Chapter 213

Grace

My stomach churned like a washing machine on high spin as the sleek jet taxied down the runway. Beside me, Esme exuded an air of calm that bordered on serene, sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup and reading a book titled "The Art of Persuasive Negotiation." I, on the other hand, could barely hold down the contents of my own breakfast.

The trial was set for a few hours from now. The looming specter of accusations, consequences, and an uncertain future had me on edge. Every bump in the air sent a jolt through me. Every announcement from the pilot felt like a harbinger of doom.

"Relax, Grace," Esme finally said, setting down her tea. "We've gone over your case as much as possible. Take a deep breath. "

Easier said than done. I closed my eyes, wishing I was home with my kids and hoping that Eason wasn't going to stay pissed for much longer. He and George were watching Cecil and Richard. Charles was still gone "handling king business" and wouldn't be there. Wonderful.

The prepared file felt heavy in my lap, each word meticulously chosen, each argument carefully constructed. Yet, a nagging doubt gnawed at me. Would it be enough?

The plane finally reached cruising altitude, the world shrinking into a patchwork quilt of green and gold below. Taking a deep breath, I straightened in my seat.

Charles' absence rocked me. We still hadn't made up, exactly, or talked much. Esme assured me he was handling kingly business, but I couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment that he hadn't told me himself. His presence, even on the periphery, would have been a source of comfort, especially since Eason hadn't said a word or even looked at me since we got back.

I sighed again.

"Is it about Eason?" Esme asked.

I set my jaw. "He doesn't understand..."

"I think it would be best not to focus on what's going on with Eason."

"I--"

"You don't have enough information or perspective to come to any good conclusions. Dwelling on it will only make you spiral. You need to focus on the case."

I set my jaw and looked out the window. All that might make sense, but it was easier said than done. I wished Charles was around; at the least, he might tell me something more than focus on something else.

But then again, maybe his absence was for the best. This was my fight. And for as long as the States and the Clans weren't one entity, it wasn't a fight I could really share with him. It wouldn't be a fight I could even think to share with him until I was completely free of Devin.

My stomach clenched at the thought of him. If I hadn't met Devin, none of this would have happened. Not Blood Moon, not this case... Not even Charles. My stomach twisted as I tried to put it out of my mind. I didn't want to think about him or the path that had led me here, but the closer I grew to the case, the capital, and dealing with all the mess he'd left behind, the harder it was to think of anything else.

Would he ever have to pay for what he'd done to me? Would it ever be enough to make it right? Even if he paid back all the money, even if he had to work for the rest of his life to support his children, would there ever be a time I wasn't haunted by our relationship?

I could hear him laughing at the back of my mind, some fuzzy memory that I couldn't see clearly and didn't want to.

Before I knew it, we were landing. We took a car to the Red House. The sleek black car glided to a stop in front. Its facade loomed and looked jarring against the crisp, blue sky. The blood-red paint and black wood looked worse in person than in photos.

Esme wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Ugh, I've always loathed this place," she muttered, stepping out of the car. "It's always felt like a cheap knockoff of the castle. My husband would have a field day critiquing the clash of reds and blacks, the unfortunate choice of floral arrangements, and every other distasteful thing about it. For me, it's just ugly."

I laughed. My inner artist was already rioting at how terrible it was as we walked inside.

The oppressive atmosphere intensified with every step down the hall. The cavernous space echoed with hushed whispers and nervous coughs, the air thick with anticipation and tension as we were led to the Trial Hall. Crimson tapestries depicting scenes of past battles adorned the walls, like a cross between a warning and a museum showing. There was one of a half-wolf, half-man creature, an old depiction of what the shift for werewolves looked like.

My stomach clenched as I followed the trail of blood in the tapestry to where a human woman lay. It was sickening to look at. Esme and I stopped in front of the main door, and she took my hand.

"Deep breath," she said, her voice low but firm. "Head up, shoulders back... Let's keep you in Mooncrest, yeah?"

I straightened my shoulders, squared my jaw, and nodded. The attendant opened the door. Stepping into the heart of the Trial Hall, the sheer weight of history and judgment pressed down on me. Sunlight streamed through tall glass windows, turning strips of the polished wood floor as light as gold. Then, I noticed the senators in the hall seated at two parts of a half-moon table. Each senator's gaze felt like a laser, scrutinizing my every move. In the center, seated on a raised platform, was the President, Sean Caldwell. He looked as slimy as I imagined he would. His pursed lips and narrowed eyes exuded an air of suspicion, but there was a glint of malice in his eyes, too.

Game on, his eyes seemed to say, as if I had already lost.

I hated him more now than I had the moment I realized that no one was coming to help us. We walked to the appointed seats and settled in. Esme opened her files, and I did the same, hoping against hope that this would be as painless as possible.

As the crowd settled, a procession of officials filed in – the Inter-Pack Police’s auditor, his face grim beneath his stoic mask; the Chief Justice, her robes billowing with each deliberate step; and finally, Fenris, his eyes glinting with an unreadable mix of haughtiness and amusement. He thought I had lost already, too.

He settled in the seats across from us. More people filed in to sit in the observation area. Fenris wiggled his eyebrows, and I clenched my fist before dropping my gaze to the pages in front of me.

My heart was pounding. That anger and fury rose in me. I could see red. I could taste blood.

Kill him.

Kill him, and it would all be over.

Kill him and Sean and the rest of the senators, and there would be no one to judge me.

I shuddered at the thoughts. I wasn't a murderer, yet the words felt true. They felt right. They felt justified and easy. Esme tapped my hand and offered me a vial. I narrowed my eyes at it, recognizing it as the same vial that Eason had given me.

I could see Avery's face flashing through my mind.

The little girl lying dead in the newspaper.

More anger.

More fear.

My hands shook. My throat closed up as I realized that there was something wrong.

"Grace?" Esme said gently.

I reached for the vial with a shaking hand, uncorked it, and drank it quickly. I shuddered as the bloodthirsty urge to murder started to fade. I took a deep breath. Then, a hush fell over the room as the door creaked open. I turned to see who had entered and froze.

Charles strode in, a vision of regal power encased in shimmering armor. The crown upon his head gleamed in the sunlight, his beard had been grown out again and groomed, and his eyes were glowing red. His hair was long again, too, braided in the same way I had always seen on television. Knowing what he looked like without his beard and seeing him now made it so easy to see why no one noticed him in Mooncrest. He looked like a totally different person, especially in his formal wear, sword and all.

I almost smiled, feeling a bit relieved to have him here, until I saw the woman walking beside him. She couldn't have been any older than he was with a crown on her brow. She glided with the same regal grace he did.

She was breathtaking; her dark hair fell around her shoulders, and her gown was a masterpiece of emerald silk that hugged her curves yet exuded an air of regal composure. Her eyes, the color of molten gold, held a sharp intelligence that clashed with the soft smile playing on her lips. Who was she? And what was she doing here, seemingly so close to Charles?

An ache, unexpected and sharp, lanced through my chest. Was this the kingly business he'd had to deal with?