Page 123 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

FORTY-THREE

It’s over.

We’re in a banquet hall twice the size of the dining room at Trevelyan, and it is jammed full of werewolves. When I first dined with the Albion Pack, I’d realized I was in an enclosed space with nearly two dozen of them. Two dozen men. Two dozen werewolves. I’d considered myself confident and worldly until I sat in that room and knew what it truly was to feel fear. Not the terror of facing down enemies, but the insidious, whispering fear of being in a situation that seemed completely innocuous—a dinner to celebrate me, no less—but realizing that if it went wrong, in any way, I could never escape. And that it might very well go wrong, because the laughs and smiles masked the fact that I was a stranger who knew nothing of these people.

Now I’m in a room with nearly three times that many. All men. All werewolves. They’re crammed in, because despite the cavernous size of this room, it wasn’t meant to hold this many people. Three Packs in one place. With me in the center.

I look around at the tables, every chair taken, more wolves standing, some lounging against walls. All eyes on me, and while I see what I saw that night at Trevelyan—kindness, friendly curiosity—I also sense a seething undercurrent of something darker. Not outward hostility. Not much of it, at least. What I sense is what I’d felt that first night at Trevelyan. Trepidation and uncertainty, the sort that says they know things could turn bad and if they do, they’re ready to fight.

I should be afraid. But when I reach down into myself, chasing any wisp of fear, the same thing swirls in the undercurrent here. Trepidation. Uncertainty. The understanding that this has all happened so fast and it could go so wrong. Over that, though, is calm. Calm and satisfaction and the cautious joy of knowing it has, for now, gone very right.

That evening at Trevelyan, I was alone. Here, I’m not, and that makes all the difference. I can say I’m in the center of this sea of wolves, but Bishop stands beside me, holding my hand. Julius is here, and Rufus, both to the side but watching for trouble. Ann is with them, also watching. The Campbell sons are all here, too: Edwin and Angus and Dennis, on Bishop’s other side. I don’t know them well enough to take comfort in their presence, but I can take pride in the fact that they stand beside us, as do their Pack enforcers, advisor, and controller. Hamish is in his rooms, sulking, and I’m glad of that. Not the sulking, which I will quietly condemn him for. If Bishop had been defeated, he’d have taken time to quietly rage, but he’d be here, standing tall. That isn’t Hamish and, selfishly, I don’t want him here, where his open hostility would spoil the mood.

Because the mood is celebration. A little muted, acknowledging that this wasn’t how anyone wanted things to end. Privately, Angus told Bishop this was how his father’s rule was always going to end—in bloodshed, and he’s only glad it didn’t get him killed. Edwin had always hoped for a peaceful resolution, and Dennis wasn’t willing to side with one elder brother over the other. In the end, I can only hope that Hamish realizes his sons didn’t betray him; they did what was best for their Pack. That’s a testament to how he raised them, but it’s not entirely a compliment. While he raised them to be good and honorable men who might someday be Alphas, he also showed them how things shouldn’t be done, with an Alpha who put his own pride and comfort over that of his wolves.

We aren’t gathered here to lay blame, though. We’re here to answer all the unspoken questions and allay as much of those rippling fears and apprehensions as we can. So when everyone is gathered, Edwin nods to Bishop, ceding the floor to him.

“I know you’re all hungry and tired,” Bishop says. “I promise food and drink and warm beds await. I also know many of you will feel uncertain and unsettled. The Albion Pack is still recovering from the tragedy at Trevelyan. The Cambrians are still recovering from their leader’s betrayal. And now the Caledonians have seen their own serious disruption.”

“Seems those events all have one thing in common,” a wolf rumbles deep in the crowd. “Bishop Danvers.”

A growl from Rufus, and Angus moves forward as if to call out the wolf, but subtle motions from Bishop hold them back. He lets the silence stretch to the point of discomfort. Then he says, “Yes.”

A ripple of unease follows.

“Yes,” Bishop repeats. “I am the common denominator. I am the disrupter. Was that my intention? I didn’t think so. I thought of myself as a rebuilder. I joined the Albions looking to help—both the wolves I brought with me and those already there. Eventually I expected helping would mean leading, and I will fully admit that I wanted to be Alpha. But my goal was to fix a broken system. The more I tried to patch it up, the more holes I found, and I was so busy trying to prop up that broken system that I let people get hurt.”

He glances my way, with such apology in his eyes that my own sting with tears.

“The situation spiraled,” he continues. “Because I was busy trying to repair things that couldn’t be repaired. I think I’m not the only one who was doing that.”

He looks at Jesse, off to the side, and Jesse nods in acknowledgment and understanding.

“Aye,” Edwin says, and Angus makes a noise of agreement beside him. “Trying to repair leaks while the room is flooding behind us. I think we all know what that’s like.”

“And the hard, hard truth,” Bishop says, “is that sometimes it can’t all be saved. Sometimes disruption is needed. A grand reset. I think that’s what we’ve accomplished here. A grand reset for three of the British Packs. And now you’re all wondering what that will look like for you personally.”

Noises of assent and shifting bodies throughout the crowd.

“Things will change,” Bishop says. “Mostly for the better, but we aren’t going to achieve perfection. That just isn’t possible. Heaven for one man is hell for another. What we can guarantee is that no one will be ripped from their loved ones, father from son, friend from friend. Reorganization is going to happen, but we believe it can be done voluntarily. Change will occur within the Packs as well. How will that look? We don’t entirely know yet. What we do know are two things. One, some of us are going to be enduring endless meetings for days. Two, the rest of you won’t have to.”

Soft laughter and hoots from the wolves.

“In fact,” Bishop says, “in recognition of the pain that comes with upheaval, we want you to have time to relieve the pressure of that upheaval, to get away and enjoy yourselves. To that end, all regular work will cease for a three-day holiday. For those who can’t take the time off, four days will be provided after the others return. To ensure everyone can enjoy themselves, you will each receive a gift of ten pounds from us.”

“From us, you mean,” someone grumbles. “From the Caledonian coffers.”

The Caledonian controller steps forward. “No. The Caledonians will pay for their men, and the Albions will pay for theirs and the Cambrians’. That was Bishop’s suggestion.”

“The point is that you all get ten pounds,” Edwin says. “Take it with our thanks and enjoy it.”

“Just don’t all rush to the brothels,” Angus’s voice booms over the crowd. “We don’t want to overwhelm the lasses.”

Hoots and hollers, and someone says, “They might like that.”

I murmur, under my breath, “They very well might,” and those around me chuckle, and I’d kept my voice low, but I still get a few smiles from the wolves nearest us, clearly appreciating that I didn’t faint in a fit of vapors.

Edwin says, “If anyone wishes to forgo the immediate holiday and help out here, in return for the four days off later, please let us know. You might find things a bit quieter in the city if you wait.”