Chapter 8 - The Preparation

(Alicia)

“What do you know of this werewolf king I’m supposed to hate-fuck into submission?” I ask, and Darren’s eyes light up.

“Well, honey, not a great deal. Only that he’s quite the catch, apparently.” At the lift of my eyebrows Darren starts elaborating.

“He’s in his late twenties, built like everyone’s wet dream and handsome as sin. And you know how the hierarchical werewolf system works: the strongest leads. So he’s physically as powerful as he is politically. Word has it that he’s a fair leader, loved by most. But just like in any kingdom, there are factions and pressures that play a part in how he governs his people.”

I groan. “So he’s not even going to be an incompetent slob I can mentally check out on?”

“Nope,” Darren says, far too cheerily. “He’s probably going to be a highly virile, muscular nightmare with excellent cheekbones and the ability to throw you over his shoulder.”

Well, at least I won’t be marrying an unfit, middle-aged slob… thank the goddess for small mercies. But that does beg the question. Why would he put himself up for this marriage rather than subjecting one of his high-ranking subordinates to it? Every other kingdom seems to be doing exactly that and getting away with it.

My mind drifts to horror stories we told each other as children, the kind that keeps you up at night at the mere thought that you may find yourself alone in the territory of another supernatural species. I know it’s just stories, but when you grow up with them it’s hard to let go of the prejudices. Here in the city, among the humans, I’ve come across practically every other supernatural race and we’ve all got along just fine. Except for werewolves. I’ve yet to meet one in person.

“What’s his name?” I ask, musing that it only occurs to me to ask now.

“Alpha Rocco Silvermane, King of the werewolves and Alpha of the Stormclaw pack.”

***

I’m in my apartment warming up an uninspiring mac and cheese when the thought hits me. Someone in my family must marry a woman from another species too. That’s how the exchange works. You give one away, you gain one.

And just like that, my curiosity is piqued. Which of my half-brothers are being compelled to offer up the chance to find true love by binding themselves to a stranger for ten years…?

Surely, it wouldn’t be crown prince Daniel who’s currently betrothed to one of councilman Galewing’s daughters. If I had to place a bet on it, it would be one of the twins… but which one? Archer, being a minute or so older than Angus, is the official ‘spare’ and therefore too precious to have tied to an inter-species marriage. Which means it must be Angus.

Whipping out my new phone I type off a quick text message to him. R U IN IT TOO? THIS 200-YR SWAP?

My phone pings about ten minutes later, as I’m licking the cheese sauce off a spoon. It’s a series of emojis, from the full-on crying and the red-faced devil ones to the swearing and the poo emojis. I’ll take that as a yes, then.

WHO? I text back, with at least four question marks.

He sends back a photo of a beautiful dark-haired girl that must be around my age. She has big brown eyes and that slightly upturned nose that’s distinctive to the fairies.

SHE’S HOT. FAIRY? I ask just to make sure I’m not making a racial assumption. I get a thumbs up emoji as a reply, no comment about her hotness.

Still curious, I send another text. DID U VOLUNTEER?

This time there’s no answer, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what the answer is. Of course he didn’t. Father used his powers on him too.

It is only when I crawl into bed after some random human disaster movie that I see another text from Angus. WHAT DOES HE HAVE ON U?

I contemplate lying to him, or at least not saying anything about Luka. It’s not as if I have ever been close to any of my other siblings. But we’re kind of in this together, Angus and I, and he may have some information that could be used strategically somewhere down the line. I reply with: LUKA. U?

That’s when my phone rings.

“Hey,” I answer and wait for him to speak. Angus is not a man of many words, so getting a call from him means he really does have something to say.

“That’s fucked up,” he says. No greeting or pleasantries needed.

“Yes. Yes, it is,” I reply. There’s a short breath of silence on the other side before he asks: “Do you really think he’ll hurt his own son?”

I sigh inwardly. There is an ocean of unspoken experiences and knowledge about exactly what our father is capable of, but Angus doesn’t know that. None of them do. They’ve never cared enough to know. So what do I tell him?

I decide to stick to the bare bones of the truth, no elaboration or colouring-in of the picture.

“Yes, Angus, I know he would.”

There’s an anguished noise on the other side of the line. Angus doesn’t question how I know, or why I’m convinced of my viewpoint, but it’s obvious that he believes me wholeheartedly.

“He has someone you care about, doesn’t he?” I ask, and there’s a silent sniff in reply.

“I was going to propose to her next month. She’s pregnant,” he says brokenly, and my heart clenches at the anguish in his voice.

“Who?” I prompt gently.

“Angelica. We’ve been together for just over six months, and I love her. She’s going to have my baby…”

“I’m sorry, Angus. I truly am,” I say, but it feels so inadequate. He sniffs again, and I sense he wants to say something else.

“I… I’m sorry too, Alicia. I will protect Luka, I promise… if you want to… pull out, I mean.”

He sounds so genuine, but I know that he’s emotional right now and not quite thinking straight.

“Thanks, Angus. But if I pull out, nothing and no one will be able to protect him. We both need to go through with this, and we’ll need to be allies. Look after Luka. Be strong. And be upfront with the faerie girl if you can. Who knows what her situation is.”

“Okay. And Alicia? Thank you.”

My mind spins and my heart aches as I pull the covers up to my chin. It aches more for the innocent little baby that Angus created with this Angelica chick. I know what it’s like to be a royal bastard. The child will forever be a pawn to get its parents to toe the line.