Chapter Thirty-Nine
T HIRTY - N INE
I leap to my feet, rage boiling in me.
“He didn’t do anything!” I bellow at my grandmother. “You heartless—”
She turns on Julius, now running toward me.
Her lips move in a spell, and I roar. I roar in a rage that whips through me, and I lash out, an energy spell ricocheting around the room, hitting one witch, who howls in agony and collapses.
The bolt bounces off others, making them yelp, even my grandmother falling back, hand to her heart, eyes wide in shock.
One of the witches launches a fireball. Bishop grabs me, yanking me out of the way. Another witch charges, her gaze fixed on me, and he hits her with a blow that sends her flying.
“Stop!” Beryl shouts. “If anyone hurts my grand—”
I don’t hear the rest. Julius grabs both of us, hauling us toward the door. One of the witches raises her hands, but I cast a quick fog spell. Julius gets us as far as the hall before Bishop seems to realize what he’s doing. Fleeing.
Bishop stops short, looking back over his shoulder.
“We need to go,” Julius says between his teeth. “Run.”
“We have to warn the Pack,” I quickly add.
That gives Bishop pause, but he still glances back.
“They’ll execute Cordelia for what she did,” Julius says. “She killed at least one of them with that spell.”
I don’t know that I did. I also don’t think my grandmother would execute me for it. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this does the trick.
Bishop grabs my arm and propels me down the hall.
We run as I cast another fog spell, but it sputters, barely more than a few wisps.
Panic whips through me. My spell power is gone. It’s like what happened when Silas murdered my aunt. A sudden explosion of incredible power. But one that drains my well completely.
A figure turns the corner. It’s Ann. She stares at us, running, fog swirling behind us. Julius pushes her back around the corner.
“What’s going on?” she says. “I came to find Marjorie—”
“Betrayed us,” I pant. “Working for my grandmother’s cabal.”
Fury fills her eyes. Not fury at Marjorie. Fury at me. She wheels on Bishop. “She’s lying. Whatever’s she’s told you—”
“—is true,” Julius says. “Because we just saw it ourselves. The Levines are a cabal. They’re here. Outside. They killed Claude. Marjorie works for them.”
Silence. Ann stares, as if she can’t keep up with his words. I don’t blame her.
“Run,” Bishop says. “Get Tabi and the other maids. Find Felix. Run. ”
She still stares, uncomprehending. Then a window shatters somewhere deep in the house. Another follows. A door crashes open. A scream.
“Go!” Julius says. “Felix is in the library. Get him. Get Tabi. Get the other maids. And then run!”
She snaps out of it and takes off.
We reach the great hall, where most of the Pack must have been all this time, waiting for their new Alpha, Beryl’s privacy spell ensuring they had no idea what was happening at the other end of the house.
Now they know, because Beryl’s forces have invaded, and just getting to the hall means taking out two supernaturals on the way.
Then we swing into the great hall and—
Oh gods, what have I done?
That’s all I can think at first.
My fault. All my fault.
The Levines came for me. Because of me. And then I cast the rage-induced spell that made Beryl unleash her army.
Deep down, I know that’s not true. This is the fallout of a war between Silas and Beryl, and I’m just the valuable pawn they’d fought over.
I never did anything to deserve this twisted honor.
And as for lashing out and making Beryl invade?
What was the alternative? Let her murder Julius and Bishop?
Never. Even if she did that, would she have really stopped there? I don’t think so.
Silas made the choices that led to this.
But the Pack is paying the price right now, my heart shattering as I see the scene before me. The Pack— my Pack—overwhelmed and fighting for their lives. Fighting and already dying.
The stench of blood and fear and rage, every wolf I’ve come to know fighting for his life. Fighting and losing.
Jacques lies dead at the doorway, his chest ripped open, eyes staring into nothing. I stare down at him, my eyes filling with tears as I think of the nervous young werewolf who’d brought me food and filled my tub, tripping over himself to please Bishop.
And now he’s dead.
How old was he? Nineteen? Twenty?
“Go!” Bishop says, wheeling on me. “Find Ann and go.”
I don’t go. I won’t run. Not this time.
I rip at my dress, the buttons popping as I tear it free. It falls around me, and I keep going as I stride forward. Petticoats off. Corset cover off. I stop at the corset and drawers. I can fight in these.
I’m braced for Bishop to stop me. To grab me and haul me back. But he doesn’t try. He’s right behind me for about three heartbeats, and then he’s in front of me, punching anyone who gets in my way.
When he dives to cut off a charging supernatural, I slam my fist into the man’s stomach. Then I kick in the same spot, as hard as I can. Someone grabs Bishop, and he disappears for a second, only to come back, bleeding, as I kick another attacker.
A huge man charges at Bishop. I use a renewed burst of spell power to catch him in a binding spell and when he stumbles, Bishop grabs him by the hair and snaps his neck.
As the man falls, a woman lifts her hands in a sorcerer spell. I resist the urge to cast back. I don’t have enough power, and I can’t let Bishop know that or he really will make me hide.
I kick to disrupt the witch’s spell, but she moves too fast, and my foot misses. Bishop grabs her arm, and a crack rings out as he snaps it. As she falls back, I finally manage to land a kick that sends her into the fray.
“I can fight,” I say to Bishop as I pant.
“I see that.”
“You’d rather I ran.”
“Yes.” He pauses, wiping blood from his mouth. Then he says, “No,” reaches for my hand, and yanks me out of an attacker’s path. “I’d rather you stayed close.”
His fist plows into the man’s face so hard the man lets out a high animal scream, his face crushed.
“Stay close and help you?” I say, without missing a beat, even as the injured man stumbles back.
Bishop’s eyes meet mine. “Please.”
He takes my chin and pulls me into a kiss, and his lips taste of blood, or maybe that’s mine. Then his fist slams out into someone rushing at us, and I have to laugh softly at that as he sends the would-be attacker flying without stopping the kiss.
He pulls back then, eyes locked with me. “Stay with me, Delia. Please.”
I meet his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He leans to kiss me again… and someone jostles us from the side. Bishop wheels. The man grabs me, his fingers pure ice, and my skin starts to freeze as I gasp. Bishop bellows in rage and hauls the ice half-demon off of me. I turn to help, but two other fighters get in my path.
I duck past them, but by then, Bishop is lost in the chaos, bodies flying everywhere, fighters grappling, none of them him.
Stay close.
Stay with me.
Damn it, I can’t do that if—
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar figure striding in the fray.
It’s Ann, stripped down to her underthings like me, her fists clenched, gaze fixed straight ahead.
She doesn’t see the woman charging at her, and I dash over, one fist hitting the woman in the face, the other hitting her in the stomach.
When the woman tries to come at me, I shove her into Julius, who grabs her and snaps her neck.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the fighters, and Ann is staring at me.
“Yes,” I say. “I can fight. Even without spells. My aunt taught me. Where’s Tabi?”
“Safe with Felix.” She looks around and squares her shoulders. “You kill these bastards, and I’ll raise them.”
When I don’t answer, her gaze swings on me. “You can do that, can’t you? Kill them?”
It seems like an honest question, not a challenge. But I still stop short. Can I kill them? I look around, seeing another dead werewolf on the floor. It’s Miles, who’d guarded me in the cell, who gave me his shortbread.
I see Miles, and I remember Claude and Jacques, and fury slices through me. Can I do this? I don’t know. But I will. I damn well will.
A werewolf protects his Pack.
A lycan protects her Pack.
Someone charges us. I don’t even see whether it’s a man or a woman.
My nose tells me it isn’t a werewolf, and that’s all that matters.
I lash out with a spell, that fury still fueling it, and the fireball explodes from my fingers and slams into the attacker’s face.
A scream. I grab them by the shirtfront and yank them to the floor.
I leap on their back, wrap my hands in their hair, and yank. I don’t think this move will work. I’m not a werewolf. I don’t have their strength.
But I do have something else. Rage. Howling, animal rage, and I channel that—seeing Claude, seeing Jacques, seeing Miles.
I feel the snap, and the body goes limp.
“Nicely done,” Ann says, and actually looks impressed. Really, you never know what it’ll take to please some people.
I back away, and she works her magic. The darkest magic.
Supernaturals like to dismiss necromancers as little more than spiritualists who can speak to the dead. They forget this other power, because so few necromancers can—or will—use it.
The raising and commanding of zombies.
The dead supernatural—a woman, I realize now—twitches and then gets to her feet.
She glares at Ann, and there’s such hate in that look that I would quail before it.
Ann only meets her gaze and tells her, “Fight your own. Kill them. Cause havoc. Whatever you want. But don’t touch any of us.
Not me. Not her.” A thumb jerked my way. “Not the Pack.”
Oh, that hatred. It rages like an inferno. But the necromancer has given her commands, and the zombie must obey. The woman lurches into the fray. A man turns to her with a quick smile, waving for this ally to help… and she attacks him.