Page 34 of Devoured

I haven’t seen my father in almost a month. Not since he pulled me and Calix over. Not since I showed him just how monstrous I’ve become. And I’m glad. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want him to know he was right.

I was nice. I was soft.

But I can’t be anymore—not if I want to survive.

Clenching my jaw, curling my nails into my palms, I stand in the aisle of Cora’s new throne room and hold my breath before her new guests. Emissaries from another court.

A domed glass ceiling shines rich, buttery sunlight on a velvet cobalt interior, the different shades of blue especially stark against the surrounding filigree of white gold. Silvered flames dance along sconces in each of the throne room’s eight corners, while curtains of that same ethereal hue hide sixteen narrow windows. And in the center of it all, Cora sits proud and tall on her golden throne—the only remainder of her sister and the old court beyond the barest bones of Castle Severi’s foundation. Though, it feels less like a nostalgic ode to a lost loved one and more like proof of what has been conquered.

Jasper kneels at her right side and Amethyst kneels at her left. Other werewolves crowd behind the throne, filling the volume of the room like barnacles on a shipwreck, stretching from wall to wall. An army of black pants, shirts, claws, and teeth. So many teeth, and all at her beck and call.

An army. The thought curdles in my veins. Her army.

I grind my boots harder into the velvet runner beneath me and lift my chin. Refusing to move out of line, even as anger simmers molten in my gut.

“You have either come to pledge your people’s allegiance to Castle Severi, or you have come to die. Whichever it may be, choose quickly.” Cora examines the pitch-black of her nails before cleaning them on her plain black gown. “I simply do not have the time nor patience to wait.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Dalla and Valja Dahlström speak in unison. Braids of thick blonde hair hang far past their waists, yellow pearlwort flowers woven in crowns atop their heads. The two girls are identical down to the three slender scars on their pale throats and the mirrored creases on their palms. The only symbol of their court, an emblem of a white wolf atop a glacier with three stars above it, has been stitched onto the thick wool of their gray uniforms.

The Wolf King’s Court of Antarctica.

A battalion of similarly dressed soldiers stands rigid behind them. Each brandishes a spear tied with a ribbon of lustrous white. Each bares their fangs as though they have never once retracted them. All their eyes glimmer golden, save for the twins.

Dalla’s and Valja’s eyes are bloodred.

And they didn’t bring this many soldiers simply to pledge their allegiance.

“Our eldest brother has some questions for you,” Dalla says, her accent the delicate lilt of falling snow. Soft but sharp. “King Kåre Dahlström received visitors from the Asian Court who claimed a new queen sits on the North American throne. A queen who no longer values the rules of werewolves or royal lineage. You can understand how that might be perceived as a threat to the Dahlströms, who have reigned over Antarctica peacefully, in secret, for thousands of years.”

Cora sighs and flicks a lock of salt-and-pepper hair away from her eyes. “As I told your brother, the casualties during the winter solstice were an unfortunate symptom of the true sickness: the traitorous nature of the North American Court. I have since remedied this sickness. The blight will not spread farther than our land.”

“Those casualties included two royal families,” Valja argues, her voice a pitch deeper than her sister’s. “Your actions have left the Asian Court in shambles. The lesser packs are fighting and picking over territories like vultures, and Castle Lee has been seized thrice in the last week alone. All while you are holding their sole heir hostage.” A tense pause. “The nobility want her back, Cora. As you know, succession disputes can turn deadly.”

Cora glances around the room calmly, ignoring the thinly veiled threat, before her gaze lands on me. My body tenses instinctively. I don’t know why I’m here, and not Sin or Calix, Evie or Portia. Whatever happens in this room, it seems Cora doesn’t want the others to know.

“I don’t see the princess anywhere, do you?” The queen taps her nails on the edge of her throne, watching me even as she directs the question at the envoys. Her eyes narrow slightly.

“So you’ve locked her up,” Dalla says. “You’ve imprisoned her or chained her to her bed or compelled her to kitchen duty.”

“We are not ignorant to the ways of your cruelty,” Valja adds. “The result is the same. You have kidnapped the former princess.”

Those two words—former princess—sink low in my stomach. My hands curl tighter into fists, until my nails begin to sharpen into claws.

Cora either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, however. She turns her attention back to the twins. “I’m unsure what the education system is like in the frozen wasteland you call home, but these are not questions.”

Without warning, the Antarctic soldiers slam the hilts of their spears into the floor, and the resounding boom throttles the windows, the sconces, even the flames. A burst of ice splinters through the room. Dalla bares her teeth, ivory fangs scraping against her lower lip. “The Wolf King’s Court of Antarctica has remained untouched and at peace for centuries—”

Cora leans forward with a sinister smile. “And let’s hope it remains that way.”

Valja pushes in front of her sister, breaking formation for the first time since they arrived. A harsh growl punctuates her words. “Allow us to spell this out for you: How are we to trust that you won’t raze our courts as you have done to your own? As you have done to the Asian Court as well? How are we to trust that you are not entirely mindless from your years as a Lone Wolf? It is impossible that you are standing here now, and even more impossible that you managed to create your own pack from nothing. You should have died.”

I perk up at that, listening intently for any answer that might help me and Evie.

Cora licks her lips. She sweeps her dress away from her feet, away from her boots stained with old blood, and stands. Running a hand through her hair, she descends the stairs.

“You know,” she drawls, prowling straight past me and toward Valja, “an impossibility is more commonly known here as a miracle.” She lifts a finger, a keen nail, to Valja’s chin.