Chloe Neill - Wild Things

I’d gained half a block but stopped at Cassie’s side, taking in her dilated pupils and vague expression.

“I’ll take care of her, Merit!” Jonah said, running across the street and signaling me onward. “Go get the girl!”

I took his word for it and took off. Regan kept running north, dodging people and disappearing into the shadows of an El track that covered Lake Street. I quickened my pace as she began to climb one of the vertical supports that kept the train tracks in the air.

She climbed clumsily, was five feet in the air when I reached her, jumped up, and grabbed her ankle. She kicked it off, catching me in the shoulder. I ignored the shot of pain and grabbed again.

Arms pinwheeling in the air, she fell, pushing me down behind her and landing on top of me with enough verve to leave me momentarily breathless.

She turned, began pummeling me with her fists. A train rushed by overhead, the roar blocking the dull thud of her fist against my breastbone, the crack of her knuckles against concrete when I dodged a second blow.

I reared back, pulled up my legs, and made contact with her abdomen. With a whoop of air, she fell backward, hit the ground, and skidded a few feet behind her.

I climbed to my feet, hobbled toward her, and reached down to pull back the cape’s hood.

The girl who blinked back at me was definitely not Regan.

The girl also wasn’t entirely in our plane of existence.

She sat on a chair we’d placed in the middle of the Cadogan training room, completely unmoving. She was approximately Regan’s height and build but had short, dark curls in place of Regan’s shock of platinum hair. Her eyes were deeply brown, and at the moment, open and blank.

She hadn’t spoken at all, hadn’t even acknowledged where we were or how we’d gotten there. I’d driven Moneypenny home; she’d been in the back of Jonah’s car.

Cassie had snapped out of her trance and was upstairs in the foyer, where Lindsey had volunteered to entertain her with fashion magazines while they awaited Jeff’s calming presence.

The training room door opened, and Paige walked inside, her vibrantly red hair set off by jeans and a long-sleeved, pale blue shirt with a V-neck. Even in jeans, she had a smoldering sensuality, like a magical, rusty-haired version of Marilyn Monroe.

Eyes mild, she surveyed the room, nodding at me and Luc before her gaze fell onto the girl. She stared at her for a moment, tilting her head at the girl with obvious fascination.

“She hasn’t spoken?”

“Not a word,” I said. “Not the entire time.”

“You said she tried to grab a nymph?”

“Did grab her,” I said. “But we grabbed her back before she could make it to wherever she was going.”

Paige dropped to one knee, looking into the girl’s eyes, then leaned forward and sniffed delicately at the cape. Sniffing out magic wasn’t unusual among sups; it had, actually, been the way Malik had first figured out Mallory’s sorcery.

Her nose wrinkled and she jerked back, looked at me. “Sulfur, as we suspected.”

“Her?” I wondered.

“No, not this girl,” Paige said. She took to her feet again, fisted her hands on her hips. “It’s in the fabric. The girl’s been ensorcelled, but I use that term loosely. This isn’t Order magic. It’s”—she frowned, pursed her lips—“something else.”

“Can you bring her out of whatever this is so we can ask her some questions?” Luc asked.

“I can certainly try.” She glanced at us, wiggled her fingers. “Move back, please. Behind me.”

We did as she directed without objection. I knew what magic sorcerers could make—and the balls of light and fire that usually accompanied it—and I didn’t want to be downwind of it.

Paige stood, shimmied her hair from her shoulders, and looked down at the girl. “On three, you’ll awaken. Refreshed, perhaps a bit confused, and ready to talk.” She lifted curled fingers in front of the girl’s face. “One, two, and three.” Paige snapped her fingers.

Like she’d flicked a switch, the girl looked up, around, and blinked back confusion.

“That was it?” I asked, not disappointed exactly, but certainly surprised by the lack of flash and magic.

“Recall,” Paige patiently said, “that you don’t see everything. Every sorcerer has their own style. In situations like this, I try to keep the physical manifestations as mild as possible. She’ll remember what she saw; it’ll be better for her if it wasn’t traumatic.”

The girl focused glazed eyes on Paige, then us. There was fear in her eyes; if she’d had a run-in with Regan, I didn’t find that surprising. On the other hand, she could be an accomplice. Just as guilty, but a very good actor.

“Are you all right?” Paige asked.

She swallowed thickly, nodded, her eyes still darting around the room, hesitating as she took in the antique weapons that hung on the walls. “I didn’t do anything. It wasn’t me. It was her.”

“Let’s hold on,” Paige said, voice smooth and calm like a supernatural therapist. “One step at a time. What’s your name?”

“I’m Harley. Harley Cutler. Harley Elizabeth Cutler.” With each repetition of her name, her focus became sharper. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Chicago, with vampires. Allies,” Paige said, lest she not think better of us. “You’re at Cadogan House.”

“Regan,” she said, glancing nervously around. “Where’s Regan?”

Luc stepped forward, crouched in front of her. “We were hoping you could tell us that. Do you remember what happened tonight?”

“Remember?” She looked down at her body, her clothes, seemed to realize she was wearing the cape. She began clawing at it, peeling it off.

“It’s Regan’s,” she said, voice suddenly frantic. “This is Regan’s.” She managed to get it off, threw it to the floor.

“Where is she?” I asked.

Harley looked up at me, and the fear in her eyes transmuted to anger. “I don’t know.” Recognition dawned in her eyes. “You chased me—at the plaza. You saw me grab the girl, and you chased me down the street.”

I nodded. “That was me. You were going to take her back to Regan?”

“Not because I wanted to!” Her eyes went frantic, scanning each of us as if she had to prove to us she was innocent. I’d seen her eyes; I believed her.

“She set it up,” Harley insisted. “Made me wear the cape. Said you’d seen her in it.”

“Why did she want to make you look like her?”

She shrugged. “She didn’t want to get caught. She didn’t think you’d consider the plaza a target. But just in case . . .”

Regan had been right. We hadn’t considered it a target until we’d seen that damn Little Red Riding Hood getup. But it fit her MO—create a chaotic, magical situation and use it as a distraction to lure out a sup.

“The protesters weren’t real,” Harley said. “Not all of them, anyway.”

“They certainly looked real,” Jonah said, glancing at me. “The magic felt real.”

He was right, but he hadn’t seen the harpies. Didn’t know the extent of Regan’s ability to mold magic.

“The magic was real,” I said, getting a nod from Harley. “But the bodies were magic. Solidified magic, but still magic.” I turned back to Luc and Jonah. “There were at least three hundred sups at the Daley Center, all makes and models. Getting sups to do anything together is like herding cats, and suddenly hundreds of them show up at the Daley Center?” I shook my head. “There’s no way that’s real.”

“They were like the harpies,” Harley confirmed. “She knew she only needed to seed the plaza—get enough fake bodies in there to make it seem like a real protest, and folks would join in.”