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His lips turn down in a dubious expression, but he shrugs. “Well, your sister would be excited to hear that story. When I was tutoring Diana for history last year, she was always bitching about men doing a shitty job of being in charge and it being high time a woman had a chance.”
“She has a point,” Cam says, crossing to the shelf and lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the lights set into the ceiling. “I certainly can’t imagine a woman doing any worse than what Victor’s done to The Parallel. And a woman would at least—” He breaks off with a swiftly drawn breath and points an excited finger toward the ceiling. “There, between the two spears. My old eyes might be playing tricks on me, but that looks like fresh paint.”
Ten minutes later, we’ve fetched a ladder and verified that it is indeed fresh paint.
An hour after that, the ancient manuscripts expert we drag out of her cozy bed has verified that the artifact list detailing the objects on the sword’s shelf is a forgery—a very good one, but a slight difference in the curve at the top of the lowercase “a,” observable only through our paper sleuth’s magnifying glass, gives it away.
Not long after that, Cam has pulled every manuscript on the missing artifacts from the dusty bookshelf. We sit down with the expert—Maggie—to study the documents while Briggs heads downstairs for some much-deserved rest.
“You may not remember this,” Maggie tells me as we settle in at the table and Cameron puts in an order for tea and refreshments—and for my father to be apprised of the latest developments as soon as he’s awake. “But I gave a presentation about our ceremonial songs from the Middle Ages to your second grade music class. I remember you for two reasons. One, you were the Alpha’s son. Two, you raised your hand during the discussion afterward and said you thought most of the songs were scary.” She smiles, her skin wrinkling like a piece of old paper wadded in a fist and then smoothed out again. “I thought that was very brave of you, to admit you were scared in front of your entire class.” Her smile fades. “I knew right then, that if something happened to your big brother, you’d make a wonderful Alpha.”
I pull in a breath, holding it for a beat before I let it out long and slow. “Thank you, though I’m not sure I deserve your praise tonight.”
I know I don’t deserve it. But I can’t very well confess that to an old woman I dragged out of her bed who’s counting on me to protect our people from further attacks.
“It’s all right, Alpha,” she says. “No one blames you for what happened. If an enemy is willing to give their life in order to inflict harm, there’s often not much we can do to prevent it. No matter how prepared we are.”
She reaches out, patting my hand in a maternal way few people, even of her generation, would dare.
But then, Maggie clearly isn’t afraid of me, either.
I wonder if Willow still feels that way, or if a glimpse beneath my mask at the monster inside changed her mind. As much as I need her obedience—to keep my pack and her, herself, safe—I hope not.
I hope, once she’s slept and the memory has had the chance to fade, that she’ll still look at me with fire in her eyes.
I love her fire.
Then why do you keep trying to snuff it out?
“I don’t know,” I mutter to myself, only realizing I’ve spoken aloud when Maggie answers, “Well, I do know. And I know we’re going to get to the bottom of this and make our people safe again. This isn’t the first time someone’s come for The Orphan’s Sword, you know. There was another. Before you or even your father was born. It was during the second world war, when many of our men were off fighting. A young woman by the name of Elsbeth broke into the armory, where the sword was stored then, and stole it. She left a note saying she intended to use it to unite the shifter clans and stop the war before any more of our men were killed. And that if your grandfather didn’t like it, he could get stuffed.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Interesting. I’ve never heard that story.”
“That’s because she failed,” Cameron says, drawing up the chair across the table from mine. “We’ll make sure Kelley fails, too, and this will be just another footnote to history, easily forgotten.”
Maggie purses her mouth but doesn’t speak.
It’s clear she intends to keep her two cents to herself, but I can’t help asking, “How did she fail, Maggie? Is the sword not magical, after all?”
Her lips curve into a sad smile. “I can’t speak to that—it’s not my area of expertise. But as for Elsbeth, she travelled to France to find her brother and fiancé and enlist their aid in bringing about a revolution. She arrived in time to watch her love die in a field hospital. Her brother was already dead, awaiting burial in a cart full of other lost soldiers. She was so heartbroken that she sent the sword back to your grandfather on the next ship home and threw herself into the sea.”
I wince, hating that it ended like that for a woman brave enough to stand up for what she believed in. Even if she was defying her Alpha and one of my family members to do so.
Though to be fair, my grandfather was allegedly a hard ass without a creative thought in his head. He died before I was born, but I’ve heard enough talk from my father about what it was like growing up in a house where practicing music was considered a frivolous pastime to know Grandad and I wouldn’t have gotten on that well.
I may not have an ounce of my father’s talent, but I can appreciate those who do and recognize that music is a gift to our people.
“Tragic tale,” Cameron says as he spreads our pile of books out on the table. But he doesn’t sound too broken up about it, and when he asks, “Where should we start, Maggie? Perhaps we each take a book, read, and then compare notes?” impatience creeps into his tone.”
Cameron doesn’t like wasting time.
But it turns out that story wasn’t a waste.
If Maggie hadn’t told me the story of Elsbeth, I wouldn’t have realized there was a discrepancy in the history of the sword in the text I’m reading half an hour later. I would have skimmed right over the nugget of information without blinking an eye or writing it down for discussion.
Now, however, I make a note and murmur, “This book says Elsbeth didn’t die, that she was captured at the field hospital and the sword confiscated, but that she managed to escape.” I glance up, arching a brow as I add, “And vowed to wrest power from my family, no matter what the cost.”
“She’s dead by now,” Cameron says, dismissively. “Or so old she likely has trouble getting to the toilet, let alone launching terrorist attacks or leading revolutions.”
