by Patti Larsen
Could we…? Can I have him and my duty, too? But no, the possibility dies as it needs to, as I shake my head, backing away, toward the door. “It can’t be.” I whisper the truth, more to myself than him. I have to mate with a were. Maybe, a few generations from now, it might be acceptable for the heir to the werenation to choose a normal for a mate. But not now, not while we are still building our own private world into the likeness we choose.
The pack will never accept him. And he will be in constant threat if anyone finds out the truth.
He must feel my moment of final choice, because he manages to grab me just as I’m turning to run out the door. “Charlotte,” my name is a plea. “Don’t leave me.”
I hesitate one last moment, meeting his gaze a final time, leaning in to press my lips to his. And then, I tear free and dash for the empty air, the quiet dark, doing my best not to sob my broken dreams into the uncaring night.
***
Chapter Eight
I run all the way to Syd’s, longing to shed my clothing and revert to my werewolf shape, just to escape the scent of Sage clinging to my skin. Why did I give in and sleep with him? I’m so weak, he makes me so. If I can’t say no to such a base urge with someone I shouldn’t be with in the first place, how will I ever survive as queen of the werewolves?
I pause at the driveway, bend in half, hiding in the shadows of Syd’s shrubbery as, for the first time, I curse my friend for waking my emotions. Where they’d been welcome earlier, surrounded by my witch family, I now long for the silence of my conditioning, the walls and locked doors of the training that used to keep me safe from what I felt.
I could rebuild those walls, find ways to cut myself off again. My body shudders as I straighten, wiping my sweating face with both hands, perspiring not from the run, but the control it takes to keep from going back to Sage. My wolf prowls inside me, unhappy, restless. I have to get out of here and away from any chance of seeing him again.
Focus. I have to focus. And, as with every other time I’ve done my best to pull myself into cold calm, I think of my mother. But unlike earlier, when Miriam’s embrace made me long for love lost to me, this time it’s her firm hand and self-possession I miss. It had been so long since I saw her, since the night she died at the hands of the Black Souls as punishment for her rebellion. I shouldn’t be able to call up her face. But there she is with me, as clear and crisp as ever, smiling kindly at me in my mind, though with her own hardness I’ve always done my best to emulate.
“Never show them,” Olena Moreau told my brother and me from the moment we could understand. “Never let them see you are hurt. That you feel anything. Or they will use it against you.” She meant the Black Souls. But it applies now.
I’ve shown Sage too much. I gave too much. I’m done giving.
That’s better. Hard edges form around the pain, quieting my pounding heart, slowing my pulse. The sweat dries on my skin in the soft breeze of the cool fall night, my jaw setting. I feel the meditative stillness I used to practice so easily return to me, though I am aware it will take some time to solidify it again.
I have time. And I am willing to use it. Especially if it will keep my heart safe from now on. I’m kidding myself, thinking I will find what I need among my people. That I can gain what Syd and Meira have with a werewolf. We are a hard and savage race, our centuries of servitude showing beneath the bare veneer of civility my grandfather insists we cling to. I may find a partner who can rule next to me and be the prince consort I need him to be, but I need to shake off the illusions I’ve created any werewolf I mate with will be as willing as I am to submit to emotions like love and caring.
More likely, I will mate for power and position and will simply have to make the most of it.
My mind returns to my mother, to the last moment I saw her, my final memory. She screams at me as the Black Souls drag her away, the first night my heart really hardened. The slam of a huge door, cutting her from my sight. The howl of her wolf. And silence. Anger rises in place of pain, simmering and old, feeding the walls.
Do I want to return to the girl I had been, resentful and bitter? Hopeless, caught in an endless loop of despair dulling everything but duty? Using my abilities only to survive, not to thrive and grow? I have little choice. I think again of my mother, how my father and grandfather refused to show me her body, what the sorcerers had done to her. Merely telling me she was dead and to show no one weakness at her loss. My brother was better at it than I, at least at first. He taught me to be strong as much as she did. And when Danilo died, the Czar sending me his bones, I leaned on the memory of my brother’s strength to keep from falling apart.
Even the air around me chills as I draw my anger to me again, an old, welcome friend. Very well then. This is how it shall be and no other way. I can survive. And I will. For the sake of my people, I will sacrifice my happiness and my own chance at freedom to give them theirs.
The front door opens, driving me further into shadow, eyes narrowing, suspicion returning with the reawakening of my training. I don’t want to see anyone at this point, but I do need to get home. A conundrum I must solve somehow. The very last person I wish to see will only crack my newly returned walls of protection. Syd will see right through me and undo what I’ve done here in the dark of her driveway. I cannot allow her to tear me down again, not when so much is at stake.
I have to risk it. It’s a long walk home to Ukraine and I don’t have the means to travel through the veil. It’s a major frustration of mine, an irritation I wish I could rectify. It just adds to our lack of status as a species, being forced to request witches or sorcerers to taxi us to our destinations. Perhaps I will make that my focus—my magic is strong. Surely I can figure out a way to free my people from this last indignity.
With a quick, steadying breath I stride with confidence to the door. A pair of witches scuttle by, smiles of greeting fading as I walk past and I realize I must be further into my old persona than is good for me right now. But dialing back my resolve could mean the difference between breaking down and making it home in one mental piece.
Quaid’s concern I can handle. Miriam’s, even. Shenka, the coven’s second, I’m sure she won’t be an issue. But please, please. Just let me not see Syd.
I almost exhale in relief as Shenka turns and smiles at me from the middle of the bright kitchen as I enter, Ethpeal and Demetrius looking up from their conversation with her. I see the sudden concern in Ethpeal’s face, the frown of curiosity creasing her partner’s brow. But Shenka’s warm, worried smile is far worse than I expected.
She tries to hug me, but I dodge her embrace. “I hate to impose,” I say to Ethpeal, “but I need to go home.” I don’t tag on “now”, but I put urgency in my stare. Glare, actually.
“Of course,” Ethpeal says, light and emotionless, as though I didn’t just come to the brink of insult. “We were just waiting for you.”
Shenka’s arms drop, sorrow on her face. “We didn’t get a chance to talk.”
I nod, no longer meeting her gaze, turning from her. “Next time, perhaps.”
I’ve hurt her, slapped her with my words. But it doesn’t matter. There won’t be a next time. I can’t keep coming here if I’m to succeed in my plan. The very love and caring they taught to me, this family offered me, is the weakness I need to shed if I’m to be a queen.
I leave in silence with the two sorcerers, this time stepping first into the black tunnel at the end of the driveway. I embrace the cold darkness, welcome it, hope it will go further to cool the heat all my softness created in me. Anger and dispassion for everything else. I have to remember who I used to be and forget who I was becoming.
Ethpeal and Demetrius don’t offer hugs as they exit the tunnel with me.
“Thank you.” I bow to them, turning away before they can comment, and head for the line of trees. I should check in with my grandfather immediately, but I can’t face him yet, nor does tossing and turning appeal to me. Not with the last of the new, loving, shiny
me still glimmering, begging for more life. I feel the pair of sorcerers depart as I reach the edge of the forest, shedding my clothing down to my underwear before forcing my body into were shape.
It hurts, much more than returning to human form, but I welcome the pain, speed the transformation until I’m gasping, and begin to run. The wolf pack appears almost immediately, the white and her alpha keeping pace with me. They are welcome, a part of who I am.
I was wrong, I know that now, as I race through the familiar trees. I don’t need to return to who I used to be, just shed the weaknesses I’ve adopted lately. I need to be an even newer me, stronger, more powerful, more heartless. Take the lessons Syd taught me and use them to my advantage, as tools. To be the wolf, more than the girl, understand emotion without falling victim to it. Accept the practical above the emotional. And to no longer think in terms of me alone, but of the pack.
That is where I lost myself. Selfish and lonely, I failed them by trying to be someone who put herself first. But that’s not how wereculture works, and to rule them, I must adopt fully the ways of my people.
Charlotte means nothing. The pack is everything.
***
Chapter Nine
My return to the palace is slower, my pace more steady and regular than the all-out pounding of my original run as I circle around and head for home. The wolf pack drops off when I near the edge of the trees, all but the white female. She stops with me as I bend to retrieve my clothing, head tilted to one side, ears perked. I slip into my shirt and jacket, holding her gaze. I’ve never tried to approach her before, not in human shape. She seems fearless as I cross to her and crouch, only a few feet from her.
She whines, licking her snout, but not out of worry or fear. That I would sense. She instead seems concerned for me, a fact I find odd, considering she’s just an animal. And then I shake my head and laugh at myself, my own wolf huffy at the “just” reference. Of course, she’s much more than that. She’s a wolf.
I offer my hand and she comes forward to lick my fingers. “Thank you for running with me,” I say. “It means a lot, knowing you are out there.”
She bobs her head, sniffing the air around me before barking, a soft but urgent sound.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” I stand, still holding her eyes with mine, wishing I could understand her better. “We’ll do it again, if you’d like.” This pleasure I will never give up, no matter who tries to stop me.
Her tail wags, ruffling the dead leaves as she barks again. I turn from her, feeling her gaze still on me, and, once I’m halfway across the broad, manicured lawn, I turn and look back.
She still stands, remaining in place until I’m almost to the palace doors, motionless, a ghost flickering white in the dark. But when I look back one last time, my feet passing over the stone of the first step, she’s finally gone and her loss makes me sad.
I pause at the top of the wide front steps, hovering behind the threshold to the foyer, feeling the walls I built within softening all over again. Thanks to the wolf? Maybe. Can it be I’m no longer able to sustain the protections I once wore as easily as the clothes on my back? I should be upset I can’t live in anger for long, not anymore. But I’m not. I will have to find another means to guard myself than the endless bitter rage I used to use to my advantage, that much is clear. I must find a balance if I’m going to be part of the werepack for real without allowing myself to become a softened victim of emotion.
The scent of Sage intrudes as I enter the still air of the massive entry to the palace. With the wind no longer carrying his scent from me, I’m trapped. I thought I’d run him off of me, but it is obvious it will take a long, hot shower to succeed. My feet scuff over the carpet as I walk toward the well-lit throne room entrance, knowing my grandfather will still be awake, waiting for my report. I will have to keep my distance or he will catch the aroma of a stranger from me and now I’ve parted ways with Sage, I don’t want to have to answer questions about him.
I remember only the feeling of being watched, and a spark of rebellion returns. If my grandfather has been having me followed, he already knows about Sage. Only a tiny whisper of worry wonders if it’s not Oleksander… who could it be?
My rebellion grows into a flare of recklessness widening my stride and bringing a snarl to my lips. What if I told Sage what I was and let him make his own decision? This question circles me, has been making the rounds in my head for months now. I only assume the werepack won’t accept him—am I right? Do I really care?
He’s not a werewolf, my anger tells me. And never will be. I shiver as I reach the doors and stop to gather myself. The only way Sage could become a were would be if he were infected by our blood. And that would mean disaster. Bad enough we can’t be together, but for him to be turned to a revenant?
My little tryst with revolt dies in fear. Being born were is one thing. Devolving from an infected bite into an animal-like creature with no heart and no soul, living only in madness is quite another. There is a very good reason creating werewolves is illegal in all territories. And my own personal experience watching a local hunter turn into a revenant is enough to cut short any fantasies I might have about Sage and I being together as weremates.
I was still a little girl, but the recollection is as vivid as my mother’s face because of the horror. The sorcerers brought in the man after he tried to shoot one of our pack and was bitten in the melee. My young psyche had been sorely damaged by the sight of the frothing monster writhing on the floor of the throne room. They killed him slowly, the dark sorcerers, in front of us all, torturing and tormenting him first before putting him down like a rabid dog while his stink, the taint of decay and death, stained the air of the vast chamber for weeks afterward.
“You see,” the Czar, our former leader, laughed as though the man’s plight and our witnessing his death were the utmost in amusement. “You must never try to make others of your kind. Only those born to your affliction, your filthy burden, will be allowed to live.”
I believed for a long time the Czar was right, that I and my people were diseased and unworthy of anything but slavery. Syd changed my mind, slowly, by example.
So much for hardening myself to the woman I’d become under her care. I sigh and toss my blonde hair back as I finally enter the throne room to face my grandfather, ready for a fight if I have to argue over Sage, but happy to sidestep Oleksander’s surveillance otherwise. It’s not like there is anything I can do if he indeed had me followed.
And who knows? By now, Syd’s influence might be the better choice. At least I would have memories of her and her family, reminders of who I could have been, to keep me warm through the coming days. And it is possible I may find a mate who understands and loves me to the best of his ability, despite the drawbacks and failings of my race.
I’m not holding my breath.
As I look up the long expanse, I forget everything I’ve been thinking about, embracing the distraction of the tall, handsome blond standing with one foot on the bottom step of the throne dais. My feet quicken and a real smile blossoms on my face. As hard as tonight has been, I have to remember I’m not alone. And from the sparkling grin on Piers Southway’s face, he’s as happy to see me as I am to see him.
***
Chapter Ten
He meets me partway, arms wide, letting out a grunt as I practically throw myself into his embrace. Piers hugs me tight against his tall, lean frame, the soft wool of his longcoat heating up the space between us. Icy blonde hair sweeps over me as his lips descend, a soft and friendly kiss to my mouth warming me up on the inside as the folds of his coat engulf me. I welcome the relief from the swirling cold of my inner turmoil.
Pale gray eyes sparkle as he smiles, pale, angular face calculating despite his grin. “Why, Your Highness,” he says, “what a surprise to find you here.”
I relax into his teasing, so grateful he’s here to keep me from spiraling further down into my gloom. This I don’t resist, the show of emotion more a game, a hi
nt of fun I can cling to as the years go by. I may not be able to have Sage in my life, but I have a good friend who has made himself an ally of the werenation thanks to his close friendship with my fallen brother. He’s accepted and well-liked. And Piers is a frequent guest. Not feeling so alone any longer, I grin up at him. “You’re a little fresh tonight,” I say, leaving him to follow me as I finish my walk to the throne. “Kiss me without permission again and we’ll see what your pretty face looks like with my fist in it.”
Piers laughs and slips a familiar arm over my shoulders. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
Despite my challenge, I really do adore him, happy he’s here for me while I face off with Oleksander. I’ve been skirting Piers’s advances the last year or so, well aware from the feeling of him, the way he treats me, he has feelings for me beyond friendship.
My mind cranks over slowly, though connections are made at last. I may have been unwilling to shift from Sage to another possibility in the past, yes. But as I glance up at Piers’s smiling face, taking in the warmth of him, the gentle way he handles me despite his casual flair, how his scent alters when he’s near me, I wonder if perhaps he might be a suitable candidate. That my fears of a loveless and power-driven mating might not be so inevitable after all.
My wolf encourages the connection, masking my still painful feelings for Sage. She loves him as I do, but she is far more pragmatic. There are times I wish for less emotion and more the practicality of the wolf. This is one of those times. Though it hurts at first, I allow her to smother Sage and carry his memory away for a time so I can think, rationally and like the wereprincess I’ve come to be.
It helps a great deal, the sharp agony now only a dull ache I can barely feel. Perceptions shift as my wolf takes over. She’s well aware Piers isn’t a werewolf, but he has power, at least. But how would the werenation react if their prince consort was a sorcerer, so soon after our freedom from the Black Souls? I turn my head to meet my grandfather’s eyes, seeing through the gaze of my wolf. She’s not surprised by the hint of his approval and joy as we stand together.
