“I visited Saint Mary’s while you were at the office,” she said.
Wow. She was definitely worried about Asmodeus if she was off collecting holy water and crucifixes.
“Once you get back, we’ll do a proper exorcism, of course,” she said, “but I don’t want you to go out unprepared.”
“Thanks,” I said, returning the crucifix to the bag before tucking it into my purse. Then I gave my mom a big hug, which she returned fiercely, as if she was afraid to let me go. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting her clean, spicy, patchouli scent surround me. For a moment—just a moment—I was a child again, safe in my mother’s arms. “I’ll be careful, Mom,” I said. “I promise.”
“Do you have to do this?” she whispered.
“You know I do,” I said.
“Whatever happens,” she said throatily, “I want you to come home. Even if it means … leaving him behind.” She released me, brown eyes awash in unshed tears. “Promise me you’ll come home, Sophie.”
I hugged my mother tightly once more, feeling the comfort of her soft body. “I promise,” I whispered.
I just hoped it was a promise I could keep.
The sun was hovering low in the western sky when we entered the gates of the Graf Ranch, and I could already feel the pull of the full moon. Lindsey sat beside me in the M3, and Heath had somehow managed to fold his six-foot frame into the back. Tom followed behind on his Harley.
A burly guard I didn’t recognize stood at the gate. I rolled down the window and announced myself, and his gold eyes widened a little bit.
“And the other two?”
“They’re friends of mine,” I said.
The guard sniffed at the windows, evidently checking for werewolfiness. Even though the switch was fairly recent, evidently Lindsey and Heath passed olfactory muster, which didn’t surprise me—I could smell the change in them, too. Which was a little unsettling. “Pack affiliation?” he asked.
“They’re still, uh, shopping around,” I said. The guard raised his eyebrows.
The werewolf’s voice was suddenly stern. “These two are fresh. Who made them?”
“I did,” I said.
“You did?” He smirked. “Did you have pack authority?”
“She doesn’t need pack authority,” Tom yelled from behind the limo. The guard glanced at him, then back at me, evidently deciding not to pursue it further. He gave me a sharp nod, gruffly asked Lindsey and Heath to restate their names, and recorded their names in a black, leather-bound book. Then, with another glance back at the Harley behind us, he opened the gate and waved us through. Tom followed a moment later, revving the engine as he passed the guard post.
“Well, that was relatively easy,” Heath said, shimmery eyes scanning the landscape rolling by.
“I’m afraid that may be the only thing that’s easy,” I said.
“Where do we go from here?” Lindsey asked.
“There’s a long road, and then a parking area. The ranch is really a bunch of farmhouses; they hold all of their big events in clearings. At least from what I’ve seen.”
As we pulled into the gravel parking lot, which was already mostly full, the smell of Lindsey’s excitement, and Heath’s apprehension, was stifling, and I practically jumped out of the car. Tom pulled in and parked beside us.
Heath and Lindsey were silent as they climbed out of the M3 and looked around at the farmhouses—and the werewolves. There certainly was plenty to look at. As usual, despite the formality of their ceremonies, the werewolves were all in jeans. I scanned the crowd, looking for Boris. Would he be here? If so, what had he told Elena? And if he wasn’t, did we have any chance at all?
As we prepared to walk into Werewolf Central, Lindsey stepped up and adjusted Heath’s tie; Heath checked his briefcase one last time, then turned to Tom. “Any protocol I should be aware of?”
“They expect deference,” Tom said. “Keep your head down and say as little as possible, would be my recommendation.”
“Anything I should know about the jury?”
“As I am sure you are aware, they are not kindly disposed toward Sophie’s father. Most of the American alphas are here because they were forced out of the old country, and Sophie’s father was instrumental in making that happen in at least two cases.”
“And the rest of them?” Heath asked.
Tom gave him a wry smile. “Have recently agreed to alliances with the two he helped relocate.”
Heath grimaced. “Is there any way we can convince the court to require a jury of Garou’s peers?”
Tom smiled, exposing his gleaming canines. “The problem, Heath, is that they are Luc Garou’s peers; they are all high-ranking werewolves. Besides, this is the Fehmic Court
. The judges were selected and sworn in years ago.”
“I did some research on that,” Heath said. “It got a pretty bad reputation back in the middle ages. Traditionally the court is secret; is that the case here?”
“No,” Tom said. “It is hidden from humans, of course, but all werewolves may attend.”
“At least that’s something,” Heath said. “From what I read, I was afraid it would be a closed court. Still, I’m guessing there’s not much chance of getting a reduced sentence.”
“I plan to discuss that with Wolfgang,” Tom said, with an edge of iron to his voice. I started to break into a cold sweat. Was all of this for nothing? Were we just here to attend my father’s execution? Luc had said he’d had a plan … but what would he do if Heath failed?
“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” I said.
“Can we have a little optimism here?” Lindsey asked. “This is a trial, not a funeral.”
“Just trying to get the lay of the land,” Heath said. He turned to Tom. “Can you take us to the courtroom? Or whatever passes for a courtroom here?”
Tom nodded and led the way across the gravel parking lot and through the throngs of werewolves gathered among the farmhouses. There must have been food inside somewhere; I saw a few people with plates of fajitas, and I could smell the smoky aroma of grilled steak, but my stomach was too churned up to consider eating. I scanned the crowd for signs of the pleather boys—my nose was attuned to the slightest whiff of synthetic textiles—but there was nothing. Conversations dwindled to silence as we passed through the clearing, only to be replaced by a buzz behind us. I could smell the hostility in the air.
“They don’t look too friendly,” Lindsey murmured to me as we met with yet another group of stony-eyed werewolves. Heath smiled winningly at them, which usually worked wonders—at least on the women—but tonight, it only seemed to piss them off more.
“You can say that again,” I whispered back, feeling the hackles rise on my neck. Why were they all so angry with us? Had Elena and Wolfgang been whispering poisonous rumors about me?
Or had my father somehow managed to turn everyone against not just him, but me?
My mind whirled with dark thoughts as I trudged through the woods after Tom and Heath. Although sunset was still an hour off, the night animals were starting to stir—I heard a cricket in a dark corner of the wood—but the world seemed removed, somehow. It wasn’t long before we broke through the scrubby oaks and cedars and stepped into the clearing where they’d condemned the made werewolves just last night. The tents still stood proudly, their flags fluttering gaily in the evening breeze, and were filling up with werewolves already. Tonight, though, in addition to the granite slab where the pack’s earlier business had been conducted, the clearing boasted a long table draped in black cloth. The letters SSGG were embroidered on the front of it in a red, Germanic-looking style, and atop the table, quite ominously, lay a long, vicious-looking knife, a rope, and worst of all, a big wooden stake.
I swallowed hard and turned to Tom. “What are those for?”
“You mean the objects on the table?”
“Yeah. The weapons, actually.”
“It is part of the tradition,” he said. “If your father is found guilty…
”
“They’ll be used in the punishment,” I said, feeling the world shrink around me. This couldn’t be happening.
But it was. Tom put a hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his hand, and the weight of it, steadied me, but his words didn’t. He said, simply, “Yes.”
“And the red letters?”
“They’re abbreviations for old German words. Stein, Strick, Gras, Grün: stone, rope, grass, green.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.
He chuckled bitterly. “If Hubert were here, I’m sure he’d be able to give you the entire history of the words. All I know is that for the Grafs, it’s always been that way; it’s the sign of the Fehmic Court
. It’s been that way for centuries.”
“So I’m guessing there aren’t any court reporters,” Heath joked, but his voice was strained.
“There will be a scribe,” Tom said. “But I think you will find the proceedings very different from what you are accustomed to.”
Heath glanced at his watch. “When does it officially begin?”
“Two hours before moonrise,” Tom said. “In about fifteen minutes, give or take a few.”
As we positioned ourselves at the fringe of the clearing, a short distance away from the nearest tent, the werewolves quietly began filling the clearing, repairing to their packs’ tents. When five minutes remained, I heard a jangle from the side of the clearing, and my skin prickled as I turned to look.
Four burly werewolves were leading my father into the center of the clearing. Despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, my father held his head high, and even with his scruffy, unshaven appearance, there was still something handsome and regal about him that made my heart swell. Maybe he had been a terrible father, but he was still my father. And right now, I was proud of him.
“Is that him?” Lindsey whispered.
I nodded, scanning the crowd for Elena’s henchmen. Where were they? We were sunk without Boris.
“He looks just like you,” she said.
“He does,” Heath echoed as the guards came to a halt next to the slab of granite, pulling my father up short; he stumbled a little, and I found myself growling at them. Beside me, Tom bristled, too. The skinniest guard pulled a thick padlock out of his pocket, attaching the end of a chain to a ring in the rock. Once my father was secured, like a slave chained to the auction block, they moved to the edges of the clearing, leaving my father alone.
I leaned against Tom, feeling light-headed all of a sudden, and glad to have him with me. I was about to pull away—after all, Lindsey was just a few feet away—when he put his arm around me and squeezed. It was a relief that Heath was here to defend my father, but there was something about Tom’s strong, magnetic presence that was much more reassuring. “Can I go to him?” I murmured into his ear, taking strength from Tom’s masculine scent. I was longing to talk to him one last time.
“No,” he said firmly. “Not now. But whatever happens, I will make sure you have time together. Wolfgang owes me that much.”
My father’s eyes scanned the throngs, as if searching for someone, and I willed him to look toward me. Finally, his gaze reached our little group, and I could swear I saw his eyes light up a little. I gave my father what I hoped was an encouraging smile; he winked back at me.
“Boris isn’t here,” I whispered to Tom. “What do we do if he doesn’t turn up?”
Tom, who had been scanning the crowd, suddenly stiffened slightly beside me. His arm slipped from my shoulders, leaving me feeling very alone. “Stay here. I will return shortly,” Tom said.
I caught his arm as he turned to go. “Where are you going?”
“Wolfgang is here,” he said, turning to look at me. He suddenly seemed very large and very powerful; there was something about him that made me shiver. In a good way. “There is something we need to discuss.”
Before I could ask for details, he was walking toward the edge of the clearing, moving with the litheness of a predator.
The tents continued to fill, and the sun dropped lower in the sky, but Tom still didn’t return. Boris was conspicuously absent, as well, which worried me. My eyes kept returning to my father, who stood with his chin high, seemingly oblivious of the crowd around him. The three made werewolves who had been condemned the other night had been brought to the clearing, too; they huddled in chains, on the side of the clearing. Tom had told me they would be released for the wild hunt when the moon rose, about two hours after sunset. Why hadn’t I gotten in touch with Georges earlier? Then I could have avoided all of this …
It’s too late to worry about that, I told myself, and glanced at Heath, hoping for reassurance. But the blankness of his face didn’t help.
Suddenly, there was the low, mournful clang of a bell, and the murmur of voices fell silent. Tears prickled my eyes as a procession of torches entered the clearing, followed by several figures in black robes and hoods. As the toll of the bell echoed around the clearing, the robed werewolves took their seats, and Isabella took her place on the slab of granite, a mere yard from my chained father.
“Tonight, the Fehmic Court
is convened to decide the fate of Luc Garou, alpha of the Paris pack.”
There was a murmur from the crowd. The robed figures sat silent.
“I now cede the floor to the Freigraf, Stuhlherr Wolfgang Graf, chairman of the court and reigning alpha of the Houston pack.”
With a deep bow to the figures at the table, Isabella stepped down from the granite slab. She hadn’t reached the edge of the clearing before the tall werewolf in the center stood slowly and began speaking in a low, gravelly voice.
“The court has convened, for the first time in almost fifty years, to hear the case against Luc Garou.” He paused for a moment, and I caught the flicker of his eyes beneath the hooded robe. They burned cold, with barely suppressed hatred. “He is charged with the murder of Charles Grenier, beta of the Houston pack, during the proscribed time.” Wolfgang turned to my father, whose chin thrust out.
At that moment, Tom appeared at my side, his warm hand grasping my elbow.
“What happened?” I asked.
He put a finger to his lips and directed my attention to the proceedings in the clearing.
“The accused has requested he be permitted a representative to defend him in this matter,” Wolfgang said. My father blinked in surprise, and he wasn’t the only one. Evidently this was not traditional procedure for the Fehmic Court
, because there was a murmur from the crowd—and the black-robed judges. “As Freigraf, I have elected to accede to his request.”
My father’s head jerked up, and again, the murmurs swelled, becoming so loud that Wolfgang was forced to call the proceedings to order. “Silence!” he barked, and was obeyed immediately.
“The court calls Heath Thompson to act as Luc Garou’s representative in this matter,” Wolfgang said.
I glanced at Heath, whose face was white as milk in the flickering torchlight. Lindsey squeezed his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he strode to the center of the clearing with a jaunty step that belied the fear I’d seen in his eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Heath said, with a small bow to the assembled werewolves, “and distinguished judges of the court,” he continued, addressing the robed figures. “I am honored to be called to represent the accused in this matter.”
“Thank you,” Wolfgang said. He snapped his fingers. “Chair,” he barked, and within seconds, a skinny werewolf hurried out to the clearing with a wooden chair for Heath.
“We will begin with hearing the details of the case,” Wolfgang said.
Heath, I noticed, chose to remain standing tall instead of sitting in the proffered seat.
“Freischoff Hartfinder,” Wolfgang said. “Will you present the evidence against Mr. Garou?”
A werewolf whose voice I didn’t recognize stood up, and in a rough, dry, voice, went through the details. Grenier had been found dead on Fourth Street
&nbs
p; a mere twenty minutes after two witnesses observed him arguing with Luc Garou. Hartfinder went through all the reasons Garou would want him dead, including the fact that Grenier double-crossed him centuries ago. He then pointed out that the accused bore a scratch on his face that was consistent with a scuffle. Throughout, my father stood motionless.
As Hartfinder concluded his recitation, Heath raised his hand. “Excuse me, sir,” Heath asked. “But were there any actual witnesses to the murder?”
Hartfinder was silent for a moment. Then he said, “There were not.”
“Well, isn’t it possible that someone else may have committed it, then?”
Wolfgang leaned back in his chair. “Who are you suggesting, Mr. Thompson?”
Heath shrugged. “Any number of people, sir. Or, in this case, werewolves.”
“Do you have any evidence to support this theory?” Wolfgang asked.
“Actually, I believe I do have someone who will testify that there were other alternatives.” He turned and addressed the assembly. “I’d like to call Boris Krepinsky, member of the Houston pack, to the stand.”
I held my breath, waiting. Tom was rigid beside me.
Another murmur tore through the crowd—but no pleather boy appeared. Heath kept his jaunty stance, but I could see his face turn even paler. “I call Boris Krepinsky to the stand,” he repeated. Again, nothing.
“Mr. Krepinsky appears not to be in attendance,” Wolfgang said lightly. “Is there anything else you have to present?”
“I will testify.”
I turned in shock as Tom strode forward into the clearing.
As the entire assembly looked on, he slung himself into the wooden chair that had been brought for Heath. Lindsey clutched at my hand, and I tried to remember to breathe. What was Tom doing?
“What is your involvement with this case, Mr. Fenris?” Wolfgang asked coldly.
“As I had a detailed conversation with Mr. Krepinsky last night,” he said, “I felt that in his absence, I should contribute my understanding of the situation. I believe what he told me is relevant to the proceedings.”
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