Wolf in King’s Clothing

by Parker Foye

  Felicity didn’t look away from where she directed the horse pulling their borrowed trap. “Keep speaking to him. Keep touching him. He’s not dead, he should come around.”

  Should. Should wasn’t enough.

  The trap bounced, jostling Hadrian’s grip on Prince. He wrapped his arms more firmly around Prince’s torso, heaving him into his lap. The readjustment brought one of Prince’s pointed ears close and Hadrian ducked his head to whisper into it.

  “I apologised to you. I offered to make you wolf. Don’t you dare leave me now, you little brat. Don’t you dare.”

  Felicity’s soft grunt meant she’d overheard, but Hadrian trusted her to keep his secrets. She’d been in the group who’d travelled north with him, only to be sent away by the pack who betrayed him. Yet she’d found him again and saved them both.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Hadrian confessed to Prince, ignoring Felicity’s proximity. “The words fell from my mouth as if you’d commanded them. But you wouldn’t, would you? You wouldn’t know you could.”

  Yet a berserker could do anything. In the old stories, berserkers were prized as a pack’s greatest weapon. They were the wild given form, with moonlight for blood, able to call on the strength of the pack at will. But Prince had no pack.

  Hadrian looked down at his hand, where he’d cut himself to call the compulsion warding to life, and wondered if perhaps Prince’s pack weren’t wolves. The compulsion warding alone could have bought land. Favour. It wasn’t even keyed to a specific individual, increasing its value still further. Yet Prince acted only to obey his master.

  Perhaps Prince’s alpha was a warden. It would explain why he didn’t recognise a true alpha when one stood before him and demanded his respect. Bound and benighted, how long had Prince worn the collar? Biting his lip, aware he transgressed, Hadrian ran his finger along the collar. Old leather. Watermarks. And—stitches? As he leaned in to examine the work, Prince made a snuffling noise. His eyelids flickered.

  Hadrian started. “I think he’s waking up!”

  “That’s a relief,” Felicity said, not looking away from the road. She clicked her tongue at the horse and the trap shook. “We’re nearly there. Are you sure I can’t take you farther?”

  “We’ve imposed on you enough. My sincerest thanks. If you find yourself back in London—”

  “I’d be lost indeed and in need of friends. Thank you. Here, this is the edge of town. Will this be all right?”

  Glancing at the man in his arms, Hadrian nodded. He spoke softly, not wanting Prince to wake earlier than his body preferred. “I want to keep him out of sight until he’s well. People don’t—they don’t treat him kindly.”

  Felicity clenched her jaw. Working the reins in her hands, she met Hadrian’s eyes. Worry burned in them. “Not for no reason. I saw what he did. What you had to do. You can’t trust a creature like that. He’ll turn on you, sure as—”

  “He was protecting me.”

  Like you are.

  “Sir—”

  “All shall be well, and all shall be well,” Hadrian said. He wanted to believe it.

  * * *

  Kent woke with a hand covering his mouth. He clawed at it, instinct overwhelming other senses, panic making him all but oblivious to the voice murmuring in his ear. He heard a low curse and felt a tug on his collar, the shock of breathlessness starting his brain into motion. He recognised scents, taste, voice. Kent caught his breath and expelled slowly. Now he’ll never mistake you for a man. Scrambling about like a cornered animal. Who does that?

  Unconsciousness had been a pleasant respite from this shit.

  “Am fine. Let go.” Kent’s words were muffled by the hand over his mouth. Muzzling him. “Let go.”

  Hadrian released Kent and crab-walked a few steps away. They sat in a ditch, sprawled like someone had shoved them there when they were done, but Hadrian wasn’t any more bruised than the last time Kent saw him. Alpha, Kent remembered with a sick lurch.

  Light filtered softly through trees, disguising the angle of the sun, but warmth lingered. Late afternoon. Early evening. Time eluded Kent on the best of days, and those were long dead.

  From the way Hadrian kept his head ducked, presumably not to be seen by anyone passing on the road above, Kent surmised they were hiding from something. Somewhere.

  From the way Hadrian didn’t meet Kent’s eyes, Kent surmised he’d done something fucking stupid. A glance at his claws confirmed his suspicion. Crescent moons of blood gone dark with the hours passed since consciousness.

  There was a reason Kent worked alone. Much less guilt.

  He patted his pockets—his coat and shirt were in tatters, and he was down another knife—and discovered he’d lost more than time and blade.

  Bared his teeth at Hadrian. Warning. “Wardings.”

  Hadrian’s twitch might have been a flinch in a smaller man. Continuing to avoid Kent’s eyes, he held up his thumb like something—anything—could merit approval. A wound grimaced on the pad of his thumb.

  “They’re gone. I had to use your compulsion to—You weren’t going to stop!” Hadrian changed direction at Kent’s snarl, gaze darting to Kent’s face. Away. He tugged on the ends of his hair, making them stick out. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I’ve heard stories of berserkers, the great warriors of the old clans, but those are stories, they’re not—”

  Kent covered his ears. He didn’t want to hear that word. Hadrian gently tugged Kent’s hands away. The tides of his sea-scent changed.

  “Human and wolf make something else. That’s what stories say. Berserkers have been part of packs since the time before territories, but I’ve never met one. I don’t know that anyone has in recent times. Is that why you had—Can you change?”

  No one can change, you twat.

  Hadrian meant shapes, of course. To wolf, to man. Like they were two distinct things to him instead of Kent’s permanent in-between state. His berserker state.

  Even thinking the word made Kent’s hands shake. His mother had called him that, smoothing back his short hair and saying he was the first in generations, stroking the fur backwards on his tail like it was a badge of pride. Not something he’d last see in bloody hanks on the scullery floor. Not something marking him as not-quite-wolf and never-man.

  “Prince, are you—”

  “Kent.”

  “Not—Pardon? I don’t understand. Do you want to go south?”

  I can’t stand you using that name when you sound like you saw god. A terrible god, heartsick with wrath, but a god nonetheless. Kent couldn’t listen to Hadrian speak a false name in that voice.

  “Name,” Kent said, tapping the collar where he’d picked out Matron’s stitches. “Kent. Not Prince.”

  Hadrian met Kent’s eyes, and Kent understood why he’d been avoiding doing so; Hadrian’s soul stared out, and it held as much wrath as Kent’s own. A different kind, and better controlled, but Hadrian had as much of the wild inside him as Kent. Little wonder he’d not been entombed in hills when Kent sought him out. They could never have contained him.

  Reaching carefully, more boldly when Kent didn’t move, Hadrian cupped Kent’s face with his warm hand. His claws—nails—were clipped short and didn’t scratch as he brushed Kent’s lips with his thumb, more gently than anything Kent could’ve dreamed. Unable to help himself, Kent licked at the wound on Hadrian’s thumb, needing a taste. His shoulders tensed in anticipation of a blow, though it would’ve been worth it, but instead Hadrian pressed his cut to one of Kent’s lower canines, making a flower of his blood bloom on Kent’s tongue.

  Kent’s lids dropped heavily. He clawed at the ground with one foot, chasing rabbits. When Hadrian withdrew his thumb from Kent’s lips, he smoothed back Kent’s hair, tugged at the point of his ear. Kent’s shoulders finally eased when Hadrian’s ex
pression of fascination didn’t give way to anything crueller.

  Hadrian sat back on his heels, the low light casting shadows on his face. He scratched at his beard, nails rasping. Kent wanted to feel the bristles on his skin. The absence of Hadrian’s touch bruised.

  “I’ve never seen anything like you,” Hadrian said. Kent shrugged one shoulder, and Hadrian waved his hand. “Not the way you’re apt to take it. Berserkers, I mean, or anything other than humans or full wolves. It makes me wonder what else the world has up its sleeve for us to discover.”

  And take apart?

  Kent scratched beneath his collar. “Not wolf. Warden—” Sense clattered him on the side of the skull, and Kent rolled to his knees, scanning the track. Hoofprints and wheel tread scored the soft earth. Felicity. He glared at Hadrian. “Where is the warden?”

  “She helped us here. I sent her on her way. After what happened at the inn—she, ah, relieved the inn of horse and trap and assisted us. We never would have left that place without her aid.” Hadrian picked at his coat sleeve. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a fighter. Not my role.”

  A growl rumbled in Kent’s chest but he bit it back; Hadrian had made the best decision with the information available. No one’s fault. And if he used Kent’s wardings against him, well, that was justified. But his skin didn’t itch the way it did when he held the wardings. Had he lost them? The unlocking warding could be remade. But the compulsion? Hard magic to replicate. Kent chewed his lip, tasting the last of Hadrian.

  He wouldn’t need the compulsion after he delivered Hadrian home.

  “Wardings gone? Destroyed?”

  Hadrian nodded. “A bit of fire, I’m afraid.” At Kent’s raised eyebrows, Hadrian smiled. He tilted his head toward the track. “About that...”

  Chapter Five

  The small pile of ashes on the track held huge secrets. Kent nudged them with his claw, nose wrinkling when smut clung to him. Through his time with Tabitha, he’d become familiar with the creation and destruction of wardings, and the compulsion couldn’t be unmade with flame from a standard tinder. But he couldn’t find any sign of the outside work usually required to destroy wardings.

  He looked sideways at Hadrian, who coloured like a new apple. “Not here. First, we simply must rest. You’re not yet at full strength, I think.”

  And Hadrian needed Kent—berserker—strong to keep him safe. Nodding, Kent clambered to the track to look for opportunities for a resting place. Another farmhouse, perhaps, or a barn. Curling clouds of smoke suggested a village closer than he preferred, but there were isolated buildings in the opposite direction, spotted on the rolling hills. Before Kent could make a decision, Hadrian stilled him with a touch to his shoulder, sure as a shot.

  “I’ve already found a likely opportunity. There’s a house at the edge of town, beyond those trees. I needed to wait for you to—to return. I’m not quite sure of my nose, you see.”

  “Town?” Kent shook his head. “Can’t—”

  “Hush,” Hadrian said, soft. “I’ve been watching since we arrived, and they left earlier to travel south for market. I overheard they’re not expecting to return until late tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll be safe. I just want you to check.”

  Kent wanted to disagree, not used to trusting any judgement beside his own and even then barely, but he found himself nodding a sharp agreement. The way Hadrian’s face lit up, like Kent’s trust was some kind of gift, made the tips of Kent’s ears burn.

  He followed Hadrian along the track and through the trees, curling his toes into the mulchy ground to muffle the sounds of his presence. Hadrian clattered through the trees like he’d never had to quiet himself, and Kent became more silent in reaction, trying to become a shadow of the alpha. Alpha. Kent needed time to digest that. Time to unpick his reactions to Hadrian giving a damn from so lofty a height.

  But first to watch Hadrian break into a house. If only we had an unlocking warding.

  Despite Kent’s scepticism, Hadrian demonstrated practised housebreaking skills and in short time gestured for Kent to follow him into the small cottage. Nape bristling with self-consciousness, Kent strained his senses as he darted from the safety of the trees to join Hadrian inside. Hadrian hadn’t been wrong. The house sat at the edge of the village, another thicket of trees and a field separating it from the next residence. Rocks freckled the field, which meant it likely saw use for grazing, and the few lone sheep in sight were scrawny bags of bones. Kent wondered what the owners had to take to market. Whether summer harvest would yield enough to last through winter.

  As Hadrian gathered blankets from the bedroom, Kent paced in the main room, keeping alert. Dregs of the compulsion made him sluggish, but every step jarred wounds from the blood-rage and reminded him what Hadrian must have seen. Berserker, he’d said. Something animal. If Kent were pack, Hadrian could banish him for his loss of control, make him exile. Alphas held every power.

  Kent picked at the dirt under his claws: blood, ash, earth. He remembered the little pile of once-wardings and felt cold. Kent might have no pack to lose, but with that skill Hadrian had more than banishment in his arsenal. And Kent had exhausted his defences.

  He sat in the corner of the room, pressed to the wall despite the way the position aggravated his sensitive lower back. Comfort sacrificed for safety. He watched the door, waiting for Hadrian.

  Waited impatiently. Placing his remaining blades on the floor in front of him, thinking to clean them with scraps of cloth, Kent reconsidered. They looked like offerings. He swept them to the side as Hadrian returned, bundled high with blankets.

  “They’re a touch musty, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh? That is—not to say that you—and feel free to interject at any time to save me from myself.” Hadrian expelled a short breath and closed his eyes briefly. He opened them again and something about him turned gentle. “I brought blankets. These houses can be cool.”

  Kent glanced at the empty fire grate. Pointed. Hadrian pursed his lips and levelled a look at him. Bubbles fluttered beneath Kent’s breastbone at the irritation plain on Hadrian’s face, and he allowed himself a small grin.

  “Testing,” he said.

  “What, if I was an idiot?” Hadrian crossed the room and dumped the blankets on Kent’s head, like he’d never seen Kent tear through men like paper. Kent sputtered beneath the weight of the blankets as Hadrian continued to speak. “A fire would give away our inhabitance here. I’m not new to this hiding business, you know.”

  Unearthing himself from the last blanket, Kent blew out a breath to show his displeasure, but Hadrian had retreated to poke at the grate, his back to Kent. Careful with his claws, Kent arranged the blankets around his legs, letting his dirty feet stay bare. He traced patterns over the fleecy fabric with the back of his hands, making his skin tingle. The blankets were soft, like Hadrian’s eyes had grown soft. Kent couldn’t stop touching them.

  “As a firestarter, I have very little natural talent,” Hadrian suddenly said. Kent’s hands stilled as he glanced up, but Hadrian continued to fuss with the ashes of a long-dead fire. “Your wards frightened me. The fire sparked almost before I willed it and—I confess, that frightened me more. I left the scraps there like a pup with dirty paws hoping—I don’t know. That it might have been a dream. You see, twenty years ago, or even ten, my skill would be nothing to get excited about. But of late...” Hadrian examined his hands as if he’d never seen them before. “I have become valuable.”

  Hadrian might have “very little natural talent” but Tabitha had built an empire on her skill with wardings, with more fools than Kent chained to her by bonds knitted on her limited supplies of doing and undoing. And Hadrian had burned her wards like they were paper. Firestarters were as much legend as berserkers. With the natural command of an alpha in addition to his talent, Hadrian could lead packs of wolves and men alike. They would fall in place lik
e tin soldiers.

  Creeping thoughts made Kent’s brain itch. He watched the strong lines of Hadrian’s back and shoulders as he braced himself on the hearth, as if he might climb in. Disappear like a rat up a spout.

  Tabitha couldn’t know of Hadrian’s talent. She never would’ve taken the contract, for one. Hadrian challenged her by breathing. She wouldn’t want him in York if she knew.

  Would she? What had Tabitha said about the contract? Kent pressed his tired brain. She’d shown him the picture. Said to retrieve him. That was all. Kent had done the rest of the thinking himself, stealing Hadrian from the wolves. Hadrian’s reluctance had only turned to assistance after the pack moved against them. For her part, Tabitha hadn’t said anything about Hadrian being willing.

  Shit. I think I fucked up.

  * * *

  “Kent?”

  The new name felt strange on Hadrian’s lips. Like he had been waiting to say it all his life. Kent jerked. Hadrian suppressed a smile and had to bite his lip when Kent scowled. The expression made him seem young, as if caught sneaking treats.

  “What are you thinking about?” Hadrian asked.

  “Pack in the north. Why?”

  “Do you mean why was I there?” Kent nodded. Hadrian was getting the hang of this communication business. He settled by the hearth. “We sent our high alphas on the Titanic to establish links with packs across the water. Then—well, you know. I jumped the ranks after that.”

  Eight of their pack dead, including the top three ranking alphas. They were foolish to have travelled together, everyone said when the news came in. Too damn late and now the pack trembled with fractures. Even a firestarter could climb ranks with those odds in his favour, despite general distaste for magically gifted shifters.

  They’d sent him away as soon as the invitation arrived, of course, saying it was for his own protection. Hadrian carried the right breeding, but the old wolves itched with unease at his holding power. At his friendship with Felicity. They were terrified of change. On his more generous days, Hadrian didn’t blame them. The twentieth century hadn’t been kind to wolves.