Weregirl (9 page)

Caine flashes his teeth but doesn’t comment. I feel him sizing up my friend, his power reaching for the young sorcerer. But Caine seems wary, too, and I wonder how much experience he’s had with the users of the devouring magic to be so cautious.

“I can see,” Caine says at last, “we aren’t welcome here, by my fault.” My eyes narrowed as I looked for the treachery in him. “I ask your forgiveness, wereking. We aren’t exactly versed in the ways of court.”

Oleksander nodded. “Forgiven,” he says, while spitefulness bites me.

“If you would accept my apology,” Caine says, smile softer and less animalistic, “I would beseech you to allow me to prove my worth to you and to Princess Sharlotta.” It must be killing him, this posing, this show of weakness. I see it in his eyes, feel the thrum of his resentment, though I don’t know if I’m the only one.

My grandfather seems to ponder, though his mind closes off to me when I try to insist he kick this ridiculously vile werewolf and his mangy pack out of our territory.

“I may have been hasty,” Oleksander finally says. “Very well. But bear in mind, the new laws stand. You must prove to Sharlotta your worthiness.”

Caine bows to me, a real one this time, tongue slipping over his lips as he smiles at me.

“I can assure you,” he says, “I will do everything in my power to do just that.”

Viveca’s dark and bitter expression tells me she plans to see to it I suffer for his choice.

Oleksander gestures at some of the guards lining the center aisle. “Escort the Caine pack to quarters,” he says. “And clear the room.”

No one moves as four of the guards lead Caine and his people out. It’s not until the foreign pack is gone the rest of the weres file out, as though unwilling to face them alone. I spin on my grandfather with a hiss, shaking free of Piers’s protective arm.

“You’re an old fool with a soft spot for a head.” I would never speak to him like this unless we were alone. And even then, the times I’ve challenged him have been rare. But I can’t bring myself to believe he’s actually accepted Caine and his pack into the palace.

Oleksander sighs, pulls me toward him, holds my hand. “Sharlotta,” he says. “Keep your loved ones close, my darling girl. And keep your enemies closer.”

“To what purpose?” I’m almost spitting I’m so angry.

“To watch them,” Piers says, soft words surprising me. I turn on him, this time.

“I’d rather do so from a continent away,” I say. “Send them back where they came from. Nothing good will come from this.” I’m certain I’m right. My wolf can feel it, warns me, even as my grandfather sits back on his throne with a sad expression.

“Piers,” he says, ignoring me while I seethe in frustration and the need to act. “Your impressions?”

My sorcerer friend’s face flickers with concern and then a hint of distaste. “They feel off,” he says. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

“They didn’t know about the healing.” Oleksander’s head comes up sharply, Piers focused on me. “They seemed confused about it.”

Piers nods slowly. “It’s possible, I suppose,” he says. “Syd might have missed a few. That could account for the difference.”

“What difference?” I shiver and hug myself, forcing my arms down the moment I lift them. I will not show weakness, not even alone with my grandfather and Piers.

“They feel like sorcery,” he says. “Only not completely. As if the healing didn’t quite finish the job.”

Oleksander is troubled, his beard bristling as he taps his fingers on the arm rests of his throne. “Can we have Sydlynn come, to complete their freedom?”

They don’t deserve it. I snort and look away, crossing my arms over my chest as Piers shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says. “We can ask her.”

“It doesn’t matter what we do,” I snap. “You can’t heal evil.” So much evil in so few people. The residue of them lingers, allowing me to finally feel what it is troubled me the most about them. “Sociopaths are sociopaths, regardless of the power that made them.”

Piers nods while my grandfather lets out a gusty sigh.

“You’re right, Sharlotta,” he says in his deep voice. “I can no longer be swayed by my need to ensure the safety of all packs, of all weres.” He shakes his big head, steel gray hair shining in the light of the giant chandeliers overhead. “There are those who deserve our help and pity.”

“And there are those who deserve to be wiped out.” I drop my arms. “I’ll take care of it personally.” It will bring me great joy to cleanse our race of these foul werewolves.

Oleksander takes my hand again. “My darling child,” he says. “So blood thirsty. Despite their darkness, they deserve your pity first.”

I shake my own head, face tickled by a few strands of hair escaping my ponytail. I wish I could impress on him just how wrong these werewolves are.

“Pity is reserved for those who deserve it,” I snarl. “Now, Piers, if you don’t mind, I could use some back up.”

He looks eager, and I know he will do everything he can to give me what I want. It makes me suddenly nervous about our possible mating if he is so easily manipulated.

Oleksander stands, a scowl on his face. “I forbid it,” he says. “I am wereking. They are mine to deal with.”

I’ve never been so angry with my grandfather. “You must act,” I say. “Or I promise you, Grandfather, I will.”

“I hope we’re not interrupting?”

I spin, cold fury at the source of the voice turning to terror as my past flashes before me in the face of the smiling Andre Dumont and his two sons, walking the aisle toward us.

***

My first impulse is to run away, to hide from the hideous face I know so well. The child inside me feels pure fear, aching and absolute in its simplicity. But the woman I’ve become, the free were I am now, refuses to back down or to show Andre Dumont even a scrap of anxiety.

My wolf howls in my heart, her need to shred his throat in our teeth, to drink of his blood, and to bathe in the gore as he dies adds to the shaking of my hands. I’m forced to clench them tight at my sides, though I can’t stop my feet as I lunge forward, down the steps and to the carpeted central aisle, a snarl pulling the corner of my mouth—

—he bends over me, a strap in one hand, his other reaching for the hem of my shirt—

Bile boils at the back of my throat, a low and menacing growl escaping me.

“Sharlotta.” Oleksander’s voice crackles with power, his dominance stopping me in my tracks. “Come. At once.”

I can’t resist his command, though I try for a moment, my body shivering with pent-up hate. Andre is so close to me, his arrogant smirk fading as I shudder, claws extending from my hands, the sharp points drawing blood from my palms.

“Sharlotta!” My grandfather is only trying to protect me. I’m well aware of his intent, but I feel like a dog leashed to a master. “I will not tell you again.”

I retreat, but not before licking my lips with a smile of my own for the Dumont coven leader and his nasty children. I will never turn my back on him, slowly returning to Oleksander’s throne one measured step at a time, eyes locked on Andre for the long seconds it takes me to reclaim my place beside my grandfather.

“What a charming welcome,” Andre says, his faint French accent, the sound of his voice sandpapering against my insides as though he controls me all over again.

“You’re fortunate you aren’t already dead,” Oleksander tells the coven leader in a flat and furious voice. “It is only our respect for the Councils of Witches you stand before me now, Dumont. Do not make the mistake, however, thinking that you have any say here.”

I could hug my grandfather.
Let me kill them
, I send.

Patience
, he sends to me.
Your need to kill is understandable, but troubling. There is a plot afoot here, child. And I would know what it is
.

Who cares?
I certainly don’t. I can taste their blood as Jean Marc and Kristophe shift uncomfortably under my gaze. The older brother’s close-cropped dark hair and heavy brow make him look even more brutish the more he ages, while his dandy sibling’s long, blond locks really need a trim. And his attempt at a male model’s insufferable pout makes me want to slice it from his angular face.

I care
, Oleksander sends.
Andre Dumont knows he, of all people, isn’t welcome here. The very fact he’s come makes me suspicious
.

It doesn’t help my wolf agrees with Oleksander, after her initial drive to kill. I feel as if she’s abandoned me for her more stoic nature and I am now adrift, on my own.

Fine
, I send as Andre speaks.

“I am under no illusions,” the coven leader says with his false smile, all charm and no substance. “While I know there has been bad blood between us, misunderstandings of the past,” he dares to call torture, humiliation and abuse misunderstandings? “I have come to offer my well-wishes to the new and improved werenation.”

He actually bows a little, his sullen boys doing the same when he glares over his shoulder. It must cause them great pain to offer even that little bit of respect.

“Your apology is accepted,” my grandfather says while I choke on a barked laugh. Andre offered no such, and from the flare of blood to his cheeks, he never expected such audacity from Oleksander. “Now, if your moment of weakness is over, my people will escort you to our borders.” The growl following his last word echoed softly in the huge room, carrying like a wave over the Dumonts.

The boys flinched, though Andre’s fake smile didn’t leave him, the flush of his anger fading.

“My business with you isn’t yet through,” he says, all arrogance returning, as though he has any right to be here, standing in our presence.

“I believe it is.” My grandfather turns his head toward me, flicking his fingers at the Dumonts as though they are troublesome insects pestering his rest. Four of the hulking guards who followed the Dumonts inside move forward a step, at attention, cutting off the witch and his sons.

“Hear me out.” Andre doesn’t move, holding his ground. “There was a time when we worked together, Oleksander Moreau.”

My power lashes out, slamming into Andre, driving him back a step.

“Your Majesty,” I say in my most cold and casual tone.

Andre brushes at his clothes, anger pulling his brows together. “Of course,” he says. “Forgive me my slip. Your Majesty.”

Nicely done, Granddaughter
, my grandfather sends. “I believe you mistaken,” Oleksander says. “You owned us once, Dumont. But you never will again.”

“Through no fault of our own,” Andre says. “Your circumstances have changed. And thus, our relationship will do the same.”

“We have no relationship,” I snap. “And never will.” Can he see his death in my face? I hope so. Though he must know if I ever catch him alone, his end will look like an accident.

“I am in need of bodyguards,” Andre says. “And feel keenly the loss of your people in my coven.”

Oleksander and I both gape at him as his words sink in. Surely he didn’t just suggest—

“I would like to hire some of your people,” the coven leader says.

My mouth dries up, my throat closing. Yes, there have been those who have approached us in the past five years, looking to hire us now we are free. And there have been instances when my grandfather has agreed to such arrangements, though the Mafia has stopped asking. Oleksander and I have discussed this at length, doing what we can to protect the pack from being taken advantage of. At least, our local pack. The few attempts to bully us have ended in the other parties agreeing to never set foot in our territory again.

But we haven’t had that kind of trouble in years. Now, we mostly hire out to watch over royalty, rock stars and politicians. We don’t need the money. The Black Souls left us very wealthy, this entire palace full of treasures that haven’t seen the light of day in centuries. Still, there are those of our people who want to work outside the pack.

The confidence and self-respect of the werenation—both here and abroad—is at an all- time high. And there is no way I will allow anyone to take that away from us.

I fear, in the long second it takes my grandfather to finally respond, he may cave to the Dumonts merely to find out what Andre is really after. Because he is wealthy enough to hire anyone he wants, and doesn’t need us weres to do his dirty work. That is, outside of his own greedy nature to control us again. I needn’t have worried. Oleksander draws a deep breath and begins to laugh.

It goes on a long time, building in volume. Andre’s smug smile and casual stance begin to alter as my grandfather’s amusement rumbles out of him, louder and louder. I grin down at the huge were on the throne as his eyes squeeze shut, one fist hammering on the arm of his seat, tears trickling from his eyes as his white teeth flash through the heavy cloak of his beard. The throne room bounces back the song of our king’s laughter while Andre’s smile turns to a flat frown and his shoulders bunch in tense fury.

My grandfather mops at the tears on his cheeks with one big hand, looking up at me. I see the rage in his eyes and know his show of amusement is just that. A way to humiliate Andre and drive him from us. I am in awe yet again of Oleksander’s ability to manipulate, his talent as a king, and I wonder if I will ever be able to fill his shoes while he turns his head to look at last at Andre.

“Thank you,” he says. “I haven’t laughed like that in an age.”

Andre doesn’t respond, though he seems to be doing his best to revert to his original poise.

Oleksander leans forward on his throne in a lunge, the wolf in him roaring in my head, calling out to the werenation as one. “You forget yourself,” he says, voice so deep I feel my bones vibrating from the rumble of his words. “And who you were to us.” My grandfather shakes his head, silver hair ruffling. “You may be under the protection of the witch council and therefore beyond my ability to eliminate personally. But no one,” he chops his hand before him, “not one single were under my rule, will ever work for you or your miserable family.” The wereking sits back in his throne while my pride swells for him. “Now leave, before I ignore the edict of the European Council and allow Sharlotta the revenge she so dearly desires.”