I spent the rest of the ride picking the dried wax from my fingernails, thinking about how Laurel’s eyes had looked in her final hours: defiant, but also…relieved. As if dying on her own terms was victory enough.
That had been my mistake; underestimating the sentimental.
When we reached the train station, Maggie jumped out and pulled the bags from the trunk. She kept her eyes on the ground, waiting for my permission to speak.
“What is it?” I snapped.
“I have the Council agenda, Wyrdmother. They moved the meeting up to tomorrow. They say the Iron Valor pack is to be discussed.”
My smile, this time, was real. “Of course it is.”
As we boarded, I let myself imagine Aspen’s face; afraid, cornered, clutching the grimoire as if it could save her. It would, for a time. But not forever.
As the train lurched away from Verdant Hollow, I allowed myself a small, private laugh.
“We’d all be better off if that pack were wiped from the earth,” I said, to no one in particular. Olive heard, but she knew better than to reply.
The trees gave way to open country. In the reflection of the glass, I watched myself smile, a thin crescent of satisfaction.
Council chambers always looked the same, no matter the continent or species. I suppose there are only so many ways to arrange a parade of monsters and egomaniacs so that everyone can pretend it’s all civil.
The Chicago High Supernatural Council room was an old bank vault, stripped of its safe deposit boxes and dressed up with too much velvet. They’d taken pains to etch the stone walls with every sigil of peace and truce the ancient orders could muster, but it just made the place feel more like a tomb. Around the circular table—a massive thing, polished so smooth you could almost forget the blood that’d been spilled across its grain over centuries—sat the worst of the worst, each perched on their little throne of power.
I strode in first, Olive and Maggie flanking me, Teela trailing behind with the luggage and a face full of open awe. The witches’ seats were nearest the entrance, four cold iron chairs that always left the thighs numb and the ego bruised. Not that I cared; I’d sat through enough of these charades to know the real work never happened at the table. It happened in the shadows, in the bathrooms, in the alleys behind the host hotels.
King Rafe Mayfield of the Southwest Wolves was already here, pacing behind his chair like a panther denied its kill. In a perfectly tailored black suit, the size of him defied sense: six-four, biceps straining the seams, hands like river rocks. His onyxeyes flicked over us once, registering and discarding in the space of a blink.
Next to Mayfield sat the newly minted Midwest Wolf King himself, that arrogant prick Bridger “Menace” Hardin. The former Iron Valor pack member was decked out in a three thousand dollar suit, not a hair out of place. The mirrored aviators hid his eyes, but I’d bet my grimoire they were shooting daggers at those of us who voted against his claim on his fated mate. Those of us still breathing, anyway.
Hardin leaned over, whispering to the formidable Kazimir Kozlov, the ancient Eastern Vampire King. Kazimir’s sleek black hair cascaded past his shoulders, contrasting with the red satin jacket he wore open, exposing the physique of a man centuries younger. The close ties between him and Iron Valor struck me as odd, but word was his daughter and their Luna were thick as thieves since college. I’d never known Kozlov to care at all for wolves. It defied nature.
The newest face at the table was Griffin Calloway, freshly crowned king of the Eastern Packs, courtesy of Hardin. Griffin, son of the recently executed King Declan Calloway, had ascended mere weeks ago. Apparently, killing your daughter’s fated mate is enough to get the Council’s attention, even if the angel brought the bastard back. Griffin looked like a deer in the headlights. I stifled a laugh. I loathed Declan. Good riddance.
Varek Otero, King of the Western Vampires, was hard to miss in his white silk suit, tailored to emphasize his otherworldly pallor. He lounged in his seat, one leg carelessly draped over the armrest, idly fiddling with his signet ring. His long silver hair framed a face that was both alluring and unsettling in its post-human perfection.
Farthest from the door sat Maltraz, the Demon King, disguised as a dark-skinned man with a clean-shaven head and mismatched eyes; one brown, one blood-red. His suit reeked ofnew money, and his left hand still sported untrimmed, razor-sharp black nails that clicked against the glass pitcher as he reached for water.
Slade Stewart, ruler of the Western Packs, was the last Wolf King to arrive. He’d been scarce lately, mourning his dead mate. His auburn hair had lost some of its luster, and he looked thinner. In my eyes, it only proved the weakness of taking a mate; the Achilles heel of every ruler who had one. He nodded to the room, putting on a show of having pulled himself together.
Archon Seraphael, the Angel King, kept his distance from our motley assortment of leaders. An enigma of ethereal, golden-eyed beauty, who spoke rarely, but possessed the wisdom of the Great Creator. Of course, he’d clearly fucked up royally to get himself and a thousand of his kind banished to our plane. Still, his power was unquestioned. He had the kind of power that could raise the dead, as we’d all witnessed weeks ago when he’d resurrected Menace after that fool Calloway planted a blade in his heart.
That left the witches’ covens. We mostly clustered together, while Fallon O’Connell of the Astral Spire Coven tried to set herself apart. She’d been the lone coven leader to side with Bridger and Savannah. Apparently, she’d never owed Declan any favors. Lucky bitch.
The Gloamreach and Emberthorn Covens’ leaders occupied their seats, an eccentric pair. I wondered if they found me as odd as I found them as I graced them with a respectful nod.
Shasta Tierney, the High Flame Caller from Emberthorn, touched my arm and leaned toward me. “Sorry to hear of the death of Laurel Waters.” She whispered, suspicion in her voice.
I fought to keep a sympathetic face as I nodded in her direction and answered quietly. “Yes. Such a tragedy.” My mind was running through the possibilities of how she could have known about her death.
Otero glanced at the clock on the wall and gave a perfunctory yawn. “I must remind everyone, sunrise comes early this time of year. Some of us keep more delicate hours.”
Rafe stopped his pacing and glared. “I didn’t drag my ass to this city to listen to you whine, Otero. But yes. Let’s get to the point.”
Maltraz smiled, all teeth. “By all means, the mighty King Mayfield wants the floor, as usual.” He gestured with his arms wide.
The chair of the Council brought her gavel down and officially brought the session to order. “King Mayfield, I believe you have a matter to bring before the Council.”
Rafe’s voice dropped half an octave, the sweet Alabama in his accent curdling into something darker. “Several days ago, in a territory under my protection, the Iron Valor shifters lost seven of their pack in a blatant, cowardly attack that had obviously meant to wipe out every member. This was a biological attack in which their water system was infiltrated with a deadly toxin. Every household in the territory was infected. Over the course of a week, pack members became weaker until their organs began to fail. Six of their elderly and one very young child died as a result.”
