by Bella Jacobs
But now…
Now, I have no idea what’s going on with Bane—don’t know if he’s even still alive—but I know that version of the future is forever beyond our reach.
Something was set in motion tonight, something that can’t be taken back. If Bane was behind the bomb that exploded in the theater, he’s no longer my brother, he’s an enemy of the people and will be treated as such.
“And you’re sure nothing else is missing?” Cam asks, his brow furrowing as he scans the shelves of artifacts behind me.
Briggs squints tired eyes at the floor-to-ceiling display. “Not that we found, no. And we checked the collection records twice.”
Cam’s lips purse together. “And what are the chances she was able to alter the collection records in the time the camera feed went dark?”
Once she was inside the artifacts room, Kelley had enough insider knowledge of the tower to disable the security feed for the entire fifty-first floor. Aside from thirty seconds of footage of her crawling out of the air duct and walking across the room to hack into the control panel on the wall, we have no record of her activities here.
Briggs grunts, nodding as he considers the question. “If she had an alternate record already printed and ready to swap out, then yeah. Absolutely.” He nods toward the folder in my hand. “But you can see, all the logs look the same. They’re in the same font, on the same aging paper. Even with insider knowledge, there’s no way she would have been able to replicate everything that exactly. At least I don’t think she could.” He props his hands low on his hips. “Why? Is something missing we people who never hang out in the artifacts room gathering dust wouldn’t notice?”
Cam’s lips curve, proving he likes Briggs more than he’ll ever like me. If I’d made the same joke, he’s be glaring a hole in my forehead right now.
“There was a sword, I think,” Cam says, pointing to the top right side of the shelves, where several swords and spears are mounted, and nothing seems out of place. “A miniature one. I remember because it was so much smaller than the others. Legend has it that it belonged to a child king in the fifth century, an orphan who became a powerful ruler and ended up uniting three of the most influential shifter clans in the Scottish highlands.”
I nod, my eyes narrowing. “I think I remember that story. Is he the one who refused to have his picture painted?”
Cameron nods. “Yes. Some said it was because he was disfigured.” He glances over to Briggs and back to me, before adding, “But some said it was because he wasn’t a he at all. That it was actually a queen who united the clans, but they kept it a secret for fear it would make the other clans think they were weak and easy to conquer.”
I cross my arms, exchanging a look with Briggs.
His lips turn down in a dubious expression, but he shrugs. “Well, your sister would be excited to hear that story. When I was tutoring Diana for history last year, she was always bitching about men doing a shitty job of being in charge and it being high time a woman had a chance.”
“She has a point,” Cam says, crossing to the shelf and lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights set into the ceiling. “I certainly can’t imagine a woman doing any worse than what Victor’s done to The Parallel. And a woman would at least—” He breaks off with a swiftly drawn breath and points an excited finger toward the ceiling. “There, between the two spears. My old eyes might be playing tricks on me, but that looks like fresh paint.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve fetched a ladder and verified that it is indeed fresh paint.
An hour after that, the ancient manuscripts expert we drag out of her cozy bed has verified that the artifact list detailing the objects on the sword’s shelf is a forgery—a very good one, but a slight difference in the curve at the top of the lowercase “a,” observable only through our paper sleuth’s magnifying glass, gives it away.
Not long after that, Cam has pulled every manuscript on the missing artifacts from the dusty bookshelf. We sit down with the expert—Maggie—to study the documents while Briggs heads downstairs for some much-deserved rest.
“You may not remember this,” Maggie tells me as we settle in at the table and Cameron puts in an order for tea and refreshments—and for my father to be apprised of the latest developments as soon as he’s awake. “But I gave a presentation about our ceremonial songs from the Middle Ages to your second grade music class. I remember you for two reasons. One, you were the Alpha’s son. Two, you raised your hand during the discussion afterward and said you thought most of the songs were scary.” She smiles, her skin wrinkling like a piece of old paper wadded in a fist and then smoothed out again. “I thought that was very brave of you, to admit you were scared in front of your entire class.” Her smile fades. “I knew right then, that if something happened to your big brother, you’d make a wonderful Alpha.”
I pull in a breath, holding it for a beat before I let it out long and slow. “Thank you, though I’m not sure I deserve your praise tonight.”
I know I don’t deserve it. But I can’t very well confess that to an old woman I dragged out of her bed who’s counting on me to protect our people from further attacks.
“It’s all right, Alpha,” she says. “No one blames you for what happened. If an enemy is willing to give their life in order to inflict harm, there’s often not much we can do to prevent it. No matter how prepared we are.”
She reaches out, patting my hand in a maternal way few people, even of her generation, would dare.
But then, Maggie clearly isn’t afraid of me, either.
I wonder if Willow still feels that way, or if a glimpse beneath my mask at the monster inside changed her mind. As much as I need her obedience—to keep my pack and her, herself, safe—I hope not.
I hope, once she’s slept and the memory has had the chance to fade, that she’ll still look at me with fire in her eyes.
I love her fire.
Then why do you keep trying to snuff it out?
“I don’t know,” I mutter to myself, only realizing I’ve spoken aloud when Maggie answers, “Well, I do know. And I know we’re going to get to the bottom of this and make our people safe again. This isn’t the first time someone’s come for The Orphan’s Sword, you know. There was another. Before you or even your father was born. It was during the second world war, when many of our men were off fighting. A young woman by the name of Elsbeth broke into the armory, where the sword was stored then, and stole it. She left a note saying she intended to use it to unite the shifter clans and stop the war before any more of our men were killed. And that if your grandfather didn’t like it, he could get stuffed.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Interesting. I’ve never heard that story.”
“That’s because she failed,” Cameron says, drawing up the chair across the table from mine. “We’ll make sure Kelley fails, too, and this will be just another footnote to history, easily forgotten.”
Maggie purses her mouth but doesn’t speak.
It’s clear she intends to keep her two cents to herself, but I can’t help asking, “How did she fail, Maggie? Is the sword not magical, after all?”
Her lips curve into a sad smile. “I can’t speak to that—it’s not my area of expertise. But as for Elsbeth, she travelled to France to find her brother and fiancé and enlist their aid in bringing about a revolution. She arrived in time to watch her love die in a field hospital. Her brother was already dead, awaiting burial in a cart full of other lost soldiers. She was so heartbroken that she sent the sword back to your grandfather on the next ship home and threw herself into the sea.”
I wince, hating that it ended like that for a woman brave enough to stand up for what she believed in. Even if she was defying her Alpha and one of my family members to do so.
Though to be fair, my grandfather was allegedly a hard ass without a creative thought in his head. He died before I was born, but I’ve heard enough talk from my father about what it was like growing up in a house where practici
ng music was considered a frivolous pastime to know Grandad and I wouldn’t have gotten on that well.
I may not have an ounce of my father’s talent, but I can appreciate those who do and recognize that music is a gift to our people.
“Tragic tale,” Cameron says as he spreads our pile of books out on the table. But he doesn’t sound too broken up about it, and when he asks, “Where should we start, Maggie? Perhaps we each take a book, read, and then compare notes?” impatience creeps into his tone.”
Cameron doesn’t like wasting time.
But it turns out that story wasn’t a waste.
If Maggie hadn’t told me the story of Elsbeth, I wouldn’t have realized there was a discrepancy in the history of the sword in the text I’m reading half an hour later. I would have skimmed right over the nugget of information without blinking an eye or writing it down for discussion.
Now, however, I make a note and murmur, “This book says Elsbeth didn’t die, that she was captured at the field hospital and the sword confiscated, but that she managed to escape.” I glance up, arching a brow as I add, “And vowed to wrest power from my family, no matter what the cost.”
“She’s dead by now,” Cameron says, dismissively. “Or so old she likely has trouble getting to the toilet, let alone launching terrorist attacks or leading revolutions.”
Maggie’s lips prune harder this time, and she isn’t content to keep quiet. “Says the sixty-seven-year-old man who dragged the eighty-year-old woman out of her bed to avail himself of her expertise. Not all leadership takes place on the front lines, Cameron. As a man who’s had our Alpha’s ear for nearly half a century, you know that very well.”
“What exactly are you implying?” His voice is so chilly I fight the urge to shiver.
“I’m not implying anything,” Maggie says sweetly. “I’m telling you to your face that your refusal to take the ancient prophecies seriously or prepare the next generation for something like this is a failure.” She nods my way but doesn’t shift her gaze from Cam’s. “I bet Maxim has no idea it’s been foretold that a ruler will rise who will unite the shifter clans of both dimensions.”
Cam’s lips part but I cut in, “Actually, I do. But I was told Cam didn’t know about the prophecy, not that he didn’t believe in it.”
Cameron shoots a challenging gaze across the table. “And do you? Does any of that nonsense sound logical to you?”
I shake my head. “No. But Maggie’s right, if enough people believe it, it’s something I should have been prepared to manage. My ignorance has put our people in danger. I need everything you can pull together on the prophecy on my desk by noon.” I glance to Maggie. “Can you coordinate that for me, Maggie?”
She nods. “Absolutely. You should go get some sleep. If the shit hits the fan as quickly as I’m expecting, you’re going to need it.”
Chapter Five
Willow
I’m a scientist.
I deal in data, facts, and thoroughly tested hypotheses.
I’ve never had my fortune told, never examined my love line to see who I might marry, and I’m the last person to start making decisions because of something I saw in a dream.
But that wasn’t just a dream.
It was something bigger.
Something true.
I can feel it in my bones, in that supernatural part of me that started coming online last night.
It’s ironic that my pack gift is such a contrast to my nature, but that might make me the perfect person to manage a power like this. I won’t blindly trust my gut or my visions, I’ll do my due diligence, examine the intelligence I glean with my gift from every angle, and make decisions based on supernatural intelligence and logic.
And my logical analysis of my dream while showering this morning has led to three important conclusions:
One—I have nothing to lose by placing a call to Pax. He can’t strangle me through a phone line, and he won’t know where the call originated—the North Star pack is careful to make all calls from the tower untraceable.
Two—Ditto with asking my childhood nemesis what he knows about prophecies and whether or not our “fated match” is a bunch of horse shit. I’m still mostly in the dark right now, but I could get lucky. He might start spilling his guts without knowing how much I know—or don’t know. It’s a long shot, but you know what they say about the shots you don’t take.
Three—It’s not time to run yet. My dream self clearly believes I’m in danger, but even with Maxim fucking with my head and holding me prisoner, I’m still far safer in here than I would be out on my own. And the fact remains that I am a prisoner. Diana liberated me from my rooms once, but I don’t see that happening again. I’m sure she’s under lock and key herself to make sure she doesn’t break any more of her brother’s rules.
All that remains to be seen is if Maxim left my phone on. He activated the line last night so I could order food after the attack, but he might have changed his mind about trusting me with even that small amount of freedom.
But when I lift the receiver post shower, the dial tone is loud and steady.
Pulling in a bracing breath, I replace the receiver on the old-school device and rush to get dressed.
I can’t call Pax in a towel. I need to be dressed for battle first.
I find a pair of tight black jeans, a gray sweater, and shit-kicker boots that are heavy and solid-feeling on my feet. I tie my hair back in a ponytail and put on makeup—mostly thick black eyeliner and loads of mascara.
When I’m done, I step back from the mirror and nod in approval.
This is a much better reflection. This me looks ready to kick ass and take names and maybe toss back a shot of whiskey after. If someone put his big fat hand around her neck, she’d fuck that guy up real quick.
“Just because you look tough, doesn’t mean you actually know how to fight,” I remind myself. “Or even defend yourself.”
I sigh, wishing my logical brain would take a break already. I could use some added confidence, and it’s not like I can do anything about my lack of badassery at the moment. I seriously doubt Maxim is going to let me hit the gym or start self-defense classes.
He’s more interested in keeping me powerless, subservient, and tied up at his feet.
The memory of the way he bound my arms and pushed me to my knees rockets through me, heating my blood and making fire flash in my eyes.
Drawing on the anger roaring inside, I stalk to the phone.
I should probably plan this out a little—I’ll likely only get one shot at this. Maxim is bound to shut off my phone as soon as he remembers he had it turned on, but there’s no time to waste. I expect Maxim or Hermione to knock on my door any minute.
Luckily, I’ve always thought fast on my feet.
I dial the number to our pack’s headquarters by memory. When the operator answers, I ask in a vapid voice typical of the sort of girl Pax prefers, “Hey there, what’s up? Um…could you connect me to Pax? He said I should hit him up here and someone would direct my call.”
“One moment please,” the operator responds in a bored voice.
Resisting the urge to do a celebratory fist pump over clearing the first hurdle, I cross my fingers instead, willing Pax to answer.
Still, when he does, croaking out a deep, “Hey. Who’s this?” for a moment I’m too freaked out to reply.
The last time I heard that voice, he was on top of me, telling me to spread my legs. The last time I saw his face he was out cold, bleeding profusely from a head wound. And yes, I assumed that he was still alive or word of his murder would have already reached the North Star tower, but still…
My stomach knots and my throat squeezes and it isn’t until Pax says, “Who the hell is this? Talk or I’m hanging up,” that I’m jolted out of my stunned state.
“You’re going to want to hear what I have to say,” I whisper, pulse racing faster as he growls, “Who the fuck are you?” in response.
“Aw, Pax, you know who I am,�
� I say, playing it way cooler than I feel. “It’s your one true love. Except we both know that’s a load of bullshit, don’t we? You’re not my fated mate any more than your cousin was Kelley’s.”
I’m taking a risk, but now that I’ve heard his voice again, Pax’s short attention span is coming back to me. If I don’t capture his focus quickly, he might tell me to go fuck myself and hang up.
He growls again, a sound so purely wolf that for a second I’m worried he’s shifted and won’t be able to finish the conversation.
But then he says, “You’re dead, Willow. Dead. Do you hear me? As soon as I get what I need from you, I’m going to take such fucking pleasure in killing you. It’s going to be slow, bitch. Slow and ugly. Your ass is going to be in pieces all over my basement by the time I’m through with you.”
The words would usually be terrifying, but now they bounce off of me like I’m wearing an invisible shield. Something deep in my bones assures me that won’t come to pass, and a glance in the mirror above the desk reveals the slight glow in my eyes. It’s my pack gift’s quiet assurance that, however I die, Pax’s torture chamber isn’t involved.
“As fun as that sounds, that’s not how it ends between us,” I say breezily, feeling more confident now than I did even a moment before. “But you know that, don’t you? The prophecy probably makes that pretty clear.”
I’m reaching again.
A smarter man would realize it, but Pax falls right into my clumsy trap.
“The prophecy says you’re going to make a young Alpha the king of the shifters,” he says, making my pulse spike, “and that man is going to be me.”
That’s what my dream self said—that I would unite the packs.
It’s so mind-blowing—that I might have some pivotal part to play in the future of my people, not to mention receiving confirmation that the dream truly was prophetic—that I don’t have a chance to respond before Pax adds in a smug voice, “You’re already my mate. We did the whole stupid ceremony. I just have to put my baby in you and it’s a done deal.”