Chloe Neill - Wild Things

“What about the protest?” I asked Luc.

Luc nodded. “Catcher’s keeping an eye on it. He still has your grandfather’s contacts at the CPD, and they’ve reached out to him for advice on the sup angle. Fortunately, the CPD still has domain outside the halls of the Daley Center.”

“And Ethan?” Jonah asked.

“Andrew’s calling with updates. He’s got a libel and slander complaint against the city ready for filing based on the public enemy list. He’s just waiting for Scott’s lawyers to look it over. No word from Morgan, of course, but that’s not unusual. He prefers to ignore problems while we deal with them.

“Still no word on a release time, but Andrew says they let him visit Ethan a couple of hours ago. He’s looking worse for wear—the terrorism hounds are apparently using this unique opportunity to test the boundaries of the Eighth Amendment.”

Since that one, I remembered from a lone history class in college, involved cruel and unusual punishment, it didn’t make me feel any better.

I braced myself. “How bad is it?”

“Bruising, broken cheekbone. The goons believe they’re saving the world. In many cases, they might be correct. But not in this one.” Luc patted my arm. “I’ll let you know if anything happens. Go check out the park. We take this one step at a time.”

• • •

Humboldt Park was a large, slightly L-shaped expanse of grass, trees, walking paths, and baseball fields between the Humboldt Park and Ukrainian Village neighborhoods. The grass was still covered with snow, except in the bottom corner of the park, where Jack Frost’s Winter Wonderland had set up shop. Regan had changed the name again, but the rest of the carnival looked and smelled the same.

Jonah parked along the street. “Katana?” he asked as we climbed out of the car and over the hillock of snow that still marked the curb.

“I think not tonight. Too suspicious. I have a dagger. You?”

“Same. Plus a couple of extra toys.”

It was generally considered déclassé for vampires to carry concealed weapons. The katana, roughly three feet of honed steel, was difficult to hide, which made its use more honorable among the vamps who actually cared about such things. I understood the sensibility, but in twenty-first-century Chicago, one needed to be a little more practical.

“And what toys are those?” I wondered, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets to protect against the chill, as we walked toward the carnival entrance.

“Shuriken,” he said. “Ninja stars, in American parlance.”

I nodded. “Sure. I look forward to seeing those in action.” It was late, and there weren’t many humans around. But the occasional couple wandered past us, so this probably wasn’t the best time for shuriken .

We walked inside, started at the midway. We could buy tickets for the ring toss, duck shoot, baseball throw, or water gun game, or funnel cakes with any number of toppings.

My stomach began to growl. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

“Need dinner?” Jonah asked.

“Not from here.” And not now, when there was a chance we’d end up pushing and shoving an unidentified sup around. “But I wouldn’t object to a drive-through on the way home.”

“Duly noted. Hey,” he said, brightening as he saw the pirate- ship ride, the boat swinging back and forth while a few brave humans raised their arms victoriously. “I’ve always wanted to ride one of those.”

“Need a ticket?” I slyly asked.

Jonah humphed, and while he watched the ride’s pendulum motion, I checked out the man working the controls. Thin, dark skin, bored expression. Human, with a giant wad of gum in his mouth. Not obviously a part of any magical scheme, which meant we needed to move on.

Regan, not surprisingly, was nowhere in sight. She’d probably have known by now that Harley wasn’t coming back, and she’d lost her nymph. The rest of the ride and game operators were human, and there was no other scent or feel of magic in the air.

We made a full circle around the block and were about to start a second pass, when I caught a pop of red through the trees.

“Jonah,” I said, stepping off the path and onto the snow beyond it. He stepped beside me, peered into the darkness.

“What is that?”

“I’m not sure.” I pulled the dagger from my boot and, when I caught the glint of silver in his hand, moved forward.

It sat beneath the bare and stretching branches of an ancient tree, a wooden wagon atop large wooden wheels. The wheels, spokes radiating from a center hub, were probably three feet across. The wagon itself was a long, rectangular base with a tall, rounded top, nearly circular, painted vibrantly red. The back end had two small windows, covered by curtains, with a short, narrow door between. A yellow scalloped ladder ran down to the ground. There wasn’t a single sign of life.

I’d seen pictures of tinkers and travelers, of families who lived in wagons outside the strictures of normal society. This was nearly too picture-perfect to seem real.

“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?