by Patti Larsen
Enough, Sharlotta. Oleksander shakes his head, staring at his clenched hands in his lap before he looks up at me, and for the first time I see how tired he is. I’ve added stress to his life, though that was not my intention, and I can see the hurt he still feels, the betrayal he perceives for my relationship with Sage.
No greater than the betrayal he’s just handed to me. I can’t let this go. No, Grandfather, I send, it’s not enough. I will not be controlled, not now. And no matter your feelings about me, or this nation, I refuse to just wash my hands of Caine and my suspicions because it’s uncomfortable or because you want it to go away. I hesitate before going on. And if you try to force me into mating, I will take you down.
Did I just challenge my own grandfather?
His eyes darken, a scowl pulling at his face. You will fail.
Maybe. I reach for compassion, try to see things his way, from his narrow viewpoint while my anger fights to reemerge. Please, understand, I don’t want things to go this way between us. I love you, Grandfather. But we can’t live this way. We can’t worry what others think. And we can’t allow those who would undermine us to remain only because we wish things were different.
He hesitates, softening. Sharlotta, he sends, anguish in his mental voice. I only ever wanted a better life for you than I had.
I know, I send. But by becoming a tyrant, you’re undoing all that.
You will obey me. He sounds far less sure of himself.
I will obey my heart, I send. And I will do what is best for the werenation. But I must be allowed to make my own choice.
Oleksander squirms on his throne. We shall see. He squints at me, a little anger returning. The normal must go.
My teeth grind together, my own gaze narrowing. I told you it was over, I send with a bitter edge rebounding. Sage came here on his own. I intended only to do my duty.
I’m sure. Oleksander stands, turning his back on me.
What can I do or say to make this right? Nothing. He will either come to terms with it or not. I refuse to allow the issue of Sage to cloud the real trouble here, not any longer. And while my grandfather might not believe I will fight him for the right to my own choice, I am determined it will be so.
I’m going to tell Femke about Caine and his people, I send.
My grandfather spins on me with a snarl. You will not, he sends.
If the California weres are part of this—
So many ifs, Sharlotta. Oleksander straightens to his full height. I will not act on “if”. They are our people, like it—like him—or not. We must stand together.
Then allow me to investigate, I send. And bring you proof.
He hesitates before nodding. Very well, he sends. But I will not bring charges unless you are absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of doubt. You must convince me.
The difference between him and me. If I were queen, Caine would be dead already.
I turn from my grandfather as the doors open, determined to find what I need to remove the California pack from the equation. I’m certain I’m right. Now to prove it.
Gwendolyn and Finlay enter, hurrying toward us, the small witch and her hulking Enforcer both looking worried.
“What is it?” I rush down the stairs to meet them as they come to a halt, Gwen flushed from distress.
“We’re tracking another revenant,” she says, voice soft and apologetic. “We could use your help.”
I turn to my grandfather who waves me off. “Put an end to this, Sharlotta,” he rumbles.
As I feel Finlay’s blue power wrap me up and lift me away from the palace, I am determined to do just that.
***
Chapter Twenty Eight
I lift my head and sniff the breeze, my tracking nose still tainted by the scent of revenants. But in this instance, I know it will serve me well. Magic moves around me in the quiet, snow-bound forest, witches of the Council forming a semi-circle, in an attempt to flush out our prey.
Femke’s mind touches mine, foreign and cool but welcome. Any luck?
I have his trail, I send as the first whiff of the fleeing revenant carries to me. A few miles ahead, from the taste of him.
She releases me, the line tightening around me. I ghost through the trees in full wereform, the snow soft under my paws, the fresh fall powdering around me from the cloud-darkened sky. The forest feels eerily silent, no creatures stirring, birds long since flown for cover. I’ve never felt a woodland so quiet, as though this isn’t a real track of trees at all, but some concoction of a movie studio or even a dream.
My tongue swipes over my muzzle, my mouth watering in protest to the growing scent of the revenant we hunt. I sense no power in him, as though he is flawed in design, a normal human—the most common of revenants, if they can be called common—the source of the scent. Could that be the key to the failure of made werewolves, the lack of magic? And why it seems to be so often normals who become revenants? I’ve never heard of a vampire or witch falling victim, though I don’t claim to know everything about revenants. Is the infection only active in those without power for some reason? I don’t have time to ponder these questions, not while I feel him up ahead, closer than I expected.
My mistake. His scent isn’t as strong as those in the morgue because he yet lives. I signal to Femke as I feel him shift, only a few hundred yards ahead. I have him.
Well done. She allows me to stay with her as she talks to her witches. Charlotte has point. Follow her lead. And whatever you do, keep him alive this time. We need answers.
I growl softly into the dead air, the dusting of fat flakes on my fur making me shiver. My claws trace parallel slashes in the snow as I ease forward, ready to attack. I’m so certain the revenant is prepared to pounce, my hackles rise, every muscle in my body poised to fight back.
It’s almost a letdown as I circle a huge tree and find him, panting and whimpering, in the snow. He bites at his lower lip, blood running from his mouth, his hands curved into misshapen versions of claws, both feet pawed, but his legs intact. He looks up at me with a snarl, wolf teeth in a human mouth, his fear far clearer than it should be.
Where is his insanity? The loss of soul, the dark evil I’ve come to expect? He turns from me, tries to pull himself away, whimpering louder as he claws at the snow.
Magic stirs beside me, Femke appearing in a rush of power, her pale face pink in points on her high cheeks. She stares, eyes wide, hand extended, a large ball of blue fire ready to fly. I feel them close in, her witches, as the revenant collapses into the snow, sobbing openly now.
Femke glances at me, gaze wild. “This isn’t what I thought it would be,” she says.
I shake my head. “Nor I. Something isn’t right.” I crouch in the snow, reach out one paw and touch his foot. He twitches and jerks away from me, huddling, half-naked, a soft howl rising from his chest. “He shouldn’t be acting this way.” The image of the ravening insanity of the revenant I encountered as a child fades as I take in this man’s terror and hurt. “I have no idea what’s going on, but he’s not a real revenant. At least, not of the kind we weres are accustomed to.”
Femke nods. “Could they be getting closer to their goal?” She refers to the sorcerers we assume are behind this. “Is this the evolution of revenants?”
I stand and sniff the air again, sensing something, but not certain what. I need to tell her about Caine, but as I look down at this damaged normal, I begin to doubt myself. If the sorcerers have already perfected their technique with Caine and his people, why is this mess of a man lying in the snow in Siberia?
Am I wrong? Is Caine’s taint something entirely different?
I gesture at the weeping creature before me. “Whatever the case,” I say, “we must investigate further.”
Femke squeezes my shoulder. “Agreed,” she says. “And at least this one we can take alive.”
I have no time to react, nor do the gathered witches, when two werewolves bound into view, scattering snow in every direction. I recognize Roman and Vive
ca, realize then they were missing from the throne room earlier when I spoke to Caine. They are on top of the screaming normal before I can do anything to stop them. Roman’s arm rises as Femke shouts at him to stop, falling as her whip of magic crackles through the air.
Too late. Blood gushes, Roman flying backward, his talons sending a spray of crimson over the snow as he hurtles away from the body, impacting a tree. Viveca finishes the job, her teeth tearing out the man’s throat before she bounds to her brother and stands over him, snarling.
Femke’s fury makes her look like an ice queen, one of the old Norse warrior goddesses come to life. “WHAT DID YOU DO?”
Viveca continues to growl as Roman shakes his head. “Our duty,” he snarls back. His dull eyes land on me. “No werewolf shall suffer a revenant to live.”
Old law. He’s quoting old law. To me. I want to tear him apart as he has the dead man before me. But I can’t. I have no ground to stand on. Femke turns to me, trembling with rage, but I shake my head at her.
“Correct,” I snap.
She tosses her hands, takes a moment to collect her temper before pointing a shaking finger at Roman and Viveca. “And you two are here just in case something like this happens?”
I scowl at them, shaking off the shock of the last minute, the scent of blood and viscera drowning out everything as the stench of dead revenant rises from the steaming body in the snow.
“We were alerted a revenant was sighted,” Roman says while Viveca glares at me. “It is our duty and our honor to serve.”
There is nothing I can say or do in response to that. “Your new masters brought you here, I take it?” The Dumonts. They had to be involved.
Roman shrugs, stands while the gathered Enforcers loom with ominous anger. “We did your job for you,” he says.
“You went against the will of the European Council,” Femke shoots back.
Roman bares his teeth at her. “Werenation business,” he says with a hint of spite.
Femke gestures her Enforcers back. “Considering this isn’t were territory,” she snaps, “I want you out of here. Now. And if I ever see your ass out and about again, I’ll skin it myself.”
Roman and Viveca bound off with one final glare for me. I let them go, though I should follow them and find out how they got here. Who transported them?
“That,” Femke almost spits the words out, “was a setup if ever I saw one.”
I nod, glum now, turning from the dead body, no longer willing to look. “Agreed,” I say. “There are things you need to know.”
We stand in the snow as I inform her of everything I suspect, including Caine and the Dumonts, while the Enforcers clean up the mess. The air turns cold, the fat flakes spinning to tiny strikes of ice. But neither Femke nor I move a muscle as I tell her all I fear.
By the time I’m done, my guilt is at war with my need to act. I’ve broken my grandfather’s orders again. But I know from the anger in Femke’s eyes, I’ve done the right thing. We must learn to work together if we are to survive these challenges.
“Thank you,” she says, though her tone still carries her temper. “I take it you weren’t to tell me any of this.”
I don’t respond. I’ve betrayed Oleksander enough already.
Femke finally sighs out her frustration, shivering and hugging herself inside her heavy black robe.
“Now that I know,” she says, “I might be able to guard against them next time.” No accusations in her voice, and I’m grateful. She turns, gestures to one of her Enforcers. “Track how those two werewolves traveled here,” she says before turning back to me. The black-robed witch dashes off through the snow in their wake as Femke speaks. “Can you come back with me, to Oxford? I think you’re aware this body is very different.”
I nod, glad to have this moment over. “Of course.” Maybe I can uncover the truth, now I know something isn’t adding up in these new revenants. But I’m not holding my breath.
***
Chapter Twenty Nine
I stand over the body, cleansed of blood and gore, neatly laid out on another steel slab. At least this time Femke has kept him separate from the others. It’s much easier to focus with only one revenant in my presence—or am I growing accustomed to the stench?
She hovers behind me, keeping her distance, has since the Enforcer she sent after Roman and Viveca came to whisper in her ear. But I feel her eyes on the back of my head, making my hackles rise as much as the hunt did, even in my human form. I need to focus on the dead body before me, reaching out, though it disgusts me to the core of my being, and laying one hand on his bare shoulder.
It takes a moment for my inbred need to run howling from the feel of him to settle before I can continue my investigation. Oddly, this would have been much easier to accomplish were he still alive. Carrion—the worst kind of carrion—turns my wolfish stomach as much as my human one.
“Could it be,” I say, more to myself than to Femke, “he hadn’t yet reached the point of insanity? Am I wrong about him and he is yet another revenant only slower to reach the darkness?”
She doesn’t comment, clearly sensing I’m only speaking so she can understand my thought process. I probe him with my magic, feel for answering power that isn’t there. Of course, he’s dead, but I sense even when he yet lived he didn’t possess what I do.
“No magic,” I say. “When we are born to werelife, we are born with the inherent power of our parents. But he has no magic.” I shake my head, remembering this train of thought from the forest. “Could that be the key to the revenant’s failure?” I turn to Femke, addressing her at last. “Because our bite is so virulent,” something I never understood, a flaw in our makeup surely the Black Souls didn’t intend, “our shapeshifting abilities are easily shared. But our magic is not.”
Femke nods slowly, brow furrowed. “That makes sense,” she says. “Though I’ve never thought of it that way before. Almost like waking a latent who doesn’t have access to their magic.”
I suppose so. “Has a werewolf ever bitten a witch or a vampire?”
Femke shakes her head. “If they have,” she says, “there’s no record of it.”
“Then it’s possible werewolfism is only contractible by normals.” My questions for myself in the woods come back to me.
Femke looks startled. “That’s a leap,” she says.
“Is it?” I shrug. “If there are no records of witches or other magical races becoming infected, I could be right. After all, over all the centuries, the odds not one was bitten is a set of longer odds than my theory.” Femke nods slowly as I go on. “So if a magical creature can’t be infected, that leads to the conclusion I mentioned earlier. Only normals are at risk. Because they don’t have magic.” Which makes things worse in many ways. If these revenants are to spread, the likelihood of my people being exposed to normals grows with their number. And that means putting not only our race, but all races, at greater chance of being uncovered by vengeful normals.
My wolf chuffs for my attention and I turn back to the body. She’s sensed something I missed in my speculations. When she shows it to me, I gasp softly.
“What is it?” Femke moves forward in a jerky motion, coming to stand next to me in the bright light of the room, hovering like a pale ghost over the washed-out remains.
“It’s there,” I say. “Sorcery.” I’m not surprised, per se, just shocked to feel the black remains. “The magic they used to try and turn him.” My fingers trace down his shoulder and to his forearm where a nasty bite stands out red against his corpse-pale skin. “They bit him on purpose while a sorcerer attempted to control the change.” I release my touch and turn to Femke. “But they failed.”
“Because they couldn’t find a way to give him magic?” She meets my eyes.
“Maybe.” I bite my lower lip. “But why then, if they did fail, wasn’t he a soulless wretch? From what I know, it shouldn’t take long for him to turn to evil. And from what we saw of him, he’d been running for at least a day, if
not more.”
Femke shakes her head, turning to retrieve a file from the counter behind us. She offers it to me with an apologetic smile. “I meant to show you this,” she says. “All the research we have on revenants.”
I finger through the pages in some awe, though she clearly expects me to be angry with her. “Where did you get this?” Black and white images of fallen revenants look up at me, pages and pages of written notes humming with magic, some old, crumbling around the edges despite the power holding them together, others crisp and fresh.
“The Council has been observing you for a long time,” she says. “This file only recently came to my attention.”
I wave off her worry. “This is fascinating,” I say, pausing on a page close to the back. “According to this, it can take a full seven days for a healthy human to turn to a revenant.” No wonder the illness spread. If the revenant wasn’t outed immediately, they could contaminate their entire village before changing into their ultimate form. But from what I was told as a child, the turn happened much quicker. “Seven days,” I say. “I thought it was within hours?” The Black Souls made sure we were afraid. But why would they lie about the amount of time it took for a revenant to develop? What possible purpose came from such deceit?
Femke nods. “I don’t want to naysay your oral history,” she says, “but the proof is here.”
I look up with breathless excitement. I shouldn’t be excited. This is terrible subject matter. But my people have endured centuries of being in the dark about our own abilities and development. This file—and if there are others—could shed some light on our beliefs. The elements know we, as a werenation, could use a good challenge to our old ways of thinking. The more I leaf through the file, the more I wonder just how much of who we were has been fabricated and turned to suspicion and superstition. I, for one, would love to uncover all truths about our race, if only to assist in our future growth.
Listen to me, going all wereprincess and everything.
