Chapter 47: The Pen is Mightier
Father marched down the stairs of the council hall. He stopped six inches from me. He stood six foot two and was one of the few men able to look down upon me. I slid my hand into one of the pockets of my maxi dress.
“You will recant these lies!” He yelled in my face, “and you will do so now!”
I gripped the silver quill pen Amy had given me, waiting for the right moment.
“What lies father? It seems the duke’s men are outside. The duke himself is here. He would not mobilize the marines on a whim. So, what will I recant?”
“Shut up!” He slapped me hard enough to knock me off my feet. I slammed into the floor of the council hall. With my hand in my pocket, I couldn’t break my fall. And so, the impact knocked the wind from my lungs. The crowd gasped. I struggled to catch my breath. Then I pulled myself up. Once the air returned to my lungs, I stood and made a show of brushing myself off. And then I put my hands back into the pockets of my dress.
“What now father? Will you hit me again?”
He glared at me; hands balled up into fists.
“Should I return the favor?”
I drew the pen from my pocket and slashed the quill across my father’s face. The tip of the quill was not sharpened like a knife. But it was sharp enough to scrape a shallow cut into my father’s cheek. And the quill was silver. Father roared and stumbled backward. The scrape bubbled and hissed as he clutched at his face.
“Blood of the royal family,” I whispered. I held up the pen, “My lords and ladies, this is silver.”
The crowd murmured. The implication was obvious.
The sounds coming from father became more guttural. Soon he was growling. His body changed. Fur materialized. His limbs lengthened. His head distorted into the head of a wolf. Somebody in the crowd screamed. I stared at the monstrous form of Jean Octavian. I was shaking. I was not a warrior. And I was less than two feet from a now nine-foot-tall werewolf.
I heard a second growl and looked up to see my uncle had also transformed into a werewolf form.
“Of course,” I said.
Uncle bared his fangs and leaped the distance to the floor of the chamber. Now I was staring down two massive wolf men. My instincts were screaming at me to run. Of course, I couldn’t run. Three visions too close together meant I was still leaning on my cane. I shook as I stared the two of them down.
“You stand revealed." I tried to control the shaking in my voice. "We can all see what you are.”
My father stepped forward and grabbed the front of my dress and lifted me into the air. He growled in my face, and I screamed in spite of myself. Then I gathered myself and continued speaking.
“You may kill me, but that will not unmake what House Octavian has seen or heard today.”
My father spoke in a voice that sounded of broken glass and gravel, “You will still be dead dear daughter. There is no healing salve to bring somebody back from being eaten.”
My feet kicked in midair as I dangled from my father’s claws. “You’re right. I cannot stop you. So, show us how brave you are. Kill an invalid with no combat skills and a silver quill for a weapon. Make your ancestors proud.”
“This is pointless,” My uncle growled, “She’s right, we’re exposed.”
“Then there’s no reason not to kill her,” My father said, “Repaid as a traitor deserves.”
A gunshot exploded from off to my right and blood erupted from my father’s jaw. My uncle turned to look in the direction of the gunshot. Leon stood, arm outstretched, a smoking derringer in his hand. Beside him stood Fiona and Vincent. And behind them stood Amy and Great Aunt Cecile.
“Try fighting somebody trained for you.” Fiona said, stepping forward. She reached into her jacket and produced her flintlock. Vincent produced his pepperbox pistol. They glanced at each other and then fired. My father’s knees burst like overripe melons. He dropped me to the ground, his legs splayed at unnatural angles. I fell with him and found myself crumpled on the floor a second time. Fiona threw her pistol aside and drew her saber.
“Let us settle this as warriors,” She said, pointing her saber at my uncle. He snarled and charged at her in a sprint. As he did, Fiona reached back into her jacket and produced her own pepperbox pistol. She fired center mass and my uncle stumbled. Fiona dropped her pistol and stepped forward. She raised her sword arm and swung down in a diagonal cut.
My uncle’s head flew free of his body and rolled to a stop by Aunt Cecile. She looked at it, and then spat and turned away. The assembled nobles murmured again. Nobody in House Octavian had the influence of great aunt Cecile. She snorted, “Repaid as a traitor deserves.”
Fiona stared at the decapitated corpse, “Warriors fight duels. Monsters get exterminated.”
I pulled myself back to my feet, again and looked at my father. He stared at Fiona and the corpse of his brother. While he wasn’t looking at me, I reached into my cleavage and drew my bodice dagger.
“Forget about somebody, father?” I asked.
He turned his lupine head back to face me, and I rammed my dagger into father’s now exposed throat. I twisted the dagger. He flailed and knocked me back to the ground, leaving the dagger in his throat. Arterial blood sprayed from the wound. And I scrambled backwards, casting about for my cane.
“That dagger is silver, father. Your wound won’t heal. You thought to make yourself a wolf. But now you fall to the She-wolf of Ys.” I didn’t cut the noblest figure, speaking from the ground as I was doing. But I hoped I had made an impression on the house, nonetheless.
My father pulled himself to his knees and began dragging himself towards me. I noticed his knees were already healing. The skin and muscle knitted itself back together as I watched. I screamed again and scrambled back. Blood sprayed from his neck as he crawled towards me. I tried to rise and tripped on the edge of the dais, falling on my tailbone. I grunted in pain and tried to move. But father was close enough now, and he grabbed my left ankle and pulled me back towards his jaws.
“Patricide daughter? Then let us complete the circle and die together.” Blood bubbled from his neck as he spoke.
I kicked out at his face, but he moved his head and avoided my blow. Then he grabbed my other leg. I could feel myself crying, but I ignored it. He pulled me in. And then I remembered that I wasn’t unarmed. I grabbed the sash clasp at my waist and clicked the hidden mechanism. The dagger slid free from the body of the clasp. Fiona had given me a silvered dagger as default, and I thanked her for that in silence. I flailed with the dagger, and managed to cut three shallow sizzling cuts along my father’s face. He let go of my legs as he roared in pain. I kicked at his face several times with alternating feet and then scrambled backward. The blood flowing from his neck was losing pressure. He was dying. I had one goal. I needed to stay alive longer than him. I saw my cane and grabbed it. From my knees I swung the cane at his head, but he caught it and pulled me back into his range.
I tumbled forward and came to rest on my hands and knees underneath the looming body of my dying father. I clutched the dagger in both hands for added strength. If I survived this, I was asking Fiona to teach me some basic defense techniques. If I survived, which was a big if right now. My father’s blood rained down upon me. Blood was getting in my eyes, and I was having trouble seeing. Something hammered down on my back. And I crashed into the stone floor. I looked up to see father above me, his fist clenched. Running out of ideas, I thrust the dagger up at father’s chest with both hands. There are lots of important things in your chest after all. Maybe I would be lucky.
The dagger went in less than an inch before stopping. My heart sank. I wasn’t a warrior. And I hadn’t considered how much more muscle and bone there was on the chest to get through compared to the neck. Still, the wound sizzled from the silver on the blade. And father flinched backward from the dagger.
I rolled away from my father, too exhausted to stand back up. I bumped into a support pillar and lay still. He reached for me, but I lay out of reach. My head tipped to the side, and I watched as father tried to pull himself to his feet. But his legs gave out and he collapsed again. His movements had become sluggish. Fiona lunged forward and rammed the point of her saber into my father’s back. It didn’t stop him. He crawled on his belly, dragging himself towards me. He reached out for me again. And then his arm went limp, and he collapsed, then lay still. Fiona wrenched her saber free and lopped father’s head from his body.
“He’s dead right?” I asked, my voice sounded ragged in my ears.
Fiona looked at the severed head, “I do hope so.”
I nodded and let the tears flow. I was on my back, covered in blood, and sobbing. Fiona reached down and hefted me into her arms.
“Beloved,” She said, “You did well.”
I looked at Fiona. She stood, covered in blood that had spattered her clothing like rose petals.
“I’m ruining your clothes,” I managed.
She chuckled, “Yes, you are. That is acceptable.”
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