Chapter One — The Girl Who Should Have Died (3)

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"Okay, so, quick orientation," Locke said, striding down a hall lined with swords that were probably older than human civilization. Layla jogged to keep up, because Locke moved like a man with a fire alarm and nowhere to be. "Rule one: don't touch the tapestries, they're enchanted and they bite. Rule two: don't look the Elders in the eye. Rule three: if you hear howling at night, that's just the King, it's fine."

"The King howls?"

"At the moon, yeah. Every full moon since the war. It's, uh." Locke scratched his chin. "It's sort of sad, actually. He thinks nobody can hear it. The whole palace hears it. We just pretend we don't, because he'd kill us."

Layla absorbed this. "Why does he howl at the moon?"

Locke stopped walking. For the first time, the cheerfulness in his face flickered, like a bulb on a bad wire.

"He was nine," he said. "His mother sold him to a rival pack to stop a war. They kept him in a cage for two years. Beat him, starved him, used him as bait to lure his own father into a trap. His father died in that trap. He watched. He was eleven when he broke out, and by the time he was sixteen he'd killed every single wolf who'd ever touched him, and a few who hadn't, and by the time he was twenty-three he'd conquered the whole damn Dominion and made himself King so that nobody could ever cage him again."

Layla's throat went tight.

"So the howling," Locke said, quieter. "It's not for the moon. It's because there's still a boy in there who never got out of the cage. And he's been screaming for nineteen years straight."

The hall felt colder. Layla thought about the breakfast tray, the crushed rose, the way the most dangerous creature in the world had said you made the noise stop like it was the most precious thing anyone had ever given him.

"Wow," she said, because the alternative was crying.

"Yeah." Locke clapped her on the shoulder hard enough to relocate her spine. "Anyway! Here's the palace gym. Don't go in there. The King once broke a sparring partner's ribs and then apologized to him for forty minutes. It was the scariest thing I've ever seen."

"Wait," Layla said. "He apologized?"

"For forty minutes. While the guy was unconscious. Then he carried him to the medic himself and told everyone to pretend it never happened." Locke shuddered. "That's the thing about the King. When he was just a killer, you knew where you stood. Now he's got, like, feelings? Nobody knows what to do with that. It's chaos."

They rounded a corner and nearly walked into a wall of fur. A wolf the size of a pony — no, the size of a small car — was lounging across the corridor, one yellow eye fixed on them.

"That's Bjorn," Locke said. "He's in charge of palace security. He's also the King's emotional support animal, but don't tell him I said that."

Bjorn huffed, which Layla chose to interpret as don't tell me I said that either.

"Do I pet him?" she asked.

"He's a twelve-foot werewolf with the King's personal scent on him. He will smell you as 'the hostage' and decide whether you're a threat. If he likes you, you're fine. If he doesn't..." Locke spread his hands.

Layla took a deep breath and offered her hand to the enormous wolf, palm up, like she'd seen people do with strange dogs in the park.

Bjorn sniffed her. Then, with immense ceremony, he licked her palm once, set his massive head on her shoulder, and let out a sigh the size of a freight train.

"Okay," Locke said, staring. "That's new."

"Is that good?"

"That's great. That's the King's wolf, buddy, he doesn't even let the Elders touch him. You just got the royal seal of approval." Locke shook his head, looking at her like she was a math problem he'd failed. "Lady, I'm starting to think you're not a normal human."

"I'm deeply, painfully normal," Layla said firmly. "I have student loan debt and a keychain that says 'DELIVERY QUEEN'. That's the opposite of special."

"Uh-huh." Locke did not sound convinced. "C'mon. The King wants you to see the garden before sunset. And he wants me to tell you it's 'for your health', whatever that means. He's been reading human wellness blogs. It's a whole thing. He thinks you need 'greenery' and 'fresh air' and I don't know, joy."

"Joy?"

"I know. I told him joy is a scam invented by the birds. He didn't listen." Locke sighed the sigh of a man who'd watched his best friend turn into a wellness influencer overnight. "He's got a spreadsheet. It's called 'Human Care Protocols'. There are checkboxes. This is my life now."

From a window high above the courtyard, a pale man with wine-dark eyes watched the King of the wolves carry a breakfast tray like it was made of spun glass.

"Interesting," said Abel Moreau, Duke of the Blood Court, to no one in particular. His voice was honey poured over a knife. "The King has found himself a weakness."

He raised a glass of something red that was not wine.

"Let's see how long she lives."

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To be continued.

Next chapter: Room Service, Do Not Disturb — in which the Wolf King learns about human comfort, the pack learns about the King's double standards, and Isolde, daughter of the Elders, learns exactly how far she can push before the Butcher of Verath starts swinging.