Fratricide, Werewolf Wars, and the Many Lies of Andrea Paddington

  * * *

  Oh, Three-God… What were they going to do to her? Were they going to torture her? Kill her? Ianthe pressed her eyes shut and tried to remember all that Father had said: they couldn’t hurt her soul. She would be safe in the afterlife. The Three-God would look after her.

  Would.

  Future tense.

  What about now? There was no one to look after her now.

  Ianthe curled her arms around herself. She wasn’t cold; but the contact of skin on skin brought comfort. At least when the Browns had gone to the Tree, Father had been there saying everything would come out all right. And it had. Not as he’d wanted – the original three Races were not restored across the world – but Father said that was all right as well because there were more prophecies.

  Now Father wasn’t here to reassure her. Father wasn’t anywhere.

  And where was Phaedra? Had she escaped? If so, why wasn’t the help here yet?

  The bedroom door opened and the American walked in, followed by the woman. How long had it been since they’d captured her? Less than an hour, probably, but it was hard to know without a clock.

  Should she attack them? Better not; with her hands cuffed together, she wouldn’t best both humans. She would end up back in this bedroom cell, or worse.

  So Ianthe sat on the bed, quietly dignified, like the girls in all those books she’d read: hands folded on her lap, ankles crossed, looking a touch above her guest. If only she had a pair of gloves or a parasol.

  “Ianthe,” the American said, making a mess of her name. He stood rigidly, all broad shoulders and intense focus. “I’m Captain Truman, leader of the Supernatural Help and Investigation Team.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  “We have some questions for you, starting with why you left Archi.”

  Ianthe chose not to answer. She’d be silent, like Themis had told her to be when they’d been in the car together. She would maintain a dignified silence.

  “Why did you leave?” Truman asked again.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  That seemed to stump him. Ianthe expected threats or yelling, but apparently that wasn’t Truman’s style.

  “We ain’t gonna hurt you,” he said. “The problem is, some of the werewolves who followed us do want to hurt you. They’re on their way to your sister right now.”

  That was absurd. Even werewolves couldn’t follow a trail an hour cold. She’d heard the beasts arrive only a few minutes ago. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?” Truman asked, then touched the radio clipped to his black vest. “Anything?”

  “Not yet.” Paddington’s tinny voice fought ambient music and many voices. The Crypt. The fallback spot! They had followed Phaedra!

  “Let me know the moment there is,” Truman said into his collar. He turned his intense face to Ianthe. “Still feeling confident?”

  “I don’t know anything,” said Ianthe. “Father and the boys make the decisions.”

  “Then let’s discuss the prophecy. What’s that about?”

  “Father said I didn’t need to know.”

  “What do they tell you?”

  “Phaedra my dear,” Paddington said out of Truman’s radio. “How are you?”

  “Did you just say Phaedra?” Truman asked. “Everyone converge on Paddington!” He was through the door in a second. The woman followed him out, but would be waiting outside so Ianthe couldn’t escape.

  What was happening to Phaedra? Were they going to kidnap her? Kill her?

  After another few minutes, the door opened and Truman re-entered: alone, sour-faced, and angry. “What were you doing with Beck?”

  “What happened to Phaedra?” asked Ianthe.

  “She’s alive,” Truman said. “Beck.”

  She was alive? That was all? Did that mean they’d taken her? Oh, Idryo! Would they kill her if Ianthe didn’t cooperate?

  “Father said we had to talk to him. Secure his allegiance.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants to know what you’re up to, whether you’re fulfilling the prophecy.”

  “What is the prophecy?”­

  “I don’t know! Clarkson said you had already found it!”

  Truman nodded. “I believe you. And thank you for your honesty.” He opened the door and the skinny scientist cast a quick glance at the woman soldier on guard outside, then swallowed hard and entered.

  “Doctor McGregor is going to examine you now,” Truman said. “Your cooperation is appreciated.”

  The stuttering Londoner positioned the cheapest biro Ianthe had ever seen against a clipboard. “Right, uh, let’s begin. Name?”

  Ianthe rolled her eyes. This was so humiliating. Hopefully Father would rescue her soon. In the meantime it was probably best to play along, for Phaedra’s sake. She certainly couldn’t escape while Truman remained there, one hand on his gun. “Ianthe Andraste.”

  “Of course,” McGregor said, noting it down. “No middle name?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, thank you. Age?”

  “One-hundred and forty-six.” This was so tedious…

  Except McGregor didn’t look bored. “Really?” He smiled and started writing again. “That’s, uh, great. That’s great.”