9
My senses have changed. Morphed into a strange, almost tangible awareness.
I taste the footsteps of the past—like billowing smoke after a forest fire—and track them down empty hallways.
My nose picks up a thousand scents, each more potent than the last. More than that, I hear.
Everything. Noises burst in ear-shattering cacophonies even when they’re quiet.
Snoring. Kissing. A whispered conversation about dreams. All behind closed doors.
All carried on the scent of wolves . For just an instant, they disorient me, and I hesitate. Then—
No. I shake my head, ignoring them.
They’re not what I’m after.
Because amongst the wolves, I smell something else too. Someone else. Just a trace of clove, a hint of vanilla, but I recognize both from the beach without understanding how.
My lips pull back from my teeth.
Anger is good. Hatred is better; it rattles in my chest like a beast in a cage, begging to be freed. It consumes me. Consumes any remaining sense and reason and logic.
Her fault. All her fault.
Following the scent, I retrace the path that the boy’s footsteps echoed earlier when he left my door.
Hunger grows in my belly, a lure reeling me forward.
Moving me faster. Vengeance stirs, whipping my pulse into a frenzy, but I remain focused.
Even as that red haze clouds my vision again, painting my surroundings in shades of blood, it’s as though I am not only in a new body but borrowing a new brain.
A calculating one. Strategic. I know that if I remain silent, if I sneak my way to the enemy, I will be able to pounce.
Rip her head off her shoulders just as she’d done to… to Celeste.
Celeste.
I throw myself farther into the building, beneath huge arches and glittering mosaics.
Beyond a wall of ancient tapestries and flickering torches.
I do not know where I am. Each sight is so foreign, I might as well have traveled to a different universe altogether.
But that is not my problem. That scent is my problem.
The memory of that snarling, haughty face as she struck Celeste. As she drew first blood.
I am going to kill her. The thought startles me—shocks me to my core—but it is also the only thought I have left.
The boy’s scent—ocean and jasmine—mingles with hers, guiding me deeper. Left, right, straight. On and on and on. Until finally— finally —I hear a voice. Unfamiliar. Feminine. Sharp and strong. It sends a strange shiver down my spine, and a low growl burns up my throat in response.
“What of the others?” the woman asks, and I follow the sound with slow, steady steps. Soon. Soon I will pounce. For now, I listen. “Gibbon’s territory? Lincoln’s? Perhaps we’re dealing with others farther east. Farther south. Away from our shores.”
“I am sorry, my queen,” a male says. This one I recognize.
It incites my anger higher, hotter, but I force myself to remain still.
Lord Allard. And he is with—my body tenses instinctively—their queen .
“The Gibbons and the Lincolns are restless, but there isn’t any evidence with which to convict them. ”
A clench of a jaw. The crack of bones—perhaps knuckles.
I tilt my head. Study the door before me, wooden with gilded rose-shaped handles and bolts, and wait for more.
Though I don’t care about convictions, it would be smart to know how many wolves wait in the room.
And perhaps she—the queen—will mention Celeste’s murder.
The scent of clove and vanilla still assaults my senses.
She is in there too.
My knees bend.
“That is a damning sign, Lord Allard. If the territories surrounding us have remained loyal, that means the traitor might be in this very castle. It could only be someone with considerable strength.”
“We are doing everything we can to eradicate—”
“And it is not enough. Scour every inch of this city. Tear it apart if you must. Do not stop until we have our victory in hand.”
“Yes, my queen.” Lord Allard steps away. “We will ransack the island again.”
The island. The queen. The girl .
That red haze darkens. Boils in my veins. My heart races between healed ribs, and I cannot wait any longer. The time to strike is now.
I lunge at the door—right at the moment it’s yanked open. Flailing on my new legs, scrambling with my paws, I struggle to right myself. Slipping and sliding, I land in an embarrassing heap on checkered white and blue tiles. Silence sweeps through the chamber in response. Then—laughter.
My hackles lift at the sound. Though I growl low in warning, it does not cease when I look up.
Instead, the people standing around the throne meet my gaze with amusement.
Without fear. Twelve of them. All are unnaturally beautiful, but stranger still—they wear gowns.
Tunics. Each woven of enchanted, almost magical materials, with tight corsets and twinkling gemstones and high, sensual slits in soft, long skirts.
Modern but ancient. Breathtaking and lavish.
Unusual. Unreal. Shaking my head again to clear it, I scramble to my feet.
Lord Allard rolls his eyes before turning away.
Carved stars, meteors, and planets swoop out from the gilded throne behind him.
They tangle with hanging vines of ivy and thorns, and stardust seems to speckle the air.
As though Mother Nature has reclaimed part of this room, vibrant purple wisteria and white starflowers explode from cracks in the wall.
Floral and cinnamon notes tickle my nose, followed by a cascade of other scents.
Each unique. Each tracking an invisible path to someone new.
Too many scents now. I exhale sharply, disoriented—overwhelmed—and pitch sideways.
I search for vanilla, for clove, for any trace of her.
Where is she?
The thought grows more urgent. The others have stopped laughing now, turning away from me as if I am nothing. That heat climbs higher. I shudder with it—fighting the urge to lunge, to bite, to make them pay attention.
“So you have, in fact, transformed,” says that unfamiliar voice. “I suppose it’s time for congratulations.”
Lord Allard steps aside, and at the center of the room, atop the throne and bedecked in a crown of silver stars, sits a woman who could only be the Wolf Queen.
Raven-black hair—the same black as her eyes—curls inward toward her collarbone, struck through with gray.
She tilts her head slowly, watching me with a sinister smile on her ruby lips.
It’s her regal air that flattens my ears, however.
The way she holds her head high so she can gaze down her nose at every single person in the room.
Especially me.
Beside her sits a blond boy whose burgundy eyes meet mine curiously.
I instantly recognize his bright hair and chiseled jaw from the beach.
The suntanned muscles stretching taut beneath his black shirt.
Lounging on a table beneath an astronomical tapestry of the solar system, he spins a golden crown lazily on his finger. And beside him —
Another snarl, louder this time.
Draped across a second regal chair, the girl who attacked Celeste regards me with a haughty expression.
Her silky black hair spills down the back of a silky black gown.
Her wine-colored eyes glitter with malevolence.
With cruel amusement. She laughed too , I realize, and when she lifts a hand to wave at me, I cannot think any longer.
Visceral hatred courses through my body until I must do something, must strike at her.
This hunger inside is a melody, not a want.
A lullaby written in my bones. To maim. To kill.
Why don’t you fuck off? Or you can settle this like the badass you think you are.
Her handprint on Celeste’s cheek. The blood dripping down Celeste’s face. Then—
Go, you stupid idiot! Get out of here!
The memories come faster now, tearing into my skin like shards of glass. Drawing blood. So much blood—down her chest and in her hair and on my lap. Everything scarlet. Everything gone . My dad and my school and my friends. My future. And all because of her —
“Easy, Evie,” the blond boy murmurs, smirking slightly.
Evie.
Her name bites deepest of all. It sounds like murderer .
Do you think a skinned knee is the worst we can do?
She killed Celeste. She must’ve done so, and I am still not afraid of her.
I am not afraid of Lord Allard either—not even with his syringes, not even when he moves to stand in front of the girl as if to protect her.
I lick my fangs, daring him forward. Challenging him.
He is a monster. They all are. What do I care if he loses his life too?
“Stand down,” their queen orders.
Lord Allard and I glance at her. My hackles don’t lower. My growling does not cease. I rake my claws along the tiles, scuffing what appears to be antique flooring, and bare my fangs in a sadistic grin. Because I will not stand down. Because she is not my queen, and—
“Touch the wolfling and die.” The Wolf Queen stands as I startle slightly.
An intricate black gown, gossamer and wispy, hugs her soft curves.
Her long legs step gracefully down the stairs that lead to her ornate throne.
As she crosses the room, her subjects part in a sea of cold smiles.
I don’t care about them, however. I feel strong.
Stronger than I ever have before. Their pulses linger like sweet sugar on my tongue. It will take but a second to move.
“It’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” the blond boy says. My head snaps back in his direction. I snarl, and the boy glances at me, raising a brow. “Surely we could start with a simple conversation.” A grin tugs at his lips. I hate it. How dare he—
“No,” the queen says. “She must learn.”
I turn back, and the queen is looking at me now. Her black eyes intent. “Go ahead, child.” She gestures to Evie, who looks strangely eager. The boy shakes his head in exasperation. “Attack her. Take your vengeance.”
No one else moves. They simply watch us as if vaguely entertained.
And though I know something is wrong here—my instincts warn me to stop, to think —my rage is stronger. I don’t understand it. Can’t comprehend it. But without it… I feel like nothing. I am nothing.
Murderer.
The thought rips from me before I can stop it, and suddenly I’m no longer standing. I’m running. That red haze clouds my vision, and I let it. I use it to propel me forward. I will kill her.
The girl stands. Her voice comes out frigid, even as her lips pull back in an eerie, mocking smile. “Hey, bitch.”
That’s all I need to lunge, to throw myself on top of her and tackle her to the floor.
Her head rebounds off the ground with a cruel crack , but I don’t ease my grip on her.
She hisses, writhing around, spitting at me, before seizing my nape and wrenching my teeth from her face.
My claws still pierce her skin, however, and the haze of red darkens until her beautiful, supernatural face is a blur.
“Fucking psychopath.” She pulls harder, ripping the fur from my neck.
My head snaps backward, a yelp spilling from my lips, but I can’t release her.
She hurt Celeste. She killed her. The girl’s claws stab into my back, and I yelp again, tightening my hold.
Thrusting her head to the floor again. Again. Again.
She drives a knee into my kidney then, and the surprise of it—the pain—gives her the second she needs to twist out of my grasp and spin us around. Suddenly, she’s on top of me. Fists are flying in my face. Somewhere behind us, a man yells.
The girl cuts my cheek with her claw—just as she did to Celeste—before driving a human fist into my muzzle. My teeth crunch. My tongue is caught in the cross fire. Blood spurts from my mouth. I slice a claw through her hair, trying to grapple with it but instead cutting it into an uneven lob.
She screams in rage, stomping on my foot. Snapping the bone. Agony radiates upward, but before I can retaliate, the queen smiles. “Enough.”
Evie’s fist pauses midair, right above my face. I use the second to shake her off me. Like a rag doll, she soars atop the blond boy’s table and crumples. He helps her up with another sigh, thoroughly unbothered by the proceedings. Vicious satisfaction swells in me at the sight of blood in her hair.
When I move to finish the job, however, the queen races forward with preternatural speed, grabbing my throat. An easy attack indeed—for her . Her nails split into claws. They tighten against my throat. She dangles me high above the floor, and in her gaze, I spy my reflection for the first time.
A huge brown beast with glowing purple eyes.
“It’s true,” the queen says with a short laugh. The audience watches with more interest now. Their attention rapt. “The Oracle was right.” She hoists me higher still, as though I’m a doll to her. A plaything. I writhe and snap at her hand. “I said enough ,” she says.
As if I’d obey. I go to bite again, to scratch, but my limbs lock instantly. Muscles tense so much, they could shatter. What—how … My heart leaps into my throat. I can’t move. Not at all.
“Bark,” she commands.
I do. Like a goddamned dog .
“Good pup. Very good.” The queen trails a claw through my fur, almost gentle, before she drops me onto the ground. “It seems you can still be controlled.”
The impact slams through my bones, but I can’t brace for it. I am frozen on the tiles, terrified enough to wet myself. Fear—rotting, pungent horror—curdles my stomach. I choke on bile. But I can’t vomit, because she hasn’t told me I can. My existence is wholly at her mercy.
I whimper, but I can’t scream. I won’t scream.
Please don’t make me scream.
“Lord Allard,” the queen says.
He steps forward again, his golden eyes never once leaving my face. “Yes, my queen?”
“See the rest of the nobility to their rooms. I want doors locked until you are summoned to the Drowning. You too, Evelyn, darling,” she adds with another saccharine smile. “Might I suggest a bath? Your blood is staining my son’s sleeve.”
Evie’s answering smile is sharp. Smug. Pulling away from the boy—who squeezes her shoulders companionably but doesn’t seem at all sorry to watch her go—she waves at me again. Just the slightest wiggle of her fingers. The slightest hint of a threat. “Yes, my queen.”