by Kari Gregg
His mom could do anything.
“I need to start handling my problems myself again.” She nodded once, decisively. “I can’t keep relying on my children. I want you to live your own life. Every parent wants that.”
Nick scowled. “The bills—”
“—are my problem,” she finished.
“They don’t need to be.” He frowned at his knitting. “The money is sitting in Wallach.” He bit his lip, hardly daring to peep at his mom beneath his lashes. “They intended it for me, at least in part.”
She stilled, the industrious click of her needles halting.
He held his breath.
“They intended many things, I imagine.” She yanked on her wool. “Above all, I’m betting they would have wanted their last surviving child to stay safe.”
At best, His Imperial Majesty Eton Marisek had been a dangerously incompetent ruler. Nick had filched his college roommate’s ID to prevent a trail that might have drawn unwanted attention and used it to check out books and old newspaper accounts of the revolution. Nick’s earliest childhood memories were of Eton and Olina’s devotion to their family, but at the same time, the emperor and empress had dragged the tribes they’d ruled into ruinous war with humans in the borderlands, imposed heavy taxes on the peasantry to pay for it, and turned a blind eye to rampant corruption among the aristocracy. The wonder wasn’t that the peasants had rebelled, only that they hadn’t done so sooner. The emperor and empress had made disastrous choices. Nick was reasonably confident, had they lived, they would’ve continued their poor judgment by urging him to align with the post-rebellion resistance to regain the throne. They would have considered such lunacy an obligation. No price would’ve been too high nor any risk too dear to reestablish the crown that had ruled for four centuries.
He couldn’t fault his mom for believing parents should value their child’s safety above politics, though. The woman who had adopted him hadn’t been raised in opulent palaces, had never been subjected to the sacrifices monarchy demanded—costs that included bartering children for more power, stronger alliances, greater wealth. His birth parents had loved Nick. He entertained no doubts about their affection toward him, but they’d also eagerly embraced the custom of arranging his marriage once he’d survived infancy, as they had also negotiated marriages for his long-dead brothers and sisters. Just as both his birth parents had been promised to each other in marriage a generation earlier.
Only peasants were free to marry whomever they pleased. Royalty owed a solemn duty to wed to best fulfill the needs of the tribes.
“My debts to my doctors and the hospital aren’t enough to justify desperate measures,” his mom continued with a stiff shrug. “If I sold the house—”
“No.” Nick would allow her to sell the homestead over his cold rotting corpse.
“I’m not saying I plan to list the house for sale.” She raised a placating palm. “The War Reparations Treaty gave your dad and me a fresh start. The Commission paid us, but we paid first in sweat and blood. We paid with the lives of family we lost in labor camps. That blood money bought our land, which makes our house more than a home. I would never disgrace my family or your dad’s by selling.”
“I’d never allow it.”
His mom chuckled. “The point is there are other alternatives.”
Nick shook his head. “Selling the house isn’t an option.”
“Neither is claiming the Wallach trust.”
“If no one comes forward, the term of the trust expires soon. The bulk of Eton’s wealth will flow back to the War Commission.”
Attention returning to her knitting, Mom arched an eyebrow. “What happens to the money matters to you?”
“The War Commission is still peopled with elders responsible for the executions and purges. Not all of them directed the genocide, but some did.” His gut clenched. “No matter how terrible Eton and Olina were as rulers, their killers shouldn’t profit from slaughtering them. No more than they have already anyway.”
“The people would pressure the Commission to earmark the money for community development and outreach programs instead of passing it on to the ruling council to squander. Those in power would risk riots if they dared otherwise.” Mom hummed under her breath. “Many would argue—have argued—the trust rightfully belongs to the tribes.”
Irritation flared inside him. “The international court disagreed. Eton Marisek left the empire’s treasury to be seized by the rebels. He only smuggled the family’s private property, investments, and cash out of the country for safekeeping.” He ruthlessly squashed his anger at the old debate, gaze focusing on his knitting. “You’re right, though. We wouldn’t need much. As the only direct heir, I could distribute most of the trust to the needy, not according to the entitled demands of a corrupt war commission or to the tribesmen who condoned the murders.” Nick grunted. “Eton gave enough for his people in his short life. He gave everything. The revolution didn’t solve the empire’s problems, though. The peasantry still suffers while the greedy prosper. I could change that. I could try. For him. For Olina. For Toly, Catterin, and Elba. For Averlee and Healer Kott.” He sighed. “They should have a better legacy than infamy and an unmarked grave.”
“If you come forward, you might be forced to give everything, too, as they did. The money isn’t all you’d claim. Have you thought of that?”
He had. Incessantly. “In exile, I’m free of them. They can’t make me do anything.” Nick scowled at his knitting. “I don’t even need to appear in public unless I want. A law firm could handle the early stages of the case with no public exposure to me.”
Mom chuckled. “You think you’d be able to keep who you are quiet?”
“So what if my identity leaks? I’ve done nothing for which I should be ashamed. I’m proud of who I am: your son. Rolan’s brother.” He lifted his chin, gaze sweeping the shop floor. “A college graduate and equal partner in a thriving small business.” After putting down his knitting, he spread his hands. “A contributing member of my community.”
Her brown eyes twinkled. “And their last emperor.”
He sniffed in disdain.
“You never formally abdicated.” She pointed the tip of a knitting needle at him. “A fact the media is sure to descend en masse to remind you of.”
“I chose to rebuild my life among men instead of returning to the tribes. Some would argue betrayal of my kind is abdication enough.” He snorted. “Let the reporters come. Free advertising.” His mouth quirked. “You’ll convince the lookie-loos to buy wool, and the shop will make a mint.”
Mom tipped her head back, and her musical laughter resounded. “You’ll have to go back.” She rested her shawl in her lap to swipe at her watery eyes. “They’ll insist on it.”
“They tried to kill me and murdered everyone I loved to prevent my line from ever rising to power again.” His lips curved into a bitter smile. “They don’t want me.”
“The tribes will demand it, if only to secure your formal abdication,” she repeated, her thin shoulders sagging. “Their ruling council will require it.”
Nick truly hoped so. “I’ll deal with any ultimatums they choose to issue as I see fit.” He may have been born the youngest boy and the most worthless of nine children, but he was nonetheless the son of an emperor. “I’m tired of hiding who and what I am for fear of what the tribes might do should my survival be discovered.”
“You’re safe here, though.” Mom’s grip tightened on her needles until her knuckles shone white. “When you refused to embrace your heritage, your dad and I regretted it, but we understood. Especially when you were small and the tribes still freely roamed the area, but those days ended when the reparation treaty closed the border. You could have—”
“No, I couldn’t.”
Her mouth thinned at his implacable tone. “Your brother never suppressed his tribal blood, even before the treaty made identification as a refugee less dangerous.”
“Rolan’s birth family was only
aristocratic in part.” His brother never spoke of his life before the revolution destroyed it, but any fool could see his paws and the ruff of his throat alone lacked the gray, red, brown, black, and ginger fur of peasantry. His adopted brother boasted a slim share of noble blood, but not enough to cause an uproar. “Treaty or no treaty, the council would have responded the moment a white wolf was reported anywhere one shouldn’t be.”
His mom stared at the shawl her nimble fingers created, the clack of her needles soothing to Nick. “You’ve decided then.” She lifted her chin. “Your dad and I always believed you would someday.” She frowned. “You never cared for politics—or for the riches of the Wallach trust, no matter your using the money and my medical bills as a pretext now—but we knew you’d go back home to decently bury your first family.”
Nick glowered. “The tribes aren’t my home.”
“They will be.” Mom sighed. “When you go, promise you’ll take Lydia and your brother.”
He blinked. “Rolan, I get. He’s as loyal as the day is long and a shifter, too, but why Lyd? She isn’t tribe, and the border has been closed to humans for over a decade. Even a tourist visa could be…problematic.”
“If they expect access to their emperor, the tribes can bend the rules for the emperor’s best friend.” She pursed her lips. “If Lydia is with you, I won’t worry. That girl could whip the entire continent if she put her mind to it.”
“I can take care of myself and if I can’t, Rolan will.”
Mom chuckled. “You go on believing that, sweetie.”
Chapter Two
“You’re lucky.” The nurse released the tourniquet, easing blood flow so the tube attached to a syringe in the crook of Nick’s elbow filled with thick wet red. She disconnected the tube and pushed another in place to collect a second sample for the labs. “As little as a few years ago, testing might have required a bite.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“I suppose so.” After scanning the labels on each vial with a barcode reader attached to the medical bay’s laptop, the nurse pocketed the test tubes and then fetched a cotton ball. She applied pressure as she withdrew the needle from him. “Bend your arm to hold this in place while I get your bandage, please.”
“I’m tribe.” Nick winged an eyebrow high. “I don’t need a bandage.”
Her stern smile brooked no argument. “Standard procedure.”
According to reports since the rebellion, he was the fourth Nika Aeronai Cresentine Marisek to come forward. Eleven women had claimed to be one of Nick’s sisters, too, and at least one of those had been fully human—not tribe. For all he knew, the same high-security clinic in the borderlands had been used to disprove each of those pretenders with genetic tests. The lack of tribal blood providing a hedge infection for the human posing as Catterin would’ve been troublesome, he guessed. Nick grudgingly bent his arm. “We’re done, right?” he asked. The nurse bent over him with the bandage and she removed the cotton ball, unblemished by blood from the already healed prick of the needle. He resisted the urge to smirk.
The nurse affixed the bandage anyway. “Interviews next.”
He wrinkled his nose. Like his DNA wouldn’t provide enough evidence of who he was? Bureaucrats in the Council had insisted, though. Careful of his hospital gown gaping, he hopped from the gurney upon which he’d sat while the labs had been drawn and automatically reached to secure the locket around his neck that he’d refused to give up when he’d arrived at the clinic. Grimacing, he settled into a waiting wheelchair. Another nurse rolled him down the hallway to his next stop in the clinic’s labyrinth of rooms, offices, and test areas.
Peter Loring, the lead attorney for the law firm he’d selected to represent him, joined them as they wheeled past the lab waiting room. “I negotiated an hour for each interviewer. You’ll speak to four, starting with Elder Benjic and another this morning. We’ll break for lunch before continuing with the last two in the afternoon. Preliminary DNA results should be ready during the interviews, probably after the break because we pushed for priority processing.”
Nick exhaled a slow, calming breath. Peter had reviewed the itinerary with him a thousand times so Nick knew what to expect and the lawyer had negotiated whatever he could, trading media silence from Nick for various perks to make the ordeal more bearable—such as Lydia and Rolan uniting with their entourage at the security checkpoint.
“Okay?” Lyd glared at the nurse pushing Nick’s wheelchair.
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t know why we couldn’t accompany you to the blood draw.” Rolan fidgeted, glowering at the nurse. “They might have poisoned you.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Distracted, Peter tapped on the screen of his smartphone. “Other patients who deserve privacy are in the lab area.”
“Besides, they think I’m a fake.” Nick tried for a smile, heartened when the slight curve of his lips didn’t wobble. “Why squander poison on someone they expect to genetically prove isn’t a Marisek within a few hours?”
“Poisons are cheap, hardly a waste at all.” His adopted brother harrumphed and raised two fingers, which he pointed at his eyeballs and then pointed the two digits at Nick. “You don’t leave my sight from now on.”
Lydia nodded her assent. “Nor mine.”
A glad spark lit Nick at their concern—the family he’d chosen would always have his back.
“You’ll be quiet during the interviews or I’ll drag both of you from the conference room myself,” his lawyer groused. “At least your mother agreed to stay home.”
Mom had been supportive but also curiously reserved as Nick had directed the law firm to proceed with reclaiming his identity. She’d cursed the blood-sucking lawyers for demanding a third of the Wallach trust as their payment as soon as the case ended, despite the extensive man hours and legal fees proving he was Nika Marisek would accrue in the meantime. She listened to Nick’s frustrations with the system and shared her worries for what would happen once his blood confirmed who he was. She wouldn’t, however, participate in any of it. Mom had forced Peter to come to the house to obtain her testimony on the circumstances in which Nick and Rolan had been adopted because his mom refused to go to the firm’s offices.
“Your dad and I met at the end of the war, after we’d slipped away from our respective labor camps and started the march through the mountains back home. I’d already found Rolan and he had you.” Mom had shrugged. “I can repeat what your dad told me and testify you were still healing, a strong indicator of how severe your injuries were when he claimed you as his son, but I didn’t witness the executions, his escape, and your rescue…none of it. You were such a quiet boy, sad and scared. I could barely coax you to speak about ordinary things, forget about what had happened to you.” She sighed. “I’ll be your port in the storm. You’ll need one. But I had enough of the tribes when they gathered us into camps to provide slave labor for their ‘master race’ during the war.”
Heart heavy, he’d accepted her decision. His lawyers had complained that she wouldn’t travel into the city for her deposition, but he’d reported how much she’d suffered at the hands of the tribes during the rebellion—the loss of her entire family to disease and starvation, the years she’d endured working as a tribe prisoner. When the grim details of her ordeal hadn’t silenced the grumbling, Nick had reminded them a third of the treasure in the Wallach trust would be theirs. Wasn’t an hour’s drive into the countryside worth every penny? Apparently, it had been, because his mom had given her statement from the comfort of her living room.
Wheeling down the clinic’s sterile hallways, Nick envied her that, but he’d signed up for indignities far more excruciating once he’d resolved to reclaim his name. He could have stayed silent and finished out his life in the lands of men where nobody cared he was tribe. He owed his mom and his dad that. So did Rolan. Most occupying the mountains neighboring the tribes could trace tribal ancestors in their family trees, although few possessed enough tribal bloo
d to manage a shift to wolf form anymore. Before the borders closed, the tribes mixed with men and sired children with them so the population wasn’t as fiercely bigoted as humans in the cities. Here, orphans from the war could grow up and live in peace. Nick had been born into unimaginable wealth and power, but until his adopted father had sneaked him into the lands of men, he’d never known safety. As long as he never shifted and thereby revealed the solid white pelt of nobility, he could pass for another refugee from the war. Enjoy a long and fruitful life, too.
Ah, but there was the rub.
As long as he never shifted.
The nurse slowed the wheelchair when they approached a conference room guarded by uniformed security, who opened the door so Nick could be rolled inside. He entered, and a group of severe, unsmiling men and women stood, retaking their seats at a narrow table only after Nick had been positioned at the opposite end, closest to the door.
“No,” Peter said, stopping Rolan from taking a chair next to Nick. The lawyer scowled, resting a restraining hand on Nick’s wheelchair handle. “We agreed my client would meet with each interviewer one-on-one.”
Though the others had sat once Nick had been rolled into place, one member of the party remained standing. “I thought a brief introduction before the interviews begin would be appropriate.” His mouth quirked in derision, and he tipped his head at the rest of his group. “The family, of course, are eager to meet the boy they believed was lost to them.”
Nick smothered a snort. “You refer to my family as a plural, but I only see Aunt Hannaras. As I recall, she tolerated children in small doses on the rare occasions she could be bothered to deal with kids at all. Her brother, her emperor, couldn’t persuade her to visit us children beyond required social functions, and she kept her distance from us at formal events, too. She wouldn’t know me.”