Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9)

Wild Things (Chicagoland Vampires #9) Page 28

“I’m sure he appreciated that,” I said. “What did he say?”

“He was surprised—said he didn’t know of any conflicts between the Pack and other groups. Was stunned about the harpies and the elves.”

“Did you tell him about my heroism? Laud my bravery? Extol my fighting virtues?”

“I told him you fainted at the first sight of blood.”

“That would be an obvious stretch considering the fangs.”

“He knows you did well,” Luc assured. “Oh, and your father called, Merit. He wanted to offer whatever assistance he could in the troubles facing the House.”

“How . . . noble,” Ethan said, flicking me a glance. I simply rolled my eyes. My father might very well have wanted, on some level, to help the House. But that desire would have been significantly dwarfed by the financial and political hay he thought he could make of it. He was an opportunist, and he’d already expressed an interest in becoming a financial sponsor of Cadogan House. There was no denying his power or money—being the city’s chief real estate mogul had its advantages—but the cost of cashing in that chit would be much too great. And I already owed favors to too many bloodsuckers.

“I thought you’d think so,” Luc said. “We’ll keep you apprised of any developments.”

“Do that,” Ethan requested, and ended the call. He looked at me, humor in his eyes. “If I had a dollar for every time your father sought to buy his way into our favor—”

“Then you’d be as rich as my father,” I said with a smile.

“Just so,” Ethan agreed, then nodded at the door. “Let’s get out there and see what the night brings.”

• • •

The guards were gone when we opened the door, apparently satisfied that we weren’t going to run and that we could care for ourselves now that the sun was down again. We walked to the house, found the front part of the house completely empty of shifters or staff.

Ethan put his hands on his hips, surveying the empty parlor and kitchen, then glanced back at us, brow raised. “Thoughts?”

I could sense the flow of magic from other parts of the house, moving toward us. “Follow the magic,” I said, pointing to the hallway.

I led the way, the others falling into step behind me. The magic grew in intensity as we neared the eastern wing of the house.

“Ballroom,” I murmured, pointing to the double doors up ahead. One door was closed, the other open a few inches. I moved toward it to peek inside.

Gabriel, wearing a long-sleeved Henley-style shirt and jeans, stood at one end of the ballroom, hands tucked casually into his pockets. He stood alone, the rest of the Pack standing before him, watching him speak. I didn’t see any other Keenes but assumed they were part of the crowd. Their mood was grim, the magic strong but banked, like a thousand hummingbirds in place, but wings in motion, waiting for the call to move.

I pushed open the door just wide enough so we could slip inside. We lined up in the back, where Damien offered a mirthless smile.

“Normally,” Gabriel said, looking across the members of his Pack, “we would cast our votes. You would speak, and as Apex of the Pack, I would be your voice.”

He looked down for a moment, considering, then up again. “Tonight, I am also the words. Lupercalia is hereby canceled.”

That was the call to arms they needed.

Sound erupted—shifters hissing and screaming out, accusing Gabe of cowardice, of giving in to intimidation, of lacking certain portions of the male genitalia. Magic filled the air: angry, peppery, biting. No longer banked, but swirling around the room like whirlpools and eddies in a river.

Considering what he’d faced down this week, they undoubtedly knew there was no basis to call the Apex a coward. But this wasn’t about truth. This was about anger and frustration. The Pack had been wronged by someone—and they were taking it out on Gabriel.

He let them rant for a full minute, his expression blank, his shoulders square. He stared ahead as if their jeers couldn’t touch him, were utterly meaningless, and couldn’t change his mind. His body language told the tale: The decision had been made, and anyone with a mind to the contrary could go fuck themselves.

It took me a moment to realize his play, to figure out why Gabriel Keene, usually so attuned to what the Pack did and did not want, was suddenly playing dictator.

He was giving them an excuse.

They were shifters—their senses of self built upon the notion that they were braver than everyone else, with fuck-it attitudes and the power to back up the attitudes with action. If they’d voted to cancel Lupercalia, they’d have taken another psychic blow. Not just two showdowns, but three, the last a clear defeat. Gabe didn’t want them to feel they’d taken an easy out, given in to fear. By making the decision, by being dictatorial, he put the weight of that decision on himself and himself alone.

It was, to them, an act of cowardice.

It was, in fact, the ultimate bravery. He would sacrifice himself for the good of the Pack, for their safety and longevity. But he would do it with cost.

He glanced at Berna, and she whistled, quieting the crowd immediately. I really needed to learn how to do that.

“I’m the Apex of this Pack,” he said. “If any of you want to challenge me for that position, you know where I’ll be. Until that time, the decision stands.” With that, he turned and walked forward, the crowd dividing to let him through. He walked toward the door, a slant of his eyes the only indication that he’d seen us. If the rest of his family had been there, they didn’t follow him now. Maybe this was part of his larger plan—to let the Pack have its moment to vent, and keep them out of the argument.

“Difficult to be the Master of any house?” I quietly murmured to Ethan.

“Indeed, Sentinel. One quickly learns the meaning of sacrifice.” He glanced at the crowd, still unsure whether it should revolt or walk away and let the battle lie. “And the costs of it.”

With Gabriel gone, we looked at each other, not entirely sure where to go. Should we follow Gabriel out of the room or stay here and keep watch?

“We all know this is bullshit,” said one of the shifters—a hard-bitten, meaty man with long, braided hair that glinted with age. He wore an NAC jacket, with LETHAL stitched onto the front, and his eyes looked bloodshot and haggard.

“What have we become? Pussies? Humans? Canceling a party because things might get rough? We do not cancel Lup. The entire point of fucking Lup is to show off our cojones.” He grabbed his crotch, smiled at the crowd. I presume he meant to show himself a virile shifter, but he only succeeded, at least in my mind, in looking like an entirely different kind of predator.

“What a moron,” Damien whispered, his voice mild and faintly disgusted, which raised him even more in my estimation.

“And this harpy and elf bullshit? You know who attacks us when we’re strong? Nobody. We were attacked because Keene can’t hold our shit together. His old man was a fucking shifter. A fucking wolf. And now? We’re cavorting with vampires, with sorcerers. The Packs don’t cavort! We are shifters!” He beat a fist against his chest. “We eat. We ride. We fuck. We fight.”

The magic in the crowd began to rise, buzzing louder. He was ramping them up, riling them up, preparing them for something.

Ethan firmly believed we needed the Pack as allies in this volatile time, but frankly I couldn’t think of a group more volatile than shifters. We shifted from allies to enemies in the span of days, and sometimes over the course of a single day. They couldn’t seem to make their mind up about us, and their fair-weather friendship was beginning to grate on me.

Lethal scanned the crowd, locked his gaze on Mallory.

“And then there’s the fucking sorcerers,” he said. “Was Gabe a pussy before he started playing with girls and their magic? Would he send us all home like whelps, tails between our legs? The elves show their faces, kidnap two of our own, and we don’t fight them? We don’t stand and deliver?” He barked out a laugh. “That’s bullshit. Part of that hippie nonsense he’s always spouting. ‘We’re all part of the universe,’” he said in a mocking voice. “She’s making him soft.”

Gabriel did have a holistic view of shifters, seeing the Pack as a crucial part of the natural world. It wasn’t unlike the sorcerers’ belief that they funneled magic through their bodies, although he hadn’t voiced it that way. Regardless, he’d been talking about nature before Mallory went bad, and certainly before he became her tutor.

But Lethal wouldn’t have cared about that. He was pissed and looking for an excuse to do some damage. And as he stared down at Mallory, a disturbing glint in his eyes, it seemed clear whom he’d picked as a target.

He began to stalk toward us, the rest of the shifters moving out of his way just as they had when Gabriel passed. I wasn’t impressed that they stood by while a bully attempted to cower a guest, especially someone he could easily overpower—at least in terms of pure physicality.

Wordlessly, Ethan and I moved together and formed a barrier around Mallory and Catcher. Damien did the same.

My heart began to race with the possibility of a fight, and I let my irritation shine in my eyes.

Lethal emerged through the crowd in front of us, maybe ten feet away. The shifters closest to us—all in NAC jackets and with the look of bikers who’d been riding hard for a few days—looked between us, not entirely sure which side they’d bet on, but happy to see some action either way.

I’d been a victim yesterday; I preferred to be a perp today.

I stepped in front of all of them, flipped off the thumb guard on my katana, and lifted the handle just a bit, letting them know that I’d be happy to roll if that’s how they wanted to play it.

“Did you need something?” I asked.

But it wasn’t a big, burly shifter who wanted to talk.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Emma, Tanya’s petite sister, stepped out of the crowd on the other side of the room, drawing everyone’s attention. She looked the opposite of Lethal in nearly every way—petite and fragile, wearing a simple cotton top and jeans, her eyes wide and face flushed with anger.