Chapter 6 – Regina
Chapter
Six
REGINA
Iwake up with my face pressed against Sean’s broad chest, his heartbeat slow and steady under my cheek.
For one disoriented moment, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling looks too high, too fancy. The familiar scent of old, dusty books tickles my nostrils. It’s a delightful smell, but not one I’d usually associate with the pack house.
Villeneuve’s house. Right.
The dream lingers at the edges of my consciousness. Killian’s eyes in a werewolf’s face.
I push it down. Can’t afford to think about that right now.
I’m in the garden when you’re ready to talk.
I jerk upright so fast I nearly roll off Sean’s torso and onto the floor.
Villeneuve’s voice.
In my head.
“What the fuck,” I whisper.
Sean doesn’t stir. He’s out cold, one arm thrown over his face, the bandage over his eye slightly askew. Micah is curled against my other side, his glasses abandoned somewhere and his face relaxed in sleep.
I’m in the garden when you’re ready to talk…
The words echo again, fainter this time, like a message left on an answering machine waiting for me to pick it up.
How the hell is he doing that? I know he weaseled his way into the bond. I felt it during the healing ritual, that unfamiliar thread tangled up with the ones connecting me to my wolves. But speaking directly into my mind? Last I checked, that requires a mark. Teeth in skin and then some.
Villeneuve hasn’t marked me.
I extract myself from between Sean and Micah as carefully as I can manage. Which isn’t very careful at all, apparently, because the moment I’m gone, Micah rolls into the warm spot I left behind and ends up flopping across Sean’s chest.
Sean’s reaction is instantaneous and completely unconscious.
One second Micah is unwittingly cuddling up to him thinking it’s either me or a giant throw pillow. The next, Micah is airborne, launched off the chaise with enough force that he hits the floor with a thud that would wake the dead.
And yet somehow, neither of them wakes up.
Micah just grunts, curls into a ball on the expensive rug, and keeps snoring. Sean doesn’t even twitch.
Incredible.
I find a robe draped over the back of a nearby chair.
Silk, dark green, and of course, exactly my size.
I don’t want to think about how Villeneuve knew that.
Or when he had time to arrange it. I just pull it on and tie the belt tight, grateful for something to cover me since my clothes are a mess, both from the battle and last night.
First things first, Killian.
The hallway outside is dim, lit only by the gray light filtering through tall windows. Early morning, I realize. We slept through the entire night.
I see something flicker at the edge of my vision. A shadow? I turn, but there’s nothing there except an empty corridor lined with closed doors.
“Margot?” I call warily.
No one answers, but I know better than to think that means she’s not there.
The room where they put Killian is two doors down, so I ease it open, holding my breath.
He’s still on the stone table in his wolf form. Still wrapped in that stasis field that makes him look like he’s sleeping peacefully, except for the unnatural stillness of his chest.
Rowan is slumped in a chair beside him, his head tilted back against the wall, mouth slightly open. Sound asleep. He looks exhausted even in rest, dark circles under his eyes, his usually composed features slack with fatigue.
I pull a blanket over Rowan, then cross the room over to Killian and press my palm against his fur. It’s warm. Not as warm as it should be, but warm. Through the bond, I feel that distant pulse again. It’s steady, which means he’s fighting.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. You’re going to be okay.”
He doesn’t respond, but I swear I feel a shift in the bond between us, like a faint acknowledgment.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking again.
I pull my hand back and leave as quietly as I came. Rowan needs the sleep. They both do.
The garden is at the back of the house, through a set of French doors that open onto a stone patio. The morning air is damp and heavy with the scent of wet earth, and it’s easy to forget this place is still within the campus wards when it feels like another world.
Villeneuve is standing by an ancient oak tree at the center of the garden, a coffee cup in one hand, his attention fixed on the gnarled trunk like he’s thinking of cutting it down.
He’s wearing another one of those impeccable suits.
Charcoal again, because apparently even dragons have a preferred color palette.
He doesn’t turn as I approach, but I know he knows I’m here.
“There’s coffee on the table,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward a wrought-iron setup near the patio. “Help yourself.”
I pour myself a cup just to have something to do with my hands. The coffee is better than the actual kiosks on campus. I take a long sip while I figure out what I want to say.
Or at least how to put “fuck you” into slightly more productive terms.
“Chilly morning,” he observes.
“How the fuck did you speak inside my head?”
So much for small talk.
Villeneuve turns to face me, one eyebrow raised. “Right to the point. I respect that.”
“What did you expect? That I’d find out and just move on like nothing happened?”
“No. Of course not.”
He looks even more exhausted than he did last night. Dark circles shadow his eyes even heavier than Rowan’s, and his skin seems paler than usual, like all the color has been leeched out of him.
Not that he had much to begin with.
The strange energy that usually surrounds him, that predatory, ancient presence I’ve gotten used to sensing, feels flat somehow. Like the spark has gone out of it.
Did he drain himself healing Killian, even with my power?
Then again, he teleported the six of us, too. Even at a short distance, that’s a lot.
“Walk with me,” he says.
I don’t move.
“Please.”
The word sounds foreign coming from him. Like he’s not used to saying it.
I follow him not because I trust him, which I definitely fucking don’t, but because I need answers, and he’s the only one who has them.
The garden path winds through hedges and flower beds, eventually opening into a small labyrinth of carefully trimmed boxwood.
I can picture Margot out here, silent as a mouse, with giant shears in her hands like some nineteenth-century automaton.
Villeneuve moves through it without hesitation, clearly familiar with every turn.
“How is Killian?” he asks.
“His condition hasn’t changed.” I step over a root that’s pushed up through the gravel path. “Is that because of the stasis or the bite?”
“Both,” he answers. “The stasis is necessary so his body can allocate all its energy to fighting the virus. The less he moves, the more resources he has to combat the transformation.”
“Earlier, you said it was impossible to fight. That it wouldn’t matter.”
Villeneuve is quiet for a moment. “I may have been... premature in that assessment.”
I stop walking. “What?”
“There may be something,” he says carefully, turning to face me. “Not a cure, but a way to bind it.” He pauses. “I’ve been doing some research of my own.”
Is that why he looks so tired? Did he stay up all night reading too?
“The fact that Killian was bitten by a reanimated wolf may actually be a blessing in disguise,” he continues.
“A blessing? How?”
“Necromancy is a forbidden system of magic.” He stares into his coffee like it’s a scrying mirror.
“That doesn’t stop people from practicing it, of course, but it does mean the information is harder to come by.
” He reaches out to brush his fingers against a climbing rose, the petals deep red in the gray morning light.
“I believe I may know someone who can help. There is a special arm of the Council devoted to countering and undoing the effects of forbidden magic.”
My stomach drops. “That would mean they’d know Killian was bitten.”
He inclines his head slightly, a few dark strands that are usually slicked back obediently falling into his face. “Yes. It would.”
“The Council would find out. They’d—“
“This person happens to owe me a favor.”
I stare at him. “You think you can swear them to secrecy?”
He gives me a knowing smile that makes me want to punch him, if only because it renders his face more appealing than it has any right to be. “It’s a very significant favor.”
“Cryptic.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Have you ever given a direct answer in your life?”
Villeneuve waves his hand, and the rose bushes part to reveal a stone bench hidden in an alcove I hadn’t noticed. He gestures for me to sit.
“I’ll answer as candidly as you wish,” he says. “You only have to ask. Enough of the truth is out now that I might as well lay all the cards on the table.”
I sit. The stone is cold through the thin silk of the robe, but I ignore it. At least until Villeneuve shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
My spine stiffens as the scent of smoke and incense surrounds me.
It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve ever noticed any scent about him that isn’t his usual aftershave and soap.
Killian and the others have always been unnerved by the fact that they can’t tell what he is by his scent, but he clearly isn’t bothering to cloak it anymore. At least not here.
It’s… pleasant. Obnoxiously so.
I’m tempted to tell him to take his jacket and shove it wherever he keeps his wings when he’s not using them, but it is freezing.
“Let’s start with the basics,” I say. “Why did you add yourself to the bond?”
He hesitates a moment too long.
“So much for your ‘candor.’”
“It’s not a lack of honesty. It’s simply complicated.” He moves to stand across from me, hands clasped behind his back. “It might be easier if I explained what I am first.”
“Okay. I’ll bite.” I almost laugh at my own word choice. “You’re a dragon shifter, right?”
“No.”
I blink. “What? I saw you.”