down. “What’s on your mind, Sentinel?”

I moistened my lips nervously. “I have to go to the protest. For reasons I’m not at liberty to discuss. But I didn’t want to sneak out of here without telling you I was leaving.”

He looked at me for a moment, then leaned closer. “This have something to do with that secret project Ethan has you working on?”

I opened my mouth, closed it again. I wasn’t working with Ethan on a secret project, at least to my knowledge. I was only aware of two real secrets: Lakshmi’s GP challenge invitation, and my RG membership. Maybe Ethan had prepared Luc for the inevitable fallout of one or both of those things.

“Yes?” I offered.

That must have been the right answer, because he nodded. “Be careful, and keep your phone on.”

• • •

I messaged Jonah, arranging a meeting place, a spot two blocks north of the Daley Center, where we could find each other before we reached the chaos of the plaza and protestors.

Even from two blocks away, the sound was deafening. Much like during the human riots that had plagued the city last week, there were chants of protest, supernaturals demanding Ethan’s release, demanding rights for the city’s preternatural population. And like the humans, they weren’t especially subtle about what they’d do if their demands weren’t met. “No justice, no peace,” was a common refrain.

But unlike the human demonstrations, this protest carried the signature sensation of magic. A lot of it—chaotic and unfocused, like eddies of water swirling in the rapids of a rocky stream.

Jonah rounded the corner, walked toward me. There was no denying it: The Grey House guard captain was a looker.

Tall and trim, with shoulder-length auburn hair that framed clear blue eyes. He’d gotten his fangs in Kansas City, but he looked more like a warrior from a windswept cliff in Ireland, with his honed cheekbones and chiseled chin. Tonight he wore jeans and a navy pea coat, which only added to the effect. I half expected him to speak with a lilting accent but probably would have enjoyed it too much if he had.

“Hey,” I said, a little shyly. I hadn’t seen Jonah in a few days, and I spent so much time dealing with drama on behalf of Cadogan House that I didn’t have much time to serve as his partner in the RG.

“Hey,” he said. “How’s the House?”

“Nervous. They don’t like Ethan being out of reach. How’s Scott?”

“Fine. Pissed. There are a few Grey House vamps out there tonight. He didn’t want them to come but didn’t bar them outright.”

“Ditto at Cadogan.”

Jonah nodded. “Let’s get moving.”

We walked down the street and toward the plaza, each step bringing us closer to the noise and magic.

“Who organized this?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Word of mouth, I assume.”

It was a completely rational assumption, but that didn’t make me feel any better about walking into it.

“Plan?” I asked him, now forced to raise my voice to account for the noise.

“We’re monitoring. We’re here as peacekeepers, and we’ll stay on the perimeter. Help anyone who looks like they’re in trouble, or help disperse the crowd if things get dangerous.”

I’d left my katana in the car—all the better to keep the CPD from harassing me about it—but the dagger was tucked into my boot. It was the only weapon I’d have if things got ugly. On the other hand, if things got ugly here, even a sword might not have helped.

Daley Plaza was open on three sides, bounded by Clark, Dear- born, and Washington streets and the Daley Center. It was a large expanse of concrete, punctuated by an insectlike metal Picasso sculpture reaching fifty feet into the air and a square fountain currently closed for the winter.

The plaza was packed with people, the crowd thick and heavy like deep water, so that each person was leaned or shoved into his or her neighbors, sending the wave forward.

Cops in black gear were visible on the edges, as were a few journalists with video cameras on their shoulders, and a few vampires standing in pairs outside the main crush. RG members, I thought, trying to keep the city’s supernaturals safe.

“There are a lot of people here,” he said.

“There are. And a lot of magic.” It was rising and falling like the movement of a symphony, raising uncomfortable prickles on my arms. “Itchy magic,” I said, scratching absently at the back of one hand.

It occurred to me that I was probably within telepathic distance of Ethan, and I called out to him silently but could practically feel the words bouncing back to me. Too much magical interference, perhaps.

“Let’s walk the perimeter,” he said, and I nodded, fell into step beside him. The night was cold, but the crush of bodies in front of us worked like a furnace to push heat in our direction.

The crowd was diverse, from obviously smitten teenagers who grinned with excitement at the cause to vampires and shifters I didn’t recognize, wearing bleak expressions and repeating their pleas for Ethan’s relief over and over and over again.

“Your man has a lot of support,” Jonah said.

“The cause has support,” I corrected, stopping short when two twentysomethings in coats and scarves bounded out of a cab and into the fray with neon posters demanding supernatural rights and Ethan’s release. “I can’t believe how many of them know who Ethan is.”

“He has fan sites, Merit.”

I stopped, looked at him, and found a bemused expression on his face. “He does not.”

“Next time you’re online, look up EthanSullivanIsMyMaster-dot-net. It has fan fiction. You’re not doing a very good job of keeping up with Ethan’s many admirers.”

“There is no such place, and there is no such fan fiction.”

This time, he stopped and looked at me, his expression flat.

My mind whirled at the possibility of hordes of human women lusting over my very vampiric boyfriend. I decided I found it endearing, since I wasn’t worried about his fidelity. Although my Internet research was clearly lacking. I made a mental note to catch up when I had some free time.