Chapter 12 – REGINA #2
"They had a werewolf chained in the ritual chamber. They'd captured one somehow. They were planning to sacrifice it for some spell." My voice sounds distant, detached, even to my own ears. "I didn't know. I wasn't allowed down there."
Villeneuve remains silent, letting me continue at my own pace.
"I felt sorry for it. Thought it was just an animal in pain. I tried to free it. It seemed so weak, nearly on the verge of death. Docile, even." A humorless laugh escapes me. "Stupid. So fucking stupid."
"Compassionate," Villeneuve corrects gently. "Not stupid."
“Yeah, well, ‘compassion’ nearly killed me,” I mutter, my scar aching at the memory of claws tearing through flesh.
I reach up and press my fingers against the ridges to soothe the throbbing pain.
"The second those chains came off, it turned on me.
Would have finished me off—or worse, bitten me and turned me—if Kyle hadn't heard me screaming and intervened. "
"What became of the werewolf?" Villeneuve asks, his voice almost suspiciously neutral, given the controversial nature of the topic.
Just admitting Kyle's coven had a werewolf chained up in the basement rather than reporting it immediately to the Council for extermination is a huge risk.
One I could be implicated in. But I'd rather the truth come out now, when I have some control over it, rather than waiting for Kyle to twist things.
I'm sure he's already coming up with a way to make everything my fault now that I'm no longer of use to him.
“It escaped,” I admit quietly. “After that, I don't know. I spent weeks recovering.”
"Wounds from a werewolf's claws are nearly as venomous as a bite, though not capable of transmitting the curse," he muses. "You're lucky to be alive."
Lucky. Yeah. It didn't feel that way for a long time. Still doesn’t, sometimes.
"The coven healed me as best they could, but magical wounds from werewolves never heal completely. The scars remained." I drop my hand to my lap. "Kyle taught me the glamour spell so I wouldn't have to see them every day. So no one would stare."
"Yes, I'm certain he did that out of the goodness of his heart," Villeneuve says, his voice dripping with sarcasm and more bitterness than I can make sense of. His eyebrows lift. "You're telling me they didn't take you to a hospital?"
I hesitate. "No… they didn't want to risk anyone finding out, I guess."
Unmistakable anger—no, rage—flashes in his eyes, but it's gone before I can fully process why this stranger would feel so strongly on my behalf. I tell myself it's just because of his work with the Council, but I'm not completely sure.
"So they risked your life," he says, his voice tight yet controlled. "The greatest gifts are truly wasted on the pathetic and undeserving. The universe has a twisted sense of amusement that way."
I'm not sure how to respond to that at all.
"What exactly are you?" I ask abruptly, changing the subject. “You're clearly not human, and you seem almost like a vampire,” I say, waving a hand at all the decor that makes his home look more like a museum. “But you’re not. You would have reacted differently to…” I gesture vaguely at my face.
Shallow fuckers, all of them.
A smile plays at his lips. "What do you think I am, Regina?"
I hesitate. “I’m not sure.” I study him more carefully. “You're powerful. Ancient, maybe. You command magic I've never felt before. But you don't fit any category I’m familiar with.”
"Yes, vampires are shallow, flighty creatures," he says with a sigh, ignoring the rest of my assessment.
"Their aesthetic neuroses override their common sense.
" He rises smoothly from his chair. "You should rest for the night.
Let the elixir and some sleep replenish your strength.
We can discuss your options in the morning. "
I stand too, reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire but eager for a real bed. "Why are you helping me? I’m not a student. And I was trespassing too."
"It's my duty to assist such a rare creature," he replies smoothly. "Both as a representative of the Council and as a gentleman. Besides, your situation has proven most... intriguing."
Before I can press further, a woman appears in the doorway. She looks human at first glance—middle-aged, silver-streaked hair in a neat bun, wearing a simple black dress. But something about her movement, her stillness, feels wrong. Not human. Not even close.
"Margot will show you to your room," Villeneuve says. "If you need anything, simply ask."
Margot bows slightly. "This way, miss."
I follow her through more book-lined hallways, up a sweeping staircase, and down a corridor decorated with paintings that seem to shift slightly when viewed from the corner of my eye. Not creepy at all. We pass several closed doors before she stops at one near the end of the hall.
"Your accommodations," she announces, opening the door.
The bedroom beyond belongs in a freaking period drama.
There’s a massive four-poster bed with velvet curtains, antique furniture gleaming with fresh polish, Persian rugs on hardwood floors.
Somehow, there isn’t a speck of dust in here.
A fire already burns in another stone fireplace, and fresh flowers sit on a writing desk near the window.
I’d be slightly menaced if it were a bouquet of roses, but luckily, they’re wildflowers.
I suddenly wonder if Villeneuve really is a vampire. This room certainly fits the aesthetic. The fact he isn’t puking when he looks at me still suggests otherwise.
"The bathroom is through there," Margot indicates a door to the left, glancing at the forest debris on my clothes. "Clean clothing has been provided. Is there anything else you require?"
"No, thank you," I manage, still taking in the opulence.
She bows again and withdraws, closing the door silently behind her.
Once alone, I stand motionless in the center of the room, halfway convinced I'm hallucinating. Twenty-four hours ago, I was in a dingy hostel counting pennies. Now I'm in a mansion that belongs to... something... that could probably kill me with a thought.
I've jumped from one predator's territory to another's. But at least this one has good taste in bedding, and whatever he is, he doesn’t immediately remind me of the night my face was half ripped off.
I spot my duffel bag on a bench at the foot of the bed. Someone must have retrieved it from the wolves' house. The thought of someone possibly deciding to snoop and rummage through my meager possessions makes me cringe, but at least I have my grimoire and a change of clothes.
The bathroom proves equally luxurious. All marble with gold fixtures, a shower the size of my hostel room, and a claw-foot tub deep enough to drown in.
The feet of the tub look like dragon claws, but I’ll still take it over anything wolf related.
There are plenty of toiletries, too. Expensive brands I only recognize from magazine ads.
After the longest, hottest shower of my life, I wrap myself in a plush robe and return to the bedroom. There are clean clothes already folded on my bed—silk pajamas in a shade of blue so soft it looks like water.
I plug my dead phone into a charger I find on the nightstand.
While it powers up, I reluctantly glance at my face in the ornate mirror hanging over the dresser.
Without my glamour, the damage looks even worse than I remember.
The jagged scars cut straight through my eye and across my cheek, pulling my eyelids in a slight droop and distorting the corner of my mouth where the skin is torn in a permanent half-snarl that bares my premolars.
Monster.
The first word out of Kyle's mouth when he saw what the coven had failed to fully heal.
I turn away sharply, unable to keep looking.
My phone chimes as it comes to life, notifications flooding the screen. Three missed calls from Cadence and six text messages.
CADENCE: Regina, what's going on? That over-gelled creep just called me looking for you.
CADENCE: Call me back. I'm worried.
CADENCE: This isn't funny, Regina. Just let me know you're alive.
CADENCE: If you don't answer soon, I'm calling the police.
CADENCE: Okay, so the police were useless. Said you're an adult and can disappear if you want, which is such complete and utter bullshit.
CADENCE: I KNOW you're in trouble. Call me. I love you.
Guilt twists my stomach. Cadence might be obsessed with being right and prone to preening over it, and she may have rubbed it in that she was the favorite throughout our childhoods, but I know she loves me.
I send her a quick message.
REGINA: I’m okay. I'll call tomorrow. I promise. Love you too.
I turn off the phone before she can call. I'll deal with her inevitable questions tomorrow, after I've figured out what the hell I'm going to do next.
I sink into the impossibly soft bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Between the elixir's lingering effects, the warmth of the fire, and the day's physical and emotional exhaustion, I’m actually comfortable.
And then, as I slip into sleep, I hear it—a distant howling. Four voices blending in mournful harmony, calling out to something. Or someone.
Calling to me .
I can feel it in my bones. It’s old magic, just like everything in this house. And I can't tell if it's real or a dream, but either way, something in me responds.
Something primal and buried and utterly terrifying.