“From the tooth a crown,” he said.
“Not exactly pacifists, are they? Do the Garous have a motto?” I asked.
Tom gave me a sidelong look. “Yes.”
“What is it?”
He smiled a little. “Aspiro. Or, J’aspire.”
“I aspire?” I thought of my father’s grand plans for my ascension to the top of the Texas packs. Not to mention his own taking of the reins in Paris. “If the name fits…. Did my dad pick that one out himself?”
His grin widened. “No, it’s centuries old—even older than he is. Perhaps ambition runs in the family.”
“And what about the Fenrises?” I asked. “Does your family have a motto?”
The fire flared suddenly, making Tom’s prominent canines gleam. “Death feeds the ravens.”
I shuddered a little, thinking of his raven, Hugin. “Charming.” If nothing else, I thought, this little gathering was proving mighty educational.
Suddenly, that eerie howl from earlier echoed in the clearing again, making all the hairs on my arms stand up. It was much louder this time, and appeared to be emanating from a tall, muscular woman wearing a long black ponytail and a black pantsuit. She stood behind the podium, clutching at it with both hands as she tipped her head back and howled again.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“Isabella Murano.” Before he could say more, there was a responding swell from the assembled werewolves, and any last vestige of resemblance to a Friday night drinks party disappeared. Tom drew me over to the side of the clearing, where a couple of other lone werewolves milled, and we stood near a small cedar tree.
“She’s leading the assembly tonight,” Tom explained. “She’s an alpha from the Philadelphia pack; she’s agreed to act as a neutral moderator.”
“Why doesn’t Wolfgang do it?”
“Because it is traditional to have a high-ranking alpha from an uninvolved pack to preside,” he said. “To maintain neutrality.”
“So she’ll be the main judge at the trial, too?” I asked, feeling my hopes rise.
“Unfortunately, no. The Fehmgericht—the Fehmic Court
—is different,” he said. “Wolfgang will preside.”
“But he’s not neutral!” I hissed.
If Tom answered, I didn’t hear it, because the dark-haired werewolf at the center began calling the assembly to order.
“Greetings, fellow lupins.” The werewolves howled their response. Isabella extended a hand to the biggest tent, where Wolfgang sat on one of the two thrones, looking extremely self-important. Behind him, a little to the left, stood Elena and the pleather boys. “Herr Graf wishes me to extend special thanks to the alphas of the New Orleans, Texarkana, Dallas, and Oklahoma City packs for honoring us with your presence,” Isabella announced. She then went through and named each pair of alphas; as they were called, they rose, glancing around at their audience as if they were royalty. Which, in a way, I suppose they were. Wolfgang was the only solo alpha named, and as he stood and nodded to his audience, Elena stood with a fixed smile on her face. When the introductions were completed, Isabella said, “Herr Graf—along with the rest of the American werewolf community—thanks you again for joining us, and hopes that the alliances forged during this Howl will go far in keeping the southern packs strong against the threat of the Norteños.”
Another howl of approval erupted from the surrounding werewolves.
“And now,” she said, intoning the words like a Catholic priest about to serve communion, “let us say the words of binding.”
Words of binding? I glanced up at Tom, but he was focused on the werewolf at the podium. Isabella began to speak then, and the words echoed around me, but they were in a language I didn’t understand. Latin, maybe? It sounded like a prayer, but there was something eerie about the rising chant around me, like it was a living thing that wound itself around me, pressing against me, swallowing up all the air. I pretended to chant along, even though I had no idea what anyone was saying, and was starting to feel a tad panicky when they stopped all at once. After several seconds of silence, as if on cue, the whole gathering erupted into another bone-chilling howl.
Then two werewolves in khakis processed toward the podium, carrying a cage containing a terrified brown rabbit. Bowing their heads, they presented the cage to Isabella, who flipped the lid open and pulled the poor creature out. The rabbit let out a squeak of terror as the werewolf raised the animal to her mouth and ripped its throat out.
I stifled a gasp, staring in horror at what had just happened. It was like we were at an Ozzy Osbourne concert or something, only without all the electric guitars.
Then, as blood poured down her chin, Isabella held the flailing little body up and intoned, “Let the assembly begin.”
“Dear God,” I murmured as the two khaki-clad werewolves retrieved the dead rabbit and returned it—rather unnecessarily, since it wasn’t likely to hop away anytime soon—to its cage. Tom put one hand on my shoulder, and I glanced up at him. “What’s next? Group maulings?”
“Unfortunately, that’ll be all the excitement for a while. Now we go through the mating approvals, which usually take up half the night. After that, things will get interesting again.”
A moment later, Isabella called for betrothed couples to approach the podium, and a line six couples deep formed in the center of the clearing. Despite the carnage that had recently occurred on the slab of granite, I could smell their excitement. Which made sense, I supposed, since they were getting married. Or mated. Or whatever it was the process was called.
They all looked to be in their twenties or early thirties, but who knew how old they really were? I glanced over at the Texarkana tent. Kayla stood there alone, looking glassy-eyed. This couldn’t be easy for her. Nor, I suddenly realized, for Tom. I glanced up at him, but his face was masklike. I caught a flicker of something—pain, perhaps—and I wondered if he was recalling a lost moment with Beate. That wound might never fully heal, I realized.
As I studied Tom, I got the uncomfortable feeling that someone was studying me. I looked away from the Nordic werewolf beside me, my eyes sweeping the crowd until I found Elena. She and the pleather boys had located me on the sidelines, and her gaze was less than friendly. I gave her a quick, perhaps slightly strained smile and focused on the hopeful couples instead.
Tom was right about the mating approval process being a rather bureaucratic endeavor. I watched the first couple, a rather hirsute pair even for werewolves, with interest. She was evidently a sweet young thing of only 150 years of age, originally from Czechoslovakia, now in Chicago, whereas he was a mere 130 years old, and a native Texan from El Paso. As the waxing moon rose, making my skin itchy, we got to hear the history of their existing pack alliances, their family trees and pack alliances dating back five generations (to prevent excessive inbreeding, according to Tom), and the responses to a number of rather intimate questions. As in, had they been intimate to date (yes), was there a chance that a pup was already on the way (no), and which pack would they choose as their primary residence (Texarkana)? Then the parents, who strangely seemed to be the same age as their offspring, were called up to give their blessing to the happy couple, and then, as if that weren’t enough, the alphas got involved. By the time the first couple had jumped through all the requisite hoops I was ready to start screaming—and there were five more to go.
This was all well and good, but my father was due to be tried tomorrow, and unless they got the show on the road, there was no way I was going to find out anything useful. I might get a chance to talk to him, though … if by chance the garden cottage was unguarded.
I turned to Tom. “While we’re waiting for all this to finish up, do you think I could slip back and visit my dad again? Before they indict him?”
“No,” Tom said.
“Why not?”
“He’s already here,” he murmured.
“He’s here? Where?” I took a deep breath, sniffing for him, but all I got was smok
e, dead rabbit, and excited werewolf.
“Come with me,” he said, and I followed him as he slipped out of the clearing, away from the flickering light of the torches, and headed into the dark woods. “They’ll bring him out after they hear the case against the others.”
“What others? I thought the big court date was tomorrow?”
“There are three made werewolves who are accused of hunting humans; they will be tried before the assembly tonight. They are not born werewolves, so it is considered minor business.”
I shivered. “Not Fluffy, Stinky, and Scrawny?” I was referring to the three made werewolves who had prowled in Austin last fall. I’d rescued a sorority girl from them once in an alley off Sixth Street
.
“No,” he said. “They are no longer werewolves. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I forgot you used your magic unmaking thing on them.” My thoughts turned back to the werewolves in custody. “So, if they’re found guilty, what will happen? Will you ‘unmake’ them?”
“No,” he said.
“What then?”
He grimaced. “There is an old punishment, known as ‘Free as a Bird’. They release the convicted werewolves,” he said.
“Well, that doesn’t sound too awful,” I said. “How come my dad can’t get a sentence like that?”
“They release them during the wild hunt,” he clarified.
It took me a moment to figure out exactly what Tom meant. And when I did, it was more than a little bit disturbing. “Wait a minute. Do you mean that… that they’re the prey?”
Tom nodded sharply, and my stomach clenched. “Dear God,” I breathed. “But what if they’re found innocent? What will everyone hunt instead?”
“They won’t be found innocent,” Tom said with a chilling air of finality. “They are as good as dead, I’m afraid. Unless they can run very, very fast.”
“And my father?”
He was silent for a moment. “I don’t want to scare you, Sophie, but it is not promising. There is some hope … but not much.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. “So the trial is fixed.” My pulse started racing, and I could feel the sweat spring up on my body. I should have listened to my father, done what he’d asked. I should have told Georges right away, and told him to call Armand. The trial was tomorrow. Was it too late?
“The trial will not be fixed, exactly, but it will be rather heavily weighted against him.”
“But why is my father being tried separately, in this—Famish Court
thing, or whatever you call it?” I asked.
“The Fehmic Court
,” Tom said. “Your father is a born werewolf, and an alpha. Which means that different rules apply.”
“But…”
“Shh,” he whispered, pointing through a break in the cedar trees. “He’s right over there.”
Just then, a fresh gust from the south brought me a strong whiff of Luc Garou.
He stood motionless in the center of a small clearing, wrapped head to toe in chains and surrounded by four burly guards, two of whom held torches. A few feet away from him, chained together by their manacles, were the three made werewolves Tom had told me about. Teenagers, at least by the look of them—two lanky boys and a girl with cropped black hair. Their fear was acrid in my nostrils.
And so was my father’s.
Despite his ramrod-straight posture, all of Luc Garou’s cockiness was gone, his face grim. I was suddenly desperate to talk to him. If what Tom had told me was correct, this might be one of my last opportunities. But even if I could snatch a few moments alone with him, I realized with a sick feeling, the first thing he would ask was if I’d gotten in touch with Armand.
And I’d have to tell him I’d let him down.
I stared at my father for several minutes, guilt eating at me. After twenty-eight years, I’d been reunited with my father, only to lose him just days after our first meeting. I was still angry at him—that hadn’t changed at all—but knowing that I’d probably see him executed was wrenching. I looked at my father one last time, trying to memorize his face. Then I touched Tom on the arm. “I can’t stay here,” I said.
He nodded, squeezing my arm lightly, and together we found our way back to the clearing. As the next couples went through the motions, I stood beside Tom in a daze, running through scenarios in my mind. As soon as I got home tonight, I’d go and see Georges, and tell him the situation was dire—that he needed to call in Armand immediately. If they left Paris tonight, they could be in Austin in time for the trial.
The question was, how soon could I leave? Just after the assembly brought Luc before them and indicted him officially, I decided. I wanted to hear all the charges, so I knew exactly what we were dealing with. Not that I held out much hope for the trial. I knew in my heart that even with a reincarnated Johnnie Cochran defending my father, he wouldn’t have a chance.
I stood, lost in my thoughts, for a long time; suddenly, I realized the final couple was receiving the werewolf seal of approval, and we were about to move on to the next stage.
“What’s next?”
“I think the petition for Elena to become alpha,” Tom said, and sure enough, Isabella called both Wolfgang and his soon-to-be-paramour to stand before the pulpit. Wolfgang rose from his wooden throne and held out a hand to Elena, who took it regally and strode beside him, chin up, looking like the Queen of England as the pair approached the center of the clearing. Her blouse, I noticed now, was gold, to reflect the colors of the Houston pack’s banner.
“Herr Graf,” Isabella said formally, inclining her head slightly to Wolfgang, who dipped his head in response. It was clearly a meeting of equals. “Miss Tenorio,” she then said, addressing Elena with only a trace of a nod. Elena’s eyes flashed a little bit as she returned the Philadelphia alpha’s greeting, dipping her own head just a fraction of an inch. Then Isabella returned her attention to Wolfgang. “I understand that you have selected a consort to share your reign,” she said formally.
“I have,” Wolfgang said, turning to address the crowd. He wore dark blue slacks and a starched white shirt, with a tie that was the gold of the Houston pack’s banner. If I hadn’t known he was a werewolf, I would have pegged him for a CEO. “I present Elena Tenorio, whom I have selected to reign with me as alpha of the Houston pack,” he announced solemnly. “She hails from the Tenorio line of Andalusia.” He spent a few minutes listing a long line of relatives, none of whom I recognized—werewolves in general seemed kind of hung up on genealogy, I noticed—concluding with a word about her more illustrious relations. “As many of you know, her grandmother Rosamaria was alpha of the Seville pack for more than fifty years, so nobility runs in her blood. Ms. Tenorio has served me faithfully since her arrival in Houston twenty years ago, and I very much look forward to welcoming her as my mate.” Wolfgang’s eyes moved among the tents, from alpha to alpha, as if searching for someone who might have a different opinion on the subject. “If anyone should object to her coronation,” he intoned a moment later, “the time for words is now.”
He looked slowly from face to face, lingering slightly at the Louisiana tent. Something unreadable passed between the New Orleans alpha and Wolfgang—I could see a slight tension in Wolfgang’s jaw—before his gaze slid past Jean-Louis to the Arkansas tent, where he was greeted with a curt nod.
“If there are no objections,” Isabella said when Wolfgang had made eye contact with the last alpha, “the coronation will proceed tomorrow, just before moonrise.”
Applause rang out among the assembled werewolves as Wolfgang and Elena stepped down from the slab of granite and walked hand in hand back to their tent.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Tom said. “Now we go through the alliances.”
Tom was right; a moment later, Isabella launched into an impassioned speech about solidarity and standing firm against our southern neighbors, the Norteños, who were trying to “rise like a phoenix from the ashes.�
�� I watched with interest as the alphas proposing alliances approached the center slab together, all looking like lions about to enter the ring. Boris’s—or was it Dudley’s?—words came back to me: “If he agrees to it in front of the assembly, it will be tough to renege.” Were they talking about a proposed alliance between Wolfgang and another alpha? Who did they think might back out?
The first two alliance propositions went along just fine; Wolfgang renewed ties with Texarkana and formed new ties with Oklahoma, which ended with a lot of handshaking and gibberish. Then he and Jean-Louis faced off, and a stillness passed through the clearing. The red-haired alpha stood beside Jean-Louis, her face a mask.
“What’s the deal?” I asked Tom.
“The Louisiana alphas are French.”
“So?”
“Not a lot of love lost between the Germans and the French.”
Despite their historical differences, though, they seemed to have gotten over it. Wolfgang had just agreed to forge a new alliance with his eastern neighbors, and Isabella had just turned to the alphas of the Louisiana pack to confirm that they were on board with the whole thing when there was a jangle of chains from the side of the clearing, and a familiar voice called out.
“Jean-Louis! Comment va tout en New Orleans? Or what’s left of it, after your visit from l’ouragan.”
The owner of the voice was, of course, Luc Garou. I cringed. I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, but I was fairly certain he was referring to Hurricane Katrina. Like I said, my father wasn’t exactly gifted in the politics department.
A murmur rose among the tents as Jean-Louis’s head whipped around. My stomach sank. “Traitor,” Jean-Louis hissed. Then he turned to Wolfgang. “Why is he here?”
Leader Of The Pack Page 19
