Emmeline’s pulse raced as her half-brother and father dissolved into arguing. There might be a way. Closing her eyes, she felt for that space deep between her ribs where, if she tried hard enough, she could feel the tether of Immanuel Winter’s soul to hers. With a twang, the tether resonated within her. He was close. Judith raised her gaze as Emmeline approached.
“Has Immanuel Winter read the dead man’s body?”
“Miss Jardine, this isn’t my case,” she said softly, her eyes drifting back to Wesley.
“I know, but this could help get him out.”
“Even so, he still shifted.”
“It’s an archaic law.”
“It’s still the law.”
Emmeline glared at her. “I would bet there are people far worse than werewolves in this country who have enough money or power to be ignored. If I’m right, perhaps he can be transported home instead.”
Opening her mouth to speak, Judith closed it thoughtfully. “Even so, you would need Mr. Winter’s cooperation as well as the other investigator.”
“I know Immanuel’s here. I just need to speak to him.”
***
Emmeline was surprised to find Immanuel Winter and his companion, Adam Fenice, in one of the training rooms. Standing in the center of a room lined with columns and as long as a cathedral’s nave, Immanuel furrowed his brow in concentration. His shirt clung to his thin arms and chest, but since the last time she saw him, he had lost some of the hungry sharpness in his features. Even with his skin coated in a layer of sweat and water, his cheeks were pink and his mismatched eyes bright. Adam had stripped to his undershirt, and as he crossed the room to set up what looked to Emmeline like targets, she admired the muscles sliding beneath the nearly translucent fabric. Immanuel had good taste.
Before she could call his name, a twang of energy rippled through the room, and with a flick of his head, a stream of water flew from the floor and slapped across the first target. Emmeline glanced at the floor and noticed that minute channels had been carved around the entirety of the space. Some were filled with water, others sand, and lining the walls were gas-powered sconces and oil lamps. As Immanuel drew in a breath to strike again, Emmeline flung her energy toward the sconce. A column of flames shot from the wall as Immanuel sent out a wave of water. They collided in a hiss of steam that sent Adam stumbling back.
“What the hell was that?” Adam cried, looking for the source of the steam. “Did you do that?”
“No.” Immanuel squinted but finally spotted her behind the row of targets. “Miss Jardine? Is that you?”
“Yes, and I’m in need of your assistance,” she replied, her voice rang unnaturally loud through the room.
Wiping his face on his sleeve, Immanuel drew closer. Adam reached as if to grab his arm to keep from drawing closer but let his hand drop. His eyes darted between her and the glass-less sconce as his face solidified into a scowl. Emmeline’s gaze lingered on the scar cutting down Immanuel’s brow, through his eye, and onto his cheek. The mottled brown blotch on his iris stood out against the oceanic blue, a constant reminder of their time in captivity.
“Have you always been able to do that?” they said in unison and recoiled at the phrase coming from the other’s lips.
“Or have you merely devised a new way to kill us?” Adam added.
Anger clawed its way up Emmeline’s throat. Kill them? If it hadn’t been for them, Cecil Hale might still be alive, and she might be— She didn’t want to think about it. What was certain was that Immanuel Winter’s actions that night had brought about unnecessary bloodshed, yet he was rewarded for his bravery while she was stripped of the Corpus Grimoire and nearly thrown in gaol as a conspirator in Lady Rose’s plot. Emmeline bit back the venom she wanted nothing more than to unleash upon Adam Fenice. Somewhere along the way he gone from being sympathetic to her plight to despising her, and if anyone could sour Immanuel’s infinite patience toward her, it was Adam. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the flare of flames across the room and met Immanuel’s expectant gaze.
“No, I’ve only recently started developing this ability, but that isn’t why I came.” Swallowing hard, Emmeline released a breath and hoped she could count on Immanuel’s kindness one more time. “I need your help in rescuing my brother.”
***
Emmeline stared down at the sigils covering the floor, tracing their pattern with her mind. The way they spun into each other might have been meditative if she didn’t know they were meant to imprison the person within. Between the thickness of the magic and the tension between Emmeline, the Bisclavrets, and Judith Elliot, she could hardly think. When she was certain her father and Judith were sufficiently deep in a discussion of American extranormal politics, Emmeline studied the boy she was risking her neck for. She tried to imagine what he looked like normally. What would it have been like to grow up with two older brothers and a sister? When Wesley met her gaze, she didn’t look away.
“Do you really think your friend can clear my name?” he asked, picking at his cracked nails.
“He isn’t my friend, but I think he can.”
“If he isn’t your friend, then why is he helping us?”
Emmeline stiffened as Judith and Silas’s conversation fell to a hush as they awaited her answer. She would have stayed at her aunt’s if she wanted to deal with nosy family members. “He owes me a favor.”
“And why are you helping me?” Climbing to his feet, he ignored their father’s gaze boring through his back.
“I’m starting to wonder the same thing.”
Wesley opened his mouth to retort when he was cut off by the creak of the door. Silence fell expectantly over the room as Immanuel slipped inside with his head down. His golden hair appeared green in the unearthly light and his face paler than she thought possible. He gave a little shiver as he straightened and released the door, but before it could close, Adam Fenice wrenched it open. Where Immanuel seemed withdrawn in thought, Adam was plainly furious, and if Emmeline was a betting woman, she would have said it was because of her. His blue-eyed gaze blazed from person to person, daring them to approach as he followed Immanuel to the center of the room.
“Mr. Winter,” Emmeline called, her voice sounding small in the stone chamber, “did you see anything?”
“Yes, he did,” Adam cut. “He watched a man be eviscerated by a beast.”
Immanuel flinched but turned to Emmeline with a tight smile. “It wasn’t human, but I don’t know if it was your brother. All wolves look different.”
“Would you recognize the murderer if you saw him again?” Judith asked as she held up a hand to silence Silas.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Bisclavret, shift if you can, so we can put this matter to rest.”
Looking from his father to Judith, Wesley licked his lips and waited.
“It isn’t as if you haven’t done it already,” huffed Silas. Turning to the others, he added, “You may want to look away. Shifting isn’t for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.”
In the time it took Wesley to pull off his shirt, Adam had taken up a defensive position between Immanuel and the cage. Immanuel gave him a tired frown but kept his eyes downcast. Judith remained near the bars and averted her eyes, more out of respect than disgust, but Emmeline planted herself firmly at the edge of the sigils. She would watch.
For a moment, Wesley merely stood with his eyes closed, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest. Then, the deep crack of ice breaking issued from his body as he toppled to his knees. The cracking multiplied in a cacophonous hiss that spread across his limbs in time to the tear of muscles. A low whine ripped from his throat, caught between man and wolf. His skin heaved, lurching between hairy and smooth as it struggled to keep up with the aperture shifting beneath it. Bile rose in Emmeline’s throat, but she bit it back in time to see her brother’s skull ratchet out to form a muzzle. Thick brown and black fur spread across his body in a wave, and in the space of a breath, a wolf stood before them. He
swayed on his feet and gave his body a great shake as he sunk into a sphinx pose. Emmeline’s breath caught at the wolf sitting before her with her brother’s hazel eyes. They had been saying werewolf all along, yet she hadn’t expected him to become a wolf or that there would be such immense pain involved in the transformation. She had foolishly thought it would be as easy as changing clothes; that one minute he would be a man and the next a wolf. Instead she had seen why others called it a curse.
“Mr. Winter, is this the creature you saw?” Judith asked.
Looking around Adam, Immanuel started upon seeing the wolf. Swallowing hard, he shook his head as Wesley began to pant. “No, the other one was larger with patches of fur missing. Of that I’m certain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Winter, that will be all. Please draft a report of your findings, and I’ll be up shortly.”
Giving Emmeline and her father a sympathetic look, Immanuel slipped into the hall with Adam at his back. Emmeline averted her eyes to the wolf before she could crack. She didn’t want to think that this could work, that perhaps she could free him from the executioner’s blade, but the thought made her sick. Emmeline turned her attention to her brother and felt her heart seize anew. He was the wolf of cautionary fairy-tales. He looked so much like one that it was hard to imagine any shred of humanity beneath his pelt.
“You may change back now. You have made your point, Mr. Bisclavret.”
“Give him a minute to get his bones back together. Shifting is hard on the body in ideal conditions.” Silas watched Wesley’s ears flatten and his tongue flick between bouts of panting. “So is he free of the charges? Doesn’t this prove Wesley is innocent?”
“He still shifted on English soil.”
“And what about all the other men you haven’t caught? Hmm? How many Englishmen shift in the country far from prying eyes with no repercussions? How many avoid gaol for worse crimes because they have land or a title to their name?”
“Emmeline,” Silas hissed.
“Look, I don’t like this any better than you,” Judith snapped. “I’m American, too, and I know how werewolves are perceived at home. But this isn’t my case, and he still broke the law.”
Emmeline silenced the fury choking her thoughts that would ultimately end in tears. “I demand to speak to your superiors. No, Her Majesty. We’re acquainted, you know.”
Sighing, Judith turned to the door. “Give me time, Emmeline, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Seven
Pack Mentality
Huddled against the side of the steamer cab wrapped in his father’s coat, Wesley’s mind still hadn’t cleared from his time in the cell. Breathing in a crisp draught of a cold, coal-kissed night, he half expected to open his eyes and find he was still lying on the ratty mattress behind bars. He still wasn’t sure how the hell that woman managed it, but she had gotten him out. Wesley crossed his arms and hunkered further into the corner but stopped at the sound of paper crinkling in his pocket. Transported, the paper decreed in a bright red stamp. Emmeline Jardine’s friend had exonerated him of murder, but he would still be sent back to America for shifting. He should be relieved not to be under the executioner’s blade, but his mind still felt hollow. Whatever those marks were around the cell, they had made it next to impossible to think. Wesley had spent days staring into space or pacing the bars like he had seen the wolves do at the London Zoo. Every time he tried to think of escape or who he could contact for help, the thoughts scattered like billiard balls, and in those rare moments when someone came to his cell, he felt like he was babbling or the words simply refused to come.
When he saw his father standing there with a woman who looked vaguely like Eudora, he thought it had been a hallucination. It made no sense, and it still didn’t. But there it was, the paperwork in his pocket declaring he must leave the country in three days’ time. Any further missteps would mean facing the full extent of British anti-werewolf sentiment, but there was no way he would be on that airship. The creature or werewolf that killed those people was still loose, and he wasn’t leaving without getting answers. A thought crossed Wesley’s mind. The Interceptors hadn’t mentioned the previous murders, despite him being in England at the time. Did they not know or did they think he was one of many and that keeping him in solitary confinement would make him give up his co-conspirators? The only reason he was even out of gaol was because his father was a high profile werewolf. If the Rougarou hadn’t shown up with an infamous witch, he would still be awaiting execution. The thought knotted his gut. How many young men and women had been battered into manifesting only to be quietly executed by the Interceptors because their parents were nobodies? Here, there was no chance to learn control, no one to guide them toward responsibly handling their deep connection to nature.
The hair on Wesley’s neck prickled. When he looked up, he found Emmeline Jardine studying him from the other side of their father’s form. Holding her gaze, he expected her to turn away, but she didn’t.
“Do you have the time?”
The sound of her voice in the silence startled him. It wasn’t plummy and light as he expected from her doe eyes and freckled cheeks. Her voice grated with an edge of insolence and authority. With a huff, he watched his father pulled the watch from his pocket and read her the time.
“Why? Do you have somewhere to be?” Wesley snapped.
His father’s eyes flicked onto him in warning.
“No, but I missed an appointment,” she replied tartly. “I’ll just send a messenger with a note when we reach the hotel.”
Lapsing back into silence, Wesley closed his eyes and felt the wolf nudge against him. Guilt gnawed at him as the creature leaned against him for comfort he wished he could give. It was relieved and tired and more than anything, he felt its desire to come to the surface despite all that happened. He couldn’t blame the wolf for wanting to stretch its legs and enjoy sleeping in a real bed, but it was dangerous and Wesley had caused enough trouble for both of them. Jolting awake at the steamer’s braking belch, Wesley watched Emmeline slip into the hotel’s front door. Even with only a brief glimpse, he could tell it was sumptuous. Why wouldn’t it be? His father was the Rougarou after all, and Wesley was just a young wolf who had abandoned his pack. He silently sighed. All his belongings at the boarding house had probably been divvied up or stolen by now. At least he had brought next to nothing of value.
At the back of the hotel, the cab stopped. Wesley gathered his father’s coat closer as Silas paid the driver and made for the servants’ entrance without looking back at his son. Wesley stiffened. His father was angry, beyond angry if his silence was anything to go by. Being werewolves, communication was a way of life. His family’s parlor was often a den of growling, shouting, crying, and eventually talking. Silence was the match strike before an explosion, and he didn’t want to be there when his father went off. As they passed servants and porters bustling past, Wesley kept his gaze low and stayed directly behind his father. He knew how bad he looked even without a mirror, and if anyone had looked lower, they might have noticed his bare feet and asked questions. Maybe they would assume him to be a wastrel son of some foreign aristocrat. It probably wasn’t far off from what the rest of the packs thought.
After following the winding staircase up several flights, they emerged into a deserted hallway. The majority of guests were likely at dinner or the theater or hunkered in for the night, and it was a small relief not to be gawked at. Unlocking the door, his father stared at him over his shoulder, looking him up and down. He frowned and shook his head but said nothing. The moment the door opened, Wesley pushed inside and made for the bathroom he assumed would be attached to the suite. Before he could reach the door on the far side of the parlor, his father darted in front of him, causing Wesley to stumble back into the sofa to keep from careening into him. Standing eye to eye with his father, Wesley stilled. He hadn’t seen his father in months, but he didn’t remember him looking this old. When he thought of him, he pictured him standing str
aight in a pirogue, pole in hand as they pushed deeper into the swamp or slipping effortlessly from human to wolf when an interloper came to challenge him as Rougarou. Now, his dark hair was streaked with grey and the smile lines at the corners of his eyes had become wrinkles. He looked tired. He looked human.
“We need to talk about this.”
“What’s there to talk about, Pa? I’m alive,” Wesley replied dully.
Silas let out an exasperated huff, dragging his hand down his chin and muttering an oath under his breath. “You know what. There is no way—”
The moment Emmeline’s knock stole his father’s attention, Wesley ducked into the bathroom. Shutting the door on the sound of his half-sister’s voice in the small parlor, he leaned back until he rested against the cool wood. With every moment of stillness, the tremor in his hand grew. Fear coiled through his ribs until he could scarcely breathe as he slid down onto his heels. He ran a dirty hand over his cheeks and chin. He could have died. He could have died. He had never feared being killed for simply being a werewolf. Back home, the threats were from farmers protecting their land or the fugitives he was sent to collect, but it had never been for simply existing. He murmured St. Michael’s prayer under his breath until his chest relaxed and his body grew heavy with an exhausted calm. Slowly rising to his feet, Wesley turned on the tap and surrendered to the wolf.
***
Buttoning his shirt, Wesley met his reflection in the glass. Cleanly shaven and in a fresh change of clothes, he felt more himself than he had in days. His father had somehow managed to secure his belongings from the boardinghouse, and Wesley hadn’t realized how much he missed the familiar comfort of his things. Emmeline’s tinkling laugh drifted through the door, at odds with her dour expression and edged voice. He wished he didn’t have to think of her right now. She would complicate his investigation, and somehow, his father would manage to convince her to help him get Wesley onto the dirigible back to the States. Turning his head, Wesley winced at the fading yellow bruises on his neck where the Interceptors’ garrotes had caught him. He adjusted his collar until only a sliver of bruise was visible.
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