Wild Things

Chapter Nine THE SPOILS OF WAR

There were hundreds of shifters, some in NAC jackets, some in animal form. All behind the front line—which consisted of the Keenes, Nick, Ethan, Catcher, and Mallory—and waiting for orders.

Ethan searched the marching bulk, body stilling when he finally saw me, as he took in the chains on my ankles and whatever concoction of blood and dirt had stiffened on my face. His body went rigid, his eyes hot with fury, and I feared he’d begin the charge himself, ripping through elves in order to punish them for my injuries.

I’m fine, I assured him, hoping to delay First Blood, and glad he couldn’t hear the hoarseness in my voice.

Sentinel, he crisply said. You’ve managed to get yourself into trouble again.

They nabbed me as I was walking down the sidewalk, I assured him. And I think the Canon needs updating.

Evidently, he responded, and there was a gravelly edge to his voice.

How did you find us?

Damien sent an alert before he was taken. The shifters scented out the rest of it.

The elf’s fingers still wrapped tightly around my arm, we marched forward, creating another line of troops. Behind us echoed the muted and rhythmic thud of boots on soil. The elves had their own army, and quarters had been called.

They stretched out beside us, shifting their short rows to form three long lines with Rockette-level precision. They raised their bows and tucked arrows into the strings, the silver arrowheads glinting in the moonlight, the air thick with tension and magic.

Our escort pushed us to our knees, where we knelt on hard, frozen ground in front of our colleagues and loved ones, enemies at our backs, weapons in their hands.

Ethan looked calmly at the elves, his body stiff and hiding the fear and anger that I knew ripped at him. But fear was a nasty motivator, and we didn’t need another supernatural war brewing outside Chicago. Not when events there were tense enough.

They were attacked, I told Ethan. And they think we—the Pack and vampires—were the culprits. They followed us, took us in. They must have been waiting for an opportunity to get us alone.

Ethan murmured to Gabriel beside him, probably offering the intel.

“You have breached our peace,” said the elf. “You shed First Blood.”

“We have shed no blood,” Gabriel said. “We were attacked last night without provocation. Several members of our Pack were injured. Four are dead.”

That didn’t seem to register with the elf. “One of ours is gone. We seek retribution in equal kind.”

As if those words were enough to justify murder, he lifted the sword ominously.

I braced to move, to fight back, but Ethan beat me to it. He unsheathed his katana, catching the moonlight like Excalibur might have. And he was Arthur, blond and strong and proud, willing to destroy a kingdom for his Guinevere.

“You make one move with that sword,” Ethan said, stepping forward, eyes furiously green, “and you’ll have every vampire in the world hunting you down. Beginning with me.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed with keen pleasure, as if the thought of taking on a vampire—or a world of them—was a prize, not a threat.

But Gabriel wasn’t keen on the destruction of his kingdom, his Pack, or his allies. He put a calming hand on Ethan’s arm.

“If you commit violence,” Gabriel said to the elf, “you will breach the contract between us.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed, and while he didn’t speak to me, it was easy to guess the line of his thought. The Pack had a contract with a species that wasn’t supposed to exist—which had apparently created a village just outside Chicago—and no one had bothered to tell us about it.

“You breached the pact first,” the elf said again, his voice growing irritable and sounding not unlike an ornery child. “We claim the right of retribution.”

Gabriel watched him for a moment, considered. “Support your claim.” And when Ethan began to protest, Gabriel held up a hand. “I would hear precisely how the elves believe we wronged them.”

“It was glamour,” the elf said, damning me with a look. Glamour was the particular magic of vampires—the mythical ability to seduce and control others. But the ability to glamour varied significantly from vampire to vampire. Ironically, I couldn’t glamour worth a damn.

“We were together for our midday meal,” the elf continued. “We’d just taken our mead when the fog began to thicken.”

That was a strong defense for me and Ethan. Fog or not, midday meant sunlight.

“What kind of fog?” Gabriel asked.

“Mist,” the elf said, looking up, posing the word as a half question. It was a guess, and one about which he still had doubts. “Thick. And there was magic in it.”

The elf’s eyes went slightly out of focus, as if he was remembering precisely what he’d seen—and how it had felt. “Magic that swayed. Magic that seduced. It invited,” he said, eyes focusing on me again. “It propositioned.”

“You were propositioned by magic mist?” Gabriel mildly asked.

The elf looked back at him, glared, and ignored the question, continuing with his story. “We were overpowered by the magic, by the glamour. Like the undead, without control of ourselves or our bodies. We were drunk with magic and made senseless by it. Some lost awareness of the world. Some fought.”

He swallowed visibly and clearly was uncomfortable. “Some copulated, there in the middle of the feast, rutting like animals. We are not prudes,” he said. “But this was not about mating, about strengthening the clan. There was no lust in their eyes. No love. Only death.”

I slid Jeff a quick glance, and he acknowledged with a small nod. We’d seen those flat eyes before, in the harpies who’d attacked the first night of Lupercalia.

This time, sympathy slid through my irritation. However incorrect the elf’s conclusions about the cause of the trauma, there was no doubt his people had been violated.

“I do not remember all of it; most of us do not. But we recognized its insidiousness. It was glamour.”

“And the First Blood?” Gabriel asked.

“Niera,” the elf said. “One of the mothers of our clan. We awoke some hours later when the sun was nearly set, half naked, violated. She was gone. Her house was empty.”

Gabriel frowned. “If she is missing, how do you know First Blood was shed?”

“Elves do not leave the clan,” the elf insisted. “Mothers do not leave the clan.” He smoothed a hand down the front of his tunic, seemed to soothe himself. “Because she would not leave us, First Blood was shed. Thereby, our claim is justified.”

“Not against us,” I said. My throat was still raw, the words hoarse, but the sound carried on the wind well enough.

“You have a claim against those who attacked you. We were not those people, and you’re in the wrong.”

The elf reached out to slap me for the second time, but I’d grown tired of the show. I was a vampire and, more important, a woman who’d rather go down with steel than with cowardice.

I reached up, punched his forearm to force him to release my katana. My hands were still bound, but I stretched the manacles as far as I could and just managed to snatch the dropping katana with my other hand. I jumped to my feet, spun the sword in hand, and waited.

I heard Ethan’s warning in my head—Sentinel!—but it was too late for that. Spurred by my audacity, the elves formed a tight circle around me and Jeff and Damien, a thousand arrows pointed in our direction.

I ignored the welling fear and considered my odds, estimating I had a forty percent chance of taking out an elf or two before they took me out. I gave myself a four percent chance of surviving the fight.

“Steady now,” Damien murmured.

“Do you see?” the elf said, gesturing at us. “Do you see the violence?”

“I see a woman attempting to protect herself against false allegations,” Gabriel said. “All due respect, you’re wrong. If the attack happened midday, vampires could not be responsible. They cannot face the sun.”

“The fog—,” the elf said, but Gabriel stopped him with a hand.

“It is irrelevant. A little moisture does not protect a vampire from sun. Besides—they were in our facility during the day under lock and key.”

“You are also Other,” the elf said with a sneer.

“Other and mourning our dead,” Gabriel said. “We were attacked and put four of our own in the ground. Whatever happened here, we had nothing to do with it.”

The elf looked at Gabriel and considered the evidence. Wrong or not, he was in a bad spot. If he backed down, he looked like a coward. If he authorized his elves to let fly their arrows, he’d truly break the contract with the Pack.

“Perhaps a truce,” Gabriel offered.

The elf looked suspicious. “Of what manner?”

“Both our clans have been attacked by magic. Those attacks might be related. We are part of the human world, and we are investigating the attack. We will continue to do so. If Niera cannot be found, there is nothing we can do. But if she did not leave by choice, if she was taken, we will find her, and we will bring her home to you. And that will resolve the perceived breach.”

The elf glanced back across his army. I didn’t know if they could communicate telepathically, but he seemed to seek their input.

“We accede to your request,” he said, turning to Gabriel again. “You will send a messenger under flag, and we will meet you here again and receive our mother. If this matter is resolved to our satisfaction, the clan will fade into the canopy again.

“But if it is not—if you protect murderers or engage in more treachery—the détente between our clans will be nullified. We will not fade, nor will we share this land that we inhabited before the rest set foot upon the soil. All of our clans will come forth. All of our villages will be visible once again. And humanity will pay for the transgressions that have accumulated in the meantime.”

The elves closest to us unlocked our chains with small keys they pulled from leather cords around their necks. Damien and Jeff stood again, grimacing as they rubbed the spots on their wrists where the shackles had chafed. Even in the dark, it was easy to see the skin beneath was mottled and red, irritated by the silver.

The rest of the army released the tension from their bowstrings and dropped the arrows back into the leather quivers strapped to their backs. They all stood straight again, turned on their heels, and disappeared into the woods.

• • •

Their departure left the three of us, wounded and exhausted, looking back at the army who’d come to save us.

Ignoring the shifters around him, Ethan stalked toward me, lifted me up, and buried his face in my neck, releasing the tension he’d been holding while an army of elves surrounded his girlfriend.

“Thank Christ, Sentinel.”

I didn’t generally object to public displays of affection, but we were surrounded by hard-bitten shifters, and embarrassment bloomed in my cheeks.

Ethan pressed a hard kiss to my lips, leaving little doubt of the ravishment he intended at a more appropriate time. He released me, saw the pink in my cheeks, and smiled. “Let them see, Sentinel. I’ve no interest in hiding my affections.”

We weren’t the only sups in the mood for reunion. Tanya checked Damien’s wounds while her sister stood shyly beside her, clearly not sure if she should step forward or if her attentions would be welcome. But Damien had eyes only for her. His dark brow was furrowed, his dark gaze focused on the girl’s face, his expression intense and needy. I guessed the prospect of battle had sped his blood.

Jeff and Fallon talked quietly nearby. She pushed his hair behind his ears and inspected his face, the movements equally efficient and tender. As the second oldest in the Keene family, I guessed she’d taken care of her share of scrapes.

“Healing begins with loved ones,” Ethan whispered.

“So it seems,” I said, squeezing his hand.

Gabriel walked to us.

“Is Lupercalia usually this exciting?” I asked.

“Only when vampires are about. You two have a unique way of inciting trouble.”

I smiled a little at the attempt at humor, but Ethan’s gaze was heavy and accusing. Gabriel had withheld information, and Ethan wasn’t happy about it.

“I’d like to speak with you,” Ethan murmured, low and threatening.

“When the opportunity permits,” Gabriel said. He turned to walk toward Damien, but Ethan grabbed his arm. The look in Gabe’s eyes was deadly. He cast a glance at Ethan’s hand like it was an alien thing, as if no one had ever attempted to grab him bodily.

“Careful, Sullivan,” Gabriel said.

“Careful?” Ethan gritted out, jaw clenched and anger radiating off his body like heat off asphalt in summer. “My Sentinel was accosted, beaten, marched, and nearly beheaded in front of your shifters. She was held at arrow point—kidnapped from a public place—because you failed to mention the elves were alive and living in our backyard.”

Since I’d held my own, I silently objected to “nearly beheaded” but found the rest of it accurate enough.

Gabriel’s jaw twitched, his eyes swirling like a warming brandy. “Now is not the time or place to discuss these matters,” he said, which made me wonder how much he’d kept from the rest of the Pack.

I took the opportunity to glance around, check the faces of the shifters, who still looked shell-shocked that an army of elves shared their territory. Whatever Gabe had known, he hadn’t shared it with the rest of the Pack. And I guessed that omission was going to require some reckoning.

Ethan swallowed down irritation and released Gabriel’s arm. The tension eased, just a bit.

“When,” Ethan bit out, “would be an opportune time to discuss what just happened, and the fact that my Sentinel was kidnapped by elves?”

Gabriel watched him for a moment, his face offering nothing. “I need to speak to my people. Wait for me at the house.”

He didn’t wait for Ethan to respond.

• • •

Gabriel arranged for Damien and Jeff to get the car—and Boo—which still waited at the restaurant. The rest of us drove back to the estate in the variety of vehicles the Pack had used to get to the wood.

This time, neither the Brecks nor anyone else stopped us when we walked into the kitchen. The house was silent, the staff hiding or otherwise occupied.

Without waiting for permission, Ethan sat me bodily on a stool at the island while he searched the enormous, glass-doored refrigerator for sustenance. He pulled out two bottles of Blood4You, popped the tops on the edge of the counter like a frat boy at a mixer, and handed one to me.

“Drink,” he said, putting the other bottle down.

“I don’t need blood,” I protested, but only weakly, as my stomach began to rumble from need. I wasn’t exactly hungry—my nerves were still too shot for that—but my body was attempting to heal from the elves’ abuse, and it wanted sustenance.

“Drink it,” Ethan said again, staring down at me until I lifted the bottle to my lips.

It was gone in seconds, and I replaced it with the second before he could argue.

Mallory and Catcher walked into the kitchen, and Mallory rushed over. “You’re all right?” she asked, scanning me for injuries.

“A little bumped and bruised, but I’ll heal.”

“Where were you taken?” Catcher asked.

“Shopping center in Loring Park. Four of them jumped me, bows and arrows right there in public view. They knocked me out—a choke hold,” I explained, touching my neck. The skin was no longer tender, but the muscle beneath still ached.

A wash of shifter magic flushed through the room like a moody tsunami, angry and tense. It left an uncomfortable prickle on my skin and made my clothes feel uncomfortably tight.

I rubbed my goosefleshed arms. “What do you think’s going on out there?”

Ethan made a sympathetic sound. “I imagine Gabriel is explaining to his Pack why he didn’t mention the elves before tonight. Why he didn’t mention the wolves at their door, no pun intended.”

I finished the second bottle of blood, placed it on the counter beside the first. “How did they not notice it? The humans? The Brecks? A hunter, a farmer, a utility crew? Someone had to have seen them.”

“Magic,” Catcher said with a shrug. “A mechanism that allowed them to blend into the trees, or which obscured them completely.”

“A village of hundreds in Illinois,” Ethan said. “And that’s one clan. If they came west from Ireland and Scotland, how many more clans might be sprinkled between here and the Atlantic?”

“Very many,” Catcher guessed. “But perhaps the better question—how many of them have arrangements with the rest of the American Packs?”

“Probably too goddamned many,” Ethan said grimly.

“Fuck you, too, Sullivan.” Gabriel walked in alone, moved to a cabinet, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey with a plaid ribbon around its neck. He loosened the lid and took a slug directly from the bottle, throat moving as he swallowed. Maybe shifters had a different metabolism, as the quarter bottle he ingested would have put me on the floor. And maybe he was stressed enough to need it.

He put the bottle back in the cabinet, then braced his hands on the countertop and dropped his head. It was the second time in as many days he’d let his guard down in front of us. I both appreciated the trust—and regretted the need. Even with his back turned, it was obvious he was exhausted. His Pack had come to the Brecks’ estate for camaraderie and fun. And they’d met only threats, violence, and death.

We waited until Gabe stood straight again, running his hands through his hair and turning back to us.

“The contract was negotiated by my father. He told Papa Breck when the Brecks bought the property, thought it was only fair Papa Breck know who was living nearby. When my father passed, Papa Breck told me. I’ve never even seen the elves until tonight.”

“I’m not certain that’s an excuse,” Ethan said. “Not for what my people and yours have been through.”

“The elves’ interest is in keeping quiet, in staying underground. They were nearly eradicated. They wanted to live peacefully, and they have done so.”

“Until tonight,” Ethan emphasized, voice firm. “They are barbarians. They protect their lands without regret, kill without remorse. They do not believe in weakness, and they don’t overlook it. They don’t believe in pity. They kill children they don’t believe will flourish, men and women past their prime. They do not live peacefully. They wait.”

The reference to children and the elderly made me think—I hadn’t seen either at the village. Everyone appeared to be in the prime of middle age. Maybe twenty-five to forty-five in human years. Anyone outside that group could have been indoors or hidden. Or perhaps they’d been culled.

“We have no fight with them,” Gabriel said.

“Because you have not seen them fight,” Ethan insisted. There was hard experience in his eyes. He’d been born in Sweden, had served his time as a soldier, and had nearly been killed because of it. He’d also apparently been in Europe long enough to have seen elves there on the ground and know their practices.

“I have seen battlefields littered with women and children. Ground they stained with blood. They attack without mercy, and they allow no survivors. That Merit, Jeff, and Damien were allowed to live today was a miracle.”

“Or it is proof that this clan is different from those which lived in Europe,” Gabriel said. “Humans are different now, too. Humans fight differently, battle differently.”

“Humans battle with and through machines,” Ethan said. “But that does not absolve them of their atrocities.”

Mallory moved closer, catching both of their gazes. “Let’s pause,” she said, and I felt a gentle nudge of calming magic. It was a nice thought, but considering the story the elves had told about nonconsensual magic, it just left me feeling uncomfortable.

“The elves are clearly here,” she said. “If, for some reason, we can’t figure out what’s going on here in the larger sense, how bad could this get?”

“They could seek revenge for the wrongs they think have been done to them throughout history,” Ethan said. “The elves release their magic, show their societies to the world, and there’s human panic and genocide. What we saw tonight was only posturing,” he softly added. “Do not mistake their bows and arrows for a lack of savvy.”

I rubbed my face, trying to soothe the headache that was beginning to build there, then glanced at Gabriel. I didn’t think he was the type to feel guilty, but there was obvious regret in his eyes. It was time for a little optimism—or at least a little strategy.

“Then we need to ensure it doesn’t get that bad,” I said, meeting Gabriel’s gaze. “If we do as they’ve agreed—find Niera and bring her back—will they go back into the woods again?”

He shared my gaze for a moment, then glanced at Ethan. “Sullivan?”

The question was an obvious concession—he was recognizing Ethan’s expertise, looking to him for information.

“I don’t know how honorable they are,” Ethan said. “Fear tends to make new enemies. But we’ll assume they’ll hold to his deal.”

“Go team!” I said with false cheer. As no one seemed moved by the faux enthusiasm, I waved it away. “So that’s our solution. We find Niera. We have two attacks here—one on shifters, one on elves. The first attack by harpies, which weren’t supposed to exist in the first place. The second against elves, which weren’t supposed to exist.”

“Is that a coincidence?” Mallory asked, face scrunched with the question.

“I don’t know. But it seems significant. Harpies aren’t an obvious weapon, and elves aren’t an obvious target. So the person—or people—behind this have good information about supernaturals.”

“So probably not a human,” Ethan said.

“Not unless they have better knowledge than even you,” I said. “And you believe yourself to be quite knowledgeable.”

Ethan arched an eyebrow. “I resemble that remark.”

“She has a point,” Catcher said, crossing his arms and leaning back into his stance, preparing for some serious consideration and analysis. “Knowledge of supernaturals, and very serious intent. This isn’t just a nymph pissed off because they ran a rubber-duck parade through the Chicago River without her approval.”

“That didn’t really happen,” I said. But Catcher’s flat look said different.

“Could and did. And cost me a week’s worth of time.”

“And a slew of gift cards for the stores on State Street,” Mallory said with a smile. “I know what nymphs like,” she added, in a singsong voice.

“The point is,” Catcher said, sliding her a glance, “this isn’t a run-of-the-mill issue, a minor grudge between sups.”

“It’s a full-out attack in the first instance,” Ethan said. “And something else in the second. The glamour the elves mentioned—does it ring any bells?” He glanced at Mallory, Catcher, Gabriel.

Gabe leaned against the island. “Not for me. All due respect, it sounded like typical vampire mojo. Elves acting like zombies? Doing what someone telepathically directed them to do? Fighting? Fucking? Passing out?”

“Glamour doesn’t work that way,” Ethan flatly said. “It doesn’t work over distance.”

“And you’re sure no vampire was nearby the elves when the attack occurred?”

At Gabe’s question, Ethan opened his mouth, closed it again. “I am not,” he finally admitted. “But glamour doesn’t make zombies of anyone. It is suggestive, not unlike what Mallory tried a moment ago to calm us down.”

Mal blushed prettily. “Just trying to help.”

Catcher put an arm around her shoulder, squeezed.

But they’d given me an idea. “Maybe that’s part of it—both times, the attacker mimicked some other kind of magic. In the first attack, the magic mimicked harpies. In the second, the magic mimicked vampire glamour. The attacker wasn’t actually a harpy or a vampire—he was someone with magic enough to pretend to be both.”

“That’s powerful magic,” Catcher said. “And magic with range.”

“Range,” Gabriel said, standing straight again. “How close would someone have to be to work magic that powerful?”

Catcher’s brows lifted. “I’d actually meant the other kind of range—the ability to imitate different kinds of sups—but that’s a good point.”

I drummed my fingers on the countertop. “So someone is using a lot of magic—variable magic—relatively nearby to attack two groups of sups.”

“Groups,” Ethan said, tapping a finger against my hand. “Both were in groups—the shifters were gathered together for Lupercalia. The elves were together in their village.”

Mallory reached out to a crock on the island that held spoons and spatulas and plucked out a rubberized whisk. “So they attacked when they could do the most damage?” she asked, as she toyed absently with the bent wires of the utensil.

“Maybe,” I said. “But why? If this was a political thing, a grudge thing, wouldn’t we know it? Wouldn’t there have been a statement? Overt blame? They aren’t even really framing someone, because they’ve used different magic both times. There’s no obvious motive.”

“Perhaps it comes back to the victims,” Ethan said. “To the shifters who passed.”

I glanced at Gabe. “The shifters you lost. Is there anything controversial in their histories? Anything that suggests they were targeted?”

Gabe leaned over the counter again, propping his elbows on it and linking his hands together again. “Not that I’m aware of. They weren’t related, weren’t friends. One was from Memphis—young guy who I think had some leadership ambitions. Messy childhood. Woman from New Orleans. Lawyer who went to Tulane. Excellent cook, and a very spicy woman.”

Ethan and Catcher grunted in some kind of vague male agreement. Mallory and I shared a dubious look.

“Third was a man from Chicago. Assimilated. Lived with a human family, although the wife knew what he was.” Gabe shook his head ruefully. “That phone call sucked. And you know about Rowan.”

I reached out, touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, using the two words that were always woefully inadequate to ease anyone’s grief, but still seemed the only appropriate thing to say.

Gabe nodded, patted my hand. “Appreciate it, Kitten.”

“Then perhaps the key isn’t the deceased,” Ethan said, “but the missing.”

We’d seen vampire disappearances before, and they hadn’t been coincidental. They’d been the work of an assassin hungry for revenge, and he’d be difficult to catch and stop. But in that case, the key was the killings—the vampires were killed as warnings to the rest of us to leave Chicago. The bodies had been left for us to find.

“So we’re back to Aline and the elf,” Mallory said. “What was her name again?”

“Niera,” Catcher said.

“Aline is definitely gone,” I said, realizing I hadn’t had a chance to report what we’d found at her house. The kidnapping and threats had interrupted our investigation.

“She’s a hoarder—there was stuff everywhere in her house, but nothing really helpful until we found her computer. Jeff found a receipt for a plane ticket to Anchorage. She also has a storage locker, but the only thing in there was a box of ephemera. We haven’t had a chance to look through it yet.”

“Did the flight to Alaska look legit?” Catcher wondered. “Or planted?”

“It looked legit to me, but if you’ve got the ability to create winged monsters from thin air and turn elves into zombies, who knows?”

“Could they have something in common?” Mallory wondered. “Aline and Niera?” Apparently bored of the whisk, she stuck it back in the canister again to mingle with its colleagues.

“How could they, if Aline didn’t know the elves existed?” But then I looked at Gabriel. Aline did seem like the conspiracy type, and God knew she hated the Keene family. “Did she?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

There had to be some connection. This many attacks—large-scale attacks—in two days couldn’t be a coincidence. I looked at Ethan. “Have you talked to Luc?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Seeing you safe was first on my list.”

I nodded. “When you call him, you might see if Paige and the librarian are back from their rendezvous. The librarian has stores of microfiche and, you know, Internet access. If there’s a connection between Aline and Niera, they’d be the ones to find it.”

“A good idea.” Ethan pulled out his phone.

“I’m full of them,” I said, glancing at a clock on one of the Brecks’ sleek appliances. “We only have a few hours until dawn. I’ll check the box when it gets here, talk to Jeff or Damien about whatever I find. Maybe they can provide some context.” I glanced at Catcher and Mallory. “Can you follow up again with Baumgart- ner, see if this new glamoury magic rings any bells? And check again on Simon if you still haven’t reached him?”

“We’ll do both,” Catcher said, “but neither is likely to lead to much.”

“Better to check and come up empty than miss a lead,” I said.

Ethan looked at me with obvious amusement. “You’re becoming quite the investigator.”

I searched my memory for a good quip about cops, maybe something from a film noir about private detectives that would have made him laugh, but came up empty.

“Book ’em, Danno?” Catcher offered.

“Close enough.”

Jeff, Damien, and Nick walked into the kitchen together. Jeff and Damien looked significantly better than they had when I’d seen them before. They’d changed clothes and their superficial wounds were gone, probably because they’d shifted and let their magic do its work.

Nick walked to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.

Jeff carried Aline’s box, which he set on the counter, then smiled at me. “You all right?”

“Fine. You?”

“Feel like I lost another life or two, but I’m okay.” He nudged Damien collegially, but Damien just offered back a mild blink.

“Nothing?” Jeff said and, when Damien continued to stare, turned to me with a crooked smile. “Alrighty.”

“Boo’s okay?” I asked.

“Boo?” Ethan asked.

“Damien’s babysitting a kitten we found at Aline’s,” I explained.

Damien nodded. “Was sleeping in the car. Now sleeping in a box in the living room. Any developments here?”

“Ethan’s calling Paige and the librarian to check for any connections between Aline and Niera.”

“That seems unlikely,” Damien said.

“Agreed. But it’s also unlikely that harpies attack shifters, and hours later someone pulls mojo on the elves.”

“You’re thinking they come from the same source?”

“We don’t have any evidence either way, yet. But I’m thinking two major magical attacks in a five-mile radius in the span of twenty-four hours cannot be a coincidence.”

“Put that way,” Damien said, “I can hardly argue with the conclusion.”

I rose, picked up the box. “We had a to-do list,” I said, reminding Damien and Jeff. “This part was my assignment.”

Jeff nodded. “I’ll see what I can do with her hard drive.”

We looked expectantly at Damien. “I suppose I’m going to make some phone calls.”

I glanced back at Nick, who stood quietly beside the refrigerator, bottle in hand. “Can I borrow a room to look through this?”

Ethan looked worried. “Don’t you want to rest?”

I shook my head. “Too much adrenaline. And irritation. I need to work. I’ll be fine,” I added, when the line between his eyes didn’t disappear.

“Use the drawing room,” Nick said, as if it would be obvious to everyone which room that would be. It was to me, as it turned out, because I’d been there a thousand times.

• • •

If Papa Breck’s office was one of my favorite rooms in the Breck house, the drawing room was one of my least favorite. The office was a place of adventures and hidden secrets. The drawing room was a place of manners and sitting quietly. It was where Julia, Papa Breck’s wife and the Breck family matriarch, would spend a quiet afternoon with a book and a cup of tea, or where she’d make me and the boys endure a time-out if we’d been too noisy in the hallways. “Your father did not make his money by letting out the bought air,” she’d tell us, and demand we spend an interminable half hour sitting on hard, uncomfortable furniture until she was satisfied that we’d calmed down.

I was hardly “just a girl he knew in high school.”

I carried the box into the drawing room. It was prettily arranged—lighter and more delicate than Papa Breck’s study—with butter yellow walls and tailored furniture. A round pedestal table sat on one side of the room, with several hard wooden chairs (learned from experience) and a leather case that held two decks of cards. Both decks were missing their one-eyed kings, because we’d decided the cards held secret codes and deserved saving.

I put the box on the table, walked to the shelves that lined the other end of the room, tracing my fingers over the linen-covered hardbacks that were placed in groups amid bud vases and family pictures.

I found the copy of Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale—because a book about James Bond with a casino in the title obviously had to relate to our one-eyed kings, and slid it from its home.

Tucked inside, back to back, were two aging kings of spades.

So many memories in this house. Each time I came back, I built new ones, even if they weren’t always pleasant. I tucked the cards back into the book, slid the book back onto the shelf, and moved back to the table. I shoved the leather box of cards aside and made space on the table while I opened the box.

Just as the house had demonstrated, Aline wasn’t one to throw things away. Anything. Receipts. Greeting cards. Lists. The paper wrappers that held silverware inside restaurant napkins. I assumed every scrap of paper and receipt in the box had meaning for her, some emotional weight that kept her from throwing them away, that bound them to her as the years went on.

I looked through the piles, separated them into groups, and when that didn’t reveal any universal truths, put them into chronological order.

By the time Jeff knocked on the door, I had several tidy piles of paper and absolutely no clues whatsoever. Maybe he’d had more luck.

“Hey,” I said. “What did you find?”

“Nada.” He pulled out a chair and took a seat. “She plays a lot of solitaire, which just seems extra-sad.”

“Travel plans?”

“The ticket looked completely legitimate. But there was nothing in her Web history that indicated she booked it on that computer.” He shrugged. “Could be someone else booked it; could be she used a faster computer.”

“So that doesn’t really help us narrow anything down.”

“It does not,” Jeff agreed.

I frowned down at the box. “Honestly, I don’t know anything at all so far. I’ve looked through everything in this box, stacked and reordered it, looking for a pattern.” I gestured at the receipts I’d organized. “These piles are geographical. I was hoping something would hit. But I’m not seeing anything.” I glanced at him. “Do you want to take a look? Maybe there’s shifter significance I don’t see.”

“I doubt that,” he said, but settled in to peruse.