Chapter 32 Raoul
Raoul
Shifters do not heal as quickly as vampires. For us, it’s a matter of hours, not minutes.
My joints ache from being slammed against the ground by my sister. Philippa also tore into my right flank at one point, and the pain of those torn muscles hampers my ability to track her as quickly as I want to. But I do my best.
I don’t attempt to return to my human form.
When we find my sister, she will likely still be in wolf form, so it would be foolish to switch.
And I’m not ready to have the power of speech again.
Not ready to talk about what happened, how I drove a dagger into the heart of one of the people I love best, the girl who defended me all those years ago, who trusted me enough to sing with me that night at the Alouette.
The girl who came so beautifully on my tongue.
What if Christine hadn’t spoken my own lyrics to me at the right moment? What if I hadn’t found the strength to break the control of Philippa’s voice? What if I had killed the woman that Erik and I adore? I don’t think he would have been able to forgive me. I couldn’t have forgiven myself.
But I did find the strength. I broke through Philippa’s compulsion. Could I do it again? Am I a coward who only manages a few trembling moments of courage, or am I a brave person who occasionally gives in to fear?
What am I so afraid of?
I bound up a flight of steps and put my nose to the crack of the door. There’s fresh air beyond, and the scent of my sister’s blood.
When Christine reaches past me to open the door, I pace cautiously onto the rooftop.
The area before me is bathed in sickly yellow light from a couple of cloudy exterior lamps, probably illuminated at night to keep vandals away from the abandoned building.
Sections of the rooftop are shadowed, inky black voids in which anything might be hiding.
The air has the cracked cold of late October, a few hours after midnight.
The sharpness of that cold air confuses my sense of smell for a moment. Philippa is out here, but I can’t pinpoint her location.
A battering ram of fur and jaws crashes against my shoulder.
I skid to the side, howling with pain. Philippa clambers over me in an attempt to pin me down, but I thrash, trying to keep her from sinking her teeth into my flesh.
If she gets a good grip, she’ll slam me against the concrete again.
It’s her signature move when fighting in this form.
I’ve had no training in either of my forms. My father wouldn’t let me learn martial arts, and my wolf form is too new. All I can do is kick, bite, and wriggle away as my sister tries to secure a throat hold.
But I’m not alone in this fight. Christine dives into the fray, careless of injury to herself, fangs bared, voicing a hissing scream that startles even me. Philippa is thrown off guard for a second, and Christine slashes at her with razor claws, aiming to cut my sister’s throat.
But Philippa rears backward just in time. She twists, springs away, and lands on her feet, braced and ready, her head lowered. Her white fur looks yellow in the hideous light.
Christine faces off against her. “I can’t let you live. You know that.”
A growl ripples from Philippa’s throat.
It’s always been strange to me, seeing her like this. In human form, she is so composed, so crisp and controlled, every hair in place. Yet in wolf form, she is violence incarnate. Two personalities. Or perhaps one is merely a mask for the other.
I circle Philippa, working my way behind her.
She eyes me but continues facing Christine, whom she apparently considers the real threat.
Perhaps she’s right. I’m not sure I’m on board with Christine’s plan to kill Philippa.
I should be, after what Philippa made me do.
What is this fucking hold my family has on my psyche, even after everything they’ve done to show me they’re not worthy of my love or loyalty?
Why can’t I incinerate the bridge entirely so I can’t even think about crossing it again?
I was strong enough to send Philippa that email, breaking my ties with the Collective.
And I was strong enough to fling the ax at my sister instead of chopping off Christine’s head.
In that moment, I truly wanted to kill Philippa.
I simply need to summon that anger again, because now Christine is the one hesitating.
I can see the torment on her face. She’s a mess—ripped dress, wild hair, makeup in ruins—but her beauty is more powerful than any of it.
It’s the striking beauty of the girl from middle school, the avenging angel with a heart full of so much kindness the world couldn’t suck it all out of her, though it has tried to drain her dry.
Christine might have killed people, but she isn’t a murderer, and my sister realizes it the same moment I do.
Philippa rockets forward at a speed impossible for any normal wolf. Christine’s vampiric reflexes should save her, but she’s weary, still healing. She dodges, but not far enough. Philippa’s teeth seize her shoulder instead of her throat.
My sister’s weight knocks Christine over. She rips her teeth free of Christine’s shoulder and goes in for the throat hold.
A cry of agony wrenches out of Christine. She plunges all her claws into the white wolf’s body, but Philippa hangs on, determined as a bulldog, grinding deeper every second.
I’m already leaping in, jaws wide. I clamp down on the back of Philippa’s neck and chew into the hide and muscle with all my might, but she’s not letting go. My sister bucks upward and rams Christine down. Christine’s skull hits the concrete with a sickening thud. I swear I hear bone crack.
I clamp my jaws around Philippa’s back leg and wrench backward with violent jerks until I hear the hip joint pop. Philippa whines through her mouthful of Christine’s neck, but she still won’t let go.
Fuck you, I sob inwardly. Fuck you for everything.
And with all my strength, I pull.
Fur and flesh rip, and I’m left holding my sister’s back right leg between my teeth.
Philippa howls, a murderous, bloodcurdling shriek to the blurred half-moon.
I don’t give her a moment to recover. I leap onto her, pinning her in place. Finding my own throat hold. Grasping the tender flesh beneath her muzzle, clamping my jaws in place, crushing ever deeper.
All I can think about is that my father was also a white wolf. The color of the moon, he said. A reflection of light.
He would have been disappointed that my wolf is the color of darkness. But what else would it be after he gave me to the dark over and over for so many years?
And the darkness welcomed me, nurtured me. I’m not afraid of it now.
Philippa goes limp beneath me, but I hold on. I taste her blood, feel it cooling in my mouth, and still I hold until I’m sure. Until her body transforms beneath me into human shape, and I know it’s done.
I withdraw on trembling paws, my sensitive nose clogged with the rank smell of death.
I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to look.
Darkness is kind to me once again. As I retreat, a cloud passes over the moon, and my sister’s body is swathed in shadow.
I shift to my human form, a shiver racking my bones. The midnight cold pierces my fragile human skin, but I ignore the chill and rush over to Christine.
Her condition is as bad as I feared. Looking at her ruined throat makes me retch. I have no idea how she can possibly swallow any blood with her esophagus in tatters.
“Oh god…Christine,” I whisper.
The door to the stairs bangs open, and Erik rushes onto the roof with my name on his lips. When he sees me, his shoulders sag with relief. “Thank Fate, you’re alive.”
“Yes, but…Christine…”
Alarm floods his face, and he rushes forward, dropping to his knees on the other side of her body.
Behind him, framed in the doorway, is the big man with the red beard, the one who wielded waves and drowned so many shifters of the Collective. He stands with his arms folded, surveying us.
Erik tears off his coat and hands it to me. “Put this on, or you’ll freeze.”
Slowly, I obey while he strokes Christine’s hair back from her forehead. The ends of her dark curls are soaked with red.
“She needs blood,” he says.
“She can’t drink blood, Erik.”
“I’ll pour it into her,” he says desperately, tearing at his wrist with his fingernails. “Come on, Raoul. Both of us. We can save her.”
His urgency spurs my own desperate hope, and I bite my own wrist until it bleeds. We hold our forearms above her body, our blood dripping onto her parted lips, slipping into her mouth, running in rivulets along the terrible wounds in her throat. We clasp each other’s hands over her, and we bleed.
I’m weeping. So is he. When he kisses me, I taste his tears.
And still we bleed.
The man with the red beard doesn’t move. He doesn’t try to help us—not that anyone could—but neither does he move to leave. He witnesses our grief in silence, with his head bowed.
When our bodies begin to heal, Erik and I open the wounds again. There’s so much of our blood and hers cloaking her throat that we can’t tell if it’s working.
We weep, and we bleed until I feel dizzy. I’m not sure if it’s from grief or blood loss.
At last, I venture a question. “Will we see her ghost, do you think, if she…”
“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t say it.”
“Can you see every ghost, though?” I know it’s risky to push him on this point, but I’m reckless and sick with loss. I need to know.
“Only the ones who could not find rest. Would you wish that on her?”
I ponder for a moment. “Yes, if I could see her again.”
He stares at me. “I do believe that is the most selfish thought you’ve ever had.”
“I am selfish.” I gather her limp hand in mine. Her fingers feel so fragile, so breakable. “I want her, Erik.”
“I would cut out my own heart and place it in her chest if I thought it would do any good,” he says. “For your sake and hers. I would die if I believed the two of you could be happy.”
“Stop it,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes again. “Not without you.”
He smiles a little, his scarred face incandescent under the moon.
“Her voice, Raoul,” he says quietly. “If this works, do you think it will be the same, after…”
“After my sister tore apart her larynx?” My tone is dull, dead. “I don’t know.”
“It won’t matter to me,” he murmurs. “I will love her the same. How fortunate are we, to have heard that beautiful voice in our lifetimes?”