1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I awoke with a pounding head.

What did you do to us? Esme whined. You drank way too much of the falling-down juice.

Another time I would have laughed at her description of alcohol, but she wasn't wrong. I had gone far too hard at Jess's hen do. The world was a little too spinn-y, like way more than usual. I let out a low groan.

It had been a brilliant night and we'd done Jess proud but this morning, with my body shouting at me for all the drinking, I definitely had regrets. Why did that last shot always seem like a good idea? Because it wasn't: it was a fucking stupid idea.

I pried open my eyes and slammed them closed again. Oof, it was bright! Way too bright.

Let's shift, Esme urged urgently. It'll make us feel better .

I agreed instantly and stripped with difficulty out of the burlesque clothes I had accidentally slept in. I felt ham-fisted as I tried to undo the hook-and-eye clasps by myself and I was tempted to just say fuck it and shift – but how would I explain the missing clothes to the rental company? That wouldn't be fair on them, so I persevered with gritted teeth.

When I was finally naked the shift rolled over us, making our toes curl with pleasure. Shifting was good, not just because it felt nice but because it kickstarted our healing, healing that was sorely needed today. Little broken neural pathways were being fixed, serotonin was swamping my brain and the hammering headache was fading. My fast metabolism kicked up a gear as it started to burn away the remaining traces of alcohol in my blood.

Run? Esme suggested hopefully.

Why not? I agreed now that the pounding in my skull was starting to abate. Like shifting, the exercise would help.

We struggled to open the heavy wooden door; on my sharper days, I opened the door before shifting. Clearly, today wasn't going to be one of my sharper days. We pawed at the handle for a moment, trying to drag it open with our weight, but the heavy door wasn't playing ball. Eventually Esme resorted to using her mouth on the door handle and dragging backwards. The door opened under her full-frontal assault and she crowed in triumph. Success was sweet.

I totally forgot to open the door on purpose just so we could start our day with a victory, I lied.

Uh-huh, Esme replied sarcastically. I am not buying the excrement that you are pushing.

You're not buying the shit that I'm peddling. It doesn't work when you change the words.

Why not? she huffed. It means the same thing.

And yet … somehow it really doesn't.

With the door finally open, we focused on our purpose: to go for a run. We trotted out into the castle's hallway. Caernarfon Castle was old and incredibly cool – Emory's home made my mansion look like a shoe box.

A queen really should have a castle, I mused. Maybe Emory could point me in the direction of a derelict one. Castles were a dime a dozen in the UK and with more than four thousand to choose from, surely I could find someone who wanted to get rid of their draughty ancestral home. Still, there were pack territories to consider: buying a castle in the wrong place would be awkward to say the least. It also occurred to me that the sentient seat of power might not love that. Nina's nose might be out of joint if I bought another residence. Something to consider.

The castle grounds were eerily quiet as we ran, and I let my thoughts wander. We'd been trying to find information about the lost orb for days. I'd already torn through my whole personal library but so far found nothing of relevance – though I had learned a host of useless facts. I'd promised Nina I'd find it, but I was beginning to feel like I'd been hasty in my vow, and I was sick of dead ends. I hated research problems without an easy answer; numbers were so much easier.

Jess's hen do couldn't have come at a better time because I'd needed a break from constantly thinking about the orb, and yet here I was thinking about it all over again. Gah! Maybe I could ask Emory to look in his dragon library or book hoard? I bet he'd have a Beauty and the Beast style library with a rolling ladder and every good book under the sun.

As I looked around again, unease filled me. Where is everyone? I asked Esme. She gave a mental shrug and we loped onwards.

Abruptly, I connected the dots. Oh my God, Esme! It's Emory's trial! Quick! Back to the room. We need to be there!

Fuck my life, I was a bad friend. A bad, hungover friend.

We hastened back to our room to shift and get dressed. I rifled hastily through my suitcase and retrieved the smartest outfit that I could cobble together from the weak offerings of my wardrobe – I didn't really do smart – and pulled on jeans, a white tank top and a bright pink jacket.

Back on two legs, everything was still a little too bright. The jackhammering in my skull had ceased but instead it felt like my brain was pulsing in my skull, a low and steady thrum of discomfort.

I downed a pint glass of water but it didn't help, at least not immediately. In another half an hour or so the shift would have healed me completely but for now I was going to have to grin and bear it. I grabbed my sunglasses and dragged them onto my face. Everything was better when it was muted.

I swiped on some lip gloss and was good to go. I jogged down the stairs towards the hall. Brethren soldiers lined the hallway, solemn and serious. ‘Can I go in?' I asked the man closest to the main double doors.

‘Technically no, ma'am.' He paused. ‘You're Manners' missus?'

On another day the feminist part of me might have railed against his use of the possessive, but today I'd take anything that got me into the room. Besides, if I was Manners', he was mine.

‘That's me,' I confirmed, cheerfully conforming to patriarchal attitudes. I'm a girl who knows when to pick her battles, and I was pretty sure I had a more important one on my hands – if I could get into the room to fight it.

‘Then I'm going to try and stop you from going in, but you're going to beat me woefully.' He delivered his comment deadpan so I waited a beat for him to try and stop me, but he didn't so much as step towards me. He met my gaze and winked.

‘I like you,' I said, flashing him a grin.

I pushed open the heavy doors with too much force and they slammed against the walls on either side – oops, damned werewolf strength – then I stalked in like I'd fully intended my dramatic entrance.

I took a moment to look around. The gathering hall was heaving with people but even so it was eerily silent. There were brethren, dark seraph, dragons, mermaids and even dryads; a lot of people had a vested interest in Emory Elite's future.

Someone had turned the hall into a mockery of a courtroom. Five self-important twats were sitting on a raised dais: they were the Elders who would act as the judges. Of them, I knew only Geneve – and only because Jess had bitched about her when she'd got really drunk the previous night. Geneve was an ex of Emory's who had apparently hoped to resume their relationship. He'd shot her down and she hadn't taken it well; she might have been an ancient dragon but she was a sore loser. Maybe she'd learn to lose gracefully in the next thousand years or so. Then again, maybe not.

There was a pedestal next to the Elders and on top of it was a huge-ass jewel resting on a fancy pillow. The reverence it was being shown suggested it was some sort of holy dragon relic. If the worst came to the worst, I could steal that, cause a furore and they'd be so mad at me that they'd forget their idiotic persecution of Emory. I'd keep that as Plan B, though; I wasn't sure Emory would appreciate the tactic.

It would be fun though, Esme murmured wickedly. Some days she was the good angel on my shoulder but today she seemed to have a forked tail and a trident.

On a lower dais to the right of the Elders was Emory's inner circle including Greg's mum, Elizabeth. I would have known her anywhere because she had his skin tone, eyes and nose. She was dressed in a freaking ball gown and her lips were pinched; she looked like she'd sucked on a lemon and been surprised to discover it was bitter. It was hard not to dislike her on sight just because she was here working against Emory and propagating this farce.

Emory, the man of the hour, was standing in the dock and I caught my breath when I saw that he was wearing cuffs . He was the fucking King of the dragons and here he was, virtually in a pillory like a common thief.

It was chilling: I was the Queen of the Werewolves and I suddenly had a feeling in my gut that this was a horrific foreshadowing of my own future. In theory I believed that all of us – the leaders of the various factions – weren't above the law but Emory had done nothing wrong. He had saved hundreds of lives and it was all kinds of insult that he was being punished for it. This was politics, nothing more, nothing less, and it wouldn't have surprised me if the Anti-Crea had some hand in it. Maybe they were pulling strings from the shadows like the disgusting cowards they were.

All eyes had swung to me so I spoke forcefully into the silence. ‘I am the reason Emory is in this mess,' I declared loudly. ‘I am Lucy Barrett, Queen of the Werewolves. I am here to bear witness for Emory Elite.'

The bitch on the dais glared at me, her nostrils flaring. ‘You are not welcome in this court.'

I smiled. ‘Tough shit. Try and throw me out.' I let my smile widen as I dared her. Go on, try it. My lips curled back in a sneer. ‘Start a war with the werewolves. Or –' I paused deliberately, keeping my tone sweet, ‘let me say my piece and then I'll leave.' I'd always found that the best threats were delivered calmly; for some reason, people found them even more frightening than a snarl.

Geneve turned to the other Elder dragons and they murmured among themselves. ‘You may approach the court,' one of the men confirmed grudgingly. The dragons had the Anti-Crea breathing down their necks so they really couldn't afford a war on two fronts.

I smirked at Geneve. I'd been bluffing: I would never attack Emory's people – Greg' s people – but they didn't know that, or me.

‘I was in a pickle.' I raised my voice so that everyone in the hall could hear my story. ‘I was being attacked by another werewolf pack, but it wasn't just werewolf politics at play. A black witch was pulling the strings and trying to destroy the werewolves forever. You are very old,' I said guilelessly to Geneve. ‘Ancient, really. You must remember the Great Pack?'

Her glare intensified but she gave an unwilling nod.

‘The Great Pack was ripped from us by a curse that the witches had laid centuries ago. Any werewolves that spent too long in wolf form became feral and golden-eyed. With time, they became twisted and grey and turned into gargoyles. The black witch thought the original curse didn't go far enough because she wanted the Great Pack eradicated. Instead, another witch helped us break the curse and, by doing that, we changed the course of the gargoyles' fate. As you all know, Emory is king of the gargoyles. They knelt to him as their Elite and in exchange he swore that he would protect them. If he had failed to act that day, not only would the gargoyles all be dead but Emory Elite would be foresworn. He would be an oath-breaker.'

I drew out the last word and let it sit heavily in the silence. ‘Oath-breaker' was one of the worst insults you could throw in the Other realm and to have a Prime who was an oath-breaker would have huge ramifications for dragon society. I hoped my words would be enough to sway them to Emory's side of the fence, though Geneve's supercilious expression told me to expect otherwise.

Fools: they were playing right into the Anti-Crea's hands. I hoped it wouldn't be the death of them all.