Wolf in King's Clothing, page 1
Wolf in King's Clothing
Parker Foye
Copyright © 2023 Parker Foye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the ebook vendor and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
First Edition 2017, Carina Press.
Second Edition February 2023, Tenebrosity Press.
Also by Parker Foye
Love Has Claws
Nine Years of Silver
The Burial Club
Letters from Dark Water
Shuck
Metaschemata Verse
Mage of Inconvenience
Hart of Winter
Wolves and Wardens
Wolf in King's Clothing
Ward & Weft
Other Books
Beating the Bounds
Flight and Fancy
Red Between the Lines
'Tis Pity He's a Horse
WOLF IN KING'S CLOTHING
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
Eighteen minutes. Long enough that Kent had scraped a fresh groove into the arm of the uncomfortable wooden chair with one of his claws, cross-hatching the scars from his last visit. Wood shavings piled by his feet. Beside him a scrawny kid, smelling strangely of strawberries, edged to the other side of his own chair, eyes flickering between Kent's collar and claws with equal parts fear and disgust.
Kent ducked his head, letting his long hair fall to disguise his collar. Stare more, shitstain. He'd rinsed off the blood from his latest contract, hadn't he? Not wanting to spoil the fancy wood Tabitha had imported from somewhere in the Empire.
Nineteen minutes. Midnight had been and gone, but business never stopped. The new century had been good for York. Rowntree's factory and the railways both brought in plenty of money, and people like Tabitha had found ways to shave slivers of silver for themselves. Longer hours, perhaps, and certainly darker purposes, but Kent had no qualms about either.
"How long've you had that?" the kid suddenly asked, pointing at Kent's throat. "I seen you before, ain't I? And you had it then."
People saw the collar and thought they knew Kent's story. A collar to bind him into human form, before being ejected from his pack. Exile. Like there weren't wardens ready to bind for the price of a warm meal.
Humans didn't know shit. Wolves even less.
"A punishment, weren't it? What did you do? Here, are you listening?"
The guard at the door shuffled his weight. "Shut up, Anthony. He don't talk."
Anthony glowered like someone had stood on his tail. Kent began scraping a fresh groove into the arm of the chair as the door opened to the main office, the scent of cloves marking the warden's magic behind the movement. Kent's nose wrinkled at the smell, stronger than usual and worse than the blood and offal wafting in from the streets below. He breathed shallow, Anthony matching his breaths as they waited for the summons.
"Prince!"
Kent unfolded from the chair, growls rumbling in his throat, the vibrations increasing his awareness of the leather wrapped around it. Like he ever forgot. Tabitha might as well have whistled for him like she would a dog, using the name on his collar. A name he'd never chose. Only as free as she wanted him to be.
Aches and old scar tissue twinged with stiffness from sitting, making his steps hitch. Twenty minutes, and he'd aged as many years. Someone should put him down. Wasn't that what people did with old dogs?
"I see we're feeling maudlin today." Tabitha eyed Kent speculatively as he entered her office and closed the door, sneezing once. He never could hide anything from her. "Then I'll be brief."
Tabitha had surely never been long-winded in her life. She allowed nothing to reach excess. Her oak desk had only a single chair, leaving guests to stand. Her beautifully carved bookshelves were empty. The window, overlooking York Shambles, had no curtain.
Tabitha herself was a tall bird of a woman, a corvid of some kind, with bright eyes and sombre dress. Kent first met her when the country had been in mourning for the late king, and it'd taken Kent months to realise Tabitha wore black out of habit and not for occasion. Kent had taken up the habit himself, to better hide bloodstains. He'd often wondered what Tabitha needed to disguise, sitting behind her bare desk, but Kent had spent his youth begging for scraps and his adulthood fighting for them and knew better than to ask how dirty someone's hands could get.
Taking his usual place by the naked window, Kent leaned against the wall, needing the scrim of fresh air eking in through the window seams. Cloves made him sneeze, but they were the price of dealing with a warden as strong as Tabitha. He scratched his nose as he watched fingers of orange and pink light reach across the sky, waking the city. Some market holders were already arranging their stalls in the Shambles for the day's trading. Beyond the Shambles, he could see the prison. He turned his back on it.
Tabitha had steepled her fingers together and rested her chin on her fingertips. Better to look down her nose at him.
"Your work at the river displayed your usual finesse, I hear." Kent grunted an affirmation. Finesse. "I might have another job for you. How keen are you on removing that thing?" she asked, pointing to Kent's collar.
He felt his face go blank, like one of the carvings on the cathedral. His heart hammered against his bones. Tabitha knew how badly Kent wanted the collar gone, as it had forced him to crawl to her desk in the first place. He swallowed.
"Job pays good?"
"Enough I could purchase the final ingredients for the casting, if you're successful. And if you're certain you still wish to pursue—"
"Will do it," Kent interrupted. He'd taken a step closer to the desk without realising he'd moved, eager to get his agreement to Tabitha's ears. At her raised eyebrows he retreated to the wall. He swallowed, throat moving against the collar, and cast his eyes down. Bad dog.
After a beat, long enough Kent risked glancing at Tabitha's unreadable expression, she continued. "I've been approached to retrieve a lost item from the pack in the north and return it south. The pack guards their territory with fang and claw, and it is my understanding they've grown attached to this particular trinket, and moreso in the wake of recent losses. You may have to meet strength with strength alike."
Wading into pack business wouldn't be Kent's first choice, but at least he knew why Tabitha wanted him for the job. He raised his head, more confident. "Am your best fighter."
"If 'fighting' is what you wish to call it," Tabitha muttered. She withdrew a piece of paper from her desk and laid it facedown, her hand poised above it. She met Kent's eyes. "Will you take the contract? You'll be far from home."
What could hold such value to justify reaching out to Tabitha? At her price? Because if she could afford to finally free Kent from the collar, her percentage should allow Tabitha to buy the city. Ingredients for castings were rare and expensive, as Kent discovered when he first researched getting the binding removed, and he'd all but given up by the time Tabitha started throwing scraps his way. Alone, he'd have spent his entire life researching magic and come up short. With Tabitha's knowledge, and the money generated from working her contracts, they'd come close to setting Kent free in two years.
Those two years in Tabitha's pockets had been long enough Kent had forgotten what fresh air tasted like. The contract offered a breeze on his face. A whisper in the unending dark.
Kent didn't give a shit what the packs had or who wanted it. Kent would deliver.
He pushed away from the wall and stabbed a claw through the upper part of the paper, careful to make his point but not scratch Tabitha's desk.
"I'll do it," he said. Tabitha released the paper, letting Kent slide it free, and leaned back in her chair as he studied the sketch. Bigger than he'd like. He grunted. "Tricky to move."
Tabitha tilted her head in acknowledgement, more like a bird than ever. "If you are unable—"
"Didn't say can't. Can. Trains," Kent said, aware he missed words, but Tabitha nodded in understanding. He'd spent a long time silent, after a longer time when his voice wasn't heard no matter how loud he shouted, and unless he planned his words they eluded him. He made an effort to speak in a measured tone. "When does contract need completing?"
"Before the next full moon, for obvious reasons."
Because the pack in the north were wolves, and Kent would stand no chance against them under the full moon. The previous full moon had been weeks ago, leaving less than a week to travel north, retrieve the "trinket", and bring it to Tabitha. Tight, but he could do it. Would do it. Kent nodded, folding the paper and stashing it in his inside jacket
"Will be done."
"Then I'll reach out to my contacts in preparation for the casting. Take the wardings you need from the usual place downstairs."
A thrill shot through Kent's body at the thought he could soon be free of the hated collar. He clamped down on the anticipation. So much could go wrong. Hope was for puppies.
At the door, Kent paused and turned around. Tabitha hadn't moved from her last position, watching him from under hooded eyes. He tapped the pocket where he'd stored the paper.
"Name?"
Tabitha pursed her lips and looked away, out the bare window. The sun cast her face in gold. "His name is Hadrian."
Kent nodded and left the office, affecting ignorance when the scrawny kid twitched away from him. Kid didn't matter. By the next full moon, Kent would have his collar removed, and he'd be able to walk among people without pulling stares like iron filings toward his freakish magnet. With his hair to cover his ears, and his hands in gloves, no one would know unless they looked twice. He'd lose the hated name. Finally bury the last scrap of a boy long dead.
He drummed his claws over his chest, where the pocket with the paper pressed against his heart. One good deed. One lost cub to bring home, and Kent would be free.
I'm coming for you, Hadrian.
* * *
Train whistle. Slowing to take the bend. Bridge ahead. The noise changed to a shallow sound. Hush of rain over the carriage. Kent shouldered open the luggage carriage door and squinted through the drizzle, trying to choose a good place to land. Didn't seem to be any, aside from the overgrown verge alongside the tracks, flattened by the steady drizzle. It'll have to do.
Just make sure not to land on the tracks. Broken bones take too long to heal.
Keeping the door open with one arm, Kent crouched for a jump. When the train started to curve on the bend, he leapt.
Ow fuck shit Jesus Christ that hurts.
Eventually he stopped. Panted shallow breaths. Wheezed slightly. Slept in a ditch until the sun began its downward journey. Pushed himself to his feet and started walking. The rain didn't stop. His aches turned numb with cold.
Wolf packs burrowed into the hills, building elaborate structures into the earth over decades, expanding their territory with pack numbers. Kent had heard stories about packs when he was a kid, when his family travelled down from the highlands with only legends to keep them warm; later, when he never had a roof for more than two days at a time, he'd wished he could build a wolf den in the city. As an adult, with Annie's roof to keep him dry, he thought living in the hills must be what death felt like. Surrounded on all sides with dirt, no sun, no air, nowhere to run. Tombs.
If Kent had the chance, he'd live at the top of the hill like a god damned king. Not a prince.
Kent had been named "Prince" in the orphanage, when they'd sentenced him to a cold cell in the guise of saving him. He'd bedded down near a rich neighbourhood, too stupid to know better, and they'd dragged the nameless stray in to teach him right. Clipped his claws, hobbled him with shoes, operated— Kent shuddered at the memory, dusty though it was. Some travelling ha'penny warden had spelled the collar on, said it would keep the feral kid controlled under the pull of the moon. Kent hadn't the words to protest he wasn't a fucking wolf and didn't need binding, still howling as the warden tipped his hat and took his bits of silver.
Matron had sewn Prince on the collar like it was her right. The name of her dog, she'd said, eyes hard like a smack. Matron had been first to look him in the eye and call him "dog". She wouldn't be the last.
He'd become Kent when Tabitha made him choose his own name. Said that's what people did. Kent didn't know. He knew he'd been "son", once, and "best beloved", but sickness took his human mother and winter turned his wolf father cold, and when Matron had demanded his name, he'd had none to give. Maybe Kent hadn't been a person, then. Maybe grief and the city had turned him into something new, even as the moon continued to refuse him.
Tabitha had never asked why the moon didn't affect Kent like it should. Even bound, the moon should have called to him. Tormented him. She'd not been raised on stories about half-shifters with one body for their twin nature, caught between two possible lives and too mad for either. Kent wouldn't be the one to tell her. Legends had taken enough from him already.
His fingers drifted to the collar where letters remained in indentations, though he'd long since clawed away the stitches. He yanked his hand away when his claws brushed his throat. Concentrate. Today is for Hadrian. The past is buried.
As the wolves were buried, deep in their tombs. Kent bared his teeth. He'd finally found the pack lands, following the tracks of those gone before. Keeping his distance, Kent listened for patrols. He followed their blood-and-earth-scent trails to the centre they circled, the pearl in the oyster of the north.
With the rain to disguise his scent, and trees to skulk behind, no one called an alarm as Kent watched the pattern of coming and going. Three entrances into the hill. Wooden dwellings of differing size nearby. For visitors? Cooking meat hung thick in the air, along with the scent of bodies living together, and Kent's nose itched. He missed the smoke-sweat stench of his city.
The rain began to thin and full dark dropped quickly, only a few gas lanterns to beat it back. He had to make his move. A small cabin set alone seemed the likeliest location for Hadrian, with two wolves stationed outside, rotating to change guard on the doors, and a solitary light within. No coming. No going.
Kent checked his knives—thigh, ankle, wrist, the small of his back—and flexed his fingers to check his claws. He yanked off his boots, setting them under a fallen log, and dug his toes into the mulchy ground. Easier to run without boots keeping him pinned.
Easier to lose himself too. Not tonight. Keep present.
Expelling a breath, Kent sank low and stole across the clearing toward the cabin, his footfall silent on the soft earth. The guard at the rear of the cabin saw him too late, and Kent had his claws to the man's throat, his other hand over his mouth, before any sound could escape. Kent toyed with the idea of killing the guard, for efficiency, but the man didn't deserve to die for being lousy at his job.
Kent's heart pounded in his ears as he waited for the man to stop struggling against oxygen deprivation. The damn wolf was almost twice Kent's size. Will you please—fucking—finally. Kent checked for a pulse—present—and glanced around in case of movement from the other guard. Nothing. A handful of minutes before the second guard cornered the cabin.
A few minutes should be enough.
Fishing through his inside pocket, Kent withdrew a warding. A small card of heavy stock, inlaid with a gold filigree design not unlike a compass, stinking of old blood. The edges were foxed from frequent use, as Kent had never met a lock he didn't prefer open. A minor magic, the warding was good for several uses.
He pressed the card to the cabin door, bit open his thumb on his canine teeth and smeared the design with blood. The lock clicked. Holding his breath, Kent listened for movement. Hearing none, he pocketed the card and opened the door, stepping inside and closing the door quietly behind him.
Single bed. Gas lantern turned low. Table. Chairs. Pail of water. Dried herbs lining the windows. Writing desk.
Hadrian, the man from Tabitha's paper whose image Kent had checked and rechecked on the journey north: strong unshaven jaw, clever eyes, smart beard, reddish-brown hair grown slightly too long for its neat parting, broad shoulders and tapered waist. A scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
The gun was new. A fucking Luger.
Almost as startling was Hadrian's scent. The ocean, wild and cold, like it was on the northern coast. Salt spray and biting winds. Rolling waves spitting with froth. The edge of the world.
Wrong-footed, resisting the urge to take lungfuls of that scent, Kent held out his hands. Water dripped down his face from his hair, but he didn't dare move to scrape it back. He wetted his lips. Ridiculous they were dry with the rest of him soaked to the bone.
"Rescue you," he rasped. Wished his mouth knew more words.
Rescue both of us.
* * *
Hadrian gestured with the pistol, unused to holding it. He took in the bedraggled intruder, tangled hair obscuring his face, mud coating his body. With the dark and dirt, Hadrian could distinguish little else about the intruder apart from—good god, were those claws? His lip curled at the sight. Parochial wolves had no respect. Barging in on another's territory without an invitation was the height of bad manners.
