not be the face of power when dealing with humans, they would retain absolute power where it counted most, at home.
“I don’t know how long it took. Three years? five? Not that it matters. What matters is that one cocktail party at a time, the Lukani females were domesticated. Those that weren’t domesticated were dead.”
I don’t tell her about my parents. About how I’d always been introduced as Maxima’s son. How the older men all had some story about my mother, none of which involved the excellence of her brownies but instead were about the sharpness of her mind and her teeth.
There was something about Drusilla that reminded me of the worst parts of my mother. She was wound so tight. Her clothes were stiff on her body. Her hair was in curls that felt hard if you touched them. The house smelled like bleach and ammonia. Her domestic power was not only absolute, it was tyrannical.
I was there when Mala came, bringing the wild with her, and that was when Drusilla learned the limits of her domestic power, because August, who was a tamer to his bones, was obsessed.
Mala wore clothes only occasionally. Wore shoes never. She bit.
“You?”
“No, Otho, Drusilla’s brother. Julia’s father.”
Mala’d taken off her clothes to shift, and Otho grabbed her hair, telling her to stop. August said nothing. He watched as Mala kicked his brother-in-law in the balls and then bit his hand hard enough to take out a chunk at the base of his thumb.
Otho pulled out a gun, but August…August was like a sleepwalker. None of us existed anymore: not Otho, not me, not Drusilla. Mala was all he could see. I remember it. He said nothing, just touched her cheek. She leaned into it and then he rubbed his face to hers and when he went to the back, she followed. I was a teenager and I knew what was happening. Drusilla followed them into the bedroom, and when she came out, she was another person.
There’s only so small you can make women before they explode.
And Drusilla, who had been made very small, exploded into something very dangerous.
August wanted power, but Drusilla wanted destruction. She traded in the most insidious drugs. She not only didn’t care if people died and communities were destroyed; she craved it. Her pain made her need the pain of others. Even August was afraid of her. Mala died in childbirth; August told her that Tiberius died soon after. She killed her own brother for staying with August.
Evie leans against me.
“Do you think Drusilla knows where Homelands is?”
“I know she doesn’t. Because if she did, you would be dead.”
Chapter 31
Evie
Shifting from foot to foot, Constantine holds the cold little maggot tucked tight and warm against his body while I open up the Crapton group on WhatsApp.
“Who’s Craptin?” he asks.
“It’s not Craptin. It’s Crapton. As in, we have a crap ton of lawyers. I was tired when I set up the chat group. Obviously not something I want to share with anyone.”
Nyala yips loudly. She’s got her paws on Constantine’s calf. “I’m still pissed at you,” he says, but he scoops her up anyway.
“Does Drusilla go by Leveraux?”
“They never got divorced, but I think she uses her maiden name, which is Martel. Drusilla Martel. The last names are all fake, used to placate the humans, so it hardly matters.”
I tell them not to make any contact with Drusilla Leveraux/Martel and I use the shouty caps that are the closest virtual equivalent to an Alpha call. Within seconds, the Crapton responds with a thumbs-up emoji, the closest virtual equivalent to submission.
“Keep up, Wulflingas.” A voice like a muffler malfunction wafts across the stream separating my cabin from the Great Hall.
“I forgot I told Leonora she could bring the class to see Nils,” I whisper hurriedly. It’s too late for Constantine to get out unseen.
I sit down, the waistband of my jeans digging painfully into my abdomen. I unzip the zipper, then hold my arms out for Nils. Constantine kisses me quickly, before limping to the chair, a chaste distance away.
“How do eet win is two teefs?” asks Gyta.
“Good question. Did everyone hear? Gyta asked how a maggot eats with only two teeth. Watch the stream, Adrian. That’s why Tara bought the regurgitated food. Who has the baby food? Leofric? Don’t drop it.”
Leonora opens the screen door, holding it for children and pups and mosquitoes.
“Shoes,” she barks and our awkward children bump into each other like balls in a pachinko machine, trying