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I put my hand on my hip. “Excuse me, she’s my sister. I’m pregnant. This is the kind of news you share with your sister.”
“You can’t,” Nathan repeats, and the crestfallen expression on his face chills me. “Because she’s not here anymore.”
“I don’t…” I look at Hannah, and Tara.
Nathan’s silver gaze swims with sorrow. “I’m so sorry. I hate that I have to tell you this. But there is evidence that your brother-in-law, Clare’s husband, was a part of the assassination plot.”
“We knew that already,” I say with a hysterical burst of a laugh. “This is absurd. We knew that months ago—”
“The attack against you,” he clarifies.
Then my whole world drops away when he adds, “And Clare may have helped.”
CHAPTER 49
Despite Nathan’s insistence to the contrary, I want to see Clare.
I have to see her.
Nathan tells me firmly that he’s going with me, if only on the car ride. His presence is oddly touching, though I know it has more to do with protecting his pregnant mate than emotionally supporting me.
The pack’s dungeons are located at the ceremonial grounds, beneath the council building. We pull up to the front doors and Nathan takes my hand. “You’re sure you don’t need me.”
“I just need to see my sister alone,” I tell him. Again.
It’s not like she’d be thrilled to see him, anyway. He’s the one who threw her in the dungeon.
The royal flags on the front of the car are enough to gain me immediate entrance to the building, and the first security thrall I meet inside takes me down to Clare’s cell, no questions asked. I wonder if that’s Nathan’s doing, too.
The dungeon is exactly what the word invokes. Deep below the earth, with cold stone walls slick with mold and damp, it’s probably the same foundation built by our ancestors. Pack history class taught us that during the full moon, some werewolves locked themselves in cages to prevent them from committing violence. That was before we learned to control it, before the ceremony that kept us safe and in control of our senses as we roam.
The only changes to the structure seem to be the metal bars and more hygienic plumbing. I note stainless steel toilets in the corners of the cells as we pass some of the empty ones. The ones that aren’t empty, I don’t glance into. I don’t want to see the werewolves Nathan and I condemned.
They notice me, though. One man rushes at me, screaming, and a guard steps forward with a cattle prod that he deftly pushes through the bars. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, blocking out the furious shouts that follow me. The silence that suddenly falls is almost worse because I know it was purchased at the cost of injuring my pack mates.
They’ve put Clare at the end of the corridor, in a cell flanked by two guards. I dismiss them with a wave. “Leave us.”
As they go, Clare doesn’t react. She sits on her cot, staring at nothing. She looks like absolute hell, in limp pajamas they probably dragged her here in, and makeup still clinging to a face she hasn’t been able to properly wash.
I wonder how long she’s been down here. I need to get her setting spray.
The thought is so weird, considering what I’m here for.
She tried to kill me.
My own sister tried to kill me and I’m thinking of asking her for makeup advice like nothing has changed.
But she’s my sister and I feel so much pity for her that I snap at the retreating guards, “Why doesn’t she have any blankets?”
Clare still doesn’t look at me, but she’s the one who answers. “Because I tried to hang myself with them.”
“What?” The very idea of it brings tears to my eyes.
She finally turns to me. “Bailey, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t reattach my hand,” I whisper, and hold my arm up to show her.
She gasps softly.
“Did you know I survived?” I ask, keeping my tone as detached as possible. I don’t want her to see how hurt I am. I’m the fucking queen. I should be angry. I should be imperious, and I shouldn’t give a damn about someone who orchestrated an assassination attempt against me.
But she’s my sister, and when she nods in reply, I can’t sound quite so impartial with my follow-up question. “Did you know about the plan?”
Another nod, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
“Did Tara know?”
Clare shakes her head. The fact that she won’t just say the words, that she won’t own up to them verbally, builds a growing fury in me.
“Did you help?”
It takes her a long moment, but she nods.
“Tell me,” I demand. “You owe me an explanation. Fucking speak! What did you do, specifically, to help your husband try to murder me?”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “I told him about the layout of the residence. I told him what your schedule is.”
