by Patti Larsen
“I need to see them.”
She leads me inside. The glare of the overhead bulbs leaves no shadows in the long, narrow room where five steel platforms, like hospital slabs in the movies, hold five twisted bodies. Unlike the make-believe of Hollywood, these bodies aren't draped in white sheets, but open to the air. Varying disfigurements mar their forms. Some with wolf-legs, another covered in fur though he appears human otherwise. The one on the end has a fully formed upper snout with a man's lower lip and chin beneath.
“Horrible,” Sunny whispers. “How absolutely horrible.”
I ignore her, going to the first slab to examine the revenant. There is a hole in his chest, a small wound though charred around the edges. I smell witch magic over the stench of his corruption.
“He was killed by an Enforcer,” Femke says softly in my ear where she hovers, out of my way, but available none the less. “We tried to subdue him, but it was impossible.”
I nod. “He's a revenant,” I say. “They are uncontrollable. You did him a favor ending what remained of his life.”
Sunny and Sebastian remain by the door, Piers watching me, but Alison drifts down the slabs, examining each of the bodies with distant curiosity. “I don't feel them,” she says. “It's as if their souls were never in their bodies.”
“Creating werewolves is the greatest offense,” I say, my own soul shriveling inside me, “because it dooms the revenant to certain death and, before their end, the loss of all they are.” I look up into Femke's eyes. “While making more of themselves, perpetuating the horror.”
Femke's lips tighten. “We killed him before he could bite anyone,” she says.
“You're certain?” I look back at the twisted, half-furred form on the table, barely human, not even close to werewolf. “Just one victim can turn into a plague of them in as little as a week.” In the past, whole towns had been burned to the ground, the Czar's guards surrounding and barricading them to keep revenants from escaping the flames.
“We're sure,” Femke says. “The odd part is their appearance, as if out of nowhere.” I follow her as she moves down the line to the next body. This man is tiny, barely over five feet tall and from the gray of his hair, he'd seen far more days than I have. “As if someone is testing something.” His upper body appears human, aside from the softly pointing ears, but the hindquarters are werewolf, shining silver like his hair. “But testing for what?”
I shrug, nose twitching though I grow used to the stench. The revenants smell of worse than death, worse than decay or defecation. They are a mix of all those things and more—the wrongness of them sparking a moment of memory at last as I lower the handkerchief and frown, trying to grasp the thought. It disappears as Femke goes on.
“If someone is trying to make werewolves,” she says, “how possible is it they could come up with a viable means to do so?”
That's a more horrifying though than any other. “They can't,” I say, shaking my head.
“Maybe they can.” Piers's scowl tells me I've missed something. I'm well aware of my cultural biases. My, my inherent rejection of any such possibility dominates my thinking. I can't wrap my mind around what he's saying until he speaks again. “If they used sorcery.”
I shudder violently, forced to lean against Femke as she catches me before my knees buckle.
“Sorcery?” I whisper the word, thinking of Sage and Isabelle and Maks and wondering again why the feeling of the revenants on the table is so familiar.
“Your kind was created by sorcery,” Piers says with an apology in his voice. “Could someone be trying to replicate the process?”
I turn from them, head to the end of the room, let them talk it out. A far doorway twitches, eyes following me from the other side, but my watcher is gone before I register who he is. Or why he was smiling at me.
It doesn't matter. Not when the possibility exists my people could be in very serious trouble.
Piers comes to my side, his hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry, Charlotte, but it's true.”
I spin around, not wanting to be angry with him while my inner wolf paces and whines. “It's not your fault,” I say. “But you realize if they succeed, if there are sorcerers out there trying to make revenants into viable werewolves, they could then use that knowledge to enslave my people all over again.”
“We will never let that happen.” Femke joins us, the vampires, too. “Never.”
I sigh, knowing my grandfather won't take her word for it and this will put him on high alert. It does, however, shake me loose from my fear and refocus my mind to those who might—if not know something—be on the fringes of this issue.
I certainly wouldn't put it past Andre Dumont to have his fingers in this. And it would explain his real reason for being in Europe.
I quickly tell Femke about the Dumont visit. “I know it's not illegal for them to be here,” I say. “But if there is a chance Andre has anything to do with this, you might want to investigate him.”
Femke hesitates. “Without proof?” She shakes her head, blonde hair almost white in the bright light. “I'm not sure I can. But, I will keep an eye on him while he's here.”
“Not to mention Caine and his people,” Piers growls.
Femke looks back and forth between us while I frown over another hint of memory. What connection is my mind trying to make? I can't think surrounded by the stench of the revenants. And with Sage's face floating unbidden into my mind.
“A visiting pack from California,” Piers says. “I don't trust them, and neither does Charlotte.”
I shrug it off as Femke opens her mouth to speak. “Werenation business,” I say.
She stops, nods, lets out a breath of air. “Understood,” she says.
We file out of the room, the vampires whispering among themselves. Femke stops me in the hall, pulling me away from Piers who shrugs and joins Sunny and Sebastian. The Council leader's icy eyes are intense, but full of caring.
“Charlotte,” she says, keeping her voice low in the gloom of the hallway. “Please remember I'm here for you.” I nod but she goes on. “If you need anything—anything at all—please don't hesitate to ask me. I'll do anything I can to help, you know that, right?”
I hug her swiftly before letting her go. “Thank you,” I say and leave it at that. Yes, I respect her and trust her, but Femke is the leader of her territory and has her own laws to follow. And she's a witch, has to put witch issues first.
So Syd is a witch, too. But she's proven over and over again she has my back. I know Femke's offer is genuine, but the fact she won't—or can't—expel the Dumonts tells me her offer is also hollow.
I watch Femke go, the vampires following her to the elevator. Piers lingers, waits for me, hand out. I let him take mine in his, sighing as he tightens his grip.
Don't be so stubborn and accept a little help now and then. He grins at me.
Do I dare? He made the offer... I will feel so much better knowing Piers has checked in when I can't.
Speaking of which, I send as we near the elevator and the others who wait for us, trying to keep my mental voice light. I do need a favor.
Anything. His response is so fast I worry he isn't thinking things through.
I step into the elevator, the doors closing behind us, Piers at my side, still holding my hand.
I need you to find someone, I send, cringing inside. And make sure he's safe.
Piers's hand loosens, his grip slack. He must understand the implications of my request past my attempt to hide my feelings. I show him Sage's face and his hand falls away.
Syd's martial arts guy, Piers sends, mental voice dull with an edge. What’s going on, Charlotte?
He’s my friend, I send. Piers doesn’t comment. He doesn’t have to. I rush on. He came here to see me, not knowing what he was getting into. I leave out the details and how I feel, but Piers isn't stupid.
Understood, he sends. I'll do my best.
He walls himself off from me and as the elevator doors open, strid
es off ahead of us all, disappearing into a black tunnel while my heart aches to call him back.
***
Chapter Twenty Seven
Oleksander seems to have forgotten our previous disagreement in light of the news I bring him. He paces the small room behind his throne as I finish explaining what I’ve seen and heard, his big nose wrinkling every time he comes near me. I still catch the reek of the revenants on me and am just as disgusted by my scent as he must be.
But he doesn’t comment on the smell I’ve brought with me, instead huffing to a halt when I’m done speaking.
“We must locate those responsible immediately,” he growls. “Why would Femke wait this long to inform us of the issue?”
I shrug. “At first, she didn’t know what they were,” I say, repeating what she told me just before I returned home to report to my grandfather. “And when she finally realized what she was dealing with, she didn’t want to come to us for fear we’d think she thought we were responsible.” Treading lightly around each other serves no one. I prefer her policy of talking openly among races, though I have no idea if Oleksander agrees with me or not.
He shakes his big head, a soft grunt of frustration emerging from his wide chest. “Let us gather a force,” he says. “You will lead them. And discover the truth of this matter.”
I salute him with a fist over my heart. This I will take on eagerly. Action befits my temperament much more than waiting to see what will happen. And though being given orders might not suit the new werewoman I’ve become, I, of all, know how important it is to find and eliminate this threat to my people.
If revenants are free to roam the world and infect normals, my people will come to the awareness of those who will hunt and kill us without mercy. As much as Syd and her fellow witches need to remain hidden from normals, so do we weres. Their fear of us, their old prejudices, could mean the end of the werenation should normals uncover our existence.
I follow my grandfather out into the throne room, the fresh air washing over me, reminding me I very much need a shower. Oleksander pauses before I can stop, running into him while he shivers with what can only be anger. My nose might be clogged with the stench of the dead revenants, but I am close enough to him to scent his temper.
I step around him, find Caine and some of his pack waiting for us at the bottom of the dais. Oleksander finally moves, sitting slowly on his throne as though to reinforce his position to the smirking Californian pack leader. As I stare my dislike at Caine, the teasing thought I’d been trying to unravel since Femke showed me the revenant bodies clicking into place.
But it can’t be. My brain churns over as my grandfather speaks.
“I didn’t summon you,” he says. “What do you want?” Blunt and to the point. Caine has irritated Oleksander, hopefully to the breaking point. And what I have just discovered might push him over the edge.
Grandfather, I send in a tight, tense touch. What does Caine feel like to you?
Oleksander twitches, eyes flickering up to meet mine before they return to Caine.
“I understand there have been revenant sightings.” How did he discover that? Unless.
He’s a revenant, I send, kicking myself internally for not catching it, not making the connection. But the off way he smells, the almost dirty feeling of him… being in the presence of the dead revenants earlier makes it even clearer to me now.
Impossible. Oleksander doesn’t sound convinced of his own denial. They are sane and whole.
Are they? I reach out to Caine, though I feel my grandfather is right. But I know it’s true, I’m certain of it. And growing more so by the moment.
“Tell me what you know of them.” Oleksander leans forward, toward Caine who feigns shock and hurt.
“I, Great King?” He laughs, his people chuckling around him. “What makes you think I know anything? I’m only bringing up rumor, a rumor that puts us all at risk.”
His protest tells me what I need to know. “Who are you working with?” If sorcerers are making revenants, it’s possible Caine and his people are the final result. But, if so, why is whoever is making the new ones still trying—and failing so badly?
I’m confused, still muddled by the reek of death and decay clinging to me as Caine turns his attention to me.
“I have no idea what you mean,” he says. “We came because of the summons. I came,” he takes a step closer, “to claim you as my mate. Nothing more.”
“If you were so eager to do so,” I say, “why then did you spend several days in Yutsk instead of proceeding directly here, to the palace?”
His pack growls, a few pacing a few steps before falling still. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he says.
“Enough.” Oleksander slams both fists down on the arms of his throne. “Sharlotta, there are greater issues at stake.”
He can’t take Caine’s side. He can’t.
Caine shrugs, grin returning, as he bows his head to my grandfather. “I will give you the answer, my king.” He spreads his hands wide. “We had no idea what to expect of you,” he says. “I chose to protect my pack, to do some recon before we arrived. To make sure you and your mighty werenation were worthy of us.”
He’s lying, I can tell by instinct and the way his hands tighten when he speaks. So many tells, and yet I have no proof, no way to make him give me what I need to know. I only have one thing left to use against him, but my grandfather puts an end to that before I can throw the accusation at him.
We will keep this to ourselves, Oleksander sends, sitting back in his throne. Until we know for certain if, in fact, they are revenants as you claim.”
As I claim? You don’t believe me? His distrust hurts me to the quick.
I didn’t say that, Oleksander sends, though his tone is cold and distant. But they have done nothing to prove they are revenants. And though I don’t fully trust them, I have yet to witness anything that might prove they are enemies of our people.
Surely he wasn’t that much a fool. But, Grandfather—
Sharlotta. He turns his head, looks up at me with a deep scowl while Caine watches. What you claim, this is a serious allegation. We must have proof. I will not have werewolves persecuted without it. He looks back at Caine and the others. They act like no revenants I’ve ever encountered. There might be a more logical explanation for the taint you feel.
You don’t feel it, too? He had to.
I do not. Oleksander’s tone is so dismissive I flinch. All I feel are werewolves, slightly different than us, but to be expected. They were not born here, and it’s possible the magic of their homeland has changed them somewhat.
Ridiculous. He’s making stupid, empty excuses to protect those who I’m certain are out to destroy him.
But his mind is made up and I know him well enough to realize he won’t back down. I growl in my head, my wolf pacing her frustration. Very well, I send. I’ll get your proof.
Oleksander shifts his weight, face settling into a calmer visage. “We understand your concerns,” he says. “And welcome you into our overpack.”
Caine grins at me. “Does this mean my chances to court the princess have improved?”
He wouldn’t dare.
“They have,” Oleksander says while I barely resist the urge to flatten him with my power. “All eligible bachelors are now open to my choice for her mate.”
I choke on his words, bitter, dark and terrible. I won’t submit.
You will, he sends, still cold. My days of trusting your judgment in this matter are over, Sharlotta. You’ve proven you put the werenation behind your own needs.
Then I step down. The words are spoken on impulse, but I mean them.
You will not. His voice roars in my head. You will obey, and this nation will survive.
I bite my lower lip, holding back spoken words while my wolf whines and paces inside me.
Caine bows to my grandfather, gaze flickering back and forth between the two of us as he grins. “I look forward to the competition,” he s
ays. “And mating with you, Charlotte.”
Over my very dead and broken body.
Oleksander. I can’t call him grandfather any longer. Believe I will not allow this to happen.
“Dismissed.” The wereking waves Caine and his people off. They leave, though the wereleader looks back over his shoulder at me a few times, still grinning. It’s not until the doors to the throne room shut behind them I turn to face my traitor grandfather.
“You can’t make me do anything,” I snarl, keeping my voice low so the wereguards can’t hear. “Our freedom, our people’s freedom, is embedded in the gift Syd gave us.”
“Sydlynn Hayle.” Oleksander shakes his head. “Perhaps I’ve given her too much access to you. Her ways, the ways of witches, are not ours.” He glares up at me. “Can you not understand how important it is you mate a werewolf? No,” he waves off my protest before I speak, “not even Piers Southway is a choice now, Sharlotta. I see clearly the challenges coming for us, not only from the outside, but from within our own people. Werewolves like Caine’s pack watch and weigh our every move. If we are to hold our people together and pull them with us into a stronger, more secure future, we must trust the old laws and show them we are worthy of the throne.”
“So much fear,” I hiss at him, spiteful suddenly, though it’s not my nature. “Worry about what others think.”
“You would serve yourself well do to the same,” he snaps back at me. “What do you think ruling means, child? Do you think it’s some game, some frivolity? I have given up much in my life to make available to you all that you now have.” How easily he forgets Syd was the one who gave us our freedom. “And like it or not, you are the only choice in our family for heir. I will not allow the Moreau name to be dragged into the dirt by one ill-humored and pampered child.” He has no idea what he’s saying. “I retract my former ruling. You will marry whom I say and until the day you take this throne, you will obey my orders.”
This is madness. Madness. I splutter in his mind until he waves me off.
