Lord Picot tried to kill himself as soon as he woke up in his cell, screaming to high heaven about how he refused to turn into a monster. Nobody knew how he had gotten the little knife he used—the guards at the werewolf prison were quick to subdue him again, so it probably hadn’t been them.

He made a second attempt during the night, using his chains. Maybe he thought if he killed himself before the full moon, he wouldn’t lose his soul, or something. Greg rubbed his own chest. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter, that souls didn’t exist, anyway. That it was all just superstition, but it was hard to keep his wits together in the face of Picot’s hatred, no longer hidden by the amicable facade.

Picot had been one of the first nobles to ever talk to him, after his affliction had become public. And he had known, even at that day at Breachpoint, that it was probably all an act. It still hurt to be faced with the reality of that mask coming down.

It made him all the more glad the guards had managed to stop Picot before he could actually hurt himself. It would be too easy, for him to simply die. He needed to be judged and sentenced, and not on his own terms.

Nathan spit at the ground in front of Picot’s cell. “What do you reckon it’s going to be?” he asked loudly. “Burning or hanging?”

“Might be worth leaving him alive,” Greg said. “I wonder if Morgulon can make him talk, once full moon is over.”

“Can’t hurt to try,” Nathan said. “Personally, I’m in favour of hanging,” he added. “And then we cut him to bits. Werewolves won’t eat him, but maybe pigs will? If he’s not so poisoned inside that he turns to Rot right away.”

“Sounds like a waste of a perfectly nice pig,” a voice behind them said. Lane had arrived, with Morgulon in tow: they were expecting the press in a moment, to ensure as much of truth as possible was published.

Lane had dressed up for the occasion, but in a mourning gown: dark grey, with just a hint of purple in the colour.

Picot had retreated to the back of his cell, so that the other unsettled werewolves currently held here couldn’t try to spit on him across the corridor. They were growling in their own cages. At Lane’s appearance, Picot came back to the bars. “Came to gloat?” he sneered. “Your fiance will still be dead before me. Unless you want to do me the favour of killing me before the full moon. Save my soul as you do.”

Lane smiled sweetly at him. “Keep clinging to that thought. Murderers go to hell, and so do cowards.”

Picot sniffed. “Still better than becoming a mons—”

Morgulon growled.

Picot’s voice cut off abruptly, his jaws slack, tongue hanging out.

Nathan sniggered. “Too late, bastard. Too late. The wolf inside you already recognizes its elders and betters. Die mad about it.”

Picot’s eyes went wider and wider, and he stumbled backwards—breathing, but unable to move his jaw.

“Thank you, Morgulon,” Lane said, grinning.

“Could you make him talk?” Greg asked. “After full moon, perhaps? Make him tell us who worked for him, I mean.”

I can make him talk. Can’t make him say the truth.

“Right. Shame,” Greg muttered. He had to translate her answer for Nathan and Lane then.

“So no point in keeping him alive,” Nathan commented.

Lane based her chin in her hand thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s still worth trying to get him to talk. Who knows what contacts he has. And if not, we can always wait for David to get here and deal with him.”

Greg thought that was very optimistic of her. Or maybe she was only putting on a brave face.

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“Hah. I think he’ll be happy to die from a Lady’s hands,” Nathan said. “Especially from a holy lady.”

Picot just managed an unintelligible sound. It put a smile on the Greg’s face. On Lane’s and Nathan’s, too, though it was quickly replaced by a grimace. “I’ll be upstairs, greeting the press,” she said.

Greg shrugged. “I’ll wait here.”

He watched Nathan and Lane climb the stairs. They’d take the journalists down here to meet the newest werewolf in the cells.

As soon as the heavy door to the dungeon closed behind Morgulon, Picot regained control of himself.

“Bitch,” he cursed after her, while the other prisoners jeered. What looked like an ancient piece of bread flew just past Greg’s ear, thrown by one of the other prisoners.

“That’s the best you can do?” Greg asked, as Picot retreated further back into his cell. “I’m pretty sure she’s heard way worse.”

Picot glared at him, but he couldn’t hide how shaken he was after the encounter with the elder. Greg almost felt for him. He’d been a werewolf for a year before he’d met Bernadette. And he’d never faced Morgulon’s ire.

“What do you want?” Picot hissed when Greg didn’t move. “Get lost!”

“Nah,” Greg shrugged. “The press will be here in a moment to make sure they get a good likeness of you. No point in going back upstairs again.”

“I’m a marquess,” Picot growled. “I’m Lord Warden of Breachpoint. You have no right to treat me like some kind of circus animal!”

Greg laughed. “You’re a traitor and a werewolf,” he corrected. “The circus is way beyond what you can hope for at this point. They’ll take your picture—or have one drawn. They’ll write down all your crimes. Pettau’s and deVries’s, too. The order to strip all three of you of your rank and declare you enemy of Loegrion will be published, too. There’ll be pictures of some of your victims, too, both the most popular nobles lying sick and the kitchen workers who were poisoned accidentally as they prepared the food. We’ll raise another army thanks to you. And then we’ll hang you and cut you to pieces, or something.”

“Better be quick then. I’ve got the Roi Solei’s word that his men will do everything in their power to save me.”

“Well, thanks for the warning,” Greg shrugged. “I don’t think the Roi Solei’s word is worth spitting on, but thanks for the warning all the same.”

Picot stared at him, dark eyes glinting hateful in the shine of the torches. “You’ll never beat the Grande Armeé.”

Greg shrugged again. “Maybe we already have.”

“No, you haven’t. I know the plan. I know exactly what happened at Port Neaf. You haven’t beaten—”

“Do you know how many hunters it takes to take down six werewolves?” Greg interrupted him. “Men who know where the werewolves are, have a strategy, and know what they’re up against? Do you have any idea how many people in Port Neaf were bitten? Or how many of the thousand David took down there survived? How many troops are the Valoise landing, ten thousand? Twenty? You think that foot soldiers have a chance in hell against a werewolf? Fifty men on foot couldn’t take down two of our elders!”

“There’ll be sixty thousand men of the Grande Armées best marching against Deva soon!” Picot howled. “You think a few hundred werewolves could stop that? You really think so?”

Greg smiled smugly. No, he didn’t really think that. But it was good to have a number. Even if the number was bigger than they had hoped for.

“They’ll reinforce if necessary,” Picot added. “And they know what they’re up against. They’ll have silver, and alchemy to deal with the Rot.”

“You didn’t even know that Morgulon can turn invisible,” Greg pointed out. “There’s no way these soldiers know what they’re up against.”

“And who’s going to lead them?” Picot asked. “Your brother is a prisoner. The duke will be dead, soon. Will you follow a woman? Be ruled by a queen? A werewolf queen perhaps? You really think that the men of Loegrion would ever rally around such a crown?”

Greg was saved from having to answer that by the footsteps echoing on the stairs. Lane and Nathan had arrived with the press. Picot snuffled as if to spit at them, but Morgulon’s glare quelled the movement, and Picot ended up choking instead, coughing violently.

“Nice try,” Lane muttered and stepped aside for the press to get a closer look. “Here he is,” she said, louder. “The traitor who’d see us all dead.”

“Can we ask him questions?” one of the journalists asked.

“Feel free,” Lane said, stepping aside even further. “Be careful though. He’s rather unpredictable. Don’t let him grab you.”

Picot didn’t look particularly impressive, still coughing, barely able to glare at the press, but they all kept their distance as Lane had said. Maybe David spooking them had done something good after all.

Not that Picot would be able to do much with Morgulon in the room.

Not that he could do much at all. He couldn’t even transform yet. Would never learn to do so at will.

Picot would die before the Valoise got to Deva. Even if they all died right after.

It was only faint comfort to Greg while his mother and all the other sick got weaker by the hour.

But it was nice to speak to Mr. Higgins once the interview was over. The teacher was shocked to hear about Imani’s affliction. He had little comfort to give, either. His mother’s—everyone’s—best hope lay in the werewolves’ magic now. And Greg didn’t feel magical at all right now.