picked up Sofia and we all limped back to the hall. The pack installed the two fragile humans (or I suppose mostly-humans, in my case) in the red drawing room—presumably so the blood wouldn’t clash with the decor—and went to get changed.
Just about conscious through my various injuries and recent possession, I tried to work out quite how badly Sofia was hurt. Of course she’d done a lot of channelling sunlight so for all I knew she had the equivalent of third-degree burns on her soul, but physically she seemed—I don’t know, mostly okay, I think? There was a nasty tear running down her left arm that looked like it was bleeding a fair bit, but nothing had been bitten off or ripped out and for having gone up against two werewolves, a storm full of ice monsters, and the Prince of Wands, that wasn’t bad going.
“You okay?” I asked. It was a feeble question if I was honest.
She made a kind of nhm noise for her only reply. It was about what I’d been expecting.
The room gradually began to fill up with people—Flick was the first to arrive and went straight to Sofia’s side with the attentive uselessness of somebody whose emotional investment far outstripped their practical experience. Still she did a good job of keeping pressure on the bleeding arm until another of the werewolves—at some point I needed to learn to recognise members of the pack who weren’t Tara, the dowager, or Henry—could provide some more substantial first aid.
Things began to settle down as Tara entered, looking almost serene in a gown of blood-red velvet. “We have survived,” she told her packmates. “But the assault revealed how vulnerable we truly are.”
“You have been complacent.” The dowager’s voice cut across the room. “Allowing our borders to grow wild and our defences to be weakened while you debase yourself with humans.”
Ouch. She was playing the debasement card. Tell us what you really think, granny. “Hey.” I waved a hand. “Not technically human.” Okay, that probably wasn’t helping.
“With humans,” she continued, “who interfere in our deliberations and who know nothing of protocol or solemnity.”
Tara crossed the floor with an animal speed and grace that in a less injured condition I’d have found deeply sexy. “We are facing a threat that is new to us, as well you know. Question my leadership before the pack again, and I will disembowel you.”
The dowager averted her eyes. I had a feeling that the old lady had a whole bunch of tricks up her sleeve and I was very, very glad that leadership in werewolf society was based almost entirely on one’s ability to win a straight fight.
From by the fire, Henry raised a hand. “Who were the wolves?” he asked. I suspected he knew the answer, but I suspect that he also didn’t want to know it. “The ones that came with the storm?”
“They were ours, Henry.” Tara’s tone was measured but resolute. “Changed, but I recognised them as I am sure you did. Camilla, Genevieve, Antonia, and Jemima at least. All lost in the Cold and Dark. All turned.”
The dowager marchioness was giving her granddaughter what I believe the young people are calling the stink eye, but was at least keeping her own counsel for now.
“Can they be turned back?” asked Henry. From the look on his face, he was clearly expecting the answer to be “no”.
“I think she can do it,” I jerked my head in Sofia’s direction, realising slightly too late that I was dropping her in it.
Flick looked up from where she’d been kneeling. “She nearly got killed helping you out tonight. You can’t expect her to do it again.”
“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.” Tara’s eyes bled yellow and Flick shrank into the corner—I’d say this for the girl, her instincts were on point.
Hoping that my contribution to this whole discussion was coming out net positive, I stuck my oar back in. “I don’t think you’d need to send her out—y’know—hunting. But when I saw the wolves—”
“Camilla and Antonia,” Tara said. “They have names, and you will use them.”
“When I saw Camilla and Antonia sitting by the Prince of Wands, the glass in their eyes was melting in the sunlight. It was slow and this is all way outside what I’m confident making guesses about, but from what I know about faery bullshit is chances are you melt the glass you break the spell.”
“And what”—the dowager’s tone was just this side of mocking—“do you