The throne room was congested with people.
Dressed in an assortment of coloured leathers, they loitered in sprawling clusters, souring the air with their breath, warming it with their collective heat. The commoners were so engrossed in gossip that not one of them recognised my arrival and made way for me. I hesitated on the outskirts of the room, a little out of sorts. It wasn't often I had to force my way through a crowd.
To lend my pause purpose, I strove to make out people's sentences, but deciphering them proved to be an impossible task. Shaking my head, I shouldered past those in my way. Jerome's shadow merged with mine ahead of our feet, a constant reminder of his presence. I wasn't sure if I appreciated it or not.
We reached the stairs, and I hesitated yet again. The man who sat on the throne was not the same man from the photograph. Ford's bitterness leaked into the room, driving even the City Pack members into the deeper crowd.
His eyes were already trained on my face. It was all I could do not to shudder. There was an intensity in his gaze that transcended sanity, and it was focussed entirely on me.
"Chance Ivory Nightshade." Father invoked my full name, rolling each syllable around in his mouth for dramatic effect, as all parents did when extremely unimpressed with their child's behaviour.
The promise of gossip was thoroughly effective in gaining the undivided attention of the crowd. "Yes, Father?" My words rang out in the sudden absence of noise.
"The western wing of the mansion is in ruins," Father boomed. Even as he slouched in that throne, he loomed over me like a storm cloud, courtesy of that damned dais. "As we speak, three of your personal guard are being treated for grievous wounds that you inflicted."
Disapproving murmurs rippled throughout the crowd, and something inside of me shrivelled. I hadn't considered the people I'd hurt, or the hit my reputation would take. While I didn't particularly care if my actions reflected badly on Father or Jerome, I needed the people to back my quest for peace at some point; to take my side over theirs, if it came to that.
"I sincerely apologise for all casualties and the damage done to our home," I said, demonstrating to the audience that I held myself accountable. "I take full responsibility for my actions and accept whatever consequences you deem fit, Lord Nightshade."
Recognition flickered across Father's features. He knew my apology was a ploy to reinstate the faith of the people in our family. What he didn't know, however, was that my ploy was a double-edged sword. I needed to reinstate his faith in me, so that I could reclaim the freedoms necessary to establish a truce between werewolves and vampires. I had not forgotten the vow I'd made alongside London Irephang.
Perhaps Father will decide on a public beating, I speculated with a sense of amused detachment. The mental defence mechanisms I'd worked on over the years were kicking into action, expunging fear and replacing it with steely humour. Although silver lashes would send a stronger message to the people.
"Jerome has informed me that your defiance of protocol last night resulted from the clash between your animal instincts and the limitations of the immediate environment," Father said.
Shock broke through me like a wave on the beach, crashing at first but quick to recede. Of course Jerome had vouched for me. He'd failed to subdue me with force, so now he was switching tactics, trying to win my favour so that I would give what he'd been unable to take!
"Well?" Father asked, arching an eyebrow. "Is this true?"
The room dropped several degrees, and I realised he was leveraging his dominance against me. I could tell from the shrewd slant of those yellow eyes that he believed my gift was his to wield at his leisure, and that my submission to him ultimately rendered me incapable of lying.
I fought the urge to cross my arms and dig in my heels. My gift was an invaluable tool for governing our shadow society. It aided in the navigation of political jungles, allowed us to tell friend from foe, and even unveiled hidden weaknesses in our enemies. Ford Nightshade had wielded my magic with ruthless genius over the years, cowing even the most resilient of revolutions, exposing the most experienced spies.
Did he think to use it against me, too?
"It is true," I announced, and that familiar, metallic hum resonated in the marrow of my bones. Whether the gift was reacting to my answer or my suspicions, I was uncertain.
Father watched me, and I watched him. Seconds crawled away from us as though we'd beaten them into cowardice. It was both satisfying and infuriating, for it testified to the force of our hold on one another, and reminded us of the fact that no matter what the circumstances, we would never be equals. Our blood demanded that one of us would live beneath the other.
"Very well." Father accepted the statement with a curt nod and then leaned back in his chair. "Your sanction is to volunteer in the infirmary until everyone you injured has either recovered or died." His eyes flickered behind me, taking in the restless crowd. "Measures will also be taken to reduce chances of recidivism."
He didn't elaborate on what those measures would be. It was an empty threat, to placate the more blood-thirsty members of the crowd — I hoped. "As you will it, Lord Nightshade," I said, inclining my head.
"Excellent." Father rubbed his hands together, the gesture promising a new topic of conversation. "Chance, Jerome — attend to me." His eyes lifted, focussing on someone behind us. "Charles, send for the messenger."
Voices burbled as Charles disappeared on his mysterious errand. Placated by the knowledge I would understand the situation soon, I climbed the stairs, relishing the burn in the upper region of my calves. It was a different heat to the fever that had racked me last night, ignited by exercise rather than insanity. It felt good to fixate on something normal for once.
We reached the dais all too soon, and I assumed the advisory position on Father's left. Jerome lingered on the last step, unsure of where to stand. His body was angled to Father's right, the Beta's traditional place. Thankfully, he glanced at me before assuming it, and I successfully warned him from the foolish endeavour with a shake of my head. Father didn't take well to those who assumed their own worth.
Jerome settled into place beside me. Our shoulders brushed, and we shared a smile of reluctant gratitude just as Charles returned with a stranger in tow. I caught sporadic glimpses of the pair through the crowd, learning something different with each one. The first sighting revealed that the messenger was male, tall but with a definitively spindly structure. The second sighting showed that he wore black, floor-length robes.
The third sighting was one of his face. I learned from that glimpse that he was neither attractive nor unattractive, but somehow memorable nonetheless. There was no perfect symmetry to behold in his bone-structure, no spark in his brown eyes, and for whatever reason, he'd shaved his hair and eyebrows, only to replace them with tattoos. Two silver loops pierced his bottom lip. A stud glinted in his nose.
At last, the City Beta and the stranger broke free of the crowd, halting at the bottom of the stairs. The scent of the latter was curious, reminiscent of dusty attics and leather-bound books, with an undercurrent of cold iron that reminded me oddly of train stations. That, paired with his attire, convinced me beyond any reasonable doubt that he was a witch.
I watched him closely, feeling decidedly uneasy. The last witch to grace these halls had brought news of an impending war.
"Relay your message again," Father demanded of our strange visitor — or was hostage a better word?
"I don't answer to you, solanum," the witch said dryly, shaking off Charles' hand on his shoulder. "I answer to the Council of Thirteen. Don't presume to give me orders."
My concern deepened. People didn't antagonise powerful leaders unless they believed they were somehow on par with them — or protected by someone who was.
"The Council of Thirteen sent you here," Father pointed out. "It's your duty to relay their message."
"I have done my duty!" the witch exclaimed. "I relayed their message once, as I was instructed to do. Now you hold me here against my will."
The situation was escalating dangerously. Before he could infuriate the witch further, I touched Father's arm, prompting him to lean closer to listen. "May I question him?" I asked.
Ford nodded and relaxed in his throne, watching the witch through lowered lids. I wasted no time in descending the stairs, excruciatingly aware of the fact that everyone was watching me. Everyone except the witch, whose eyes were trained on my father, even when I came to a stop right before him. His lanky frame vibrated with either magic or fury. Neither was ideal.
After ignoring me for several long seconds, the tattooed man turned to face me — and froze.
For a moment I was at a loss, but then it hit me: he was a witch. He could probably see my aura! Apprehension rolled through me like a wave of nausea as his expression grew more and more satisfied with each passing second. A new light entered his eyes, making the otherwise dull brown gleam.
He'd found something to bargain for his freedom with: my secret.