“But she must be punished!” he burst out.
“She is Chosen,” one of the Sworn said. “You know the rules. Any human who kills her is subject to be put to death himself. She belongs to us. And we will not kill one of our Chosen to gratify your petty lust for revenge, governor.”
That was the end of that particular argument. Creeb knew his place. And it was decidedly below the boots of the werewolves.
“But she must be punished,” he whined. “There must be justice. Your Alpha decreed it, did he not?”
“He did,” one of the Sworn grunted.
My stomach did a flip. This was the part I’d been gambling on. What they would do with me now. I knew they wouldn’t let me be hanged. Would they save me from Creeb’s punishment?
“Well, then?” Creeb’s lip curled. “What is going to be done to her?”
Instead of answering, the Sworn took me by the arms and led me toward the wagon. Their fingers were as strong and unyielding as steel.
“Wait,” Creeb blustered. “Where are you going?”
They didn’t answer him. They hoisted me into the prison wagon, and one of Sworn leaped into the driver’s seat. The governor stood watching as the wagon lurched to a start, and then he whirled with a snort of displeasure for his carriage.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I had no idea where they were taking me. To the jail, most likely, to sort out an appropriate punishment. And what might that be? They wouldn’t kill me, but there were lots of other things they might do. Branding. Tearing off fingernails. Cutting my tongue.
My stomach curled into a cold, sick knot.
Neil leaped from the platform and ran alongside the wagon as it began to move down the path. “Red,” he panted, his eyes wide as he jogged even with me. “What… Was that… On your arm… Is this part of the plan?”
I knew what he was asking.
There wasn’t time for that now.
“Neil,” I said, speaking quickly. The wagon was gaining speed. “Find my grandmother and tell her what happened.”
His eyes were glazed, his expression still foggy with shock. “Neil,” I repeated, my voice snapping a little. “Find Delphine!”
He snapped from his reverie and jerked his chin in a nod. “Find Delphine,” he repeated. His voice faltered, but then he called, “I will, Red. Keep brave—we’ll get you out!”
The wagon pulled away, and he slowed, his chest rising and falling as he stood and watched me roll away.
Keep brave. It was one of our watchwords. A song we sang to our children. A ward we whispered to each other before going out into the darkness of night.
Keep brave. As if bravery were a thing we could grasp in our hands and hold tight to our chests.
Brave.
I sucked in a deep breath and forced my legs not to crumple beneath me. I hope I looked like I felt brave.
My grandmother was going to be furious.
CHAPTER THREE
THE JAIL CELL was small, narrow enough for me to touch the walls on either side of me with both arms outstretched, and the length of my father’s grave, but I still managed to pace inside it. Two strides, pivot, and two strides again. Back and forth. I counted out a thousand steps, then allowed myself a look outside the narrow strip of window set in the stone wall. Below, in the courtyard, a few Sworn came and went in the bright morning sunshine.
No sign of my grandmother yet.
I sighed and resumed pacing. My stomach cramped with hunger, as I’d been too nervous to eat before embarking on this scheme. Unfortunately, I didn’t think they’d be offering me sustenance any time soon. One of grandmother’s rules—always eat. You never know when you’re getting another meal.
I should have listened to her. She was paranoid, but often right.
Another thousand steps and I stopped to check the courtyard again.
Still nothing.
I’d already memorized the patch of lichen on the far wall. It was shaped like the helmet of a Sworn that had half-melted in a fire.
I averted my eyes to my feet and continued to pace.
Where was Neil now? Had he returned to town, found our friends?
They probably were no longer my friends. Not after what I’d revealed.
I glanced down at the symbol inscribed on my wrist in a bold, bright red mark. The Sworn came every year to test the women of the villages. Memories of the night flashed through my head. The glint of the lantern on their masks from where they stood in the doorway. The strength in their hands as they’d seized my arms and held me down. The painful slash on my arm, the drip of my blood to the floor. One of them had tasted it, and I’ll never forget the cry that came from my grandmother when he’d pronounced gruffly, “Chosen.”
They’d marked me right then and there, a slash on my wrist in two overlapping circles that healed red and raised, colored in a crude tattoo due to the venom in the tips of their claws. Then they’d departed, leaving a broken door swinging in the wind behind them.
Leaving me broken in their wake.
Our village despised the Chosen girls. Here, when girls were given the mark, some parents chased their own children out of the house with sticks and rocks. Some accepted it, of course, but they hid their daughters away in the forest until the Sworn came again with the carriages to take them. The girls who did dare to walk about town and continue their lives as usual were harassed—mud thrown at them by school children, pots of scalding water by housewives. Sometimes, gangs of boys chased down a Chosen girl and forcibly shaved her head. Or worse.
I’d had no choice in the matter, of course. None of us did. The werewolves had held me down and extracted the vial of blood to test me while I scratched and fought, and my grandmother had hoarsely begged them to stop. They might have killed her for her insolence, except she was an old woman, and they didn’t bother.
When the werewolf testing my blood had spoken the result—positive—I’d wanted to cry, but I didn’t. My whole body seemed to turn to ice. As they carved the mark into my skin with the special ink that only darkened on those with the blood they wanted, the blood of a woman who could produce a werewolf child, I’d stared straight ahead, my cries locked inside my chest and my ears ringing. I’d felt as though I’d literally been frozen with horror.
Some girls in other villages wanted to be marked. Being marked as a Chosen girl meant extra food, extra privileges. It meant protection.
Here, it meant rejection from everyone but the enemy.
As soon as the werewolves had left after my marking, I’d run outside and found our ax. My grandmother wrenched it from me as I begged her to cut off my arm. She told me sternly that we would hide the symbol of my disgrace. We would never reveal it. When the werewolves came looking for me later, to collect their bounty and deliver me to the capital to produce babies for the enemy, she said, I could hide in the woods. She would tell them that I’d died. And the town would never know.
I never wanted this. I would have died first.
But the court of public opinion hardly cared about any of that. I was marked. That was all that mattered.
That was all anybody needed to hate me.
Hoofbeats came from the courtyard, and I returned to the window, my heart in my throat as I looked for either the governor’s carriage or Neil’s wagon.