Wild Hunger Read online

  The Portman Grand was just off State, a column of pale stone, with symmetrical windows and flags flying above the entrance. A crowd of humans had gathered to watch the Autos arrive, the sidewalk crowded with people who waved their screens in the air, waiting for a glimpse of vampires.

  There were Cadogan House caps sprinkled in with the usual Cubs, Sox, Hawks, and Bears gear, and a few “Welcome to Chicago” signs that made me feel better after yesterday’s attack. Peace was never guaranteed, but it was good to see allies in the crowd.

  They screamed my name when I climbed out of the car. My parents were the closest thing American supernaturals had to royalty. That—and my unusual biology—made the media particularly interested in me. The attention had always made me uncomfortable, not least because I hadn’t done anything to deserve it. But I waved and smiled as I followed Seri toward the door, letting the bellmen handle the luggage so I could get inside faster. And I didn’t fail to notice the men and women in severe black suits positioned near the door. Security personnel keeping an eye on things. I relaxed incrementally.

  Inside, the hotel looked European. Cool and quietly luxurious, with gorgeous art, lush fabrics, and soft golden light that left plenty of shadows for the wealthy and famous to lounge and whisper in and remain undisturbed.

  “Elisa Sullivan!”

  I turned, found a man with brown skin and short, black hair in twisted whorls. He was cute, with hazel eyes and a wide, generous mouth quirked in a crooked smile. Easily four or five inches over six feet, and fit for his height. His fashion sense was also quirky, if the bow tie and Converses he’d paired with the dark gray suit were any indication. A black canvas messenger bag was situated diagonally across his chest.

  “That’s me,” I said, and took the hand he offered.

  “Theo Martin. I’m one of the Assistant Ombudsmen.”

  “There are Assistant Ombudsmen?”

  He smiled endearingly. “There are.” His gaze shifted and he smiled at Seri.

  “Seraphine of Maison Dumas,” I said when she reached us. “Theo Martin.”

  “A pleasure,” she said.

  Theo pulled a packet from his bag, offered it to me. “Your badges, itineraries, maps, security information.”

  Seri and I took them. “The other delegates from France have arrived?”

  “They have,” he said. “They were escorted to their rooms on the secured floors. We’ve stationed security at the elevators and stairs, and throughout the building.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Any trouble?”

  “None,” Theo said, and his smile dropped away. “We heard about Paris. But we’ve had no concerns here. Hopefully, it will stay that way. And if not”—he lifted a shoulder—“that’s why we’re here.”

  By “we,” he meant the Ombudsman’s office.

  My parents had had plenty of adventure before peace came to Chicago; they’d battled monsters, demons, sorcerers, and elves, among others. But while they’d saved the city several times over, those adventures—and the evildoers they’d battled—had damaged city property. Just after I was born, they struck a deal with the mayor: In the future, they’d let the Ombudsman’s office handle the supernatural drama. In exchange, the damages to city property would be forgiven, and the Ombudsman got a bigger office, a bigger budget, and a bigger staff.

  Theo’s smile was still easy, so I didn’t think he meant the comment as a rebuke. Just a promise to help.

  “Sure,” I said with a noncommittal smile. “And thanks for the packet.”

  “Enjoy your room,” he said. “And we’ll see you at the party.”

  Unless I fell into the minibar first.

  * * *

  • • •

  I distributed the room keys and badges to Seri and her entourage and saw them to their rooms. We passed a half dozen guards on the way, which made me relax a little more.

  They’d given me a suite with an amazing view of Grant Park and Lake Michigan. It was styled much like the lobby, but with Chicago flair. Expensive fabrics in pale gold and deep turquoise were paired with large, stark photographs of Chicago architecture: the nautilus staircase in the Rookery Building, the stair-step silhouette of Willis Tower, the lions in front of the Art Institute.

  My suitcase was waiting and already propped on a stand. I stuffed clothes into drawers and toiletries into the bath, then hung up the fancier things I didn’t want to have to iron over the next few nights.

  I’d traveled in jeans and layers for the inevitable chill on the plane. The reception was semiformal, but still work. And it would require something more dramatic.

  I’d learned early how clothes helped make the vampire, and that had only been reinforced in Paris. I’d brought a black cocktail dress—a simple column with a hem that ended just above the knees and long, fluid sleeves—and I paired it with black stilettos. Not practical for fighting, assuming that would happen at a supernatural reception, but they were kicked off easily enough.

  I left my hair down, gave myself a quick makeup check, and added blush to cheeks made extra pale by travel, and mascara to green eyes that needed a pick-me-up.

  After the party, I’d come back to the room, rehydrate, and try to squeeze in a few yoga poses. I’d started doing yoga as a teenager, because the stretches made painful vampiric growth spurts a little easier to bear, and I’d kept up the practice. I liked being flexible. But, most important, I liked being in control. Yoga gave me the focus I needed to stay that way. When I focused, I wasn’t Elisa-and-Monster. I simply was.

  I decided to leave my katana in the room. But I slipped a small knife into my clutch, just in case.

  A vampire couldn’t be too prepared.

  * * *

  • • •

  Vampires were the only supernaturals officially participating in the talks, but the reception was open to all of Chicago’s sups. Both sets—European vampires and Chicago supernaturals—were given the chance to make their own entrance into the party, a chance to show off their particular cultures. It was our version of the Olympic opening ceremony.

  A wide wooden staircase led from the hotel’s opulent lobby to the second floor, where the Red Ballroom awaited its guests.

  There were metal detectors and scanners at the entrance, and a coat check for jackets, wraps, bags, and supernatural weapons that weren’t allowed into the ballroom. I’d gotten an exception for my knife since I was there, at least in part, to keep an eye on the Dumas vampires.

  A large man with broad shoulders, a short neck, and a pug-nosed face—one of Chicago’s River trolls—offered a length of pipe to the young woman who manned the coat check, gum popping and apparently unfazed as she attached a tag to the pipe and handed the troll his receipt.

  “Have a good night next please,” she said, the words running together in a well-practiced song.

  I walked into the ballroom, which was an impressive space. The walls were painted with sweeping murals of Chicago’s history, the floor covered in crimson carpet patterned with gold filigree. Strings of tiny lights reached down from the ceiling like stars within reach.

  There were bars and buffet tables along one wall that smelled enticingly of meat, a string quartet on the dais at the opposite end that played a low concerto, and a long aisle between cocktail tables where the supernatural parade would make its way through the room.

  “Hey, Elisa,” said a voice I didn’t immediately recognize.

  I glanced beside me, saw only shoulders. I had to look up to see the face of the Assistant Ombudsman I’d met earlier today.

  “Hey,” I said with a little wave. “It’s Theo, right?”

  “That’s me.”

  He still wore the dark suit and bright gingham bow tie. “I like the tie.”

  “Thanks. I like the dress,” he said, and gestured to his own arm. “And the sleeves.”

  “Thanks,” I said
with a smile. “Did you get all the delegates checked in?”

  “Every last one of them,” Theo said. “They’re scattered around the city, of course, in the unlikely event anyone should attack. That was a challenge, and not just because of the egos.”

  “Complainers?” I asked with a smile.

  “You have no idea. I won’t name names—Spain,” he muttered behind a fake cough, “but one delegate was angry about the size of his three-room suite, because he’d been promised a four-room suite.”

  “Obviously intentional to humiliate him.”

  He smiled knowingly. “Exactly. Another was mad because the mini-bar booze wasn’t top-shelf, and she wasn’t going to drink swill.”

  I walked through my mental list of the European Houses, the delegates. “Germany?” I guessed.

  “Nailed it,” he said.

  My parents walked in, my father in a crisp tuxedo, my mother in a sleeveless black sheath that fell to mid-calf, her hair around her shoulders. They were holding hands, my father whispering something that had my mother grinning. Her response had him rolling his eyes.

  “They seem well matched,” Theo said.

  “I think they are.” I looked at him. “Are you here with someone?”

  “Me? No, I’m single.” He smiled, but his brow was furrowed. “I’m not really looking. Career is first for me. What about you? The media loves to speculate about Cadogan’s princess.”

  “That’s just clickbait,” I said. “I’m single, too, and not really looking, either. Ditto the career thing.”

  “Sounds like we have a lot in common.”

  I had a feeling he meant exactly that. No more and no less.

  I hadn’t known Theo for longer than an hour, but there was something about him I liked. Something honest and unpretentious. After living with vampires for twenty-three years, that was a characteristic I could appreciate.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It sounds like we do.”

  “Good evening,” my father said when they reached us, then bent to kiss my cheek. “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you. You look very dashing, as always.” I gestured to Theo. “Theo, have you met my parents?”

  “Hello, Theo,” my mother said, holding out a hand. “We met at the barbecue.”

  “Sure, sure,” Theo said, and shook hands with her, then my father.

  “Barbecue?” I asked.

  “Your great-grandfather’s annual event,” my mother said.

  The downside of living in Paris was missing family events. “Did he make the red coleslaw?”

  “He did,” my mother said with a grin, and I sighed balefully.

  Theo slanted me a look. “That was a pretty serious sigh for coleslaw. I mean, no one actually eats the coleslaw, do they? It’s just for show, right?”

  “You obviously didn’t try the coleslaw,” my mother said, clucking her tongue.

  Obviously baffled, Theo looked at my father. “But . . . it’s coleslaw. What am I missing?”

  My father slid his hands into his pockets. “I decline the invitation to debate coleslaw again. And I strongly suggest you walk away, as well. Debating food with the Merit family is a war you cannot win.”

  Theo still looked baffled, but he was smiling. Which I figured was just about the correct reaction.

  “The coleslaw was fantastic as always,” my mother said, ending the argument. “And the Pack supplied the meat this year. It was great. You should check out the new office while you’re in town. It’s impressive. And Lulu’s painting a mural at Little Red.”

  “She told me,” I said.

  Lulu Bell was my best friend, and the daughter of my mother’s best friend, Mallory Carmichael Bell. Unlike Mallory, Lulu didn’t do magic. But she did art in a big way. She’d taken classes at the Art Institute, led her high school art club, and had gotten a degree from a fancy design school on the East Coast. Now she worked as a freelance painter and illustrator; the bigger the image, the better. Little Red was the Pack’s bar, situated in a corner of the city’s Ukrainian Village neighborhood.

  “I let her know I got here safe, and I’m going to try to get over there tomorrow,” I said. “Is Uncle Malik coming tonight?” I looked around again. I’d seen two of Chicago’s Masters—Morgan Greer and Scott Grey—in the crowd. But the fourth was a no-show so far.

  Malik had been my father’s second-in-command until he’d gotten his own House three years ago. Malik and his wife, Aaliyah, had been the only other married couple in Cadogan House while I’d lived there. My father’s siblings were long gone, and we hadn’t visited my mother’s side of the family very often, so Malik and Aaliyah had been my family.

  “Not tonight,” my father said. “He took point on preparations at the theater for the session tomorrow.”

  “He’s with Yuen and Petra,” Theo said, then glanced at me. “Roger Yuen’s the second-in-command at the OMB—that’s what we call the office—and Petra’s our tech lead.”

  “And you got parade duty?” my mother asked with a smile.

  “I wasn’t about to miss this,” he said. “It’s the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade with fangs and fur.”

  “And there’s your tagline,” my father said with a smile.

  Theo frowned and squinted at something in the front of the room. He mumbled something about flags, then offered his excuses and headed through the crowd. I watched until he reached a woman adjusting the flags of the represented nations at the front of the room, then worked with her to adjust their heights so they matched perfectly.

  My father glanced at me. “I don’t see Seri or Marion. I presume the French delegation is marching?”

  “They are. I suggested they toss croissants from baskets, but Marion declined.”

  My father’s brows lifted in amusement. “You suggested the Master of Maison Dumas throw pastries at a crowd of delegates?”

  “It was funny in context,” I said, and then wondered if I’d made some sort of international faux pas. But I remembered Marion’s throaty chuckle, and decided I was in the clear.

  “She actually thought pain au chocolat would be more festive,” I explained.

  “I suppose they won’t be parading,” my mother said, and gestured toward the door.

  Gabriel Keene, shifter and alpha, stood just inside the ballroom, casting a wary gaze on the formal surroundings. His leather jacket and slacks were a contrast to the finery in the room, but his outfit was fancy by shifter standards.

  At his side was his wife, Tanya. He was as tall and broad-shouldered as Tanya was petite and delicate. He had dark blond hair, tan skin, golden eyes. She was pale with dark hair, her eyes green but sharp in a way that belied her size.

  Shifters fell between humans and vampires on the mortality spectrum, getting longer life spans than humans but not the full dose of forever. So Gabriel and Tanya hadn’t aged as much as humans, or as little as vampires. Time had put soft lines at the corners of their eyes, around their smiles.

  They looked around, spotted us, and headed our way. And into the space where they’d stood stepped the prince of wolves himself.

  The last four years had been good to Connor Keene.

  He had his father’s build and his mother’s coloring. His wavy hair was nearly black, and just long enough to frame his spring-blue eyes. He had thick brows, a strong jaw, and a dimple in his square chin. His lips were generous and smiling. His nose was straight, except for a divot on the bridge from a high school fight.

  He was undeniably gorgeous, but as cocky as they came. Absolutely sure of his place in the world, because he’d decided he’d take his father’s position as head of the Pack, competitors be damned. And reckless, because he was a shifter. He’d driven me crazy, like an irritating burr. And because our parents were friends, he’d been a burr at Cadogan House entirely too often.

  He was taller now, his sho
ulders broader, and the muscle looked good beneath gray slacks and a gray vest over a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up over strong arms.

  He held himself differently. There was no teenage slouch, no lanky muscle. There was confidence, power, and awareness.

  This wasn’t the boy who’d stolen my toy sword.

  This was a man on the edge of power.

  So I prepared for battle.

  FOUR

  Connor glanced at me, eyes appraising as he looked me over, and took my measure. Then he strode toward us and joined his parents.

  “Kitten,” Gabriel said to my mother. “Sullivan,” to my father. And then he looked at me, smiled. “Elisa. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be home.”

  “I’m sure you two remember each other,” Tanya said, putting a hand on Connor’s forearm when he reached us.

  How could I have forgotten? “Of course,” I said.

  “Elisa.” Connor said my name slowly and deliberately, like he’d never let the word cross his lips. Which was entirely possible, since he’d usually called me “brat” because it drove me crazy. I’d usually called him “puppy” for the same reason. Maybe we were playing nice.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “I’m good. I didn’t know you were coming back.”

  I smiled. “So you didn’t dress up for me?”

  His eyes warmed, a corner of his mouth lifting in a smile that had destroyed plenty of hearts. “I’m not wearing a cape. Isn’t that the vampire uniform?”

  Or maybe we weren’t playing nice. “Only if it has the high collar,” I said, pointing to my neck. “You aren’t wearing the uniform of your people, either. Leather and motorcycle boots, right?”

  This was our script of sarcasm. Older now than the last time we’d played it out, but we still knew our parts.