Pack of Wolves - Maggie Claire (most popular novels of all time .TXT) 📗

for you then,” Fox whispers, quickly shielding his head when Bittern curses at him.

“Proposition? You’re just as bad as Impala!” Bittern snarls, reaching for the heavy cast iron skillets that sit beside the fireplace, waiting for someone to need them. Gripping the heaviest one’s handle in both hands, she raises it high, swinging it like a baseball bat. With enough luck, maybe she’ll take Fox’s head clean off his shoulders. “How dare you lure us to your tent under the guise of friendship?!”

“I was talking about a job offer,” Fox admits, scuttling away from Bittern as she advances closer. Despite the threat, Fox cannot help but admire the woman all the more. “I need extra hands in the infirmaries, especially if Wolf’s going to try and build the master house like he intends. War will come, and bodies will pile up fast. You and Grouse can assist me, and in exchange, I can offer you shelter. Impala and others of his ilk will not dare to bother you if you work for me.”

Fox’s words slowly sink into Bittern’s thoughts. Making sure to miss her own feet, Bittern drops the skillet and slumps back down beside the fire. “That’s really all you want? Extra workers?” Bittern can hardly dare to believe such good fortune would fall into her lap so easily. When Fox nods, Bittern feels a genuine smile burst to life on her lips. It’s the first time she can remember feeling so pleased in years. “Grouse and I would both be satisfied to accept your offer.”

Fox sighs in relief, rubbing his knee absentmindedly as he asks, “What kind of life did you lead in the House of Vultures? Was it really so cutthroat that you’d beat each other in the head with skillets over a simple misunderstanding?”

Bittern scoffs, her voice lowering as she whispers, “You have no idea.”

***

I always hated this room, Alaric admits to himself as he stares at the ostentatious tapestries that adorn both sides of the walls as far as the eye can see. Everything about the place feels warm and inviting—all the things that Alaric abhors. His royal ancestors decreed long ago that the throne room was to be lavishly furnished and ornate, a sign of wealth and vitality for all visitors to witness. His throne is slightly oversized and dripping with plush purple velvet. The thick, crimson runner under his feet reminds him of a long tongue reaching out to devour its prey.

Alaric has spared no expense to add his personal touches to the room, starting on the night when his father’s heart finally stopped beating. Rather than being at his side, Alaric had been here, already sitting on the throne, forcing servants to rip the tapestries down. He’d forced the palace’s seamstresses to work around the clock, turning these richly colored wall hangings into gruesome displays of death and destruction. Then that scarlet runner fabric had been split so that it gave the illusion of a forked tongue. Alaric had searched his land for the best blacksmiths in his realm to fashion iron fangs to place at the base of the steps leading up to his throne, giving the stage an illusion of a giant viper’s mouth.

The snake had always seemed like a perfect symbol for Alaric’s kingdom. All the great literature that included snakes portrayed them to be crafty, vicious, and cunning—everything that Alaric values. These monsters with their shining eyes and venomous fangs quickly became one of Alaric’s greatest obsessions. He’d even gone so far as to fashion a viper pit that connected to this room. Should a guest of the court enter this place and displease Alaric, he or she could find themselves sliding through a hidden chamber, well on their way to becoming the next meal of the king’s pets.

“Send in the border guard,” Alaric commands, flippantly waving his hand in the direction of the entrance. “Let’s get this over with. The Lady Vatusia and I have far better things to be doing.”

Lady Vatusia ignores the king’s words, silent and well concealed in a sliver of shadows created by one of the large marble pillars that stand like giants around the room, carrying the heavy burden of the ceiling on their backs. If Alaric hadn’t watched her disappear into the darkness, he’d never have been able to find her. She is the perfect spy, accustomed to not moving and drawing attention to her position. What’s more, she will serve as a first line of defense, attacking the newcomer if he even breathes in a threatening manner. She is brutal; her methods of finding out information from the enemy are so intense that even some of Alaric’s most battle worn generals cannot stand to be in the room with her.

The king feels himself smile as he thinks of the Lady Vatusia’s last victim. She’d fileted the skin from his bones for hours without even batting an eye at his incessant cries. If anything, she seemed to relish the sounds of his despair. That was when she’d let her real powers shine. “Vibría.” Alaric sighs out the word like a caress. He can feel Lady Vatusia’s eyes boring holes into his skin, as if she can somehow pry open his mind and read his dark thoughts.

Oh, that she could, Alaric wishes wistfully, wondering how she would react to his many visions of her in his bedchamber. Would she be repulsed or pleased to know how desperately I want her? If Alaric had his way, Lady Vatusia would be his queen. It doesn’t matter if she is enamored with Lord Xanti. Alaric will find a means of having her, no matter how long it takes.

Clearing his throat, the king forces his mind onto the business at hand. “What’s taking so long? Where’s the border guard?” Alaric’s voice rings out, calling the guards at the door into action. “Find him and bring him to me now!”

Minutes slink by even more slowly than the border guard as he stumbles through the throne room. He