34. Bastian
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BASTIAN
B astian and Isolde spent the next two days trying to pry even one more word of information out of Aggie—to no avail.
No matter how many questions Isolde asked— Who are the lovers?
What is not allowed anymore? What, exactly, didn’t they know?
Can you tell us what the blood moon has to do with it?
—or how many times she questioned her, Aggie would say nothing more than the words she’d already offered up.
The blood of lovers. Blood moon. Bloodline. Done right.
Frankly, Bastian wasn’t convinced that Aggie knew what she was saying at all. Isolde wouldn’t accept that, no matter how many fruitless circles they went in. She insisted that Aggie was of far sounder mind than he thought, and that whatever nonsense she spewed, there was some hidden truth to it.
Even if they hadn’t the foggiest clue what it was.
Meanwhile, between Aggie’s medicines and his Wolf blood, most of Bastian’s wounds had healed. That first, deep cut Everett had made was still straining at the edges of its stitches, but the rest were no more than itching scratches.
If Bastian was being completely honest with himself, he didn’t think he’d have survived the Punishment if it weren’t for Isolde.
If she hadn’t been there, her hands cool and gentle on his burning skin, sleeping beside him to chase away the memories of Everett’s cruelty that plagued him every time he closed his eyes…
The first weeks after Bastian had been turned, when his body was feeble from the havoc the first shift wreaked upon it and his heart was shattered from Anselm’s betrayal, had nearly killed him.
These few days, with the fire of a hundred cuts burning across his back and the knowledge that it was Everett who’d done it to him, were worse.
Without Isolde there, Bastian was certain the agony of it all would have killed him.
He needed her. He needed her like he needed air to breathe.
Beyond that, Bastian couldn’t give a name to this thing between them.
All he knew was that she looked at him in a way no one ever had—not since he was a boy, and his mother was still alive, anyway.
He hadn’t known what it meant then, and he sure as hell didn’t know now, but the way he felt beneath that look made everything he’d been through seem worth it.
Now, though he was plenty strong enough, Bastian didn’t much feel like leaving the suite.
Part of him wanted to show Isolde Lake Hall—his old rooms, the servants passages where he and Everett had played when they were boys, the forge where he’d learned to be a blacksmith.
The other part couldn’t bear to see it. Not now.
Not after the pain he’d suffered before he left for Bloodhaven, and not after Everett had nearly killed him.
Someone had scrubbed the blood off the floor in the dining room, at least, so when he and Isolde got tired of holing up in his bedroom, the settee in the common area made a safe alternative.
That was where they were sitting—Isolde stretched across it and Bastian on the floor, leaning his chin against the cushions to keep from putting pressure on his back—when Anselm and Selene stalked in, the tension between them so palpable, Bastian almost didn’t dare to move for fear of getting his head bitten off.
“Oh, good,” Anselm greeted, heading straight for Bastian as soon as he caught sight of him. “You’re awake. How are your wounds?”
“They’re healed,” Bastian replied shortly.
You would have known that already if you bothered to show up for the last two days, he wanted to say, but opted to keep that to himself.
After the worry Anselm had shown when Bastian first woke after the Punishment, it seemed odd that he hadn’t been around to check on him. Not since that first night, when the discussion had turned to threats and Selene had shattered her glass.
It might have stung, once, but that was nothing compared to the way Anselm had turned him into a Wolf.
According to Isolde, Anselm had been talking with Selene in private while Bastian convalesced.
Neither one of them had been invited to these meetings, and Selene refused to tell Isolde any more than vague details about what they discussed, or if she was getting anywhere on the matter of the Wolf attacks.
Bastian couldn’t help but feel that it had something to do with him—with the fact that he’d only come back to Lake Hall because his new home was being threatened.
Anselm might not have exiled him, might not have wanted him harmed or dead, but clearly Bastian wasn’t forgiven for abandoning the pack.
Now, though, Anselm’s face fell at Bastian’s tone. “Isolde’s been taking good care of you, I gather,” he said, glancing to her.
“I don’t know about that.” Isolde looked up at Anselm, half a smile playing on her lips—until she caught sight of Selene, who was lurking a few feet away with a hard look on her face.
Isolde’s smile dropped, and she ducked her head so her hair hid her expression.
“Aggie’s done most of the caring,” she said, her voice quiet now. “I’ve just been keeping him company.”
Bastian saw the disapproval in Selene’s face. He understood the way Isolde shrunk beneath it—now, and the other night after the broken glass incident. He hadn’t missed the way she refused to look at him after untangling their fingers, either, or how she’d run off to hide in her bedroom soon after.
Isolde revered Selene. Worshipped her, even. Selene despised Wolves, so it was no wonder that she’d scorn Isolde for the closeness that was growing between her and Bastian.
Bastian only hoped that was all there was to Isolde’s reaction. That there wasn’t something more behind it that could scare away that look she got when her eyes met his.
“Have the two of you been discussing things?” he asked, hoping to take the focus off Isolde.
“We have,” Anselm confirmed. “We’ve come to an… agreement, of sorts.”
“I’d hardly call it that,” Selene said dryly, drifting over to the sideboard to pour herself a drink. “It’s a fault-ridden plan at best.”
Anselm leaned against the back of the settee, turning to level an irritated stare at Selene. “Is it really necessary for us to rehash this argument?”
“I’d prefer not to,” Selene replied, “but you have to admit that your plan isn’t likely to get us anywhere, Anselm.”
“Well, Selene, we’ve been at a stalemate for three days, and I haven’t heard any better ideas out of you, have I?”
Selene’s eyes narrowed, something like ire sparking in their dark depths. She opened her mouth to reply and Bastian braced himself, readying for another explosion of glass and liquor.
But Isolde cut in before things could escalate further. “What’s this plan?”
No one spoke right away. Anselm and Selene were locked in a stare down, both of them looking ready to pounce and rip each other to shreds.
Then Anselm turned back to Bastian and Isolde, clearing his throat. Selene took a long sip of her drink, her glass still in one piece.
“When you’re healed enough, Bastian,” Anselm said, “we’re going to have a banquet.”
Bastian raised his brows. “That’s the plan to keep the Wolf from killing anyone else?” he asked, dubious. “A banquet ?”
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” Selene muttered, “but this might be the first time a Wolf has said something I agree with.”
“Now, Selene,” Anselm said, a clear taunt in the words, “we both know that’s not true.”
“Watch it, Anselm,” she warned, shooting him a look.
Bastian glanced to Isolde, who was staring between Anselm and Selene with a deep frown on her face.
“Anyway,” Anselm continued, “I plan to announce the attacks in Bloodhaven at the banquet, and remind everyone of the consequences of violating the Pact. The four of us, along with a handful of my trusted people, will be watching the reactions of all the white Wolves.”
“And you think whoever it is will react to your speech and give themselves away,” Isolde said.
“Yes,” Anselm confirmed.
Bastian stared for a long moment before he said, “That’s a shit plan.”
Selene, of all people, chuckled. “Again, I agree.”
“Well, Bastian, do you have a better idea?” Anselm demanded.
He didn’t. Bastian said nothing.
“I think it might work,” Isolde said, and three sets of eyes swiveled to her.
She glanced at Bastian, then Selene, her eyes flicking away from both of them in a way that was unfamiliar to Bastian. She usually stared him down, those blue eyes bright and intense. She usually refused to look away first.
Isolde shrugged one shoulder. “I assume all the Wolves here know the consequences of violating the Pact, so whoever attacked Bloodhaven on the full moon has to know they’re in trouble. They might not give themselves away outright, but it could at least give you an idea of who to interrogate.”
“Hmm.” Anselm turned back to Selene. “What do you think now, then? Is my plan sounding any better?”
Selene’s expression soured, her eyes narrowing to slits. She said nothing—just downed the last of her whiskey, stalked off into her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.
Anselm sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “Our discussions seem to have agitated her.”
“She’s always agitated lately,” Isolde muttered, so low Bastian barely caught it.
“When is the banquet?” Bastian asked Anselm.
“I haven’t announced it yet. Two nights from now? Do you think you’ll be healed by then?”
“Do it tomorrow,” Bastian said, without a beat of hesitation. That last slice to his back still ached fiercely, but he wanted this over with. “Every night we wait, people could be dying in Bloodhaven.”
“Are you sure?” Anselm frowned, glancing toward Bastian’s shoulder as if he could see the wound through Aggie’s fragrant bandages. “Everett will be there, of course, and I?—”
“Do it. Tomorrow,” Bastian ground out.
Anselm’s frown didn’t ease, but he nodded. “Very well.”