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That makes the head of security’s gray eyebrows go up.
“W-with respect, Your Majesty,” the man on the phone says cautiously, “such an action might be seen as an act of war by the Saint-Laurent pack.”
I look around the room, at my sister in an oxygen mask, my mate’s blood on the floor. The blood on my dress, from the thrall that died beside me.
“Well,” I say, swallowing back a sudden thickness in my throat. “I guess we’re at war, then.”
CHAPTER 37
It takes two hours to round up all of the traitors on the property. There’s still no word from Hannah or Ryan, though that could be because I get shitty mobile signal in the safe room.
Tara’s condition is improved greatly, though the medics continue to monitor her. Nathan, however…
Once he’s stabilized, I sit by his bedside, just watching his labored breathing. They’ve got him on oxygen, too, and they’ve put a sterile barrier over his wound. They stitched up some gory slashes on his face. Now, all anyone can do is sit tight until the surgeon from Greater London can arrive.
“Your Majesty,” the medic in charge of his care says softly, breaking my attention away from the rise and fall of Nathan’s chest.
“Your Majesty,” the thrall says again, “I would be remiss if I didn’t ask again for you to permit a closer surgeon—”
“No. I told you, no one from the Toronto pack.” I’m too tired to be regal and furious but I’m tired of being asked the question. “Honestly, you’re all only here because I can’t keep him alive myself.”
The thrall’s dark eyebrows draw together. He bows his head and steps back. “Yes, ma’am.”
You just have to hang on a little while longer, Nathan, I urge him silently. Just a little longer.
The head of security, whose name, I have learned, is Charles, steps through the door. “Ma’am, a representative from the office of the mayor is here, as well as the chief of the Toronto Police Service.”
“Why are they here? Are we under arrest?” I’ve never thought about the consequences of our pack operating alongside the human world, but there are more of them than there are of us. And we just had a whole lot of people die on the property; twenty-six, if the early reports can be believed.
“Not under arrest, no. The pack has a long, established relationship with the city. They tend to leave us to our devices, but this incident was too large to contain,” he says.
“And do these humans know that we’re werewolves?” Secrecy has always been so important.
“These humans do,” Charles says. “They’re here to ensure other humans do not.”
“And I can leave the pod now?” I ask, gesturing to room around us.
“The residence is secure,” Charles says. “You’re clear to leave the safe room.”
At least I won’t be having this meeting through an intercom.
“Would you like to change,” Clare asks hesitantly. “You’re...”
I look down. I’m still wearing my uncomfortable coronation gown but at this point it’s become a part of my body. And it’s splashed with the blood of the thrall we lost.
Anger surges through me. I haven’t been able to be angry, I realize. I’ve been powerless and worried, but now I’m just furious.
“No. I don’t think I will.” I turn to Charles. “I want to make an address to the pack. Do we have the ability to do that? To distribute it via email or something?”
Charles nods.
“Would you like me to draft a letter?” Clare offers.
“No.” I shake my head. “I want to speak to them directly. Get me a camera, a webcam, I’ll use my phone if I have to, but I’m going to make a make a video address.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Charles gestures to the door and I lead the way out.
The moment I cross the threshold of the safe room, I’m greeted by the sight of security thralls at every door and window. Two of them, one on each side.
“They’re not going to stand over me while I sleep, right?” I ask. I don’t know what time it is, but I wouldn’t be able to tell from the windows; they’re all locked down with thick metal shades.
“Not if Your Majesty objects,” Charles tells me. “Your meeting is in His Majesty’s study.”
“Is my crown right?” I ask, reaching up to touch my head. I haven’t taken it off yet. It’s beginning to feel like armor.
Charles is caught off-guard by my question. He probably doesn’t get asked “am I pretty?” too often by the king. “It looks fine to me, Your Majesty.”
“Good. I want them to recognize that they’re meeting a queen. Not the king’s wife.” There’s a difference, and I won’t let anyone ignore it.
When we enter the study, two men are waiting. One of them is a balding caucasian with a ring of white hair still hanging on in a strip around his head. He’s in full uniform, holding his hat nervously. The man next to him is broad shouldered, with brown skin and dark hair parted on the side. He’s wearing a business suit and an expression of horror as he takes in my gore-splattered dress.
