by RJ Blain
James shifted on the sofa, glancing at the door before his gaze settled on me. “But—”
“Out.”
Both the witch and the wolf jumped to their feet and hurried to the door. The scent of their fear made me sneeze. Devonshire followed them at a sedate pace, waiting for them to leave before locking the door. He turned to me. “I’ve worked too hard trying to restore order to the packs to be undermined by some new bitch. What are you doing on my turf? I’ll look the other way regarding the death of my witch, but I won’t tolerate a rogue in my territory. Change, and we’ll talk.”
I somehow managed to resist the urge to snarl at him. Being a rogue was bad enough. Being identified as a rogue while surrounded by Inquisitors could be the end of me. What I did to Mrs. Livingston would look like child’s play, unless the Inquisition had changed a lot in the past hundred years. I doubted that.
As a human, however, I could talk to him. Maybe he wouldn’t smell the lies I’d have to tell, one piled onto the other until the truth was the rotten center hidden under a seemingly healthy exterior.
If I were smart, I’d live long enough to find out how bad the storm I had summoned was. If I were wise, I would live long enough to avenge Samantha’s death.
Realistically, he’d probably call in the coven to deal with me one way or another.
However, his tone and confidence in knowing I wasn’t the one creating werewolves roused my suspicion. Who else would know except for the one doing it? If Devonshire was the one creating wild, uncontrolled wolves and then killing off those who couldn’t change back on their own, my only chance for survival was to prove I could become human again.
I could die with pride as a wolf, or do as the humans did, struggling to survive despite lacking a pack or knowing the wild joy of freedom.
The human part of me that refused to lose to an inferior male demanded to battle on equal footing. Part of me wanted to fight, to hunt, and to establish my dominance over the upstart human who betrayed his wolf heritage. If the man refused to act as a proper wolf, then I would have to match him as a human.
A growl built in my chest and rumbled in my throat.
“Oh. Clothes. It wouldn’t do to have a naked woman in my office, now would it? Those witches just don’t understand the true beauty of being a werewolf, do they?” Devonshire crossed the room to his desk. At the push of a button, a panel slid open to reveal a closet. He pulled out a long, black, leather trench coat similar to the one I had lost in New York. “It’s not all that fashionable or suitable for a lady, but it’ll keep you covered.”
He left me with a choice: Do or die.
Snarling didn’t soothe my growing rage or quiet the ever-growing sense of dread. I snatched the coat out of his hands and dragged it behind the couch.
Chapter Twenty Eight
I don’t know how long it took for me to find the will and the strength to become human. The transformation left me shaking behind the couch. Wrapping myself in the trench coat, I waited for my hands to cease quivering. All the while, I tried to convince myself I had made the right decision.
Human skin was too thin and frail after the warm comfort of fur. My bones and muscles ached, enhancing my sense of loss. Despite the change of forms, the back of my skull still burned, a reminder that I couldn’t hide from the consequences of my magic.
“I trust that coat is sufficient to protect your modesty?” Devonshire asked from somewhere beyond the safety of the couch.
A growl slipped out. I masked it with a cough, tightening my grip on the coat before I rose to my feet. “It’ll do,” I replied, somehow stopping myself from snarling at the other werewolf. I pushed my hair out of my eyes with my free hand. My locks had bleached to white, and mocking my attempt to curb its growth last month, fell halfway to my waist. It was the color of death and winter.
I wondered how close I had come to killing myself summoning the storm. Too close, I decided with a shiver.
“You’re not an arctic wolf,” Devonshire said, staring at me from where he sat behind his desk. I nodded my agreement.
“I’m not.”
“Overly fond of the bleached-blonde look, then?”
Capturing a lock of my hair between my fingers, I twirled it into a proper curl. My fiddling with the weather hadn’t only turned it white. The frizzy look I usually rocked was replaced with wavy curls my stylist in New York would’ve killed for. “I promise you, no dye has touched my hair in at least ten years.”
“Interesting.”
“It is, isn’t it? Well, Mr. Devonshire, you wished to speak with me. What do you want?” I circled around the couch, dropping down onto it, careful to keep covered up. “I would think you’d have more pressing concerns with that storm poised to make landfall anytime now.”
Devonshire rose from his desk, crossing over to the center of the room to perch on the armrest of the couch across from me. His eyes flicked down, first focusing on my chest before wandering to my exposed legs. “We’ve enough supplies to wait it out for a few weeks if necessary. If you’re a young wolf, it’d be better for you to confess now.”
I forced a smile. “I’m not a young wolf. Are you?”
“I’m the one asking the questions here,” Devonshire growled.
“You haven’t earned my respect yet, pup,” I whispered, lowering my chin to cover my throat while glaring at him through my lashes. The need to embrace my wolf form roused within me, gnawing at my belly with the pain of hunger. “You are not my Alpha.”
Devonshire flinched. “So I’m not. Who is your Alpha, then?”
A more genuine smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. How long ago had my bond with my pack dwindled away to nothing? My Alpha had died a quick, merciful death. His passing had felt like someone had plunged a fire-forged dagger through my gut. The rest of the pack had fallen to the plague, one by one, their losses twisting the blade within me.
“That’s none of your business, Mr. Devonshire. I’ve seen what the Inquisition does to wolves, witches, and wizards, may God have mercy on their forsaken souls. If you want to know, I hope you have a strong necromancer, because the only way you’ll ever find out is if you read the truth from my still-warm intestines.”
Both of Devonshire’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting.”
“Well, Mr. Devonshire? How old are you?”
“Seventy.”
I didn’t expose my throat or lift my chin. “As a wolf?”
He nodded. “I underwent the ritual when I was thirty.”
“That’s quite old. Why did you wait for so long? Wouldn’t it have been easier on you if you had undergone the change at an earlier age?”
While I didn’t smell any lies on him, his graying hair made him look older than thirty. Devonshire considered me for a long moment before tilting his head and exposing his neck to me.
I cocked my head to the side, mirroring his gesture.
Devonshire relaxed a little. I didn’t.
“My Alpha refused to change anyone below the age of twenty five, and only did so after a few years of observation.”
I turned my smile into a weapon of accusation. “Your Alpha was wise. Seventy years is quite the accomplishment in an age where the Inquisition’s reach is long.”
“So, Lady Wolf, how old are you?”
Without letting my smile fade, I met his eyes and stared until he shifted on the armrest of the couch. I let him simmer for a few more moments before I said, “You weren’t even born when some were calling me old, Mr. Devonshire.”
His eyes widened. “Which pack do you belong to?”
“I already told you, if you want to know, you’ll have to ask a necromancer to tell you.”
“You’ve survived an Inquisition before.”
“What if I have?”
“That would make you an old, cunning wolf indeed. Why shouldn’t I have you put down?”
I resumed my chin-ducked position, once again covering my throat. “I’ve done nothing to warrant the Inquisition’s attention.
”
“You exist. You killed Olivia Livingston. Isn’t that enough?”
I sighed. The sinking feeling of impending doom crashed down on my shoulders. I should’ve known that my days were numbered the instant I had followed the Inquisitors back to their outpost.
If I was going to die anyway, there was no reason to hold back. “Ah, so werewolves are to be treated as wizards now? Kill them regardless of age, assassinate them for existing, all without establishing an Alpha over them to give them a chance to survive? You lock them in cells without teaching your witches how to gain control over their wolves. You do what is easy, because doing what is right is too much work.”
The silence following my words hung heavy. I held my breath while waiting. Devonshire paled, loosening his tie, his eyes refusing to meet mine. “What makes you think that?”
“Experience. You tell me, Mr. Devonshire. How many witches and wolves has the Inquisition killed so far this year alone? How many could the Inquisition have saved from the plague?”
Devonshire flinched as though my words had struck him with the force of physical blows. “How much do you know about the plague?”
Considering I didn’t know a lot about the plague, I didn’t see any harm in sharing what I did know. “Not enough, except at least one witch was a carrier. “
“How did you learn that?”
Smiling hurt. “An autopsy.”
“Of who?”
“I recommend you bring your necromancer,” I snarled. “Take a guess.”
“A rogue witch, then.”
“A witch who didn’t deserve to die.” My words sounded bitter to my ears.
Devonshire narrowed his eyes. “Everyone dies, Lady Wolf. The question is when, not if. The Inquisition has always existed to protect the normal humans.”
I laughed. “Werewolves and witches are humans, too. They deserve protection from the murderous scum sent out under the banner of a so-called good cause. There are children without parents because you ordered the murders of werewolves. What did they do? Go to work? Raise their pups? What crimes did these men, women, and children commit?”
At first, I thought Devonshire wasn’t going to reply, then he shook his head. “Would you believe me if I told you the witch you killed played a major part in that? She was extremely wealthy, Lady Wolf. She hated our kind more than anything else.”
“Why?” My question came out as a growl.
“As far as I can tell, she was hunting for a specific wolf, as is the Inquisition. There’s a very notable bounty on her head.”
I frowned. “How much for her head?”
“Nothing. She’s only valuable alive.” Devonshire huffed a laugh. “Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Why are you telling me this?” I considered the possibilities, but couldn’t come up with any theory that made sense to me.
Then again, for Devonshire to be so willing to work with the murderers of our own kind, he was likely as crazed as the ones he hunted.
“You’re old. You know the older wolves, don’t you? Let’s strike a deal. I want your help. I can offer you protection from the Inquisition. What do you think?”
Anger burned in my chest, stealing my breath. Heat washed over my face. “You want me to participate in the Inquisition.”
“I didn’t say that.” Devonshire paused, and then he smiled. “But you are correct.”
“You’re asking me to sacrifice my freedom.”
Surprise twisted his expression before he managed to resume his easygoing smile. “You don’t know that.”
I tightened my grip on the coat. “No one leaves the Inquisition alive.”
“Baseless propaganda.” Devonshire’s scent soured, strong even in my human nose. My rage deepened until I trembled in an effort to contain it.
“Did you really think you could get away with lying to me?”
A frightened look marred his expression. “Why do you think I’m lying?”
I reached up to tap my nose. “Didn’t your Alpha teach you anything?”
Devonshire swallowed. “He was killed by the Alpha of another pack.”
I sucked in a breath. If Devonshire’s Alpha had been killed, the other pack wouldn’t have necessarily taken in new members, especially not newly-changed werewolves lacking true control.
One by one, the pieces of the puzzle fell together.
“Next time, don’t forget to use your nose. You have one for a reason.”
“I see your Alpha didn’t teach you to respect Alpha pack leaders.” There was a hard edge to Devonshire’s voice. “I am the Alpha here.”
I waved my hand in a flippant, dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to steal your pack. I’d rather be crucified than locked in a cage like some mindless animal.”
“It’s for their own good.”
“What would be good,” I murmured, pausing long enough to uncross my legs and stretch before crossing them again. Devonshire’s eyes lowered, following my every movement. “What would be good is for you to put on your fur coat, go down there, and teach them. No one is born an Alpha.”
Devonshire’s gaze snapped to mine, his eyes widening with comprehension.
Part of me wanted to shove a gag in my own mouth before I was hung out to dry or thrown to the mercy of the storm. The rest of me crowed that I could control so many of his reactions. “If, of course, you’re an Alpha like you say you are.”
“What good is a werewolf who can’t control their beast?”
The question caught me by surprise. I couldn’t remember quite how I’d forged peace between the wolf, the woman, and the witch within me. Time, in its cunning and sly way, had worked its magic on me. But I couldn’t remember a wolf in the pack who had been scorned or shunted for being unable to cope with their newfound wildness.
Control was a word for caged beasts, leashed and muzzled to protect the thin-skinned, weak-hearted humans who didn’t understand the true strength of the pack.
Heat seared my eyes, and I blinked away tears before they could escape. “Who is the tamer of the pack?” As I spoke, I couldn’t push away the memories of Emily and Alex, smiling despite the deaths of their mother, their father, and most of their pack. The question slipped from my lips, an echo of my Alpha’s favorite teaching.
“Who is he?” Devonshire leaned back, arms crossed, stiff backed.
“An Omega,” I replied. A lump formed in my throat, cutting off my breath. I coughed. “Who is the one who gives comfort as often as he receives it?”
“A Submissive.”
I clucked my tongue several times. “Correct. Who, then, needs the comfort of the Submissives and the taming of the Omega?”
“An Alpha?”
“No. The lone wolf.”
“Fine. I’ll play along. Who is an Alpha, then?”
“An Alpha is the wolf who gives the comfort he can never receive, for the Alpha is the giver of wildness, the leader of the pack, and the strongest of wolves and men.”
“What a bizarre teaching.”
“It’s older than you are, Mr. Devonshire.”
“What does this teaching have to do with anything? So what? It’s old. How does it apply to our little talk?”
“No one is born an Alpha.”
“I disagree.”
“Teach your wolves to become human. Find your Submissives, and fast,” I warned.
“Or what?” Devonshire’s lip curled up to reveal his perfect white teeth.
“You’ll become a lone wolf. You either control your pack or you lose it. Making more wolves isn’t going to keep your pack alive.”
Devonshire stiffened. “Are you threatening me?”
“It’s not a threat,” I murmured.
“Then what, pray tell, is it?” The stench of the werewolf’s rage seared my nose.
My smile was sad. “History repeating itself.”
At that, Devonshire’s eyes widened, and I could smell his fear. I pretended not to notice, suffering through the silence.
&n
bsp; ~*~
I should have known better than to prod a crazed wolf. It shouldn’t have surprised me when he pulled a gun on me.
The stench of silver burned my nose. I grimaced, but said nothing.
“We will have to talk more later,” Devonshire said, gesturing towards the door with the tip of the gun. “On your feet, Lady Wolf. Quietly, of course. Unless you want to take a silver bullet?”
I rose, my eyes focused on the weapon. Blaming my nose for not detecting his madness wouldn’t change anything. He marched me all the way to the fifth floor with the barrel of the gun pressed against the small of my back.
After shoving me into the tree-wrecked room Francine had given to me before, Devonshire closed and locked the door from the outside. With the storm drawing all of my strength, I doubted I could change back into a wolf. I stared at the reinforced door before turning to the broken window.
Witch and woman couldn’t survive turning to ice, not even with the iron constitution of the wolf bolstering me. Even if I did manage to transform, past experience warned me of how well the Inquisition built their cages. The fallen tree might have let me get to the ground, but I wouldn’t last long in the snow.
“Damn you,” I snarled through clenched teeth. The wind blasted right through the flimsy protection of the trench coat. A tremor started in my belly and spread through the rest of me. My breath emerged as clouds. It didn’t take long for the gusting storm to cake my skin and hair with snow.
I had to give Devonshire credit. To watchful eyes, he played the courteous host. One wrong word, though, and he would’ve shot me.
It would have been a mercy.
My teeth chattered. The cold bit at my fingers and toes. Numbness spread through my chest with each freezing breath. Survival depended on the wolf within me, but like my allergy to all things canine, she slept. My powers as a witch wouldn’t do me any good, either. I’d never gotten along well with flame.
While the storm sang to me, its voice clear through the breached window, all I could hear was a requiem for those who would die due to its strength. The wind blasted through the room, carrying with it snow. There was no fury or violence. If anything, its melody was a hissed lullaby, poised to usher me into my final slumber.