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“You are.” The relief in Wilde’s voice leaves me thinking things got pretty sketchy, though.
“Why does everybody make it sound like that was ever in doubt?” That’s a stupid question, and I know it even as I ask. I’m the one who was just lying here unconscious after my eyes started leaking blood. Of course, there was a reason to be worried about me.
“They launched an attack,” Wilde explains, almost snarling as he looks over his shoulder to where the witches are now being held.
“Don’t worry,” Agnes assures us. “They won’t be of any trouble now. I suppose they never imagined a half-witch being able to hobble them.”
“What does she mean?” I ask once she walks away. I watch as she drops the severed head onto what I now realize is the body it used to be attached to, crumpled up on the floor. Not so powerful now, is she? She won’t make anybody bleed from their eyes ever again.
“She cast some sort of spell without them realizing she was doing it,” Wilde explains. “Honestly, I have no idea exactly what she did, but I did feel it.
“She stopped the attack?” Whatever they did to me, it’s made me sort of slow. I can’t quite catch up. It’s just that everything is so different from the way it was before I lost consciousness. “Did everybody leave?”
“Some, and some are only waiting outside for things to begin.”
“What things?”
“It’s time for a trial,” Forrest explains when he joins us. “Welcome back.”
“Yeah, glad to be here,” I mutter.
He laughs and pats Wilde on the back. “See, I told you she’d be fine.”
I might be fine, but I’m also extremely confused. “You’re going to have to tell me everything, or I’m going to go crazy. How long was I out for?”
“Long enough that those bitches had the chance to regret ever coming here,” Forrest assures me. I smell blood on him, though he’s washed it away. There was a battle or at least a skirmish. And I missed it. I don’t know if I’m sorry or glad. Maybe a little bit of both.
“Where’s my father?” I almost forgot about him, and now I search the room, eager to find him.
“He went to wash up. He’ll be back soon—he’s fine, don’t worry. He was slightly wounded but was already healing by the time he went to the house.”
It’s like everything they tell me only unearths another question. “Let me guess. The idea was always to fight with us.”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
“There was a little more to it than that,” their mother murmurs.
“Like what?” I hate the way the three of them look at each other, like they’re trying to figure out who wants to break it to me first.
They don’t get the chance to make up their minds before Dad comes rushing up to me. “Oh, Lili. You’re safe.”
“I’m fine, I guess.” Though still foggy and confused and, evidently, nowhere close to getting any answers. “Is somebody going to tell me what happened? Please.”
“There’s going to be a trial.” Right, Forrest already mentioned that.
“A trial for who?” Well, that’s a stupid question. Obviously, it’s for the witches, but I can’t imagine it being very fair. Then again, were they fair to me?
“Isn’t this going to cause more trouble?” I ask next. It’s probably not the question anybody feels like hearing, but I think it needs to be asked, anyway. “I hope this isn’t all because of me.”
“It isn’t—though you would be worth it,” Wilde insists. He helps me to my feet, where I sway slightly but manage to stay upright.
Connor comes in, and the hall falls silent. I’ve seen him angry, furious, even murderous. That was nothing compared to the way he looks now, the way he carries himself like he’s ready to stomp on someone. “The trial is about to begin.”
More and more of the pack file in behind him—it’s a mix between those who glare angrily at the witches and those who seem to go out of their way to avoid looking at them. Whatever happened in here, it shook everybody up. It shook me up, too.
“This is no trial!” one of the witches shouts, and the others add their voices.
“Silence!” Connor bellows.
“Traitor!” another one shouts to Agnes, ignoring him. “How could you kill those of your kind?”
“To protect the innocent, I will do anything,” she replies. While she doesn’t sound as angry or vengeful as the witches, there’s a steeliness to the way she says it. Somehow, it’s even more powerful than the loudest shouts.
“You are charged with crossing our borders under the pretense of peace negotiations when, in reality, you came here with only one purpose in mind: murder.” An angry growl rises up through the room. “Do you deny it?”
None of them speak. Their angry glares speak volumes, though.
“And your intention.” He frowns slightly, and I realize when so many pairs of eyes turn my way that this has to do with me. “To kidnap and murder my son’s chosen mate.”
