35. Isolde #2
Everett stormed in. A hush fell over the hall as he came into the light, punctuated by a series of gasps.
If Isolde thought the bruising on Bastian’s face still looked bad, Everett’s was far worse.
Both eyes were black, one side of his jaw swollen beneath the shadow of a beard that had grown since Isolde last saw him.
A split ran through his bottom lip, too, and despite the confident way he strode toward the dais, there was a certain stiffness to his movements that mirrored the way Bastian had been handling the injuries across his back.
Conversation resumed in the hall as Everett stepped up onto the dais and made his way toward the empty seat.
Isolde tensed as he passed behind her and Bastian, half expecting him to lunge at Bastian, but Everett didn’t spare either of them a glance.
Scowling, he sunk into his chair and drained his goblet dry.
Isolde couldn’t help but notice the way he sat—on the front edge of his seat, careful not to let his back touch anything.
A moment later, Anselm finally rose.
“A toast,” he announced, his voice booming across the hall.
The Wolves all lifted their goblets, and Selene and Isolde followed suit.
“To our guests—Selene Lascar, and her progeny, Isolde Renault.” A murmur of discontent rose from the Wolves, which Anselm ignored.
“It is a show of great trust in us here at Lake Hall, and in the Pact which protects the peace between Vampires and Werewolves in our region, for them to sit at our table and dine with us tonight. To Selene and Isolde.”
Anselm raised his goblet, and despite the general air of displeasure emanating from the tables below, the rest of the Wolves did, too. All around, people drank deeply, turning back to their plates.
But Anselm stepped out from behind the table, circling around to address his people from the front of the dais.
“I know there has been discontentment of late. There are those among you who would see the Pact abolished—who wish to bring back the days where the Vampires were our enemies. You wish to hunt them, as our ancestors did.”
Isolde watched the Wolves as Anselm spoke, studying their faces. A few people exchanged glances, but no one gave anything away.
“I am your pack leader,” Anselm rumbled, the warning clear in his voice. “Do not think that I am oblivious to the words you speak. Do not be so foolish as to mistake my silence before tonight for lenience.”
Anselm set his goblet on the edge of the table behind him. He rose to his full height, widening his stance, and every Wolf in the room sat straighter. Many of them bowed their heads, submitting to the dominance of their leader.
“I should not have to remind a single Wolf in this room that to violate the Pact is to commit treason against your pack,” Anselm said. “And yet… that is why I have gathered you here tonight.”
A ripple of alarm went through the hall. A few Wolves shifted uneasily in their seats.
“That is what Selene and Isolde have come here to discuss with us. On the night of the last full moon, one of you entered the village of Bloodhaven and attacked several humans. One of you violated the Pact, and jeopardized the peace that we have been living in for two hundred years. We are fortunate that Selene is a merciful woman. Another Vampire may not have shown such understanding.”
Here, Anselm paused, and cast a slow, deliberate look across the entire hall.
“I am inclined, given Selene’s lenience, to extend the same understanding to you,” he announced into the breathless silence of the hall.
“Come forward and confess to the attack on Bloodhaven, and your punishment will be as merciful as Selene has been to us. I will not exile you. I will not strip you of your rights as a member of this pack. You will be forgiven.”
Again, Anselm waited. Isolde’s gaze leapt from face to face, hunting for something— anything to indicate who the killer might be.
But none of the people Bastian had pointed out to her gave anything away.
A petite Wolf with a blonde bob stared at her neighbors, her eyes wide with confusion.
Twin teenaged boys stared up at Anselm with admiration written all over their pimpled faces.
An older Wolf with a scar running from one eyebrow to the opposite curve of his jaw looked around expectantly, like he couldn’t fathom that whoever the killer was hadn’t already flung themselves on Anselm’s mercy.
When the silence had stretched on so long it was nearly painful, Anselm turned over his shoulder.
He looked to Selene, who lounged in her chair as if she, herself, was the leader of the pack.
She raised one dark brow at Anselm, and then the corner of her red-painted mouth curled upward, into a smile that promised nothing but violence.
Anselm faced the hall again, his own expression grim.
“Very well. If the traitor will not reveal their identity, I will discover them on my own. And make no mistake” —he stared out at the crowd, his eyes hard, the threat clear in his stance— “your punishment will be befitting of a traitor. Disobedience will not be tolerated at Lake Hall.”
With that, Anselm retrieved his goblet from the table and returned to his seat. Stunned silence prevailed for a moment, and then the hall erupted with agitated chatter.
“Did you see anything?” Bastian asked Isolde, leaning close to murmur in her ear once more.
“No. You?”
“No.”
Isolde had no interest in the honey cakes that were brought for dessert. She and Bastian sat in silence while the rest of the hall finished eating, still watching the faces of the Wolves with white fur.
As the food disappeared, the crowd began to stare at Selene and Isolde once more. Isolde’s spine went rigid beneath their hungry looks, her hands drifting back to the daggers at her thighs. Beside her, Bastian glared back, his brown eyes narrowed in a way that dared anyone to lay a finger on her.
He leaned down to Isolde, gaze still pinned on the crowd as he draped one arm around her shoulders and tugged her close. “You’re safe,” he whispered, the low rumble of his voice causing a shiver to skate down Isolde’s spine. “Don’t let them see your fear.”
It took less effort than Isolde expected to get herself to relax. With Bastian’s arm around her, the heat of his body seeping into her bones, it was easy to let herself melt into the safety of his touch.
And then she turned her head to the side and caught Selene’s narrowed eyes. Now she was tense for a whole new reason, that pricking sensation at the back of her neck roaring to life beneath her Sire’s disapproving stare.
Isolde nudged Bastian’s arm from around her shoulders, leaning subtly away. She saw him frown from the corner of her vision, but she didn’t dare look directly at him, terrified of what she might see in his eyes. He sat back in his own seat, no longer touching her, but said nothing.
When the banquet finally ended, Everett was the first to go. He stomped off the dais without a glance at Bastian or his father, or any of the Wolves he passed on his way down the aisle to the double doors.
With his back turned to Isolde, she saw the reason for his limping gait. The back of his white shirt was stained with blood—a long, diagonal line of crimson.
A line which traced the exact same path as the wound across Bastian’s back.
More than a few Wolves went pale at the sight. Eyes darted from Everett to Bastian, and murmurs of both their names, of Punishment and Anselm and forbade floated to Isolde’s ears.
Among those whispers, louder than all the rest, were the final words of Anselm’s speech.
Disobedience will not be tolerated.