Chapter 233: Seek Shelter 4

BRADLEY

"Bring me something to play this on," Folke said.

He did not look away from the disc in my hands. An acolyte I had not heard enter was already gone, and the silence he left behind was so complete that I could hear the fire hissing blue in the grate. I stood with my throat burning and my sentinel groaning against the far wall, and I counted the seconds the way I used to count them on the border, waiting for the signal that would tell me whether we were about to live.

A laptop arrived soon after.

Folke took it himself. He placed it on the table, opened it, and waited for the screen to come to life. When the disc was inserted, a familiar security footage appeared.

"Sit, Supreme," I said quietly.

"I’d rather stand."

The younger warlock, the one who had burned out one of my sentinel’s eye, moved closer to him. His face was still damp, and he looked as though he hadn’t quite recovered from what he’d witnessed.

I didn’t want to watch the footage again. I’d already seen it live, and the memory was unpleasant enough without having to relive it. But I kept my eyes on the screen, occasionally looking at Folke to gauge his reaction.

The footage showed the corridor of the infirmary. The camera angle was familiar. We had installed those cameras ourselves, and I knew exactly which section of the corridor I was looking at.

Then a woman walked into view.

I recognized her immediately. So did Folke.

It was as though Willow looked directly at the camera and smiled.

It was an awful smile too. Too wide, and far too delighted, as though she were enjoying a private joke that nobody else could understand. She lifted one hand, and a sentinel was hurled through the wall.

Folke went still.

The woman on the screen laughed.

The sound came through the laptop speakers, slightly distorted, but there was no mistaking it. Another sentinel rushed her. She caught him, twisted his arm until the bone snapped, and sent him crashing to the floor. Blood splattered across the pale stone.

Willow tilted her head, almost curiously, as though she were admiring her handiwork.

"No," Folke whispered.

She took down four men in less than a minute. The footage captured everything: the screams, the cracking bones, the desperate attempts to get away from her. Then another figure entered the frame.

My stomach tightened.

It was me.

On the recording, I was bleeding from a wound on my scalp, my clothes torn, my face contorted with rage. I charged her, and she turned to meet me.

The two of us collided.

Then the footage dissolved into static.

The screen flickered several times before going black.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the fire crackling in the grate.

Folke stood with both hands pressed against the table. His head was lowered, and his shoulders had gone rigid. When he finally looked up, his eyes had returned to blue.

I’d never seen a man look so utterly lost.

"How am I supposed to know this is real?"

"You can’t. Not with absolute certainty."

It was the only honest answer I could give him.

"You have no way of knowing I didn’t arrange the entire thing. You understand the arts better than I do. I’m not a witch, and I’m sure you’ve already considered the possibilities. Illusions, borrowed faces, fabricated voices. There are ways to make a convincing lie look like the truth." I took a careful step toward him, keeping my hands visible. "But this happened, Folke. And I think you know that the explanations you’re searching for are becoming increasingly difficult to believe."

I paused before continuing.

"There was another witch present. Madeline Blossom. She was instrumental in containing the situation. Without her intervention, things could have been considerably worse for everyone in that infirmary."

"A Blossom?"

"Yes. Madeline stayed through the aftermath and placed a binding on every witness. Their accounts have been preserved. If you still believe I’m deceiving you, I’ll submit to a soul kiss. Tonight, if necessary. You can bind me to my own words and find out for yourself."

"There is no need."

"There is every need."

"I said..." His voice broke, and he stopped to collect himself. "I said there is no need."

He turned the laptop away from himself. The movement was small, almost absent-minded, but I understood it. He couldn’t bear to look at the screen anymore.

"There’s something else you should know," I said.

His eyes lifted to mine.

"You must have heard about the Delicate. She came to the royal estate to offer assistance, but after a particularly vicious attack, she was admitted to the infirmary to recover. She was a gentle girl. She had nothing to do with any of this."

"I heard." He rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Everyone has heard by now. Another death at the royal werewolf estate. It seems that place has become synonymous with tragedy."

"Then you may also have heard how she died."

His hand dropped. "No, but I am certain you will tell me now."

"Her head was destroyed by magic. In front of a witness." I forced myself to hold his gaze. "It was your daughter’s magic, Folke. Willow killed her. And after that, she couldn’t get away with what she’d done."

He stared at me.

"I’m sorry."

"I don’t understand."

There was no anger in his voice. No accusation. Just bewilderment, so profound that I almost wished he’d shouted at me instead.

"My daughter has never had anything to do with the wolves beyond her association with the royal family." He looked past me, his gaze settling somewhere near the bookshelves. "She’s helped you people. Occasionally, she’s attended your functions, sat at your tables. That’s the extent of it. What would she possibly have to do with rogue factions? With terrorists?"

A strained laugh escaped him.

"This is madness. It doesn’t make any sense. Willow wouldn’t even know where to begin with something like this."

"I understand that this is difficult to accept."

"No, you don’t."

He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers against them for a moment.

"Goddess, my wife..." His voice faltered. "This will destroy her."