Page 34 of Junk Magic

Hargroves frowned. “I was under the impression that you cannot change because you chose not to be infected. That you are what they call a rogue wolf.”

I shook my head and once again had the words stick in my throat. This wasn’t the sort of thing that was discussed with outsiders. It felt wrong, almost obscene. I made myself continue anyway.

“I was Wolf Born—”

“Meaning?”

“Most Weres are bitten by their parents after they reach the age of five or six, the earliest that a child can usually hope to withstand the infection. Before that, it is often fatal. But some acquire the Were strain in the womb, which is considered a sign of strength—assuming the child survives.”

“Then you should have been born able to Change.”

I didn’t answer. I started to, but the pain hit all at once, not blindingly hot and burning, like an open wound, but cold, hollow, and filled with desperate longing. I shook it off angrily, my lips unconsciously forming themselves into a snarl. And it must have been a good one, because Hargroves’ right hand twitched.

But he caught whatever spell he’d planned to use before it materialized, and I took the chance to get myself under control. And then to explain before I pissed him off any more than I already had. “Normally, yes. But Neuri intervened. The syndrome occurs occasionally when the mother is Were but the father is not, which is why female Weres rarely marry outside the clans. Basically, it’s a milder version of lycanthropy, one that acts like a vaccine, preventing the carrier from getting the full-blown disease.”

“I see.”

I doubted that. Doubted he could have any idea what it had been like, growing up with sweat soaked sheets for days around the time of the full moon; tossing and turning with the call of the wild surging through my veins; hearing the howls of the pack loud in my ears, pulling on me like a physical tug. And then a yank and finally a heave as I grew older and the call intensified, leaving me gripping my bed in fear and longing and self-hatred, wanting to run with them, to feel the ground being eaten up under our paws, to see moonlight gleaming off heavily muscled flanks that moved like lightning, to . . .

To experience things that I would never know.

“Neuri is seen as a major threat by the clans,” I said hoarsely, after a moment. “It could decimate a clan’s strength if allowed to run wild, not to mention alienating it from everyone else. The higher clans usually intermarry among themselves, for prestige or alliances, but nobody is going to marry into a clan that might have Neuri. They might even attack it instead. For that reason, along with prejudice and tradition, babies born with the syndrome are commonly killed at birth.”

“Killed?” Hargroves frowned some more. “I assume you mean in the distant past.”

I didn’t answer. Mentally, I was back at my mother’s bedside, the sickly smell of a hospital ward strong in my nose, antiseptic overlaid by a profusion of flowers, neither of which covered the stench of approaching death. I could still hear the beeping of machines I didn’t know the names of echoing in my head, along with her labored breathing.

“Mother hid my condition,” I finally said, my voice expressionless. “Leading Were clans have a hierarchy, like old European nobility, and there weren’t many ahead of her in clan rank who could have challenged her decision to refuse to let me be turned. And those who could have done so refrained out of respect or friendship. But then the clan chieftain died and his successor decided to push the issue. Laurentia of Lobizon’s only daughter could not be lost to them. The farce had gone on long enough.”

“And yet, you were not turned.”

I shook my head. “Mother managed to avoid the summons to appear before the elders, and thereby risk a new ruling, by pleading illness. It wasn’t a lie. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer when I was twenty-three.

“She held on for almost two years, because twenty-five is the age of majority among the clans, when I would be considered fully adult and able to choose for myself. She went through a great deal of pain to shield me, including a number of pointless surgeries and treatments that were never going to work, but might buy a little extra time.

“She missed my birthday by less than a week.”

“My sympathies,” Hargroves said, and actually sounded like he meant it.

Maybe he did.

We were all well acquainted with grief these days.

“The clan couldn’t do anything as long as she lived,” I continued. “But two days after she died, I was attacked by eight clan members determined to bring her only child into the fold before time ran out, whether I liked it or not. They forgot: I was Guillame de Croissets’ daughter, too, and a war mage in my own right. Not to mention that, while Father is retired, he’s far from helpless.”

“An understatement,” Hargroves murmured.

I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to break down in front of the boss. But the pain was just as bright, just as strong, just as enraging as it had been that night, fueling my response. And father’s, too. Grief takes many forms, and ours had been written in blood.

“In the end, there were six dead Weres, two fires, five million dollars in property damage and headlines in all the Newark papers. The Circle covered it up as a gang war, but I received a black mark on my record for letting the fight become public as well as a transfer out here.”

“So that was why.” Hargroves looked like he’d wondered. “And your old clan?”

“They would have killed me in retribution once the furor died down, but under Arnou’s protection, they didn’t dare. But it’s safe to say that I remain . . . unpopular.”

“Yet they still do not know of your affliction.”

“No. And it needs to stay that way,” I said grimly, and he inclined his head half an inch, his version of a nod.

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