Wild Things

Chapter Seventeen THE BANKER

Portville, Indiana, was gritty, a hard-bitten industrial town on the southern tip of Lake Michigan, just across the Indiana border. Portville had a reputation as a crumbling, blue-collar city abandoned by industry, its remaining vacuum filled by gangs, poverty, and violence.

Seth Tate, a fallen angel with contrition on his mind, had taken up residence there. If he’d really been serious about making amends for his past bad acts, the location was entirely appropriate. It definitely seemed like a city that needed help. On the other hand, during his less angelic days, when he’d been under Dominic’s influence, he’d been a drug kingpin and a befouler of vampires. A dirty city was just the type of place for him to work some dirty magic.

Either way, I had nothing more than the town’s name, which the Internet told me had nearly one hundred thousand residents. Not an address, a workplace, a church, or a precinct—but a name. This was going to be a challenge.

This was a big task, and I was going to need a partner. Unfortunately, both my official partners were under wraps. Ethan was in custody, and Jonah was captain of a House whose Master had been called an enemy of Chicago. He was going to have his hands full keeping his people safe.

That meant I needed to look elsewhere. So when I was in the car again, I pulled out my phone and called Jeff.

“Hey, Merit.”

“Hey.” I got to the point, and quickly. “Can you get away for a little while?”

“You planning a trip?”

“I am, actually. What do you know about Portville, Indiana?”

“Not a thing. Should I?”

“It’s where Seth Tate’s currently living.”

“Ah,” he said. “Sulfur and smoke?”

“Actually, yeah. If she’s connected to the Messengers, he’s the best person to tell us how. I still have to check with Luc and Malik, but I think they’ll say yes.”

“And Ethan?”

“He won’t mind as much if you go with me.”

“I know when I’ve been beat. Where should I meet you?”

Since I was already on the south side, I gave him the address of the convenience store I’d pulled into to make my calls. “I’ve got to cover my bases. I’ll let you know as soon as it’s a go.”

“I’m leaving now,” he said, apparently convinced I’d get the okay.

I was glad Jeff was on my side. Now I had to make sure the rest of the pieces aligned.

• • •

That alignment took phone calls. Plural.

I called Luc, told him Mallory and Catcher had found Tate, and Jeff had agreed to go with me to see him.

Luc hung up, and while I blasted Moneypenny’s heat and sipped the soda I’d grabbed at the convenience store—heavy on the ice and cherry flavoring, ’cause I was in that kind of mood—I waited.

Ten minutes later, I got a call back. My stomach buzzed with nerves.

“It’s Malik,” said the temporary Master of the House.

“Liege,” I acknowledged, a word I’d gotten used to during Ethan’s demise.

“Visiting him is a risk.”

“It is. And so is waiting for Regan to strike again, risking the elves attacking, and pissing off the Keenes. I was in Dominic’s prison, Malik. I know what he was capable of. But Seth Tate is not Dominic. The man we saw after the split was a good man, an earnest man, and he meant to make amends for the things he’d done. He stayed at the House, for God’s sake.”

“Ethan authorized him to say at the House,” Malik quietly said, his tone making clear that he hadn’t agreed with that decision.

“I don’t know if he’ll live up to that in the long run. But who else can we ask?”

Although I wasn’t entirely sure talking to Tate was a great idea, I was willing to stand behind it—and take the fall if necessary. I tried to pour that confidence and bravado into my voice.

“The idea is not without risk,” I admitted. “But I’m happy to take that risk on. We don’t have a lot of good options right now, and we’re stalled on Regan. I think it’s time to use the alliances we’ve created. He’s within driving distance, and he owes us a pretty big favor. Let me and Jeff drive down there. One conversation with him, and we see how far we get.”

Silence, while I gnawed the edge of my thumb.

“You go down tonight, you come back in one piece,” Malik said. “If he seems even remotely unstable, you abort the plan. If the situation seems dangerous, you abort the plan. If anything happens to you, you’ll have Ethan and me on your ass, and you don’t want that, Sentinel.”

“No, Liege,” I agreed. “I definitely do not.”

I did a happy dance. Not because I was thrilled to see Tate, but because I was thrilled to be doing something. Standing around the House and watching more footage of Ethan in trouble wasn’t going to help me at all.

“We’ll keep looking for Regan and the carnival,” Malik said. “Find us a guardian angel.”

It was my primary goal.

• • •

At first, I waited for Jeff outside the car, leaning against it like I was the baddest vampire in the modern age. Or certainly the vampire with the sweetest ride.

But it was February—in Chicago—and I quickly rejected that idea, climbed inside, and turned up the heater.

Jeff arrived a few minutes later, parked his car at the edge of the parking lot, and climbed in. “This is a damn fine automobile,” he said.

“Tell me about it.” I gestured toward the forty-four-ounce Mountain Dew in the cup holder, and the sticks of beef jerky I’d wedged between his cup and mine.

“What’s this?”

“Provisions. And a thank-you gift. That’s what gamers use for fuel, right?”

He looked at me with a mix of pity and adoration and my heart melted a little. “That was really nice, Merit.” He opened a stick of jerky, dug into it. “But don’t tell Fallon. She’s not a fan of processed food.”

“It’s just between us,” I promised, and we headed south.

• • •

The city lined up along the edge of Lake Michigan, with industrial ports and brick smokestacks reaching into the sky on the lake side, and dilapidated buildings on the other.

The main street was flat-out depressing, half the shops—still marked by their antique cursive signs—boarded up and closed. When manufacturing moved out, it took time for anything else to move back in. The Midwest and Rust Belt had dozens if not hundreds of towns proving that very point.

I found a cluster of new businesses close to the freeway, and pulled into the lot of a store that carried animal feed and farming supplies. You didn’t have to go very far outside Chicago to reach farmland.

“Need a snack?” Jeff asked with amusement.

“Need recon,” I said, pulling the photograph of Tate from my pocket. “We know he’s in the city. We don’t know much more than that.”

He gestured toward the photograph. “This is your big plan? You’re going to wander from store to store asking if anyone has seen him?”

In fairness, it sounded much more logical in my head. “He was the mayor of Chicago, and he’s looking for redemption. I don’t think he’s going to lay low. I think he’s going to get out there. Mix it up. Mingle.”

“He can’t still look like that,” Jeff said, pointing at the photo. “He’d be recognized. We’re not that far from the city.”

“I didn’t think of that,” I admitted. But we had to start somewhere. “I’ll try this. In the meantime, work some of your computer magic and see what you can find in the ether. I’ll be right back.

“No backup?”

“We don’t want to scare them,” I said. “If I go in alone, I’m asking questions. If both of us go in, we’re ganging up.”

When he finally nodded his agreement, I walked inside, a bell ringing on the door to signal my entry. The store smelled of leather and grains, and I lingered in the doorway for a moment, enjoying the fragrance. It smelled earnest, like hard work and chores.

The store was empty of people at this late hour, and a man, probably in his forties, stood behind the counter in a collared shirt and pants and a bright green vest with a name tag that read CARL.

He looked up at me, smiled. “Evening. Help you?”

“Yeah, actually, although I have kind of a strange request.” I walked toward the checkout line and pulled the photograph from my pocket. “I’m looking for this man.”

I held out the picture. He glanced at it for a moment, then back at me.

“Sorry. He doesn’t look familiar.” His eyes narrowed with interest. “Did he do something wrong?”

“No.” I frowned, realizing I hadn’t come up with a cover story, and opted for the truth. “He’s a friend of the family who disappeared. We’re trying to find him.”

As if sympathetic, he looked at the photograph again, shook his head. “Sorry. But good luck.”

I thanked him, tucked the photograph away again, and climbed back into the car. Jeff had pulled out that slick little square of glass, and he was tapping the screen busily.

“Let me guess—you’ve already found his address and favorite Chinese place?”

“No. But I just increased my mage to level forty-seven.”

“Gaming has a lot of math, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea.” He put the screen away again. “I found nothing, but of course I’m using mobile equipment, which isn’t quite as nice as the box I had at home when you called me and I could have looked it up.”

“You rehearsed that speech for a while, didn’t you?”

Jeff grinned. “I take it you weren’t successful, either?”

“Not even a little. He didn’t recognize the picture.”

The next guy and the girl that followed also couldn’t give me anything. In the end, it was the fourth stop and floppy-haired shifter who got it done.

“Let me take this one,” he said, climbing out of the car with me as we walked inside a twenty-four-hour diner that had seen better days—and cleaner linoleum.

He scoped out the waitstaff, spied a pretty, delicate-looking blonde behind the cash register, and walked up. Her hair was pulled into a dank ponytail, and there were bags of exhaustion beneath her eyes.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry to interrupt your night, but could I maybe ask you for a favor?” His eyes were bright and blue, his smile completely guileless. I’d have done a favor for him. As long as it wouldn’t have gotten me in trouble with Fallon.

“A favor?” she asked, blinking. “From me?”

“Yeah.” Jeff winced, all apologies. He held out the photograph he’d borrowed from me in the car. “We’re trying to find this man. I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

Her eyes widened. “Father Paul? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

So Tate hadn’t just shed his identity; he’d changed his name and apparently taken on religion. Although I guess that wasn’t hard to believe. He was an angel, after all.

Jeff smiled almost foolishly. “Oh, not at all. We’ve actually just been trying to find him. We heard him speak—and really liked what he had to say. But we haven’t been able to find his Web site or anything.”

She laughed. “Father Paul’s not one for technology.” She checked her watch. “You can probably find him at the food pantry. He works late nights sometimes, helping stock shelves.”

“And that’s near here?” Jeff asked with a beaming smile.

“Half a mile up the road. And tell him Lynnette said hello.”

Jeff smiled. “We absolutely will. Thanks a lot for the help.”

Lynnette waved a little, and we walked outside again.

“You were tremendous,” I said, stealing a glance at him. “And a damn good actor.”

“You grow up around sups,” Jeff cryptically said, “you learn to finesse the truth.”

• • •

According to the gospel of Lynnette, Seth Tate, former mayor of Chicago, was now Father Paul, and he worked at a food pantry in Portville, Indiana. Considering the havoc he’d wreaked in Chicago, I wasn’t sure if it was incredibly ironic or perfectly appropriate that he’d apparently dedicated his life to service.

The food pantry was unmistakable, several large steel buildings up the road, a pretty green, leafed logo painted along one side of the largest. I parked Moneypenny in a visitor’s spot and glanced at Jeff.

“You ready?”

He nodded. “Let’s do this.”

We walked inside and found a pretty woman with curly hair at the front desk, typing on a computer keyboard. She looked up and smiled when we entered. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Hi,” Jeff said. “Sorry to bother you, but we’re looking for Father Paul. I understand I can find him here?”

The phone rang, and she picked it up with one hand, pointed down the hallway with the other. “He’s in the warehouse. Down the hall, to the left.”

“Thank you,” Jeff said with a smile, punctuating his appreciation with a chipper tap on the counter as we walked down the hallway. It was a clean and happy place, the walls covered in children’s drawings and signs for previous holiday canned-food drives. The hallway led directly into the warehouse, which was impressive.

The space was huge, with a polished concrete floor, and was filled with twenty-foot-tall shelves of food in boxes, some wrapped in cellophane to keep them together. Smiling employees and volunteers walked the aisles with clipboards and moved pallets with forklifts into trucks that waited in three open bays.

A man with a scruffy beard and plaid shirt walked up to us, befuddlement in his expression. “Are you Laurie? The new volunteer? With a friend, maybe? We could use someone in the sorting room.”

“Sorry, no. We’re actually looking for Father Paul. The front desk said I could find him in here.”

“Oh, sure. He’s in diapers.” The man gestured toward the other end of the warehouse, and I stifled an immature laugh at his inadvertent joke.

The warehouse was chilly, cold air blowing in through the open bays. But the staff looked happy to be at work, buoyed, maybe, by the fact that they were helping others.

We did, indeed, find Seth Tate in diapers. But not literally.

He was tall and handsome, with blue eyes and wavy black hair. His hair was neatly trimmed, but a tidy black beard covered his face. If you hadn’t known Seth Tate, hadn’t been looking for him, you wouldn’t have seen the resemblance. It helped the disguise that he also wore a neck-to-ankle black cassock, the type of garment worn by priests. Seth Tate was hiding in plain sight, only thirty miles from Chicago.

He had a box of newborn diapers in hand but glanced up suddenly and met my gaze. His eyes widened with pleasant surprise, which calmed my nerves a bit. I’d been afraid he’d see our arrival as an unpleasant reminder of what he’d done in Chicago.

“Could I have a minute?” I whispered to Jeff.

“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be here”—he scanned the shelves—“in toilet paper.”

Seth put the box on a nearby table, and we walked toward each other, meeting in the middle. I could see he wanted to reach out, to greet me with an embrace, a kiss on the cheek, and a whispered “Hello, Ballerina,” as he’d greeted me as a teenager. I’d been a dancer, and I’d been photographed meeting Tate, a friend of my father’s, in a tutu.

But he held himself back, stopping three feet away. He clasped his hands behind his back as if he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation of human contact. Still, I caught the smells of lemon and sugar.

“Merit.”

“Father Paul,” I said, with a knowing glance. “You’re looking well.” I gestured toward the rest of the warehouse. “This is an impressive operation.”

He nodded, his gaze scanning the shelves and boxes. “It is a temple to generosity. All of this is donated to those in need.”

“Have you been here long?”

“Since I left Chicago. It’s my current mission, I think.” He tilted his head at me. “And I think I’m not the only one on a mission. What brings you here, Merit?”

“A mystery. And politics.”

“Always,” he said. He looked at me for a moment without even so much as a breath. “Perhaps we should speak somewhere more private?”

I nodded, and Jeff and I both followed as he walked toward the door, the cassock’s thick fabric swishing as he moved.

People offered greetings and shook his hand as they passed, apparently unaware of his history or the fact that he was an angel and could sprout wings large enough to carry us both out of the building.

We headed out into the chilly night and toward a picnic table that had seen better days, its wood faded and cracked.

Tate sat down on the bench, back to the table, skirt swirling as he moved. Jeff and I stood by, watching as Tate stared silently at the men and women coming from and going to the warehouse’s busy shipping bays.

“What can I do for you, Merit?”

I gave him Regan’s history, detailed the kidnappings and attacks, explained that we’d yet to find her and were risking a truce with the elves. And then I got to the point.

“I chased her in Loring Park. She smelled like sulfur and smoke.”

His expression stayed the same, but I saw the tiny hitch in his eyes. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“She has power—a lot of it. She’s not a sorceress. And she smells like Dominic did. We thought no other twins had separated when the Maleficium was destroyed.”

“They didn’t. Or shouldn’t have. I was the only one touching it.”

“Is there a chance you have children?”

His eyes went wide. “Do I have children who are kidnapping supernaturals, you mean?”

Irritation was beginning to rise. “We’ve come to you because we need help. Because you’re the expert in this area. That’s not an insult—it’s a magical fact. You know more about Messengers—fallen or otherwise—than anyone else we know. We need you.”

He sighed, rubbed his temples. And then he looked at me, apology in his eyes, and I felt lost. “I’m sorry, Merit. But I truly don’t know anything that could help.”

I glanced at Jeff, who shrugged.

“All right,” I said. “In that case, maybe there’s something else you can help with. Long story short, Mayor Kowalcyzk’s off her rocker. She’s arrested Ethan for a death he committed in self-defense, beaten Scott, raided Navarre, and put together a goon squad because she thinks we’re domestic terrorists.”

“And what do you want me to do about that?”

I bit back cross words. “I don’t know. Can you talk to her? Explain to her that supernaturals aren’t her enemies?”

“She wouldn’t listen to me, Merit.”

I felt hope draining. “You know that for a fact?”

“Fact enough. She thinks I’m a felon. And even if she listened to me, she doesn’t appear that willing to use reason or logic.”

“I’m just asking you to try.”

He looked away, worrying the inside of his cheek. “I can’t return to that life, Merit. Not when there’s so much to do here. So much good I could do. So much good I am doing.”

“There’s good to be done everywhere,” I said. “But the good in Chicago is the kind only you can do. I don’t know where else to turn.”

“Chicago isn’t my home anymore. It is lovely to see you, though. Would you like to stay? Work for a while? I think you’ll find it feeds the soul.”

I looked at him, mystified by the naive cheer in his voice. He couldn’t have missed the panic and fear in mine.

“This isn’t my town,” I pointed out. “And it isn’t really yours.”

His gaze snapped back to mine, and I saw the spark in his cold blue eyes. He wasn’t unaware of my panic.

He was in denial.

“Chicago is troubled,” he said.

“It’s not perfect. But it moves forward, and it fights. Its people and its vampires fight.”

He made a sarcastic sound. “For what? There will always be another monster around the corner, Merit. And I know. I was one of them. People will always be afraid of the monster. And that fear will win every time.”

“Courage has nothing to do with winning,” I quietly said. “Courage is about fighting the good fight. Stepping forward, even when stepping forward is the crappiest of all possible options.”

I looked at Jeff, saw the appreciation in his eyes, and smiled. “It’s taken me a long time to understand that,” I said. “But I do now.”

I glanced at the people who moved behind us, hauling pallets, reviewing clipboards, and preparing shipments.

I looked back at Tate, the furrow of his brow as he looked at them, and the distance that I saw there. He wanted to be part of what they were—of lives that were simpler than his own. I understood that perspective; I’d shared it for some of my nights as a vampire. But like me, he knew it wasn’t to be. He just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

“I don’t begrudge anyone their recovery,” I said, thinking of Mallory. “But there’s something to be said for redemption. And right now, you have a perfect opportunity.”

I kept my gaze on his, hoping against hope that he’d change his mind, spring up, go with us back to Chicago.

But he didn’t speak a word, and my chest tightened with fear and frustration.

“If you change your mind, you know where to reach me.” I turned my back on him, began to walk with Jeff toward the parking lot again.

“Merit,” Tate said, filling me with hope.

But when I looked back, there was nothing but regret in his face.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology made me feel even worse.

• • •

I didn’t text the House that I’d been unsuccessful. I wasn’t ready to admit how utterly useless our trip had been or how resistant Tate had been to helping us. I wasn’t ready to face the degree of his denial about how he’d shaped the city, helping make it what it was today, for better or worse.

Of course, I still hoped he’d come to his senses and appear outside Cadogan House, holding a radio above his head, contrition in his eyes and stern words for Diane Kowalcyzk on his lips.

Unfortunately, and much to Luc’s chagrin, life wasn’t a movie, and Seth Tate wasn’t interested in our concerns. I empathized with him. It was undoubtedly easier to make good for your past bad acts in a tidy, cheery warehouse miles away from the mess you’d made, than on the ground in Chicago and in the middle of the trouble. In Chicago, he was the defrocked mayor, the man with the nasty past. In Portville, he was Father Paul. A man with a mission to help others.

Maybe that was what irritated me most—that he’d gotten a clean slate, free and clear. Tate hadn’t stayed in Chicago to face the consequences, to tell his tale, or to pick up the pieces. I had to give Mallory props for sticking around, fessing up, and trying to make it right.

“What are you going to do now?” Jeff asked as I focused on the road ahead of us, which was marked by billboards for outlet malls, chiropractors, attorneys.

“I don’t know. But it’s making me irritable.”

“I wish I had some advice to offer,” he said, glancing out the window. “Or some strings to pull.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

My phone beeped. I was a careful driver, so at my nod, Jeff checked the screen.

“Well, well, well,” he said.

“Ethan’s free?” It was easy to tell what was on my mind.

“I doubt it, because there are a hundred supernaturals picketing in front of the Daley Center demanding his release.”