Bride

“Alexandra Boden. Do you remember her?” Father’s tone is back to conversational. “You were born the same year.”

I sit back in my chair, unsurprised by the abrupt change of topic. “Red hair?”

He nods. “A little more than a week ago, her little brother, Abel, turned fifteen. That night, he and three friends were out partying, and found themselves near the river. Emboldened by their youth and feeble-mindedness, they challenged each other to swim across it, touch the riverbank that belongs to Were territory, and then swim back. A show of bravery, if you will.”

I’m not invested in the fate of Alexandra Boden’s bratty brother, but my body goes icy cold nonetheless. All Vampyre children are taught about the danger of the southern border. We all learn where our territory ends and the Weres’ begins before we can speak. And we all know not to mess with anything Were.

Except for these four idiots, clearly.

“They’re dead,” I murmur.

Father’s lips curl up in something that looks very little like compassion, and a lot like a

“Disgusting. How dare he grieve for his son.”

Father gives me a scathing look. “Because of his relationship to the council, he came close to having his way. Just last week, while you were busy pretending to be Human, we were closer to an interspecies war than we’ve been in a century. And then, two days after their dull-witted stunt . . .” Father stands. He walks around the desk and then leans back against its edge, the picture of relaxation. “The boys reappeared. Intact.”

I blink, a habit I picked up while pretending to be Human. “Their corpses?”

“They are alive. Shaken, of course. They were interrogated by Were guards—treated as spies, at first, and then as unruly nuisances. But they were eventually returned home, whole and healthy.”

“How?” I can think of half a dozen incidents in the past twenty years in which borders were breached and whatever was left of the offenders got sent back in pieces. It mostly happens outside city limits, in the demilitarized woodlands. Regardless, Weres have been merciless to our people, and we have been merciless toward Weres. Which means that . . . “What changed?”

“An intelligent question. You see, most of the council assumed that Roscoe was growing tender in his old age.” Roscoe. The Alpha of the Southwest pack. I’ve heard Father talk about him ever since I was a child. “But I’ve met Roscoe once. Just once—he was always clear about his disinterest in diplomacy, and people like him are like skull bones. They only harden with time.” He turns toward the window. “The Weres are as secretive as ever about their society. But we do have some ways to obtain intel, and after sending over some inquiries—”

“There was a change in their leadership structure.”

“Very good.” He seems pleased, as though I’m a student who mastered the transitive property well ahead of expectations. “Maybe I should have chosen you as my successor. Owen has shown little commitment to the role. He appears to be more interested in socializing.”

I wave my hand. “I’m sure that when you a

“It appears that a few months ago, someone . . . challenged Roscoe.”

“Challenged?”

“Their succession of power is not particularly sophisticated. Weres are most closely related to dogs, after all. Suffice to say, Roscoe is dead.”

I refrain from pointing out that our dynastic, hereditary oligarchies seem even more primitive, and that dogs are universally beloved. “Have you met them? The new Alpha?”

“After the boys were returned safely, I requested a meeting with him. To my surprise, he accepted.”

“He did?” I hate that I’m invested. “And?”

“I was curious, you see. Mercy isn’t always a sign of weakness, but it can be.” His eyes take a sudden faraway bent, then slide to a piece of art on the eastern wall—a simple canvas painted a deep purple, to commemorate the blood spilled during the Aster. Similar art can be found in most public spaces. “And betrayal is born of weakness, Misery.”

“Is it, now?” Always thought betrayal was just betrayal, but what do I know?

“He is not weak, the new Alpha. On the contrary. He is . . .” Father pulls back into himself. “Something else. Something new.” His eyes settle on me, waiting, patient, and I shake my head, because I ca

Until something worms its way through the back of my head. “Why did you mention a wedding?” I ask, without bothering to hide the suspicion in my voice.

Father nods. I think I must have asked the right question, especially because he doesn’t answer it. “You grew up among the Humans, and did not have the advantage of a Vampyre education, so you may not know the full history of our conflict with the Weres. Yes, we have been at odds for centuries, but attempts at dialogue were made. There have been five interspecies marriages between us and the Weres, during which no border skirmishes were recorded, nor Vampyre deaths at the hands of Weres. The last was two hundred years ago—a fifteen-year marriage between a Vampyre and his Were bride. When she died, another union was arranged, one that did not end well.”

“The Aster.”

“The Aster, yes.” The sixth wedding ceremony ended in carnage when the Weres attacked the Vampyres, who, after decades of peace, had become a little too trusting, and made the mistake of showing up to a wedding mostly unarmed. Between the Weres’ superior strength and the element of surprise, it was a bloodbath—mostly ours. Purple, with a sprinkling of green. Just like an aster. “We don’t know why the Weres decided to turn on us, but ever since our relationship with them irreparably broke down, there has been one constant: we had an alliance with the Humans, and the Weres did not. There are ten Weres for every Vampyre, and hundreds of Humans for both our species combined. Yes, Humans may lack Vampyres’ talents, or Weres’ speed and strength, but there is power in numbers. Having them on our side was . . . reassuring.” Father’s jaw clenches. Then, after a long time, relaxes. “Certainly, you can see why Maddie Garcia’s refusal to meet with me is a concern. Even more so because of her relative warmth toward the Weres.”

My eyes widen. I may be a bit checked out of the Human cultural landscape, but I didn’t think diplomatic relationships with the Weres would be on their statecraft bucket list for the year. As far as I know, they’ve always ignored each other—not too difficult, since they don’t share important borders. “The Humans and the Weres. In diplomatic talks.”

“Correct.”

I remain skeptical. “Did the Alpha tell you this when you met?”

“No. This is intel we obtained separately. The Alpha told me other things.”

“Such as?”

“He is young, you see. Around your age and built of a different stock. As savage as Roscoe, perhaps, but more open-minded. He believes that peace in the region is possible. That alliances among all three species should be cultivated.”

I snort out a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Father’s head tilts to the side, and his eyes zero in on me, assessing. “You know why I chose you to be the Collateral? And not your brother?”