I’m still staring at the fairy tale cabin when I ask, “Do you think she can rip through steel, too?”
“Can’t say.” Vanessa chuckles. “Though, I know for sure that her claws can rip through people just fine.”
ChapterTwenty-Five
“So this iswhat we’ve paid for.”
Josephine sat perfectly still at the edge of her seat, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes down. The small man — compared to her father and Otto, at least — circled her slowly, his elegant, gold-ringed hands tucked behind his back as he examined her. She was not given his name. He was all false warmth when he introduced himself simply as, “Your father’s patron.”
Now his tone lacked even that hollow friendliness. The patron did not sound pleased at all.
Her father stood just off to the side, by the great stone mantel of the orcish fireplace. His face was shiny with sweat, his hair mussed, and his arms were crossed tightly over his chest. He was absolutely furious. Worse, he was alsoterrified.
Even her mother, who never appeared to know what was going on, watched the proceedings nervously from her seat on the velvet settee. She’d rushed to make herself presentable for their guest, but hadn’t completely managed it. Dark tendrils of hair slid free of hastily stuck pins and hair net. The pale purple herringbone fabric of her dress was hopelessly pinched and rumpled in all the places it shouldn’t be. Her eyes were bleary, bloodshot, and her cheeks pale.
Seeing as she usually napped until at least noon, Josephine strongly suspected she’d still been abed when the patron came down the lane.
In their life before lyssa, Evangeline was a refined and experienced hostess who often entertained witches of her circle. Josephine had vague memories of being forced into stiff gowns and told to sit silently as her mother’s friends cooed over her as a child. Once they discovered she was arrant, Josephine was no longer cooed over. She was either expected to serve their guests or make herself scarce.
It was a terrible twist of fate to finally be the center of attention at the precise moment when she wished it least.
The only benefit to the change in her circumstances was that it was now Harrod who was dispatched to fetch the patron a drink — something she knew would prick his flimsy pride.
Her father’s tight voice conveyed every ounce of his indignation when he said, “She is the source, not the final product, as you well know.”
The patron didn’t seem bothered by his waspish tone. “Indeed. I have seen the results of your work before, Doctor, and it is quite something. That’s why we have continued to support you. I’ve never seen the infection in a woman, though, and find it intriguing how… delicate she appears compared to the others.”
He circled her again. She held her breath as he settled his hands on her shoulders and addressed her father from over her head. His hands were unnaturally warm — nearly scorching her through the layers of her blouse and chemise. His scent was thick and cloying. It was herbal, smoky. Unusual and yet familiar at once, though she couldn’t place it in her memory.
Those warm fingers gave her shoulders a small squeeze. “I am surprised to find Josephine is a lovely creature. You’ve done fine work with her and your other subjects, different as they appear to be.”
This seemed to mollify her father some. In his haste to accept the praise, he didn’t pick up on thebutthat hung in the air.
Chest puffing slightly, he opened his mouth to reply, but was stopped when the patron continued, tone cooling with rebuke, “However, first we were promised a new wave of witches for our ranks. Then we were promised anarmyof were-creatures.You have delivered on neither of those promises, Doctor.”
Her father spoke through his teeth. “Science takes time.”
Harrod emerged from the doorway beside the fireplace, a crystal glass of precious, war-rationed liquor in his hand. His expression was pinched when he hurried to cross the room, placing it on the side table by Josephine’s chair.
“War moves fast,” the patron replied, ignoring the offering. “And we have lost patience with your science, Doctor Wyeth. I’ve been sent to personally oversee your process and determine our next steps.”
“Next steps? What next steps? Everything is moving as it should!” Her father sputtered, his outrage building. “You can’t mean to take the project away from me now.”
“Yes, I do.”
A tremor moved through Josephine’s frame. In response, one too-warm hand touched the side of her head. It was an almost fatherly gesture, as if he sought to comfort her, and yet she was absolutely certain that it was a threat. “We want an army, Doctor. We intend to get it.”
It is strange,Josephine thought through the haze of cold dread,that he speaks of an army as if he doesn’t have one already.
When they discussed her father’s benefactors, Otto was certain it was the Orclind’s government, the Iron Chain, supporting her father’s research. He said there were rumors of monsters fighting amongst the orcish troops and that his own battalion had been assigned to investigate those rumors. It was the mission that landed him in her father’s cell.
But the way the patron spoke didn’t align with that theory. After all, the Orclindhadan army. It was struggling to fight on two fronts and against two different armies, certainly, but it was still very much alive.
Perhaps he means a new army of weres.The thought was as disturbing as it was impossible.
Though she was different from the rest of her kind, Josephine understood that it was madness to try and form a cohesive, disciplined army out of werewolves. Not only did the patron not have their loyalty, but they struggled with rages, impulse control, and the ever-present threat of losing their minds during the full moon.
An army of them would not be a legion of fighting men. It would be a tide of pure devastation.
