"Not everyone," Clare whispers, nodding toward a table near ours, but I don't recognize any of the people seated at it. Our way of life doesn't allow me to overlook them; I memorize who is seated near whom, taking in every face.
"Oh, look," Mother announces suddenly as a thrall waiter approaches. "Dessert."
Tara shoots me an expression that promises we'll talk later.
And we do. After dinner becomes drinks and dancing, my sisters and I leave for the restroom and "get lost" along the way, stepping into a windowed alcove to talk, unencumbered by their mates.
"Look, Mother doesn't want to talk about it and Father will never admit it, but Greater London is occupying the Toronto pack. King Victor made a huge mistake by taking his children out of the line of succession before securing a new heir."
"But why did the pack depose him? Because they didn't like who he married?" Such a thing is unheard of in modern times.
"Because he knew she had illegal dealings with the Manhattan pack," Tara explains. Of the two of my sisters, she looks the most like me, with the same ash blonde hair and easily readable face, which condemns our former pack leader. "And he covered them up."
"He lied to the council when confronted," Clare adds. "He lied to the pack."
"Wow. I guess I missed a lot while I was gone." My stomach is hollow. I've returned to the middle of a war. "Who were those people at the table you pointed out?"
Clare knows exactly what I'm referring to. "The Rogers family. Their daughter, Amber, was the queen who created this problem in the first place."
"Her family still thinks she has a claim. There's a rumor that King Nathaniel is in love with her and plans to bring her back to the pack," Tara whispers, an uncharacteristic volume choice but a smart one, when one is talking about one's supreme ruler. "You can imagine how nervous that makes the members of the council who don't want to see Frost removed from the throne."
It should make everyone in the castle tonight nervous. A deposed queen whose family hasn't been exiled is a danger; more so when she's the object of an invading conqueror's interest. It would only take a simple mating ceremony to neatly hand the Toronto pack over to Greater London, with the support of one of the most powerful packs in North America.
We could lose everything.
And the commander of the opposing forces is walking down the strip of red carpet in the hall outside the ballroom. He's talking to someone, laughing as they move briskly in our direction.
My palms sweat. "Why don't we go back to the ballroom? I need a drink to handle all this."
"I don't blame you," Clare says, and to my relief she doesn't seem to have noticed the King headed our way.
I don't want him to walk past. I don't want to curtsey to him only to find he doesn't even notice our presence there. But I also don't want him to notice me. He already noticed me, and I nearly had an asthma attack. Now that I know he's a hostile in our pack, I don't want him to notice me, ever again.
I lead the way, my sisters trying to keep up behind me, and strike out on a direct course to the nearest catering bar. A tall, slender man turns as I approach, and he smiles as if he recognizes me.
It takes me a moment to recognize him.
"I think we'll go back to the table," Clare says, and before Tara can protest, she manhandles her off.
When I invoked the right five years ago, I did so not just to see what the human world had to offer. It was a potential escape from the mating claim my father had signed, sealing me to Ashton Daniels. Now, Ashton stands in front of me, nothing at all like the scrawny, awkward teenager I left behind. His smile grows—his teeth are perfect—and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners with genuine happiness to see me. His ginger complexion isn't as shockingly pale, his hair looks more like a rusty brown than the flame orange we all teased him about during our school days.
He puts his arms out—despite the black tie dress code, he's somehow gotten away with wearing navy blue, blowing the sartorial competition out of the water. I only realize that I'm gaping at him in what probably appears to be horror when his smile suddenly falters and fades. "You don't remember me."
His voice has changed, too. It's deeper, but he's still soft-spoken, and the effect is like warm honey. I stammer a little as I answer. "I—of course, I remember you." I burst into laughter and a smile I have to fake out of the sheer shock of the moment. Just to give myself a second to recover, I put out my arms, too.