22
I wait in the shadows of my doorway before the sun has risen and observe the other Alphas as they leave for breakfast. Eric first, four doors down from me.
Then a man I’ve never seen before who carries himself like a diplomat, six doors away from my own.
And, finally, Evie. She steps into the hallway, dressed in a silky and restrictive emerald gown, and I dart back into my room before she can spot me. Before she can know I was watching.
Two doors. Only two doors separate Evie and me.
If she was stealthy, if she waited for me to fall asleep before creeping inside, it’s more than possible she’s behind the threats and sabotage. Her or her brother. But right now, I’m focused on Evie. I’m thinking about her claws on Celeste’s cheek, her venomous insults in our classes.
Yes, the others hate me, but Evie is the one who seems to want me dead.
Perhaps Evie was right, and you’re meant to be fertilizer on our lawn.
My hands tremble as though I never peeled the glass from my flesh, and the recent scent of blood fills my nose.
I change into modern combat clothes. Spandex leggings and a tight shirt.
Better for moving around, for sneaking. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I watched Celeste thieve enough lip glosses to know that ultimate discretion and silence is best. I need to act normal, and I need to be fast.
Breakfast starts in ten minutes, but I can afford to be late.
Aside from not being served food, tardiness at mealtimes demands no harsher punishments.
And by the time the meal finishes, we will attend our classes, and Evie should be, hypothetically speaking, none the wiser.
Of course, that’s if all this goes perfectly and I don’t screw it up.
I slip out of my room and count each step—each breath—as I reach her door. I don’t even make it to twenty before I’m in front of it. My body shudders with anticipation.
You’re allowing your emotions to control you.
I won’t today. Not anymore.
Embrace it when it serves you, and repress it when it doesn’t.
I grab the handle to her door, banishing the fear, the anguish, even the rage by focusing on the icy feel of bronze against my palm.
It turns easily. Unlocked. I stifle a smile, forcing myself to exhale through a swell of enthusiasm.
Werewolf emotions burn hotter than mortal emotions, and joy may as well be a lit firework contained between my ribs.
I bite my lip. Inhale. Exhale again. Begin to open the door—
“You,” someone says abruptly. “What are you doing?”
Fuck.
My stomach plummets, and I squeeze my eyes shut. That firework dies amidst a flood of cold dread. “I… um…”
Shit. I can’t explain myself. Not without being accused of treason.
Evie is a princess, and even if she weren’t, I am an outsider.
I am an outsider attempting to break into her room.
Shit shit shit. I force myself to pivot, face the stranger, and—I recognize him instantly.
“Anthony,” I whisper, the name scrambling up from my subconscious, almost unbidden.
The boy in a dusty brown apron blinks at me. Golden eyes burn bright on his pallid face, the same as they did when he tried to compel me in the throne room right after my initial transformation.
Stand , he’d commanded. Stand up now.
The memory of the queen’s compulsion must hit him then, because he slides backward a step, holding a rag and bucket between trembling hands. “I… I did not mean to… that is, I hope I did not offend you, Miss Hart.” His gaze drops to his worn boots. “It was not my choice to try and command you.”
I raise a hand to comfort him, but he flinches away from it, burrowing within the thick locks of his reddish-brown hair. “I know,” I say. “It’s all right.”
“I was… I was sent to clean Evie’s room,” he murmurs, and I can’t get over how young he sounds.
A child in a uniform two sizes too big. My stomach churns.
Adrenaline sizzles through me. It would be easy to compel him.
I want to compel him. Another burst of emotions frightens me—a thirst for control.
It would be easy , I think, feeling more wolf than girl, to compel him into helping me.
Anthony picks at his rag, ripping bits of cloth from the hem with tiny slivers of claws. He can’t even look at me, as though the mere sight of my strange purple gaze threatens to undo him. It can undo him.
“I am sorry,” he says, repeating his intentions though they were clear enough the first time. And then he does look up, meeting my gaze with his own. A cloud of rusty fear billows off him, and I realize—he expects me to punish him.
That is how the Wolf Queen’s Court works.
The strong control the weak, and Anthony is below me in both class and wolf hierarchy.
My lip curls. “Get out of here,” I snap. “Clean another room. Don’t tell anyone you saw me, and I won’t tell anyone about this interaction.”
Anthony nods once, dropping into a semibow, before simpering off down the hall first and then the stairs.
I watch him retreat with bile choking my breaths.
I did not compel him. I couldn’t. I may be a monster, but I will not act like one.
Not to an innocent. I think of the maid Lord Allard compelled, then Oona, and shut my eyes as I throw myself inside Evie’s room, my chest rising and falling with renewed tension.
I didn’t need to compel his silence anyway; fear is enough. More than enough.
The Wolf Queen’s Court is deadly, and right now I am just another pawn in its vicious game.
But not for much longer.
Closing the door swiftly behind me, I catch my breath and lean against an elaborate dresser carved to appear as an old ship. I may have minutes to search Evie’s possessions. Minutes before someone else appears. I need to be gone before that happens— if it happens. I hope it won’t.
For now, I turn to the dresser, reaching for a drawer.
Everything in Evie’s room appears nautical and antique.
A wooden captain’s wheel mounted on the wall, oceanic nets hanging from corner to corner and tangled with starfish and seashells, and maps—more maps than I’ve ever seen plastered on every surface.
Some of the Americas, some of Asia, and a sliver of the Realm of Superiority—the part only accessible directly outside Castle Severi—marked with slender crosses of indigo ink.
As if she’s tracking the places she’s been or the places she longs to go.
And atop the dresser—of all things for her to have framed inside a gilded shell—is a moving picture of Nettie.
Blonde hair blows around her cherubic face as Antionette laughs.
I trace it with my fingertips. My heart pangs.
I have—I had —so many videos like that of Celeste. Happy memories. The best memories.
And so, in the middle of Evelyn Lee’s room, even after almost being caught once, I hesitate.
Sympathy sinks like a rock to the bottom of my roiling gut.
How could a girl with so much love in her heart also loathe me so greatly?
Unless I’ve misinterpreted something. Maybe…
maybe she doesn’t hate me at all. Maybe she isn’t yet a product of this court, and instead she’s just a mean girl like in those videos we used to watch at school about bullies.
Perhaps all she needs is a hug and… and friendship.
I tiptoe away from the dresser, leaving her knickknacks undisturbed, and approach a driftwood shelf of glass flasks and labeled tinctures. A few bubble in their bottles, while most remain shimmering and black as night. I read the labels quickly.
Wolfsbane Willow Blend. Hemlock Bane. Queen Anne’s Lace Lotion. Zoanthid Coral & Peony Brew.
Beside each title, a rating of deadliness flickers to life as I touch them, the white tags changing to devilish red and darkest ebony.
A few of the bottles even shake and whistle.
But I don’t need the warnings—I’ve learned enough in lessons to note that these bottles contain the deadliest poisons known to humans and werewolves alike.
Though, only the wolfsbane blend would have any lasting effect on us.
I move away, silencing them immediately.
Alchemy.
The magical manipulation and creation of inhuman materials and enchantments.
It has to be—this gift is the most powerful I’ve yet to witness in all of court, and Evie…
She’s the best in our Alchemical Designs class.
Although there, we brew sleeping draughts and make wine from grape seeds and faerie fruit.
Nothing so complex, and nothing so deadly as these.
I glance overhead, just in time to drop to the floor and roll out of the way of a cursed axe.
The blade swings down from the ceiling, straight at me, somehow detecting that I’m a traitor.
Or perhaps just detecting that I’m not Evie herself.
Of course her door was unlocked—she’s left her room booby trapped.
But that’s not evidence. Even the poisonous concoctions aren’t reason to convict her.
I crawl across the floor, low enough that the enchanted axe stops aiming for my head, returning to its previous path of patrolling across the ceiling, and swallow the anger bubbling inside my chest.
Maybe Evie feels the same uncontrollable, horrid rage, and that’s why the fight with Celeste escalated to her death and my transformation. It would even explain why Evie hates me so much. Because I could be the last piece remaining to the puzzle she wants buried.