Page 113 of Devoured

Another of the Australian ambassadors, a Delta with whiskey-brown eyes, glances around in palpable confusion. He stammers questions under his breath, as if he can’t bring himself to speak louder, while others kneel and bow their heads before the dais.

The dais. The throne.

And Cora.

God, she can’t find out. None of them can tell her what I’ve done, or everyone will be in danger.

A smile splits her face wide open, and the Wolf Queen of North America watches as Ikenna climbs to his feet. He stows his claws and bows as well. “Queen Cora,” he says, his voice shuddering, but only slightly. I hold my breath, waiting for him to finish. “Thank you for such an illustrious evening. I believe I’ve learned more than enough to return to Regent Bankole.”

I shut my eyes. I inhale deeply.

It worked. Somehow, it worked.

“And what will you advise them?” Cora lifts her chin, her eyes glittering with venomous triumph.

“We will join you,” Ikenna says, as if this is obvious—even as his eyes flick toward me. Only slightly. Only for a moment. Cora doesn’t notice. “We will fight with you.”

The kneeling ambassadors echo his plight. But my victory doesn’t last for long.

Rikki gags. The Delta blinks rapidly, unaware of his surroundings. A few others waver on their feet. Even though part of my plan went right, I must have done something wrong.

The world continues to fracture further. I can’t see properly. Noise roars in my ears, but I can’t tell if it’s from hallucinations or memories or ghosts. The hot copper taste of blood floods my mouth.

What did I do?

“I feel… strange.” An ashen-faced werewolf touches his temple. His face blurs as I blink at him through the excruciating haze of my own pain. Black edges my vision. A woman with brown eyes crouches to place a hand on my back.

“Are you okay?” she asks. Then, to Cora, “What’s wrong with her?”

I can’t open my mouth to answer. I can’t see her face anymore.

Ikenna’s snarls crash against the earnest laughter of an amicable meeting. Ghastly growls war with the buzzing chatter of ambassadors pretending to be eager, if only so they can leave. It’s too much. Too many people. Too many threads. I don’t know what I changed. I can’t tell the difference between realities.

And some of the other werewolves seem confused too. They don’t understand either, which means I did something wrong.

“Don’t worry about her. She drank too much tonight. I’ll see to it that she gets some rest,” Cora says. “In fact, you all could do with some rest. A few of you are looking… queasy. You’ll feel much better after sleeping off the wine.”

“B-b-but,” that Delta stammers, raking claws down his cheeks. “We should leave. We—we have to leave. Don’t we?”

“Sleep,” Cora commands. “In the morning, we will have much to discuss. And then you can be well on your way home.”

Maybe she compels them—or maybe, thanks to me and my abilities, she has no need. They leave wordlessly. They traipse over my body as if I don’t even exist.

I palm the cold tiles beneath me, my breathing ragged, painful, as pressure continues to splinter through my head. I try to rise, to push myself to my knees, but I can’t. The movement shudders through my spine, and my bones crack. I choke on a fresh wave of bile. Bile and blood.

With a sharp laugh, Cora presses a boot down hard on my back. “Not your best showing, darling. If your gifts don’t take, and my guests betray me—”

I gasp for breath, for words, still grappling to right myself in the correct reality. At least she doesn’t know what I tried to do. At least she doesn’t know that it worked on a few of them. “P… l… ease.”

A hissed curse. A delirium of pain on my spine. Cora leans closer. Her lips brush the curve of my ear. “You think those purple eyes make you different, Vanessa Hart? You think they make you better? No, no, no, darling. They make you just like me.”

I lose consciousness then, before I can understand what she means, and when I manage to peel my eyes open next, I am back in my own bed. Tucked under the sheets, a cool compress damp on my forehead. Thankfully, Cora is nowhere to be found. Her guests are gone. Her voice no longer slices like razors between my ears. I feel the soft silk sheets under my hands. I smell the barest hint of petrichor. Sweat soaks my skin, my dress, and tangles my hair.

And there—at the foot of my bed—sits the golden prince.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“Am I?” I ask hoarsely, my throat scraped raw.