Chapter 29: The Fire

I stand over the body, cleansed of blood and gore, neatly laid out on another steel slab. At least this time Femke has kept him separate from the others. It's much easier to focus with only one revenant in my presence-or am I growing accustomed to the stench?

She hovers behind me, keeping her distance, has since the Enforcer she sent after Roman and Viveca came to whisper in her ear. But I feel her eyes on the back of my head, making my hackles rise as much as the hunt did, even in my human form. I need to focus on the dead body before me, reaching out, though it disgusts me to the core of my being, and laying one hand on his bare shoulder.

It takes a moment for my inbred need to run howling from the feel of him to settle before I can continue my investigation. Oddly, this would have been much easier to accomplish were he still alive. Carrion-the worst kind of carrion-turns my wolfish stomach as much as my human one.

"Could it be," I say, more to myself than to Femke, "he hadn't yet reached the point of insanity? Am I wrong about him and he is yet another revenant only slower to reach the darkness?"

She doesn't comment, clearly sensing I'm only speaking so she can understand my thought process. I probe him with my magic, feel for answering power that isn't there. Of course, he's dead, but I sense even when he yet lived he didn't possess what I do.

"No magic," I say. "When we are born to werelife, we are born with the inherent power of our parents. But he has no magic." I shake my head, remembering this train of thought from the forest. "Could that be the key to the revenant's failure?" I turn to Femke, addressing her at last. "Because our bite is so virulent," something I never understood, a flaw in our makeup surely the Black Souls didn't intend, "our shapeshifting abilities are easily shared. But our magic is not."

Femke nods slowly, brow furrowed. "That makes sense," she says. "Though I've never thought of it that way before. Almost like waking a latent who doesn't have access to their magic."

I suppose so. "Has a werewolf ever bitten a witch or a vampire?"

Femke shakes her head. "If they have," she says, "there's no record of it."

"Then it's possible werewolfism is only contractible by normals." My questions for myself in the woods come back to me.

Femke looks startled. "That's a leap," she says.

"Is it?" I shrug. "If there are no records of witches or other magical races becoming infected, I could be right. After all, over all the centuries, the odds not one was bitten is a set of longer odds than my theory." Femke nods slowly as I go on. "So if a magical creature can't be infected, that leads to the conclusion I mentioned earlier. Only normals are at risk. Because they don't have magic." Which makes things worse in many ways. If these revenants are to spread, the likelihood of my people being exposed to normals grows with their number. And that means putting not only our race, but all races, at greater chance of being uncovered by vengeful normals.

My wolf chuffs for my attention and I turn back to the body. She's sensed something I missed in my speculations. When she shows it to me, I gasp softly.

"What is it?" Femke moves forward in a jerky motion, coming to stand next to me in the bright light of the room, hovering like a pale ghost over the washed-out remains.

"It's there," I say. "Sorcery." I'm not surprised, per se, just shocked to feel the black remains. "The magic they used to try and turn him." My fingers trace down his shoulder and to his forearm where a nasty bite stands out red against his corpse-pale skin. "They bit him on purpose while a sorcerer attempted to control the change." I release my touch and turn to Femke. "But they failed."

"Because they couldn't find a way to give him magic?" She meets my eyes.

"Maybe." I bite my lower lip. "But why then, if they did fail, wasn't he a soulless wretch? From what I know, it shouldn't take long for him to turn to evil. And from what we saw of him, he'd been running for at least a day, if not more."

Femke shakes her head, turning to retrieve a file from the counter behind us. She offers it to me with an apologetic smile. "I meant to show you this," she says. "All the research we have on revenants."

I finger through the pages in some awe, though she clearly expects me to be angry with her. "Where did you get this?" Black and white images of fallen revenants look up at me, pages and pages of written notes humming with magic, some old, crumbling around the edges despite the power holding them together, others crisp and fresh.

"The Council has been observing you for a long time," she says. "This file only recently came to my attention."

I wave off her worry. "This is fascinating," I say, pausing on a page close to the back. "According to this, it can take a full seven days for a healthy human to turn to a revenant." No wonder the illness spread. If the revenant wasn't outed immediately, they could contaminate their entire village before changing into their ultimate form. But from what I was told as a child, the turn happened much quicker. "Seven days," I say. "I thought it was within hours?" The Black Souls made sure we were afraid. But why would they lie about the amount of time it took for a revenant to develop? What possible purpose came from such deceit?

Femke nods. "I don't want to naysay your oral history," she says, "but the proof is here."

I look up with breathless excitement. I shouldn't be excited. This is terrible subject matter. But my people have endured centuries of being in the dark about our own abilities and development. This file-and if there are others-could shed some light on our beliefs. The elements know we, as a werenation, could use a good challenge to our old ways of thinking. The more I leaf through the file, the more I wonder just how much of who we were has been fabricated and turned to suspicion and superstition. I, for one, would love to uncover all truths about our race, if only to assist in our future growth.

Listen to me, going all wereprincess and everything.

"May I take this home with me?" I see her hesitation before she grins.

"Sorry, old habits." She takes it from me, tapping it on her free hand. "I'll have a copy made right away."

"Along with anything else you might have," I say.

Femke laughs with a rueful grin. "How well you know us," she says.

"The weres," I say. "Roman and Viveca. Did your Enforcer find how they traveled?"

Femke's grim headshake answers me before her words do. "Covered their tracks," she says. "Very well. Too well."

"The Dumonts," I say. "I know they are connected to this somehow."

"If so," Femke says, grim and dark, "I'll find out how and make sure they stop."

She leaves me there to ponder the body. The smell doesn't bother me as much as it did, the cloying heaviness lifting as I cross my arms over my chest and frown at the dead man's face. So many questions, though I'm even more certain the Dumonts have to be involved.

A shiver of worry strikes deep inside me. Sorcery. Could it be our old enemies have woken? Unlike Syd, I don't believe the Brotherhood are gone. They are like cockroaches, hiding in the shadows, building their numbers. I never agreed with Eva Southway's willingness to allow their broken number to join the Steam Union after Syd defeated Liander Belaisle.

It's been years since his fall and subsequent disappearance. Could it be he's readying his next move against us?

I take a deep sniff of the body, trying to taste the sorcery, but it's no use. It's as black and dark as ever, a hollow, hungry feeling I retreat from. I can't identify the difference between users. It could be Piers's sorcery for all I can tell.

Which makes me think of him and my guilt rises fresh. But it also gives me an idea. Maybe he can differentiate? If we can identify the specific sorcerer, he and his people might be able to track him or her down and put an end to this.

I'm about to reach for Piers when I feel his mind touch mine.

Charlotte. He sounds tired, distant.

Piers. I offer him my power, something I rarely do. He sips of it, his sorcery tasting me, but he does it gently, pulling away long before I can feel the effects of the drain. I'm sorry, I can't find him.

My mind is on the sorcerer responsible and I'm about to ask Piers how he knew I was looking when a beloved face flashes in my mind.

Sage. My heart stops a beat, air leaving my lungs in a rush of fear. Didn't he get off the train?

Piers feels like he's moving. There's no sign of him in Kiev. I'm sorry. I'm back tracking to see if he got off earlier, but I'm on stop number five and there's no hint of him.

I'm coming to you. I spin and head for the door as Piers's mental voice hisses.

Never mind, he sends. Found him. But he's not here. I see an image of a hostel room, Sage's belongings in one corner. I recognize his backpack immediately. His trace feels old.

Where are you? I'm on the elevator, pressing the buttons in haste. How am I going to get to Piers?

Milia. Piers sounds irritated. Looks like he got off one stop after you left him on the train. I can feel his opinion of Sage going downhill. Guy obviously doesn't take hints well.

I can't muster anger against Piers, not while my worry for Sage grows with each passing moment. The doors to the elevator finally open and I nearly crash into Femke as I rush forward. She catches me with a breathless laugh, handing me two heavy files, her head tilting in curious worry as I point to my temple and mouth "Piers."

Keep looking, I send. I'll be right there. I pause, eyes locked on Femke's worried blues. She doesn't ask, just waits for me to say something, looking young and casual in her t-shirt and jeans. She's not the Council leader I expected, more like Syd. And I'm happy that's the case.

"I have to go to-"

I don't get to finish my request. Oleksander's mighty mind reaches across the miles and slams into mine. I gasp and Femke catches me as I steel myself against my grandfather's heavy fury.

What is it? My hands tremble despite my resolve as he roars in my head.

COME HOME IMMEDIATELY.

I shiver, Femke's eyes wide. She's heard him, too. It's taken tremendous effort for him to reach me, let alone shout across the distance. I draw a deep breath.

"Sounds like trouble." Femke hesitates, clearly wanting to offer help. But whatever has my grandfather in a rage is werenation business or he would have asked her for assistance. And I can't push him any further.

"I'll be fine," I say. "Just need a ride home, if you don't mind?"

Femke quickly summons an Enforcer and Finlay answers the call. I wave to her, the two files clutched to my chest as the blue fire carries me away from Oxford. I step out of Finlay's power and onto the lawn of the palace, turning to thank him for the ride, but he's already disappearing.

Nervous as to what I'm about to face, hating not having any information and worried for my grandfather, I hurry inside. The gathered werewolves stare at me, glare even, my own people as I rush past them and to the throne room.

What has happened to make them so angry? My heart beings to pound louder and louder, a black tunnel forming in my peripheral vision, breath hard to catch. I focus on my grandfather, sitting on his throne, staring at me as I enter and stride the carpet of the central aisle to join him.

A glance to my left as I near the dais reveals a grinning Caine. He seems even more amused than ever, though the rest of the assembly rumbles with fury. I stop at the foot of the stairs and face Oleksander. His cheeks are bright red, eyes bulging, fists gripping the arms of his throne as though to pull it apart.

"Bring him forward!" My grandfather's booming voice makes me flinch. What the hell is going on?

It doesn't take long for a familiar scent to reach me, and horror to grow with the fluttering of my panicked heart. I turn to find Andre Dumont approaching, his sons dragging a struggling form between them. They are under orders not to return here. Why hasn't my grandfather ordered them killed?

"Our pleasure to deliver the damaged one to you," Andre says in his smooth voice. "Who knows how much evil he could have spread had we not caught him."

I stare, open mouthed and trembling, as their captive raises his head. Sage stares back, cheeks pink, panting softly.

But it's the blood oozing from the bite on his shoulder that catches my attention, holds it, even as my heart finally dies in my chest.



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