42. Isolde
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
ISOLDE
“ E verett ,” Isolde hissed, shifting her remaining dagger into her right hand. “Of-fucking- course it’s you.”
He prowled closer, limping slightly as blood poured from the wound she’d made in his shoulder. His green eyes darted from Isolde to Bastian, a low growl rumbling from his chest.
Isolde’s mind spun. Everett was the beast of Bloodhaven.
She’d asked Bastian, all those weeks go, whether it could be Everett, and she’d believed him when he said no. Like a fool, she’d blindly accepted it, trusting that Bastian knew his own brother, that he cared enough about protecting Bloodhaven not to lie to her about that.
It made perfect sense now that she knew.
Everett had been in Bloodhaven the morning after she’d chased down the Wolf and been poisoned by the nightsbane.
Bastian had said he’d been there the day after the beast slaughtered the goats, too.
So he’d been in Bloodhaven during at least two of the attacks, far from Wolf territory.
He had motive, too. Everett believed Bastian had betrayed the pack by leaving, and despised Vampires so much that he’d branded his own brother a traitor for consorting with one.
Of course he would want to destroy the place Bastian now called home.
To bring a war with the Vampires into Bloodhaven’s streets and obliterate whatever peace his brother had found.
Rage and hurt burned in Isolde’s veins with the knowledge that Bastian had lied to her—that after everything , he’d been protecting Everett.
But she wasn’t about to leave Bastian here, defenseless and at Everett’s cruel mercy, either.
At Isolde’s feet, Bastian struggled upright. He panted, his skin gleaming with sweat as he glared at his brother. “Leave Isolde out of this, Everett. Your fight is with me, not her.”
Everett snarled in response, creeping another step closer.
Isolde watched him carefully, her knife still brandished. The back of her neck prickled at the tone of Bastian’s voice—at the way he didn’t sound even the least bit surprised by Everett’s presence.
Isolde forced the hurt away, burying it deep inside herself where it couldn’t distract her. Everett inched closer with every rapid breath she took, and Bastian was choking back screams, his spine contorting with a series of horrible cracks.
Everett’s gaze narrowed on Bastian as he lowered into a crouch. Readying to pounce.
But when Everett leapt…
He leapt at Isolde.
She slashed out with her knife, leaping over Bastian’s prone form and landing nimbly on her feet. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake she’d made on the Night of the Bleeding Moon.
Blood sprayed for a second time, rich with that familiar scent. Everett fell back, letting out a high, pained whine. Isolde planted herself between him and Bastian, readying for the next attack.
But it never came. Everett retreated, his head swinging back and forth in distress. The white fur of his face was stained crimson, blood raining from the cut Isolde had slashed through his eye, down across the top of his snout.
Far to the north, another Wolf began to howl.
Everett’s ears flattened at the sound, and he let out a low whine.
Behind Isolde, Bastian screamed, like something about that howl called to him, too.
Everett released a howl of his own, near deafening at such close proximity, before he turned and bounded off into the trees.
“Anselm,” Bastian panted when Everett had gone. “That was Anselm’s howl.”
Isolde turned to stare down at him. He lay with his body twisted at a series of excruciating angles. His brow glistened with sweat, his face contorted in pain.
“Did you know?” Isolde’s voice came out low and hard, almost unrecognizable to her own ears. “When I told you it was a white Wolf, after the last full moon, did you know?”
“No.” Bastian groaned, his expression crumpled with something deeper than physical pain as he stared up at her. Then, as if it hurt him to admit, he choked out, “I suspected.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Isolde demanded “You didn’t even bother to mention that Everett was a white Wolf during the banquet at Lake Hall?”
Bastian fought to get the next words out, gasping as his fingers began to curl. To elongate. “I didn’t think… it could possibly… be him. He’s… too loyal to Anselm… to violate the Pact. I?—”
“He wasn’t too loyal to disobey Anselm when he forbade the Punishment,” Isolde snapped. “Everett almost killed you when he dealt you the Punishment, and even then, you didn’t say anything?”
“He’s… my… brother.”
“He’s a killer , Bastian.” Isolde shook her head, backing away. “And you lied to me.”
Bastian screamed, the most agonized, bloodcurdling sound Isolde had ever heard. Before Isolde’s eyes, the bones of his spine rippled, visible through the taut skin of his back as he struggled to his hands and knees.
“No,” he begged. “I?—”
“We could have stopped him by now if you’d said something. We could have saved all those people who died on the Night of the Bleeding Moon.”
“Isolde, please.” Bastian began to crawl, then, dragging himself through the snow towards Isolde, his fingers—no, his claws —digging into the ground. “I’m… telling you. I didn’t… think… it was him.”
Before the last word was fully out of his mouth, Bastian’s back snapped into its new shape. His shoulders rounded forward, his limbs elongating, hands curling into clawed paws.
Isolde blinked, and a Wolf stood before her, panting. Bastian’s fur shone a rich, deep brown in the moonlight, his golden eyes wide and pleading as he watched her.
Slowly, Isolde shook her head. Bastian whimpered, lowering himself to the snow before her.
“You lied,” she whispered.
Bastian howled, low and mournful.
Isolde turned on her heel and ran.