Chloe Neill - Wild Things

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?”

He didn’t bother with denial. “It is. And it’s easy for me to stand on a pedestal and talk about doing the right thing. But sometimes doing the right thing means getting your hands dirty.”

“Truer words,” I muttered, thinking of all the times I’d fudged the truth to keep my people safe and happy, including recently. “Thank you, Seth.”

“You’re welcome, Ballerina. Oh, and about the girl—I’ve racked my brain, but I can’t think of anything helpful. I’m sorry.”

It took me a moment to switch mental gears. “Actually, I have something specific for you there. Hold on—I’m going to send you a photograph.” I forwarded the picture we’d found in the vardo. “Do you recognize the woman?”

There was a long silence, long enough that my blood began to hum in anticipation.

“Jesus,” he finally said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

That hum turned to a full-on roar.

“Her name was Annalissa Purdey. He met her years ago.”

I scribbled that name, too, and passed it to Jeff. “He?” I asked Seth.

“Dominic.”

I blinked, confused. “I don’t understand. What do you mean he met her?”

“We shared a body,” he said. “I didn’t know it at the time, of course. But looking back now, I realize there were times when he . . . when he was in control, with all his ego and self-righteousness. He was stronger at some moments than others.”

“And he was stronger with Annalissa Purdey?”

“They had a romance. It must have lasted five months, or perhaps six? I only vaguely remember. She was a young lawyer. A litigator. Smart. Bright. Very driven, and her ethics were, let’s say, flexible.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “She was right up his alley.

“He was driven by the attraction—strengthened by it—and he used that to push past me. It’s been—what—nearly two decades?”

“I’d put Regan at twenty-three or twenty-four, so, yeah, about two decades. You’d have been so young.”

Seth chuckled. “When one is immortal, age is negotiable. But what does Annalissa Purdey have to do with the girl you’re seeking?”

I thought of the inscription on the photograph. “We think Annalissa Purdey is her mother.”

He went stone silent, as did everyone else in the room. I could feel the weight of their stares, the tension as they waited for someone to voice the obvious implication.

“Regan is . . . Annalissa’s daughter?” Seth asked. “But that means she’s . . . Jesus,” he said again, and I heard the shuffling of fabric. He was sitting down, I imagined, and deservedly so. I probably should have advised him to do that in the first place.

“Your daughter?” I asked. “Or Dominic’s?”

“I don’t—” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know. Yes? I mean, we shared the body, but he was the one who had the affair. Is she his daughter? Is she my niece? I don’t know. Does it even matter?”

“It matters if it helps us find her. And we need to find her, Seth.”

“I’m sorry—I don’t know how to help you do that.” Frustration was clear in his voice. “Can you find her mother? Trace her that way?”

“We’re looking,” I said. “We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“I have—he had—a daughter.” This time, he sounded awed. “If you find her . . . ,” he said.

“We’ll let you know,” I promised him. “Thank you for calling, Seth. It means a lot to us. To me.”

“You may have given me a family,” he said. “That means a lot, too.”

We ended the call, and I rubbed my hands over my face. “I swear to God, the sups in this city could have their own reality show.”

“Sex happens,” Luc said. “With demons, too.”

“I guess.” I glanced at Jeff, who was squinting at his tablet, tongue peeking from the right side of his mouth.

“Annalissa Purdey is deceased,” he said, sending a photograph of an obituary to the screen. The story used the photograph, MOTHER still engraved at the bottom. They must have borrowed Regan’s picture.