Chapter 231: Seek Shelter 2

BRADLEY

"The High Beta of the werewolf throne!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms. "The second hand of the king himself, in my humble parlor. What an honor. I am delighted. Truly delighted! Come, sit. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

"Supreme Shelter." I inclined my head. "Thank you for receiving us at such an hour."

"It is nothing, nothing at all." He waved a hand dismissively, and a servant I had not noticed approached to place a glass in my hand. "It is a terrible thing, what happened to the late King. A terrible thing. He was a great man, and his loss will be felt for generations. I wept when I heard. And the new regent? Young Lysander? How is he bearing the responsibility? I hear he has the right temperament for it. Quiet, watchful, not easily swayed. Those are admirable qualities in a ruler. I can tell you that."

He settled back into his chair, regarding me with the pleasant curiosity of a man entertaining an old acquaintance.

"I do hope my daughter has been of some assistance to him. Willow wrote to me once about the estate. That was a few days ago. She... She called it a snake pit, if I remember correctly." He chuckled. "She has always had a sharp tongue, my Willow, but she is a clever girl. And I am sure she knows how to handle a snake or two."

"Supreme..."

"I trust that is not why you have come." His smile remained, though something beneath it had begun to sharpen. "She has not disappointed you, I hope? Not failed to provide what was expected of her? She is still young, after all, and the young can sometimes be careless with their gifts. I would be mortified to discover that she had somehow..."

"Supreme Shelter."

My voice came out louder than I intended.

The room fell silent.

I placed the glass on the side table beside me. My hand was steady, though I wished it were not. I had stood before widows and told them their husbands would never return from the border. I had watched mothers collapse upon hearing that their sons had been killed in battle. There were few duties in my position that I had not learned to perform without allowing my feelings to interfere.

Yet I had never wanted the floor to open beneath me as badly as I did at that moment.

"I am terribly sorry," I began. "For the news I have come to deliver."

His smile remained.

"Your daughter was..."

My throat tightened. I swallowed and forced the words out.

"Your daughter was a terrorist."

Folke blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"She was in allegiance with rogue factions. She was involved in the deaths of several people, including a Delicate, for reasons we have yet to fully understand. And when she was apprehended, she..." I paused, but there was no kind way to finish it. "She took her own life to escape the punishment awaiting her."

The silence that followed lasted perhaps three seconds.

Then Folke Shelter laughed.

It was not a nervous laugh or the strained amusement of a man attempting to disguise his shock. It was genuine, full-bodied laughter. He threw his head back, and one hand rose to the corner of his eye as though I had told him something particularly entertaining.

"Forgive me," he said, still chuckling. "Forgive an old man. For one dreadful moment, I thought you were serious."

His gaze returned to mine.

"That sounds nothing like my daughter. What in the name of the moon are you talking about?"

"Supreme..."

"My Willow cannot even bear to watch a rabbit caught in a snare." The amusement lingered in his voice, though it was beginning to acquire an unpleasant edge. "When she was little, she used to bring spiders into the house in little cups because she was afraid someone would step on them. She would insist I carry them outside myself."

His smile faltered.

"What agenda? What rogue factions?" He leaned forward, the warmth in his expression finally giving way to disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about?"

His gaze drifted past me.

It settled on the two sentinels standing a respectful distance inside the doorway, their burden suspended between them. The white linen... The silver cord... The thin vapor curling around their boots.

The laughter died.

"What is that?"

"Supreme, if you would please sit down, I can explain..."

"What is that?"

He was already moving.

I made no attempt to stop him. Neither did anyone else. Folke crossed the room with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never been accustomed to being denied anything. He approached the sentinels, reached for the linen and, before either could react, seized the fabric and tore it away from throat to heel.

Willow lay between them, her body exposed, grey skin almost translucent beneath the unnatural pallor. The silver cord hung loose from her limbs.

I watched the Supreme of Bellowstand look at his daughter.

I had seen men die. I had watched men discover that they were dying, had seen the precise moment when hope abandoned their faces and left them with nothing but the knowledge of what was coming. But I had never witnessed anything quite like what passed across Folke Shelter’s face.

It did not crumple. It emptied.

One moment, there was a man standing before his daughter’s body, and the next, it was as though someone had extinguished every light inside him. The color drained from his cheeks. His mouth parted, but no sound emerged. His fingers remained caught in the linen, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Then his body shuddered.

It began in his hands, traveled up his arms and settled in his chest, a deep, violent tremor that seemed to move through the room itself. The glass on the side table rattled. The books along the shelves began to hum against one another. Flames erupted from the grate, climbing higher before turning an unnatural blue, and the flagstones beneath my boots vibrated.

"You people," he said.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

Somehow, that was worse.

"You killed my daughter?"