Chapter 232: Seek Shelter 3

BRADLEY

"That is far from the truth." I kept my hands where he could see them. "We would never have come before you with such news if we had any part in her death. Supreme, I swear on the late King’s grave..."

He turned towards me.

I never saw him raise his hand.

One moment I was standing before him, and the next, the air had closed around my throat. An invisible force seized me beneath the jaw and lifted me clean off the floor.

At first, the pressure was almost delicate, like a thumb resting against the pulse in my neck. Then it tightened.

My boots dangled several inches above the flagstones. My vision began to whiten at the edges, and I tasted blood where my teeth had caught my tongue. I clawed at my throat, but my fingers found nothing. There was no hand to pry away, no grip to break. Only air that was so compressed until it felt harder than iron.

"Stop with the lies!"

His eyes had turned completely white. The pale blue that had crinkled so warmly when he smiled was gone, swallowed by a fierce, colorless light.

"My daughter is not a hybrid. She was a pure witch. Pure! She was born in this house, raised in this house, and trained in the traditions of this coven. The rogue plague that has gnawed at you wolves for a millennium has nothing to do with her. Why would she care about your wars? Why would she lift a hand for any of it?"

His voice rose with every question. The windows trembled in their frames, and the glass rang as though struck by invisible fingers.

"You liar!" he roared. "You liar! What did you do to her?"

Behind me came the scrape of boots against stone.

The sentinels had dropped their burden.

Willow’s body struck the floor with a sound I would remember until the day I died. It was a soft, heavy thud, horribly ordinary for something so unnatural, like a sack of grain dropped from a man’s shoulder.

Then came the sharp metallic clicks of safeties being released.

Two rifles rose into my peripheral vision, both aimed at the Supreme’s chest.

At the same time, something shifted in the empty corner beside the bookshelves. The air shimmered, then folded backward like a curtain being drawn aside. A third figure stepped out of it, a young man dressed in grey robes whom none of us had noticed upon entering.

He had been there the entire time.

Watching.

He raised one hand, palm out.

A bolt of pale light struck the sentinel on my left directly in the face. He screamed and staggered backward, both hands flying to his eyes. His companion swung his rifle towards the young man, but before he could fire, a second bolt struck him squarely in the chest and hurled him against the wall.

"Stop!"

The word barely made it past the pressure crushing my windpipe. It came out ragged, scraping its way through my throat.

"Do... not... attack!"

The sentinels froze.

"We brought..." I wheezed, struggling against the last remnants of the pressure around my throat. "We brought proof. A recording. Video evidence. Supreme, please. We are not lying."

The force around my neck faltered.

It did not disappear, but something in it shifted, the pressure trembling as though the hand holding it had momentarily lost its resolve. The white fire in Folke’s eyes flickered. It dimmed by the smallest degree, and I realized that one word had managed to reach a part of him that was still capable of listening.

Video.

Perhaps it was the first thing I had said that he could bear to consider.

"Lower your weapons," I rasped to the sentinels. "Put them down. And mind the body. She is the Supreme’s daughter. Whatever she has done, you will treat her like one."

They hesitated, but eventually obeyed. The sentinel who had been thrown against the wall remained where he had fallen, one hand pressed to his chest as he groaned through the pain. His companion lowered himself beside Willow and, with considerably more care than he had shown a moment earlier, drew the linen back over her face.

The young man in grey had yet to lower his hand.

His gaze remained fixed on me, and there were tears gathering in his eyes.

"Master," he said, his voice hoarse. "Give the word, and I will end their lives."

"Wait," Folke said.

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, his fingers relaxed.

I dropped.

My knees struck the flagstones, and air rushed back into my lungs so violently that I doubled over. I coughed, once, then again, each breath scraping against my bruised throat. For several seconds, I could do little more than struggle to draw enough air into my chest.

Someone reached for me, but I waved them away.

My fingers fumbled beneath my coat until they found what I was looking for: a small, flat square wrapped in oilcloth.

I drew it out and held it up.

"This is the disc," I managed. My voice sounded dreadful, little more than a rasp. "From one of our security cameras. We recovered it before the system was destroyed. The footage shows..." I broke off to cough, pressing a hand against my throat. "It shows her doing terrible things to werewolves. I wish to the goddess that I were lying."

"It is us who should be baying for blood!"

The words came from behind me. One of the sentinels had apparently recovered enough of his temper to mistake the room for an appropriate place to vent it.

"She butchered..."

"Shut the hell up."

I did not turn around. I did not need to.

My voice was still damaged, but there was enough authority left in it to silence him.

"This man has just had his entire life torn apart. His daughter is dead. He is a friend and ally of the crown, standing in his own home with her body lying on his floor." I paused, drawing a careful breath. "You will show him the respect he is owed, or you will wait outside with the car. Is that understood?"

The sentinel’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.

I pushed myself upright.

It took two attempts. On the second, I managed to get a hand against the back of a chair and use it to steady myself. My throat burned, and I could already feel the tenderness spreading beneath my jaw, but I forced myself to stand.

Then I faced Folke Shelter.

I held the disc between both hands, presenting it almost like an offering. His eyes were still terribly pale, though the fire in them had begun to recede.

"I am so sorry," I said.

Neither of us moved.

The flames in the grate had dwindled to a low blue glow. On the mantelpiece, the clock without hands continued to tick, though it had no visible indication of what it was counting.

Folke looked at the disc.

Then he looked at me.

Finally, his gaze traveled to the small, linen-covered shape on the floor.

I watched the fury leave his face, and with it, whatever terrible power had made the entire room tremble. The light in his eyes faded until they were once again the pale blue of an old man’s eyes.

For the first time since we had entered the room, he looked his age.

The Supreme of Bellowstand was gone.

Her father remained.

"Show me," he whispered.