Chapter 8 – Regina
Chapter
Eight
REGINA
The difference between Villeneuve’s mansion and Stormvale’s actual library is almost physically jarring.
His collection is full of rare first editions and texts that probably shouldn’t exist. But it’s notably lacking in the more common texts, which is why I’m combing through shelves and chugging stale coffee.
For three days, I’ve been locked in Villeneuve’s private study, surrounded by grimoires older than most countries, and I’ve found exactly nothing useful. Every text on werewolf bites says the same thing.
The madness comes.
The beast takes over.
There is no cure.
Fuck that.
Micah trails behind me like an overgrown shadow, arms loaded with the stack of books I’ve already pulled from the shelves. His glasses keep slipping down his nose, but his hands are too full to push them back up.
“This is the last of them,” I say, adding two more volumes to his pile and pushing his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose for him. The tower of books now reaches his chin. “Probably.”
“Probably,” he repeats flatly. “Not very encouraging.”
“You’re the one who insisted on coming.”
“Someone had to. Sean would’ve gotten you kicked out within ten minutes, Rowan’s got that paper due, and Killian is—“ He stops and swallows. “Anyway.”
Yeah. Anyway.
I lead us to a table in the back corner, away from the handful of other students scattered throughout the building. It’s late afternoon, that dead zone between classes when the library is mostly empty. Perfect for research that can’t be overheard.
Micah sets the books down with a thud that earns us a glare from the horned librarian three aisles over. He mouths “sorry” in the minotaur’s direction, then drops into the chair across from me.
“Snack run?” he asks hopefully.
“We literally just ate lunch.”
“Wolves need more calories.” He’s already standing again, patting his pockets for his wallet. “The usual?”
“I don’t have a usual.”
“Gummy worms and a Coke. That’s your vending machine usual. I pay attention.”
I laugh. “Fine. But only if they have the sour ones.”
He disappears into the stacks, and I’m left alone with my pile of books and the growing suspicion that I’m wasting my time. But there’s nothing else I can do, and I’m not giving up. I fucking can’t.
I open the first volume, a riveting little book known as Transformation Pathology in Hybrid Cases, and start reading.
The text is dry and medical, exactly the kind of thing that would put a normal person to sleep.
But I’m not normal. I’m a siphon whose mate is dying, and somewhere in one of these books there has to be an answer.
Villeneuve has his mysterious Council contact working on it.
A contact named Vyse, according to Sean and Micah’s breathless report when they got back from the professor’s office yesterday.
A siren with psychic abilities who apparently froze both of them with a thought and spent the whole encounter being what Sean so eloquently described as “a total creepy dickwad.”
Great. So our best hope is a literal man-eating supernatural predator who works for the same Council that would execute Killian if they found out about the bite. A predator who Villeneuve apparently trusts, or at least trusts enough to be owed a favor from him.
I don’t trust Villeneuve.
Not completely.
Not even after he explained about the mate bond.
Okay. Maybe especially after that.
But I think I at least understand him a little better. Bit by bit, the mystery around him is unraveling and the man left standing in its place is surprisingly human.
The book in front of me offers nothing useful when I leaf through it, and I’m becoming an expert at cutting through the preamble in these things. The second and third don’t offer much more. I’m halfway through the fourth when Micah returns.
He dumps an armload of vending machine garbage onto the table. Chips. Candy bars. Some kind of fluorescent orange snack that probably glows in the dark.
And yes, sour gummy worms and a Coke.
“The vending machine on the second floor has a better selection,” he announces, sliding into his chair. “But the one by the bathroom has better vibes.”
“Vending machines have vibes?”
“Yep. It definitely gave me a judgy look halfway through this haul.”
I snort, reaching for the gummy worms. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Part of my charm.” He tears open a bag of chips with his teeth. “Find anything?”
“Not yet.” I flip another page. “The problem is that every text assumes the bite victim is human. Or at least not already a shifter. There’s nothing about what happens when a wolf gets bitten by a werewolf, especially not a reanimated one.”
“Because it basically never happens.”
“Right.” I take a sip of Coke. It’s not cold enough, but I drink it anyway. “So we’re working without a map. And the one person who might actually know something is a siren who apparently works for the Council and has quote unquote ‘shitloads of psychic powers.’”
“Don’t forget the part where he called Sean a ‘tall, thick glass of water.’”
“I’m trying to forget that part, actually.”
“So is Sean.”
We lapse into silence. Micah crunches his chips while I read. The library is quiet around us, the soft hum of the HVAC system providing white noise. It’s almost peaceful, if you ignore the existential dread lurking underneath everything.
I’m reaching for another book when a familiar voice pierces the quiet.
“Is he bothering you, Queen?”
I look up to find Sadie is standing at the end of our table, messenger bag slung across her chest, black lipstick freshly applied. Her blue-black hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s wearing what appears to be a vintage band t-shirt for something called “The Screaming Banshees.”
Feels a tad redundant, but I already feel like I know what their music sounds like just by the name, so I guess not.
Micah scowls, but it’s half-hearted. “I’m literally just sitting here. Besides, you’re my sister. Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?”
“Nope.” She drops into the chair next to me, already digging through her bag. “You lost those privileges when you ate my leftover Thai food last semester.”
“It was on the communal shelf!”
“There’s no such thing as the ‘communal’ shelf, you furry pig.”
I watch them bicker, trying to hide my amusement. The sibling dynamic is comfortingly familiar.
And it makes me miss Cadence, but this is not the time to bring her up to speed on my circus.
I’ve been sending a steady flow of memes and anecdotes about the mild irritations of living with a pack of frat wolves so she doesn’t get suspicious.
Our message thread screams “nothing to see here,” and she was chastising me for not asking for a raise from Villeneuve already just last night, so I think I’ve successfully kept her in the dark.
For now.
Sadie pulls out a massive stack of papers and drops them on the table with a thud that rivals Micah’s earlier book dump. “I did some digging into that creepy siren guy like you asked.”
I go still. “We didn’t ask you to do any digging.”
“Okay, fine.” She shrugs, utterly unconcerned. “But I was bored, and those Council freaks who think they get to police everyone’s magic when it literally comes from nature are kind of my special interest.”
“Special interest or personal vendetta?” Micah teases.
“It can be both. You’re welcome.”
Micah stares at the stack. “This is like a whole book. Why didn’t you just do it digitally?”
“And miss the chance to create a dossier on the target like Nancy Drew?” Sadie looks genuinely offended by the suggestion. “Where’s your sense of drama?”
“I think we read different books in that series,” I say dryly. “I don’t remember that case.”
Sadie waves a dismissive hand. “Nancy absolutely would have gone the dossier route if she was in my position.” She flips open the top folder, revealing what appears to be a printed photograph from a magazine. An old one. “Anyway. In addition to the fact that he’s insanely hot—“
“Is he?” Micah squints at the photo. “I guess if you like guys who look like fantasy elves.”
“—I also found out he used to be a musician before he joined the Council. A singer for a rock band, actually.” She slides the photo across to us. “Check it out. This is from the eighties.”
The image shows an admittedly attractive man in his mid-twenties with long red hair, shirtless on stage, microphone in hand, leather pants slung low enough to be borderline illegal. The crowd in front of him is a blur of reaching hands and ecstatic faces.
“Damn,” I mumble. “He’s really got the whole rock god vibe going on, doesn’t he?”
Micah leans over, a low growl building in his chest. “I could wear pants down to my dick if you’re into that.”
Sadie gags.
“I like your khakis and flannels just fine,” I assure him with a laugh, running my fingers through his hair. He melts, and I go back to studying the photo. “Rockstar is a pretty good gig for a siren. Lots of adoring fans.”
“Right?” Sadie nods enthusiastically. “He was in this band called Black Tide for like a decade. They were huge in the underground supernatural scene. Then he just... vanished. Popped up a few years later working for the Council.”
Micah frowns. “How does someone go from rockstar to Council pencil pusher in a few years?”
“That’s the interesting part.” Sadie pulls out another stack of papers, this one covered in handwritten notes.
“He must have gotten bored. Or maybe he pissed off the wrong people and needed protection. Either way, he was actually doing some super shady stuff for a while before he went legit. Had lots of ties to the Twilight Market.”
That tracks. The Twilight Market is where Micah got that compass pendant for me. It’s also where people go when they need things that can’t be obtained through normal channels. Black market magic, forbidden artifacts, connections that could get someone killed, or save them.