Hunted by Her Demon Wolves 1st

Edition Tara West

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/hunted-by-her-demon-wolves-1st-edition-tara-west/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Hungry for Her Demon Wolves 1st Edition Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/hungry-for-her-demon-wolves-1st-
edition-tara-west/

Saving Her Wolves Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/saving-her-wolves-tara-west/

Revenge Of Her Wolves Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/revenge-of-her-wolves-tara-west/

Heart Of Her Wolves 1st Edition Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/heart-of-her-wolves-1st-edition-
tara-west/
Fighting For Her Wolves 1st Edition Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/fighting-for-her-wolves-1st-
edition-tara-west/

Fated For Her Wolves 1st Edition Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/fated-for-her-wolves-1st-edition-
tara-west/

Rage Of Her Ravens Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/rage-of-her-ravens-tara-west/

Wolf Hunted Fortitude Wolves 3 1st Edition Nicole R

Taylor

https://ebookmeta.com/product/wolf-hunted-fortitude-wolves-3-1st-
edition-nicole-r-taylor/

Academy for Misfit Witches 1st Edition Tara West

https://ebookmeta.com/product/academy-for-misfit-witches-1st-
edition-tara-west/
Table of Contents
Hunted by Her Demon Wolves | Hungry for Her Wolves Book 11 | By Tara West

Special thanks to...

Amaroki Shifter Packs

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Heart of Her Wolves | Court of Fae and Firelight | Book One

Chapter One
Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Books by Tara West

Hunted by Her Demon Wolves
 Hungry for Her Wolves Book 11
By Tara West

Copyright © 2023 by Tara West

Published by Shifting Sands Publishing
First edition, published March 2023
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or
other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s
imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Artwork by Rebecca Frank
Edits by Jade Taggart

My eternal soul or theirs. Either way, we’re all doomed if I can’t outsmart an ancient demon.
Read the final book in this complete series!
Three thousand years.
That’s how long my fated mates have been trapped in the bowels of hell.
And I’m their only shot at freedom.
I thought my magic was strong. I thought I was unstoppable. But that was before coming face-to-face
with the sadistic demon who can predict my every move. How can I defeat him when he can see me
coming? And how can I convince my mates to flee when they’ve been under his spell for so long?
My only hope rests with my unpredictable magic and in outsmarting a demon hunter whose thirst for
torture rivals his cunning.
 Special thanks to...

First off, thank you to you, dear readers, for making my dream career possible. This series has paid
my mortgage for the past five years, and I hope it will for years to come. I hated saying goodbye, but
my muse is ready to explore new worlds. I invite you to come on more journeys with me, starting with
my newest reverse harem wolf shifter/Fae series Court of Fae and Firelight. Book one, Heart of
Her Wolves, released February 2023, and I promise lots of steam and romance. Plus, it’s almost twice
as long as my other books. As always, I believe in happy endings, and I hope you are pleased with the
end to this series. Who knows? If enough readers are interested, I may write a spin-off featuring the
offspring of our Amaroki shifters.

Next, I’d like to thank my awesome beta readers for following me through this series. Susan, your
questions inspire me to find answers. I love, love, love your feedback. Sheri, you always find my
oopsies and name switches. Ugh. Beba, thanks for finding more oopsies! Sheesh!
To my ARC readers, your support means so much to me. Thank you!
And finally, to Jade. I’m so glad I found you. I wish I’d had you as my editor from the start. Thank you
for finding my oopsies without erasing my voice.
 Amaroki Shifter Packs

ell
H Horatiu, Dragomir, Lucian, Cyrus mated to Tori/Daeva
Helius, Drakkon, Cadmus, Damon mated to Bennu/Phoenix
Alaska
Hakon, Drasko, Luc, and Rone Thunderfoot mated to Amara Lupescu, parents to Hrod, Alexi,
Evin, Bjorn, and Astrid
Tor, Skoll, Van, and Arvid Thunderfoot mated to Mihaela Curajo, parents to Hakon’s pack and
Tatiana and adoptive parents to Annie and Phoenix
Romania
Constantine, Dimitri, Andrei, and Dejan Lupescu mated to Tatiana Thunderfoot and brothers to
Amara
Boris, Jovan, Geri, and Marius Lupescu formerly mated to Katarina (deceased) and now mated to
Eilea, parent of Constantine’s pack (from Katarina) and Amara (from a deceased human) as well as
Artem, Odin and Emille with Eilea
(Bunic) Klaus, Nicolae, Novak, and Anton Lupescu mated to (Bunica) Elena, parents to Boris’s
pack and Ioana Coyotechaser and grandparents to Constantine’s pack, Amara, and Artem, Odin, and
Emille
Cristof, Vilhelm, Nicu, and Mihas Curajo, mated to Petronela, parents to Rasvan, Simion, Tomas,
Dinu, and Mihaela
Grigor, Stefan, Petre, and Beniamin Albescu, pledged to Victoria/Tori Wolfstalker and sons to
Atan Albescu and grandsons to Obren Albescu (deceased former chieftain)
Texas
Magnus, Raine, Jax, and Frey Wolfstalker mated to Annie Thunderfoot (adopted daughter of Tor’s
pack)
Hodr (deceased), Vidar (deceased), Tyr, and Sami (deceased) Wolfstalker, fathers to Magnus’s
pack, Victoria (Tori), and Phoenix
Good Demons
Hecate, queen and co-ruler of hell
Elria, queen and co-ruler of hell, reincarnated as Eilea
Gorgo, demon oracle ruler of the second dimension
Bug, bug demon servant
Drisinda, bug demon servant
Bastet, bug demon servant and former nursemaid to the demon wolves
Tigress, feline demon witch
Bad Demons
Balban, demon succubus
Aosoth, demon incubus
Sitri, demon incubus
Morana, Tatiana’s former jorogumo demon and Gorgo’s minion
Amon, Dimitri’s former jorogumo demon
 Gorgon, Jovan’s former jorogumo demon

DJINNS
Abera, Jezebeth’s mother and Phoenix’s grandmother
Jezebeth, Phoenix’s mother
Phoenix, part shifter daughter from affair between Jezebeth and Sami Wolfstalker
Government Agents
Joe Johnson, uncle to Eilea Lupescu
Roy Miller, cousin to Amara Thunderfoot and half-brother to Annie Wolfstalker
 Prologue

Hell, first dimension, nearly 3000 years ago

warm breeze blew across Elria Fangborn’s nape as she sat on her ironwood throne inlaid with
A markings of dragons and wolves. Her sister, Hecate, sat next to her on an identical throne, the
whitened knuckles of her fingers popping against her silvery skin as she clutched the armrests.
Hecate’s long, dark hair was twisted on top of her head in intricate braids that wrapped around each
of her spiked horns, her golden crown sitting between them.
Though Elria and her sister were nearly identical in looks, that’s where their similarities ended.
Hecate always dressed more formal than Elria, who preferred her hair loose, her clothes simple.
They both possessed powerful magic, but Hecate’s was a gentle magic. She was the witch who
brought the life-bringing rain. Elria commanded the fires that cleared away the fields, the dark magic,
and the spells that other demons feared.
The sisters’ differing powers complimented one another, which was how they, along with their
sons, were able to rule Atlantia, their sanctuary in the pit of hell. Two sister queens, combining their
magic to create a safe haven for all demonkind. Though they rarely had conflicting opinions on how
best to rule the city, those conflicts were resolved with a democratic vote from their thirteen senior
priestesses. That was how they’d ruled for centuries. Elria had always thought their system worked
well—until now.
Elria feared their precious city, their brave, strong sons, were all on the brink of peril. She cast a
worried glance at her four stone-faced sons, Helius, Drakkon, Cadmus, and Damon, as they stood
beside her throne, their hands balled into fists as they watched the skies from their position along the
battlement wall. Hecate’s sons, Horatiu, Dragomir, Lucian, and Cyrus, were equally worried as they
stood protectively behind their mother, their gazes focused on the slowly moving clouds.
Their boys had been their proudest achievements, and biggest blessings, formed of blood taken
from their wombs without any male influence. By combining Elria’s dark spells with Hecate’s life-
bringing magic, they had created their wolf-shifter sons, both packs identical to one another, with two
alphas, a beta, and a gamma, though each brother within the packs had distinct magical powers and
roles. The alphas could also shift into bigger beasts, protectors of the packs. They were formidable
foes to any who threatened their mothers. The betas had keen senses and were able to scent and track
their enemies from miles away. The gammas were attentive to their mothers, overseeing the servants
and managing their appointments with local officials. Elria had no idea how she and her sister had
survived all these centuries without their sons. She had never known such love before birthing them.
And now, she feared their days were numbered.
She wrung her hands together as she searched the skies, streaked with crimson clouds to mimic
the setting sun in the mortal world, an illusion created by Hecate’s powerful elemental magic. Elria’s
loyal dragon, Tan’yi’nug, flew overhead, the waning light that dispersed from the clouds reflecting off
his crimson scales. Smoke poured from his flared nostrils as he watched the western horizon. Elria
tapped sharp fingernails against the armrests of her throne.
“This is taking too long,” she seethed. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
Hecate settled her hand on hers, a serene expression on her pretty face. “Calm, sister. They’ll be
here.”
 And that’s what Elria was worried about, for she’d had a dark premonition their sanctuary was in
peril. The gargoyles, tricky demons who lived in inhospitable territory far from their thriving
kingdom, had requested a trade meeting. Elria knew the brutal demons had nothing to trade except
deception and war.
But she and her sister had had a difference of opinion, and the priestesses had sided with Hecate
by a narrow margin. Compelled to follow her own laws, Elria had reluctantly agreed to this meeting,
a ball of flame igniting in her stomach while waiting for the deceptive demons to show.
Helius, Elria’s oldest son, whose features favored hers with silvery skin, golden eyes, spiked
horns jutting from his skull, and long, dark hair, pointed at a thin black line that formed in the sky.
“There they are.”
Elria cast Hecate a wary look. “I have a bad feeling about this, sister.”
Hecate sat up in her seat, clasping her hands to her heart. “Think what it would mean to our
people if we can secure peace and open trade with the gargoyles.”
They didn’t need to form a truce with the gargoyles over a few skirmishes that always ended
badly for the tricky demons. What they needed to do was obliterate the gargoyles, for Elria suspected
no good would come of this truce.
“It means nothing if the gargoyles can’t be trusted,” she grumbled.
Hecate frowned, brushing dust off her silk sleeve. “They wouldn’t dare risk our wrath.”
Elria’s gaze fixed on that growing black line. She could clearly make out the creatures’ flapping
wings. They flew much slower than her dragon, their wings beating against the air in an erratic rhythm
like they were injured butterflies. Yet, despite their clumsy manners, they had sharp instincts and were
dangerously clever. “It’s folly to underestimate them.”
“One meeting,” Hecate pleaded, plastering on a smile that appeared forced. “That’s all I ask.”
Elria shook her head. “We should be focusing on my ominous premonition.” Instead, they were
letting the gargoyles distract them. A lead weight sank to her gut. What if this distraction was
intentional? She wouldn’t put it past the gargoyles. Even more reason to be vigilant.
Her sister patted her hand like a mother soothing a child. “Until you have a more solid
understanding of this threat, there’s nothing we can do.”
Elria bristled at the condescension in her sister’s tone but said nothing as she waited for the flying
demons to arrive. The black line finally converged into an ink blot in the sky.
Tan’yi’nug flew above her, roaring out a breath of fire when that mass moved as one toward the
battlements. Elria had to shield her ears when the creatures let out shrill cries, jarring shoulders as
they flew backward. Then three gargoyles broke free from the pack. One wielded a big club and the
other two each clutched small wooden boxes in their claws.
The one with the club landed first. Elria recognized Balaam, the chieftain of the gargoyles, with
one batlike wing considerably bigger than the other, beady black eyes set beneath a high, hairy brow,
and a pinched nose that twisted to one side.
Elria’s sons and nephews jumped in front of their mothers, blocking Balaam from view. The four
alphas had shifted into large protectors with ebony fur, glowing red eyes, wicked horns curling out of
their skulls, and long tusks that descended from their mouths, and the betas and gammas were massive
black wolves with demonic eyes like their brothers, the fur on their necks standing on end.
“Drop the club!” Helius boomed.
Balaam let out a pitiful squeak and dropped the club at his feet, letting it roll across the stone
floor.
 “Thank you, boys.” Hecate stood, pressing her palms against her thighs as her long emerald robe
whipped behind her. “Please step aside so that I may speak to our visitors.”
When Helius turned to her, Elria gave him a slow nod.
Her sons and nephews parted, revealing the three gargoyles. They looked like possessed apes
with smooshed, black leathery faces and wickedly sharp teeth, but they made low, guttural sounds
when they talked, reminding her of pigs at the trough.
She pushed off from her throne, standing beside her sister, every nerve ending set aflame as that
foreboding feeling spread throughout her body like an unstoppable plague. She glared at the chieftain
of the gargoyles who’d organized the raids against Atlantia’s citizens. He should’ve been obliterated,
but here he was having a private meeting with hell’s most powerful sorceresses.
“Balaam,” she said with a sneer, “you’re late.”
He grunted several times, his eyes shifting from her sons back to her. “Forgive us, my queens.” He
bowed low, his wings awkwardly flapping behind him. “We were adding the final touches to our gifts
for you. Forged from the fires of Infernum.” He snarled at the two gargoyles behind him.
Wings drooping at their sides, they inched forward, holding up their wooden boxes with childlike
squeals.
Helius and Drakkon snatched the boxes from them, sniffing the casings for any threats.
Elria’s breath caught in her throat when Helius turned to her, revealing the most stunning crown
she’d ever seen, a dark, polished silver with sparkling ruby jewels. Hecate had a similar crown with
emerald jewels.
Hecate snatched up her crown. “Oh, aren’t these beautiful, sister?”
Elria waved away her gift. Her son handed it to a winged servant and then went back to her side.
“Don’t put it on,” she warned. “We must test it for dark magic.”
Balaam’s eyes widened, his hand flying to his chest. “You wound us, queen. We would never risk
the wrath of the most powerful rulers in hell.”
She caught his gaze, unable to hold it for long. He was definitely hiding something. “You would if
you could profit from it.”
“We seek to profit through trade,” he said, his eyes shifting far too much for Elria’s comfort. “Our
goldsmiths are eager to sell their jewelry in exchange for goods from your wish-beast.”
“I didn’t know gargoyles had goldsmiths or knew how to forge anything at all,” she said wryly.
Deception leached from the gargoyle’s pores like a poisonous fog as he flashed an oily grin.
“There’s much you don’t know about us.”
Elria seethed when her sister slipped off her golden crown, replacing it with the one the gargoyles
gave her.
Hecate was beaming. “Well, we’re eager to learn.”
“Thank you, my queen.” The gargoyle bowed low, splaying his claws across his heart. “You
honor us.”
Something wasn’t right. Elria had never heard of the gargoyles forging anything until now. If they
had the power to make such beautiful jewels, why weren’t they selling them? Why did they have to
reduce themselves to raids in the middle of the night? And what were they really trying to accomplish
by bringing these gifts, for Elria knew without a doubt the gargoyles weren’t here to broker peace.

HORATIU HAD A FOREBODING feeling as he and his brother Lucian hurried toward their mother’s
chamber after receiving an urgent summons. Their heavy footsteps echoing across the slate floors
mimicked the pounding in his heart. Something about their mother had felt off ever since the gargoyles
had visited yesterday. She and their aunt had fought after the gargoyles had left, screaming like
banshees before Horatiu and his brothers and cousins had to break them apart.
In all his immortal existence, he hadn’t remembered his mother and aunt screaming at one another.
During the times they rarely disagreed, their arguments had always been civil. Their mother had gone
to sulk in her chamber after that, refusing to see anyone, which was very unlike her.
His stomach had churned all night, and he couldn’t escape the feeling it had to do with the crown
the gargoyles had given his mother. Their aunt had said to test it for curses, yet his mother had refused
to take it off. Why?
What do you think is wrong? Lucian asked through thought as they neared the heavy wooden and
iron door to their mother’s chamber.
I don’t know, he answered as he rapped on the door, but if she’s still wearing that damn crown,
we need to find a way to get it off her.
“Who is it?” his mother hissed from the other side of the door, her voice shaking with fear.
The beast inside Horatiu scratched the surface of his skin, begging to be let free. Something was
wrong.
Lucian gave him a look. She doesn’t sound the same.
Be on your guard, he warned him.
“Your sons,” he said aloud after clearing his throat.
She threw open the door, a manic look in her eyes, before ushering them inside. Just as Horatiu
feared, she wore the emerald crown. Her bedchamber was in disarray, which was unusual for his
mother who preferred everything in clean order. The many beautiful murals hanging on the stone walls
hung askew, the fur rugs that lined the slate floors were covered in stains, and the hearth fire, laden
with far too many logs, loudly splintered while filling the air with acrid smoke.
He shared a concerned look with Lucian.
When their mother threw her arms around Horatiu with a sob, he thought to snatch the crown from
her head, but her braids were wrapped around it. He’d have to rip it out of her hair. If he tried to hold
her down to untangle it, he feared she’d blast him with her magic.
“Horatiu and Lucian, my sons!” She released him and grabbed Lucian. “Where are your other
brothers?”
Horatiu gave his brother a warning look over their mother’s head. We need to get the crown.
Lucian nodded his agreement as their mother released him.
“They’re at the temple with Daeva,” he answered while forcing a smile.
Her eyes narrowed. “And your cousins?”
“I’m not sure.” He shrugged, forcing a casual tone into his voice, though his instincts told him to
be afraid—very afraid. “What is it?”
She paced the fur rug in front of them, wringing her hands together. Gone was her skin’s silvery
glow. In its place was a wan shade of gray. “What I tell you doesn’t leave this room.” A note of fear
laced her words. “You may tell Dragomir and Cyrus by thought, but only them, understood?”
“Of course, Mother.” He did his best to keep his tone even as he used a fireiron to knock a
smoking log to the back of the hearth. He turned to her, still clutching the iron in a white-knuckled
grip. “What’s wrong?”
She chewed on her nails while continuing to pace. “Your aunt is planning a war against the
gargoyles.”
Lucian stood beside him, grasping the hearth’s wooden mantel. “How, when we have a truce?”
 Their mother stopped, her beautiful face marred by an unusual sneer. “She never wanted this
truce. She plans to obliterate me and start a war with the gargoyles.”
Horatiu’s blood turned to ice.
It can’t be true, Lucian projected to him.
He dropped the iron and held up his hands. “That doesn’t sound like our aunt.”
Their mother stopped as if she’d struck a wall, a manic look in her eyes. “She’s letting her
paranoia overrule her common sense.”
Horatiu and Lucian shared another look.
This is worse than I thought, Lucian said.
Much worse, Horatiu agreed.
“There’s more,” their mother continued. “She’s going to obliterate all the witches who supported
me.”
Horatiu’s heartbeat pounded a gong in his ears, and his protector howled to break free, as his gaze
centered on his mother. No.
“Daeva supported you,” Lucian rasped.
He gave his brother a sharp look. Don’t believe it. Though his warning was more for himself than
his brother. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.
“Where did you hear this, Mother?” he demanded, his deep protector baritone taking over his
voice.
She averted her gaze. “I have my sources.”
Liar. “Who?” He pressed.
She turned up her chin, defiance flashing in her eyes. “Do you doubt my judgment?”
Yes. He did his best to keep his expression neutral. “I never said that.”
Their mother pounded her palm with a fist. “We must strike her before she strikes us.” There was
an odd screeching sound to her voice, like the call of a dying gargoyle.
He shot Lucian a worried look. This is definitely not our mother speaking.
Lucian grimaced. I know.
Horatiu thought more and more about ripping off that crown. He took a hesitant step toward her.
She jerked back as if his hands were made of fire. She was definitely being controlled by a darker
power. Their mother wouldn’t have shied away from him.
“Mother, take a moment and think about this,” he pleaded.
“There’s no time to think!” she shrieked, her voice even more shrill, so much like the screaming
gargoyles that had visited them yesterday. “Do you want your mate and me to be obliterated?”
“Of course not.” Lucian elbowed him in the ribs, his smile appearing frozen in place. “What do
you want us to do?”
A hint of a smile tugged at her lips as her eyes shone with malice. Oh, yes, their mother was
possessed. She rubbed her hands together like a starving woman sitting down to a feast. “Elria must
be obliterated before she destroys us.”
“This is our aunt,” Horatiu reminded her. “Your sister.” He prayed that his mother’s spirit was
somewhere still inside her body and would listen to reason.
“You’re not taking this threat seriously.” Snarling, she waved him away. “Send for Dragomir!”
No way in ten hells was he involving any of his other brothers in this.
Sharp claws extended from his fingers, curling into his tightened fists. “I am taking it seriously.”
“How about we lock her in a curse chamber?” Lucian suggested. “She can’t hurt us there. She
deserves a fair trial before you obliterate her.”
 Horatiu flexed his claws while eyeing that crown. He could slash through the braids binding it to
her head before she had time to strike him. Hopefully. Because he wasn’t too sure his mother
wouldn’t try to obliterate him, too.
“Very well,” she said through a sigh, her shoulders falling, “but do it now. Time is of the
essence.”
He released a shaky breath, relieved that they had at least bought their aunt some time until they
could come up with a plan. “Of course.”
He nudged his brother toward the door. Let’s go, before she changes her mind.
Lucian had other ideas, because he refused to move as he plastered on a wide grin. “That’s a
beautiful crown the gargoyles gave you,” he said to his mother while holding out a hand. “May I see
it?”
Her eyes flashed red as smoking magic dripped off her fingers. “Did you hear me? There’s no
time!” She jutted a blackened finger toward the door, a whisp of dark magic curling from it. “Go!”
Horatiu’s eyes widened. His mother’s magic had never been so dark. “Yes, Mother.” Horatiu
grabbed Lucian’s elbow and jerked him toward the door. Leave it alone before she obliterates you!
Once they closed the heavy chamber door behind them, Horatiu stared down the long, dark
hallway as an unusually chill draft blew back his hair.
What do we do? his brother asked, the sharp tang of fear pulsing off him in waves.
Pushing off from the door, he briskly marched down the hall. Many of the wall sconces had been
extinguished, making the hall even darker. It was as if the light itself feared the darkness that crept in
like a poisonous fog.
We lock up our aunt for her own safety, he answered. Then we find a way to get that crown off
our mother.
His brother kept pace by his side. Do you think it’s enchanted?
He repressed a shudder as a tingling fear crept up his spine. I know it is. Our aunt would never
betray our mother.
Which put Horatiu in an impossible position. In order to save his aunt, he’d have to betray her.
And in order to stop his mother, he would have to defy her—and whatever demon was lurking
underneath her skin. He was about to go up against the two most powerful sorceresses in all of hell.
What could possibly go wrong?

HORATIU AND LUCIAN found their other brothers and mate at the Temple of Flame, a massive
monolithic pyramid dedicated to teaching magic to witches of all levels. Their mate, Daeva,
practiced her spells at the temple daily along with her sister, Bennu, who was also mated to Horatiu’s
cousins. Fortunately for Horatiu, Bennu and three of her mates had already returned to their quarters
at the palace for the evening. Only the gamma, Damon, had stayed behind to attend to his mother.
Horatiu and his brothers could handle Damon.
We’ll deal with him soon, Horatiu said to Lucian.
I don’t want our cousin getting hurt, Lucian answered.
Tension coiled around Horatiu’s spine like a snake. Neither do I. Nobody would get hurt if he
could help it.
They didn’t bother asking Damon where their mate and brothers were, for Daeva’s alluring,
lingering scent told them the way to go. They nodded to Damon in greeting, pretending nothing was
amiss as they hurried down the stone steps toward their mate and brothers.
 Daeva and Horatiu’s other brothers were in the musty potion room in the pyramid’s basement with
a ceiling so low, Horatiu nearly scraped his head along the top in his demon form. In his protector
form, his back pressed against the cool stone while he hunched over. Though he loved visiting his
mate while she worked, he loathed the potion room, which felt too much like a tomb.
Daeva mixed pungent herbs that smelled of fermented eggs. Dragomir and Cyrus stood beside her,
their noses wrinkling as they watched her work.
They looked up, frowning when he cleared his throat. Ever attuned to each other’s moods, they
simultaneously asked, “What’s wrong?” Their gazes flitting from Horatiu to Lucian.
He stood opposite them, pressing his palms against the long worktable’s cool slate top. Our
mother has lost her mind, he answered through thought. What they were about to discuss was too
dangerous to voice aloud.
Dragomir gave him a funny look. What?
We believe the crown is controlling her, Lucian answered, a hard edge to his voice.
Cyrus tilted his head, looking at both of them as if they’d gone mad. To do what?
Horatiu leaned on his palms, giving them each a hard look. She wants to obliterate Elria. No
sense in mincing words. They needed to understand what they were up against.
Holy flames! Daeva released her bottle of potion. It hit the slate tile with a loud crack as the glass
splintered, leaking out fluids.
Cyrus snatched the bottle and dumped it in a nearby basin.
What do we do? Daeva asked.
Horatiu worked hard to unclench his teeth, knowing they wouldn’t like what he had to say. We
lock Elria in a curse chamber until we get that crown off our mother.
Daeva flinched as if she’d been slapped. Elria will never agree to it.
I know. He groaned. She’ll try to confront our mother.
Dragomir let out a low growl. That won’t end well.
Cyrus nodded. The two most powerful sorceresses in all of hell could raze the entire city if we
let them wage a battle against each other.
Horatiu looked to his mate, a plea in his voice. Will you help us lock up our aunt?
She visibly swallowed. She’ll never forgive us.
He stood, dragging a hand down his face. I don’t care, so long as you and the rest of the city are
safe.
The five of them stood as still as statues for a long heartbeat, giving each other hopeless looks.
Horatiu had a hard time wrapping his mind around what he’d just asked his pack to do. Putting his
pack in the path of two powerful, warring sorceresses went against his basest instinct to protect them.
Yet, he had no choice when doing nothing could result in even more danger.
Finally, Daeva expelled a slow breath. Then let’s go.
His brothers mumbled their agreement.
Horatiu should’ve been relieved that his pack had agreed to his wild plan, but he couldn’t shake
the feeling that they weren’t brave wolf shifters making difficult choices to save their society. They
were dragons with clipped wings, and they were spiraling to their doom.

DAEVA’S STOMACH TWISTED in knots as they neared Elria’s personal chambers and she gaped at
that wide open door. The door to Elria’s chamber was always open, for the queen had nothing to fear
or hide here. She kept her living quarters at the temple rather than at the palace, for she preferred to
be close to her priestesses. Out of the two rulers, Daeva had always preferred Elria, who was less
like a queen and more like a mother to her and the other priestesses.
She couldn’t believe she’d agreed to Horatiu’s wild plan to trap Elria in a curse chamber. The
queen would be furious, but what other choice did they have? They couldn’t allow the queens to go to
war.
Daeva smiled at two apprentice witches when she and her mates walked into Elria’s personal
chambers. The witches, one covered in scales, and the other in feathers, smiled back and went back to
work setting out fruit, cheeses, and wine for their mistress along a carved flat slab of stone that sat in
the center of a long birch table. Dusty, pink light filtered into three deep, narrow windows carved into
the slanted ceiling above. Shelves lined the gray brick walls, holding candles of all sizes and shapes
that bathed the room in a soft, yellow glow. Beyond the table was another room with another, smaller
table and two chairs, a circle of wide, cushioned chairs surrounding a fiery hearth, and a low bed
made of pillows and furs.
Daeva spied Elria resting on the bed, a hand draped across her brow. The queen had taken to bed
earlier in the day after a dizzy spell had rendered her too sick to stand. Daeva wrung her fingers
together, casting her mates worried looks. It wasn’t like Elria to succumb to sickness. Was it
coincidental or a bad omen?
Cyrus knelt beside his aunt’s bedside. “Aunt, are you well?”
Her eyes flew open as she made a startled cry. She gaped at them through foggy eyes. “Yes, yes,”
she mumbled. “These premonitions give me headaches.”
“Where is Damon?” Daeva asked. “I thought he was tending to you.”
Cyrus helped her as she struggled to sit up.
She waved toward the door. “I sent him to retrieve more soothing herbs.”
“She’s been like this all day.” The feathered apprentice, who had a beak for a nose, went to the
foot of the bed and made an ear-piercing squawk.
Elria gave another start, groaning as she hung her head in her hands.
Dragomir gave the bird-girl a dark look, and she backed away from the bed with trembling
feathers.
Daeva forgot the name of this new apprentice, but her loud squawks startled her every time.
Horatiu stood over his aunt, folding his arms across a broad chest. “Aunt, may we have a private
word with you?”
“Of course, boys,” she said. “I was about to send for you.” She waved to the two apprentices, and
they left her chambers, closing the door behind them.
Daeva shared a look with her mates before turning to Elria. “Send for them for what?”
Elria thanked Cyrus when he handed her a goblet of wine. “A resurrection spell,” she answered
between sips.
Horatiu scratched the back of his head. “A what?”
“Should you be obliterated,” Elria said as she handed the goblet back to Cyrus, “this spell will
enable your soul to one day return to your pack.”
A dark fear like she’d never known leeched into Daeva’s veins like spilled ink in water. “You-
you’re worried about us being obliterated?”
“I am.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and held up a hand to Horatiu. “Hecate refuses
to listen, but something dark is coming. I can feel it in my bones. The fact that I can’t see it means
whoever is planning an attack is using celaris magic.”
“Celaris?” Horatiu asked.
 “A rare magic that enables the witch to stay hidden from oracles,” Daeva answered.
Daeva followed on legs that felt weighted with stones as Horatiu led his aunt to a chair by the
hearth. “I remember our mother telling us about it,” Horatiu said.
“I thought only you had this magic,” Lucian said to his aunt as he draped a fur across her legs.
She nodded. “Bennu does as well, though she’s still learning how to wield it.”
This magic was so rare that Elria and Bennu were the only two that Daeva had ever known to
possess it, and she’d known hundreds of witches. “And you think there’s another witch out there who
has it?”
Elria dug her fingers into the fur on her lap. “I do.” She let out a gasp and lurched forward,
grasping the sides of her head. “Ahh!”
Cyrus knelt beside Elria. “Aunt, what is it?”
“That foreboding feeling is getting stronger.” She spoke through a strained voice, as if each word
pained her. “I fear we don’t have much time. We must do the spell now.”
Cyrus’s eyes widened. “What about our cousins?”
“I’ve already done the spell with them and Bennu,” she said. “Now I must do it with you and
Daeva.”
When her mates gave her a questioning look, Daeva nodded. I’m sorry, but I trust your aunt
more than I trust your mother.
Dragomir and Cyrus both flinched, but Horatiu and Lucian mumbled their agreement.
If you’d seen the madness in our mother’s eyes, you’d agree, Horatiu said to them.
Daeva feared the need for this spell. She couldn’t imagine her mates or her being obliterated.
She’d always considered obliteration to be a fate worse than eternal torture, for there was no coming
back from it. They would simply cease to exist.
“What do we do?” She knelt beside Elria, a knot of fear expanding in her chest, making breathing
more difficult.
Elria motioned to a pewter goblet that sat on top of the mantel. “Pour some wine into that goblet.”
Lucian jumped to his feet and snatched the goblet while Cyrus grabbed a jug of wine. After they
poured it, Cyrus held the goblet out to Elria.
She waved it away. “You each must spit into it and whisper ‘Memento tempus’ three times.”
Dragomir helped Daeva stand on trembling legs as that darkness that leached into her veins
spread like a sickness. Her prognosticating abilities weren’t as powerful as Elria’s, but she felt the
evil now. Holy flame, she thought she heard the sibilant whisperings of witches echoing in her skull.
That knot in Daeva’s chest expanded as they passed around the goblet. This all felt so very wrong.
Elria was helping to save them, and they were planning on locking her away in a curse chamber. What
if the evil that threatened them attacked Elria while she was in the chamber? She’d have no means to
defend herself.
Perhaps we should consult with Elria first, she projected to Horatiu.
No!
She gasped when his protector voice ricocheted in her mind.
I’m sorry, he said, his voice softening. There is no time.
But she’ll be vulnerable.
She’s vulnerable, anyway, with her dizzy spells. The curse chamber is the safest place for her.
Her shoulders caved inward as she relented. He was right.
After her mates finished with the goblet, Cyrus held it up, a shaft of candlelight striking the metal.
“Now what, Aunt?”
 Elria nodded toward the hearth. “Now toss the liquid into the fire.”
He tossed the liquid into the hearth. The flames rose up with a great gust of smoke and quickly
died down.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now a part of you has been thrown out into the universe.” Elria leaned back in her chair and
closed her eyes. “Flames forbid, should any of you be obliterated in the coming days, you’ll find your
way back to your pack.”
Daeva fought the urge to shake the woman. “When?”
“Ten years? Ten thousand years?” Elria shrugged, her eyes still closed. “Only the universe
knows.” Her words came out in a slur.
Horatiu bent over Elria, gently shaking her shoulder. “Aunt?”
The queen let out a snore, her head lolling to one side.
“Carry her to the furs,” Daeva whispered to him.
He laid her down and then turned to Daeva, his mouth pressed together in a firm line. “Make the
curse chamber now before she wakes.”
Daeva swallowed back her trepidation. “She’ll be angry when she wakes.”
“I know.” Shadows fell across Horatiu’s features. “She will forgive us in time.”
“She has enough food and wine in here to last a few days,” Cyrus said at her back.
Bitter laughter escaped Daeva’s throat. Leave it to Cyrus to be concerned about food.
Horatiu gently squeezed her shoulder. “Hopefully, she won’t be locked up that long.”
Lucian let out a hiss, his nostrils flaring. “Someone’s coming.”
Daeva strained to hear. Faint footsteps echoed from far away.
Lucian scented the air. “Damon.”
Damn. Panic iced her limbs as she turned to Horatiu. “He’ll try to free Elria.”
“Stay here with her and get that chamber up,” Horatiu said as he strode toward the door, Lucian
following. “Let us handle it.”
She pressed clammy palms against her sides. “What are you going to do?”
Horatiu stopped at the doorway, peeking outside. “Send him home.”
“He won’t go willingly.” Not without a fight. Bennu would never forgive them if they hurt her
gamma.
Horatiu clutched the doorway as he shifted into a powerful protector, a giant horned beast with
sharp tusks. “It might get ugly, but you’ll have to trust us.”
She swallowed at that. “I do.”
“Protect her,” Horatiu said to Dragomir.
Dragomir shifted, too, pounding his chest like an ape. “With my life.”
 Chapter One

and tickled Phoenix’s nose as she watched massive balloons of all colors rise into the air, the
S Sandia Mountains lit in soft pink hues behind them, the sprawling city of Albuquerque below.
She licked her dry lips brought on by the cold, arid air. No amount of lip balm soothed the cracks in
the corners of her mouth. How she hated living in the mortal realm. She inwardly smiled at the irony
that hell had a better climate. If only her mother and Tor would let her return there.
She turned to her sister Tori—who now preferred to be called by the name Daeva—when she
stepped onto the veranda, palming a cup of steaming coffee. Phoenix still wasn’t sure about Daeva’s
name change, about her need to discard her Amaroki past, because she felt like her sister had
discarded her in the process.
Daeva had wrapped a woven blanket around her shoulders and pulled back her long, dark hair in
a messy bun. She could hardly believe her sister had finally returned to the mortal realm. After
waiting for over a year, only allowed to visit her half-sister as an apparition in her mother’s flames,
she was finally able to hold her again. Not that they’d done much hugging other than that initial
embrace when Daeva and her alpha mate Horatiu had emerged from the forest near Tor’s Alaskan
home as if they’d gone out for an evening stroll.
Daeva had changed in the year since they’d defeated the Vindictus. Though she looked mostly the
same, something in her demeanor was different, more reserved, as if her sister had allowed every
aspect of that ancient demon to take over. Phoenix should’ve been happy for Daeva. After
accidentally falling into hell’s pit, she’d discovered her long-lost demon wolf mates, and with the
help of her mates’ mother, Hecate, and the ruler of their dimension, they’d been able to transform the
hostile wasteland into a thriving paradise.
Phoenix’s life, on the other hand, had become stagnant while the demon wolves she believed to be
her fated mates were trapped in another hostile dimension in hell. Phoenix had learned of their fate
fourteen months ago, yet nothing had been done to save them. Phoenix’s djinn mother, Jezebeth,
refused to take her back to hell after Phoenix had threatened to sneak off and retrieve her lost mates.
Phoenix knew the trip was risky. She would’ve had no way to escape unless she miraculously found
one of the lost crystals.
But now that Daeva’s mates had recovered a crystal buried deep inside one of hell’s caverns,
there was no excuse not to go save Phoenix’s mates. With the crystal in their possession, they were
finally able to travel between dimensions. This was how Daeva was able to visit the mortal realm
now. It also meant Phoenix would have a way to come back to their dimension if she went to retrieve
her mates.
Helius. Drakkon. Cadmus. Damon.
Those were her mates’ names. Ever since Hecate had told her, she’d repeated their names every
morning when she woke, several times throughout the day, and every night before she went to sleep.
Though others might be content to let her mates languish in a hostile dimension in hell, Phoenix
refused to forget them. Their names were constantly in the forefront of her mind, souring the food she
ate and robbing her of sleep. How could she enjoy life knowing her fated mates were probably
suffering?
 And yet, instead of rushing to save them, Daeva and Horatiu were here, insisting on a meeting
with Boris Lupescu, the new chieftain of the Romanian tribe—correction, the New Mexico tribe. The
US military had relocated all Romanian shifters to New Mexico after unrest in Eastern Europe. They
couldn’t risk the Army’s secret weapons falling into enemy hands. That’s what they’d said, anyway.
Tor believed the military had been looking for an excuse to recruit more wolf trackers. Either way,
the Romanian tribe was no more. With the change, the elder Lupescus thought it a good time to enjoy
retirement and turn over this clusterfuck to their offspring.
So much change and responsibility had put Chieftain Boris Lupescu in a foul mood. Phoenix knew
Daeva was wasting her time trying to convince him to let his mate Eilea visit hell. Hecate believed
Eilea was the reincarnation of Elria, Hecate’s sister in hell who’d been obliterated by the Vindictus
almost three thousand years ago. She insisted they couldn’t save Phoenix’s mates from the second
dimension of hell without Eilea’s help. So Tor had humored them all and brought them to New
Mexico. This wasn’t going to end well.
Daeva took a loud sip of coffee and squinted up at the sky. “I thought the balloon festival was
over.”
Phoenix tossed her hair behind a shoulder. “Apparently, it’s a normal thing here.”
When Daeva turned her inquisitive gaze on her, Phoenix pretended not to be bothered, but she
wondered if her sister had noticed that she, too, had changed. She hadn’t dyed her hair in over a year,
letting the dark chestnut roots grow out past her ears, leaving just the tips a bright pink. What cared
she for pink hair or mortal frivolities when her mates were languishing in hell?
Daeva released a slow breath while watching the balloons rise into the sky. “I wonder what it’s
like to fly in one.”
“Like riding a dragon, only slower,” Phoenix drawled. “Are you ready for your meeting?” The
sooner they got this meeting over with, the sooner Daeva could return to hell, and Phoenix was
making sure she went with her.
“Not really.” Daeva grimaced, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t like the mortal world.”
“Why would you?” Phoenix snorted, refusing to mask the bitterness in her voice. “You have
everything you need back in hell—including your mates.”
Daeva’s features turned as hard as stone. You have a chip the size of Alaska on your shoulders,
you know that? she asked through thought.
Phoenix looked away. She’d always loved her sister, but now she was starting to resent her. You’d
be the same if it was your mates.
“I’m here to improve relations between the demon wolves and Amaroki.” Daeva gave her a dark
look. “To get Eilea’s help retrieving your mates.”
Phoenix had to work hard to unclench her jaw. Her sister was wasting time, but she was tired of
arguing. Nobody listened to her, anyway. “Do you think it will work?”
“Hope so,” she said. “Hecate needs Eilea.”
Phoenix wasn’t so sure of that. Hecate was the most powerful witch in hell. Why did she need
Eilea’s help? Between Hecate, Daeva, and Phoenix, they could handle any demons who threatened
them in the other dimension. Retrieving her mates didn’t have to be so complicated. So why was
Hecate making it that way? “Do you ever worry that she’s abusing her power?” She eyed her sister,
watching for any cracks in her façade.
“Hecate?” Daeva blinked as if she’d splashed cold water on her face. “No.”
“Why?” she pressed.
“Because she’s a mother,” Daeva said matter-of-factly. “Her sons ground her.”
 Phoenix resisted the urge to laugh out loud. “Jezebeth is a mother. That didn’t stop her from using
her power for evil.” Phoenix nodded toward the sliding glass doors behind them. Somewhere beyond
those doors was a backpack with her mother’s rusty lamp. Though her djinn mother had always been
loving and kind to Phoenix, that was where her compassion ended. She’d been a cruel demon to
everyone else, shaming Phoenix with her selfish nature.
Daeva laughed. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Hecate has a history of being a kind ruler. Jezebeth has always been...” Daeva trailed off, biting
her lower lip.
Phoenix gritted her teeth. “You can say it—a bitch.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
The look of pity Daeva gave her made her want to scream. “You won’t,” she snapped. “I’ve
accepted what my mother is.”
“She’s trying to atone for her sins.”
Daeva’s tone lacked conviction, because she knew. Everyone knew. Jezebeth had created the first
Amaroki by stealing Daeva and Horatiu’s demon souls two thousand years ago, all in the hopes of
getting laid by some barbarians. It had taken Daeva and Horatiu’s souls two millennia to find their
way back to their pack. Then when Phoenix had been just a baby, her fathers had taken her from
Jezebeth, believing a demon wasn’t fit to raise a child. Jezebeth had retaliated by cursing Phoenix’s
fathers, making them apathetic, cruel drunks. She’d turned her gamma father, Sami, into a voracious
werewolf, causing him to kill hundreds of humans over the course of several years. In the end, his
only escape from the monster that controlled him had been death.
Sometimes Phoenix thought about what her life would’ve been like if her fathers hadn’t been
cursed by her mother. Would she have lived with them? Daeva, too? What would Phoenix’s childhood
have been like if she’d lived with her own kind instead of the nuns at the orphanage? She wouldn’t
have had to hide her magic or her shifting powers.
Phoenix looked down at her scuffed leather boots, shame flushing her face. “She can try for
thousands of years, and it won’t change what she did, the shifters she hurt.”
“No,” Daeva said on a sigh. “It won’t.”
Phoenix turned at a sound of stirring coming from inside their rented house. She cringed when she
saw Tor Thunderfoot from beyond the sliding glass window. He was in the kitchen pouring himself a
cup of coffee while surreptitiously keeping one eye on her. Though she loved the Alaskan chieftain for
being like a father to her these past few years, she felt stifled by his overprotective nature. Despite the
fact that she was nineteen, he treated her like a child. He never let her go anywhere on her own, and
he was the main reason she hadn’t been allowed to physically visit her sister in hell again.
Daeva looked over her shoulder at Tor as her mate Horatiu fried up eggs and bacon in the kitchen.
“I guess I should get ready. Tor will probably want to go soon.”
Phoenix snorted at that. By ‘go’ Daeva meant their meeting with the New Mexico tribal chieftains
at their new home near Santa Fe. “I’m afraid this is all a big waste of time.” Boris wasn’t going to let
his mate, Eilea, return to hell with them, no matter how much Daeva begged.
Daeva gave her a pointed look. “You’re angry with her for not letting you go.”
By her, Phoenix knew her sister meant the ruler of hell, Hecate, and yes, Phoenix was pissed.
They were wasting their time trying to convince Eilea to help them retrieve Phoenix’s mates from the
second dimension of hell. Phoenix could’ve gone and brought them back by now, but, no, they’d rather
waste time chasing their tails. She jutted a thumb in her chest. “If anyone can save them, I can.”
 Daeva grabbed Phoenix’s arm, the look of pity in her eyes making Phoenix want to roar in
frustration.
“I know you can,” she said, “but we need time to prepare.”
Phoenix shook off her sister’s grasp. “Meanwhile, we have no idea how much they’re suffering.”
“They’ve been gone for almost three thousand years. What’s a few more months?”
Phoenix gaped at her sister a long moment. “Did you really just say that?” She clenched her hands
into fists, fighting the urge to slap that smug look off her face.
Daeva let out a groan, dragging her hands through her hair. “I’m tired of arguing with you about
this. I have enough battles to face right now.”
Phoenix swore under her breath. “Battles you don’t need to be fighting if Hecate would just use
me.”
Daeva shook her head. “She doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I’m really sick and tired of what she thinks.” Phoenix threw up her hands and then paced the
small stucco balcony. “They’re my mates. I should have final say.”
Daeva crossed her arms, averting her gaze. “I made a promise to Tor.”
Grr. Phoenix wanted to rip out her hair. Why were they still treating her like a child? “Then I’ll
never go.”
“That’s not true,” Daeva said with a pout, though her voice lacked conviction. She knew they
were fighting a losing war, yet she still donned her armor and headed out to battle.

PHOENIX SAT IN THE front seat of their rental car, trying not to be bored as the desert landscape
gave way to piney woods. She wondered, not for the first time, why they’d spent the night in
Albuquerque. Their plane hadn’t arrived that late yesterday. They had plenty of time to drive to the
Santa Fe reservation and stay with the chieftains. Unless, they didn’t want them there.
She tossed a look behind her at Daeva and Horatiu in the back seat, a sinking feeling in her gut
that the demon emissaries were unwelcome here. She couldn’t deny the stab of jealousy as her sister
and her mate were completely oblivious to the shitstorm they were driving into. Their heads were
bent together, their hands all over each other, acting as if they were the only two shifters in the world.
As if listening to their moans through the thin walls for the past two nights hadn’t been torture enough.
Phoenix wondered why they had a big bouquet of flowers between them. Had Horatiu bought them
for Daeva? If so, what use would they be to her in hell? She didn’t know if she was more upset that
her sister ignored her or that her sister had the love and protection of her alpha mate while Phoenix’s
mates were still trapped in the wilds of hell.
Helius. Drakkon. Cadmus. Damon.
Keeping his gaze glued to the road, Tor clutched the steering wheel with whitened knuckles, his
features as hard as iron. Phoenix had a sinking feeling Tor already knew this meeting with the new
Romanian chieftains wouldn’t go well. Amaroki males were far too protective. They weren’t about to
let their mate go with Daeva to hell.
With nothing better to do, Phoenix nodded off. She woke when the hum of the engine abruptly
turned off. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she sat back, adjusting to her surroundings. The temperature
must’ve dropped at least ten degrees. She could feel the cool autumn air seep through the windows.
“We’re here,” Tor said to her as he unbuckled his seatbelt. Daeva and Horatiu were already
getting out of the car.
 She stood and stretched her legs while zipping up her jacket, her breath fogging the crisp air and a
dry chill cracking her already peeling skin. She ignored the rattling and yelling coming from her
backpack inside the car. No way was she taking her mother with her to the meeting with the chieftains.
Her sister was going to have a hard enough time convincing the Amaroki to help them. They didn’t
need Phoenix’s annoying djinn mother making the situation worse.
They were surrounded by a cluster of almost a dozen cabins, each with smoke pouring from their
chimneys and each with about a half-acre plot of land. Many cabins were two stories, rustic yet
modern, with wrap-around porches and attached greenhouses. Some even had pens with goats and
sheep. These homes were far nicer than the ones they left behind, most likely a way to entice the
Romanians to leave their homelands.
Horatiu clutched that big bouquet of flowers to his chest, shifting from foot to foot as if he was
about to go court a lover. Were those flowers for Eilea?
“This is the reservation?” she asked. For some reason, she expected it to have been bigger with at
least a hundred houses.
“Part of it,” Tor answered. “Most of the tribe is still in holding in Roswell.”
Ah, yes, the secret government installation. She vaguely remembered Tor had told the family about
it over dinner a few times, though she hadn’t been paying much attention. “For how long?” she asked
at his back as he led them up a winding gravel path toward a smaller cabin in the center of the others.
“As long as it takes,” he called over his shoulder. “We don’t want too many moving here at once.
People will get suspicious.”
“And they’re not already?” Daeva asked him.
“We’ve bought up most of the land here.” He waved to the dense forest surrounding them. “We’re
calling the reservation an artist’s commune.”
Daeva snorted at that. “And people believe it?”
“No.” He turned to her, his eyes twinkling. “There’s already rumors circulating that we’re aliens.”
Laughing, Horatiu dragged a hand through his cropped hair. Odd how much he’d changed since
leaving hell. In hell he’d had dark hair, demon horns, and silvery skin. Here, he looked like another
one of the Albescus with hair so pale it almost appeared white. “Aliens?”
Tor shrugged. “That’s the locals’ preferred explanation for strange occurrences.”
Wishing she’d remembered gloves, Phoenix shoved her frozen hands in her pockets. “Well, I
suppose aliens are easier to explain than wolf shifters.”
She gave her sister a strange look when they stopped in front of the small cabin. It was surrounded
by little garden gnome statues and had a crocheted Christmas wreath on the door as well as three
rocking chairs with crocheted covers on the front porch. The smells of cinnamon and garlic wafted
from inside the house. “I thought the tribal house would be bigger.”
Daeva grimaced, then shot her mate a sympathetic look. “We have a quick stop first.”
Tor took the porch steps two at a time and rapped on the door.
Phoenix stood on the porch, awkwardly rocking on her heels when a scratchy voice yelled a
bunch of Romanian curses from somewhere inside the house. Horatiu’s pale cheeks and ears had
turned several shades of pink.
“What is this place?” Phoenix hissed to Daeva.
“The widows’ cabin,” she whispered back.
“Oh,” she breathed. “I didn’t realize there was a cabin just for widows.”
Tor gave Horatiu a sympathetic look as the cursing grew louder. “Prepare yourself. You’re about
to get an earful.”
 Phoenix realized those flowers were for Horatiu’s Amaroki mother. She felt a twinge of guilt that
she hadn’t thought much about the Albescu family since their men had been killed.
The door swung open by a bony woman around sixty with white hair and apple-red cheeks. She
gasped, her hands flying to her face. “Is it really my sweet Beniamin?”
Horatiu thrust the flowers in the old woman’s face. “Hello, Mama.”
She clutched the flowers, the stems crackling in her tight grip as tears welled in her eyes. “I
thought I’d lost you forever.” Mama Albescu scowled at Daeva before throwing open the door.
Phoenix followed her sister and Tor inside, her boots squeaking on the hardwood floor. The smell
of garlic was much stronger inside. Two other much older women sat in rocking chairs in front of a
smoldering fireplace, furiously working their knitting needles over the colorful scarves in their laps
while casting them surreptitious glances. Phoenix wanted to snatch Tor by the collar when he excused
himself and went looking for a bathroom.
Mama Albescu didn’t offer them a spot by the hearth. Instead, she dropped the flowers on a
nearby chair and took Horatiu aside, squeezing his cheeks. “You look different. You smell different.”
He looked uncomfortable, as if her touch pained him. “I’m an alpha now.”
“An alpha?” She looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. “How can this be?”
“It’s a long story.” He released a long sigh. “My demon form is an alpha.”
There was no mistaking the look of disgust in her eyes. “But you’re a gamma.”
“Not anymore.” He pulled away from her. “I’ve changed, Mama, and I don’t go by Beniamin. I go
by Horatiu now.”
“Horatiu?” She gave a funny look as if she’d sucked on a sour lemon. “What kind of name is
that?”
Horatiu folded arms across his broad chest, scowling down at her. “It’s my name.”
“Beniamin is the name your fathers chose.” Turning up her nose, she waved dismissively as if she
was shooing a fly. “I will not call you by anything else.”
Horatiu and Daeva exchanged wary glances before Daeva placed a hand on his back.
“Where’s Daniella?” he asked his mother through a sigh.
“Daniella and her gamma joined the Ciobanu pack. They have a cabin a few miles from here.”
The old woman’s top lip pulled back in a hateful snarl. “Though they rarely visit me.”
Sheesh. Phoenix didn’t fault Daniella for not wanting to visit her mother. The woman was a
prickly old hag.
Horatiu shifted from foot to foot. “The Ciobanus?”
“You don’t remember them?” She arched a fine brow, the tone in her voice as if she was speaking
to a child. “They lost their mate in a farming accident a few decades ago.”
“Yes,” he said, “but they’re a lot older than Daniella.”
“You act as if she had any other choice.” The old woman let out an obnoxious snort. “Not all of us
get to forgo our responsibilities and go play with demons.”
Daeva swore, digging her fingers into Horatiu’s shoulder.
“Forgo my responsibilities?” Horatiu’s nose lengthened, his voice dropping to an ominous
rumble. “I was defending my mate.” He pulled Daeva beside him, hugging her close to his side.
“She’s returned with me.”
Phoenix felt like a fly on the wall by this point. Not that she was complaining. She didn’t want to
get involved in this drama.
The old woman didn’t acknowledge Daeva. “Your brothers. Your fathers. Have you seen them?”
she asked him while twisting her apron belt between her fingers.
 Phoenix’s breath hitched at her question. She cut a sharp look at Horatiu. She knew what had
happened to them. They’d all been sent to a terrible fate in hell. Not that they didn’t deserve it.
“No, Mama.” He tensed, his fingers digging into Daeva’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
Phoenix didn’t blame him for lying. She would’ve likely clawed his eyes out if he’d told her the
truth.
The older woman’s eyes flared as she finally looked at Daeva. “You ran into the Hoia Baciu.”
Phoenix could practically feel the sting of venom in the woman’s tone.
Daeva turned up her chin. “I did.”
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “My sons followed you.”
“They did,” Daeva said without flinching.
She looked back up at Horatiu, her features hardening. “You should’ve left her in there.”
“That’s not fair, Mama.” Horatiu shook his head, giving his mother a scathing look. “My brothers
were already possessed by demons. It was too late for them.”
“She’s the reason they were possessed.” She clucked her tongue, waving at Daeva with a flick of
the wrist. “The reason your fathers were killed. If she’d done her duty and mated with them, this
would’ve all been avoided.”
“They were abusing me and Horatiu!” Daeva spat.
Flaming balls of rage shone in the older woman’s eyes. “They were teaching you your place
because you were a wild curva. I curse the Ancients for choosing you as their mate.”
Phoenix flinched as if the Romanian insult had been meant for her. Curva, or whore, was the
worst thing to call an Amaroki female.
Horatiu let out a predatory rumble so deep it shook the floorboards beneath Phoenix’s feet. The
older woman’s eyes widened. Only protectors could shake the floors with their growls. Maybe now
she’d believe he was an alpha.
“Mama, I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting my mate,” he said as his teeth lengthened to sharp
fangs.
“It’s fine.” Daeva looked at Horatiu with a frozen smile. “We need to see Eilea before it gets too
late.”
Mama Albescu gasped. “I didn’t get to spend more than a few moments with my Beniamin, and
you’re taking him from me again.”
“She never took me from anyone,” Horatiu said from between gritted teeth. “The Albescus did a
good enough job driving me away.”
“Beniamin, please,” Mama Albescu cried, clutching the wall as if she might fall.
“Horatiu,” he corrected, latching onto Daeva’s elbow. “We have to go.”
“That’s it?” She blinked at him, her lower lip trembling. “You don’t wish to know how I’m
doing?”
“I know you’re in good hands,” Horatiu answered curtly. “You have capable chieftains.”
“Those imposters!” She waved a fist in his face. “They stole the chiefdom from your grandparents
and then forced us to leave our homeland.”
“Goodbye, Mama,” he said and jerked open the door.
Phoenix quickly followed them out the door, tossing a glance behind her when Tor joined them.
She gave him a dark look when he grinned at her. He didn’t need to use the bathroom. He probably
just wanted to avoid drama. She didn’t know if she should smack him or pat him on the back.
“I’m sorry about her,” Horatiu said to Daeva as he opened her car door.
 “Don’t be.” Cupping his cheeks in both hands, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed his nose. “Are
you okay?”
A flaming knot twisted in Phoenix’s stomach as she watched their affectionate exchange with
envy.
“I used to think of her as a victim,” Horatiu said as he stroked Daeva’s arms, “but she’s just like
them.”
“She is,” Daeva said as she scooted across the back seat.
Phoenix sat in the front, ignoring the backpack that rattled at her feet. She had to work hard to
unclench her teeth at her mother’s screams echoing from inside her lamp. “I’ll trade you her for
Jezebeth.”
“No, thanks,” Daeva blurted behind her.
“I don’t consider her my mother anymore, anyway,” Horatiu said.
Tor’s eyes bulged as he opened the door and sat beside her. Phoenix could only imagine what he
was thinking. The Alaskan chieftain probably resented Daeva and Horatiu for turning up their noses at
their Amaroki heritage. Discarding their Amaroki names was bad enough, but then they’d turned away
Horatiu’s/Beniamin’s mother. Didn’t they realize they needed Tor on their side to help convince Boris
Lupescu to let Eilea come with them?
Phoenix gave Horatiu a cool look from over her shoulder. “I suppose you don’t need her now you
have Hecate.”
Ignoring Daeva’s growl, she turned back around, crossing her arms as Tor backed the car out of
the long drive.
“Let’s get this other meeting over with, so we can go home,” Daeva grumbled.
Phoenix tensed as she watched frost spread over Tor’s features. They certainly weren’t earning
any sympathy points with him. She had a sinking feeling this meeting wouldn’t end well.
 Chapter Two

or took them down another road to an even bigger section of at least three dozen houses, each
T with half-an-acre to acre plots, some barely visible behind the dense pines and brush. He drove
them to a round stone and pine building that reminded Phoenix very much of a slightly smaller version
of the Alaskan tribe’s lodge. There were several strange bronze sculptures surrounding the lodge that
didn’t seem to represent Amaroki at all. There was a mama bear and her cub, a fox, a turtle, a mama
deer and fawn, a fluffle of rabbits, an elk, and finally a lone wolf. Phoenix wondered if those statues
had meaning, or if they’d been hastily thrown together to give off the impression they were at an art
commune.
She briefly thought of her pet rabbits back in Alaska with Mihaela. Her foster mother had taken
over the care of them since her little dogs had succumbed to old age. Mihaela looked after her
bunnies better than Phoenix did, and her bunnies now preferred Mihaela. Ironic, a wolf mothering
prey animals. In a way, Phoenix was relieved, for she knew she wouldn’t be going back to Alaska.
She’d already said her secret goodbyes to her sweet rabbits before she’d left.
Butterflies swarmed in her stomach when she saw several cars and trucks were parked outside.
Wasn’t this supposed to be a meeting with just the New Mexico tribal chieftains?
Phoenix gave Daeva a look as they got out of the car. Maybe they organized a welcome home
party? she projected to her sister through thought, then repressed a shiver when a biting wind burned
her face.
I doubt it. Daeva bit her lip, nodding toward a black SUV in the parking space in front of them.
Texas plates.
Phoenix silently cursed. Our brothers?
Daeva shrugged. They have to put in an appearance, at least give the impression they care.
Phoenix groaned in response. She didn’t want to see the brothers who’d spent most of their time
pretending she and Daeva didn’t exist. Jutting hands in her pockets, she followed Tor up the stone
walkway, her sister and Horatiu trudging behind them. The lodge had massive columns with wolf
faces carved into them, just like the ones back in Alaska.
When Tor ushered them in through the heavy double doors, she felt as if she was being marched to
her own funeral pyre. She followed Tor to the top of a large circular auditorium with a stage at the
bottom. She narrowed her eyes at the long table set up on the stage where several chieftains from
tribes all over the country sat, her brother Magnus among them, glaring at them as if they all carried
the plague.
Her gaze was drawn to Boris Lupescu, who sat in the center seat, the veins in his neck
prominently protruding, his pale cheeks stained crimson, as he watched them like a hawk eyes mice.
Beside him sat his mate, Eilea, an infant in her arms. Second alpha Jovan Lupescu sat on her other
side, his top lip pulled back in a snarl.
The floor was drafty, and Phoenix did her best to repress a shiver. The chieftains each had
steaming cups of coffee and a carafe on their table, as well as cookies and chips, but nobody offered
them anything.
Phoenix felt a stab of betrayal when Tor left them on the floor of the auditorium and joined the
other chieftains on the stage. So this inquisition had been planned, and Tor hadn’t the courtesy to warn
them. The bench seating was all folded up, leaving them nowhere to sit, so they stood below the
podium, looking up at the chieftains like convicts awaiting sentencing.
Horatiu seemed unalarmed as he folded his arms and flashed a broad smile. “Boris, Jovan,” he
said to the two Romanian alphas. “Thank you for letting us have this meeting. How fortunate we are to
have the ear of so many other chieftains.” There was no mistaking the venom in his tone.
Boris’s eyes were as hard as iron as he drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s not every day our
race is visited by emissaries from hell.”
“Hello, Magnus,” Daeva said to their brother.
Magnus cleared his throat, looking far too uncomfortable up on that podium. His long, dark hair
was now peppered with a few strands of gray, and he had fine lines framing his dark eyes. “Tori, are
you well?” he asked their sister.
Phoenix tried not to be bothered that her brother had yet to acknowledge her, that his demon half-
sister wasn’t even worth a ‘hello.’
“Very well, thank you,” Daeva answered, keeping her chin up, “but I go by Daeva now.”
Magnus gave her a funny look. “Daeva?”
“My ancient name,” she drawled, her smile fixed in place. “How are Annie and the kids?”
“Good.” His nostrils flared. “You smell the same.”
She cocked her head, an amused twinkle in her eyes. “What am I supposed to smell like?”
“I don’t know.” He let out a burst of nervous-sounding laughter. “Like a demon.”
She cocked her hand on her hip, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “Not all demons are the
same, you know?”
He shrugged, averting his gaze. “I’ve only dealt with a few.”
Horatiu clasped his hands behind his back. “Balban, Sitri, and Aosoth.”
Magnus arched a brow. “They your friends?”
Phoenix cursed beneath her breath, mindful of Tor’s disapproving glare like she was still a
fucking kid.
“How can you think we’d be friends with the demons who killed our parents?” Daeva’s voice
rose and cracked with watery emotion.
Magnus didn’t flinch at the censure in her tone. “You’ve interacted with them?”
Gah! He was so thickheaded!
“My brothers and I fed Aosoth and Sitri to the beast,” Horatiu answered.
Magnus leaned back in his chair, giving Horatiu a long look. “Your demon brothers, or the
Albescus?”
That cool façade Horatiu had built around himself finally cracked. “The Albescus are not my
brothers,” he seethed, his eyes flashing demon red.
The alphas stirred, grumbling and growling. A few of them reached beneath the table. Phoenix
gave Tor an accusatory look. What were they reaching for? Amethyst guns? Real guns?
“What is this beast you speak of?” Magnus asked while baring his fangs.
“An ancient djinn,” Daeva interjected. “Being swallowed by the beast is a fate worse than death.”
Magnus eyed her coolly. “And what happened to Balban?”
“We cast her down to a lower dimension of hell,” Horatiu answered. “If she ever comes back to
our dimension, we’ll feed her to the beast, too.”
“Why didn’t you feed her to the beast in the first place?” Magnus snapped.
“We were forced to bargain with her in order to save Daeva,” Horatiu answered flatly.
 Magnus leaned back in his chair again, but not before sharing a knowing look with Tor. “Our
sister should’ve never been placed in danger.”
“You’re right,” Horatiu growled, his nose lengthening and fur sprouting on his face, “though I
wonder why you suddenly take an interest in her welfare. You didn’t seem to care when the Albescus
were pummeling her.”
Daeva tightened her grip on her mate’s arm, as if she could stop him from shifting and pummeling
Magnus. Phoenix wondered if he would take on his demon alpha form if he shifted, with tusk-like
fangs, black fur, and horns curling out of his head. If so, Magnus didn’t stand a chance. Demon
protectors were much bigger than their Amaroki descendants.
Magnus’s jaw dropped, his eyes flashing yellow. “We didn’t know they were abusing her.”
Phoenix shared a look with Daeva. Do you believe him?
No, she answered as she dug her fingers into Horatiu’s arm, but it doesn’t matter anymore. This
bickering helps no one.
Horatiu clenched his hands into fists by his sides. “And you didn’t know because you didn’t look
after her as brothers should. Since you are suddenly so concerned, it would please you to know that
her mates do look after her, and she’s no longer in danger.”
Magnus jumped to his feet, leaning his knuckles on the table, brown fur sprouting on his face.
Jovan pulled Eilea and the baby away from the table.
Horatiu laughed at Magnus, long claws sprouting from his fingertips. “You don’t want to take me
on, pup.”
Phoenix tensed, magic tingling her fingertips as she prepared for Magnus to fly off the podium.
Boris stood and latched onto Magnus’s arm, whispering in his ear. Her brother grumbled as he
slowly sat back down.
Boris remained standing. Nostrils flaring, he narrowed his eyes at Horatiu. “You smell like an
alpha. So it’s true. You were changed.”
Horatiu gave a curt nod. “I was.”
“Tor says you go by Horatiu now,” Boris continued.
Horatiu turned up his chin. “I do.”
“Tor has told us many stories,” Boris said, “each one more wild than the first.”
Horatiu flashed a menacing grin. “They’re all true, including the one about how your Ancients
stole our souls.”
Boris dragged a hand through his graying hair. “Yes, we heard that story, too.”
Tor cleared his throat. “For that, we’re sorry.”
“Thank you.” Horatiu gave Tor a respectful nod. “That means a lot.”
“The goddess has confirmed to Eilea your story is true,” Boris said as his mate sat back down
beside him.
Daeva let out an unladylike snort. “Of course it is. Why would we lie?”
Boris defensively held up his hands. “I didn’t say you did.”
Ugh. This meeting wasn’t going well. Phoenix already knew Boris wouldn’t give them what they
came for. He’d probably already made up his mind before the meeting.
“Then you should know she’s not a goddess,” Daeva continued.
Phoenix side-eyed her sister. Daeva obviously realized this meeting was a lost cause, too,
because she gave no fucks about placating the Amaroki.
Boris flashed a smug smile. “The Ancients will always be gods to us, no matter how they came
into their powers.”
 Eilea stood, clutching her baby in her arms. “The goddess gave me something to give to you.” She
dug into her pocket and handed a small velvet pouch to Jovan.
Jovan walked down the podium and thrust the pouch into Daeva’s hand before walking back up
without a word.
Daeva opened the pouch and dropped an object into her hand. “A wolf claw?” She held up the
curved claw.
“A protector claw,” Eilea answered. “This could very well be Amarok’s claw.”
“What care we for artifacts from your gods?” Horatiu hissed.
Daeva gave Eilea a puzzled look. “Is this supposed to make up for stealing our magic?”
Eilea had a look as if she’d drank sour milk. She looked from her scowling mates back to Daeva.
“She says it will protect you.”
“From what?” Daeva asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, but the goddess is a powerful sorceress.”
Daeva stuffed the claw back into the bag and gave it to Phoenix. You can have it. I don’t want it.
“So is Hecate.” She pulled back her shoulders, prepared to challenge any of their hosts. “She and
her sister made the very first shifters, the ones whose souls your Ancients stole.”
“We’ve heard that story, too,” Boris said wryly.
“Then you know Hecate’s sister was taken from her almost three thousand years ago, and that her
soul could very well have been resurrected as Eilea.”
“Yes, we know,” Boris grumbled. “What we don’t know is what you expect us to do about that
now?”
Phoenix’s heart sank to her stomach. This visit was a waste of time. The Amaroki weren’t going
to help them, and they never would. Now maybe her sister would take her to hell and they could plan
this rescue without the Amaroki. She looked to Tor for any sort of support, but he was too busy
glaring at Horatiu.
Daeva’s face fell before she plastered on that frozen smile again. “Hecate would like a chance to
visit with her sister.”
Jovan nodded toward Eilea. "Our mate is nursing our daughter.”
As if to emphasize Jovan’s point, the babe let out a wail. Eilea turned away, draping a blanket
over her shoulder and tucking her infant beneath.
“Hecate is willing to come here,” Daeva added, a slight edge of desperation to her voice.
Boris’s brows scrunched together. He looked down at Daeva like she was a yapping dog at his
feet. “And then what?”
Daeva innocently batted her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“There’s another part to this story.” He jutted an accusatory finger at her as the other wolves at the
table let out low growls. “Those demon wolf shifters who were trapped in a darker dimension of
hell. You need Eilea to help you get them out.”
Phoenix noted how Eilea’s back stiffened at the mention of her name. Eilea had always been an
independent wolf. She’d never let her mates dissuade her when she set her mind to something. So why
wasn’t she speaking up now?
“Helius. Drakkon. Cadmus. Damon.” She glared at Boris. “Those are their names.” Her words
came out like flaming arrows searing the air between them.
Boris shrugged. “Their names are of no significance to me.”
Magic raced through her veins, and she fought the urge to lash out at the stubborn chieftain.
Violence wouldn’t help her mates, which was the only reason she didn’t knock him on his ass.
 “They’re Eilea’s sons!” Daeva cried, throwing up her hands.
“Were her sons,” Boris corrected while rolling his eyes, “supposedly in a past life.”
Horatiu jutted a foot forward, his nostrils flaring. “Supposedly?”
Boris dismissively waved him away. “We’re still not sure Eilea is this demon’s sister.”
A twitch worked in Daeva’s jaw as she shared a knowing look with Horatiu. “Hecate is confident
Eilea is her sister, and Hecate is more than just a demon.” If Daeva’s eyes had been guns, they
would’ve shot Boris full of holes. “She is the most powerful sorceress in all of hell.”
A triumphant grin tugged at the corners of Boris’s mouth. “Then why does she need Eilea?”
Gaze fixated on Eilea’s stiff back, Daeva whispered, “She misses her sister.”
Boris stood, his eyes flashing white as he glared down at Daeva. “I’m curious, Tori. Do you think
I’m a fool, or do you think my instincts have failed me?”
Daeva’s features hardened. “My name is Daeva, and neither.”
“Perhaps a little of both, then.” He snorted, then plopped back down in his chair. “Either way, it’s
insulting.”
A low growl rose from Horatiu’s chest as black fur sprouted on his face and arms. Fuck. Phoenix
knew she’d have to intervene before a fight broke out.
“Boris,” she interjected.
The alpha looked at her, his nostrils flaring. “Chieftain Lupescu.”
“Chieftain Lupescu,” she corrected, doing her best to keep from rolling her eyes, “these lost
shifters are also my fated mates.”
Magnus jumped to his feet, surprising Phoenix when he waved a fist down at her. “You are
Amaroki, and you will have Amaroki mates.”
She was momentarily taken aback. Since when did her half-brother give two shits whom she
married? By the time she finally found her voice, her inner wolf was howling with rage. “How nice
you finally acknowledge me, brother, and it’s to tell me you’ve decided my future without my input.”
His features fell, and for a moment, she thought he would back down. “Fate will decide,
Phoenix,” he said, with nauseating pity ringing in his words. “Once you meet your Amaroki mates,
you won’t care about demon wolves.” The word ‘demon’ dripped off his tongue like acid. Magnus
had always made his hatred of demons clear, even knowing that Phoenix was half demon.
“You obviously don’t know me very well.” As if she’d just selfishly forget about her fated mates
while they languished in hell. She squeezed her hands into fists, silently repeating their names lest she
forget them. Helius. Drakkon. Cadmus. Damon.
Phoenix didn’t like how Eilea still hadn’t turned back around, focusing on her nursing daughter as
if she couldn’t be bothered with this conversation. She’d faced them before while nursing her other
babies, but something in Eilea’s demeanor had changed since last time she’d seen her. She’d become
colder, more reserved. Phoenix’s nostrils flared as she caught a whiff of fear. Eilea was scared, that’s
why she didn’t take part in this conversation. Fucking coward.
Jovan kept one hand on Eilea’s back, alternating between keeping an eye on his mate and leering
at the black sheep demons on the floor. Phoenix repressed a curse, for she knew Jovan believed
they’d come to steal his mate.
Boris folded his hands in front of him, reminding Phoenix of a particular cranky nun from the
orphanage right before lecturing the class. “My understanding of hell is that it has many levels, and
Hecate’s kingdom is on the top level. Am I correct?”
“They are dimensions,” Horatiu drawled, “but if you want, you can call them levels.”
 Boris arched a brow. “And that these wolves were knocked down to a lower level almost three
thousand years ago.”
“Correct,” Horatiu said brusquely.
Boris drummed his fingers on the table again. Phoenix fought the urge to shift and jump on the
table and bite off his fingers.
“Yet nobody has seen or spoken to them during that time,” Boris continued, his voice laced with
condescension, “so you can’t be sure they haven’t been knocked down several more levels.”
Phoenix’s inner wolf howled, and it took every ounce of her willpower to restrain her claws.
“Then I will search every bloody level if that’s what it takes.”
“How do you know they haven’t found a new mate or that they haven’t been swallowed by a
beast?” Magnus asked her.
She stared eye daggers at her brother. “I don’t know.” She looked to Tor, catching his eye for just
a moment, her heart twisting in a knot when he averted his gaze.
“How many levels are there?” Boris asked, directing his question at Horatiu.
“We don’t know much about the other levels,” he answered.
Boris’s laughter was a nail pounding into her skull. “Yet you’re just going to march into a strange
level of hell and rescue demons that may or may not be there.” He nodded toward his mate behind
him, who still hadn’t turned around. “And you expect Eilea to help you.”
Phoenix worked hard to unclench her jaw. “Not just demons, my mates.”
Magnus roared like a bear waking up from slumber too soon. “We don’t give a fuck who they are,
Phoenix!”
Fire raced through her veins and magic burned her fingers. She’d never despised her brother more
than at that moment. “You’ve never given a fuck, Magnus.”
Magnus opened his mouth to speak, then shut it when Boris stood, leaning over the table.
“There are hunters who’ve gone to the other dimensions. They have been advising Hecate.” It was
more of a statement than a question. “And these hunters, they worked for your enemies, the Vindictus,
correct?”
“They did,” Horatiu answered.
So obviously Tor had filled Boris in on that much. Phoenix wondered if Tor had told him
everything, why the inquisition now? Was it all for show?
“And you think you can trust them?” Boris asked.
Horatiu shared a look with Daeva, then shrugged a shoulder. “We have no choice.”
Boris’s eyes narrowed. “There’s always a choice.”
“You’re not going to let Eilea help us, are you?” Phoenix said to him, magic boiling her blood.
He gave her a long look, one meant to make her feel small, but she refused to back down as she
met his stare with narrowed eyes.
“My mate is her own wolf,” he finally answered in a disinterested slur.
“Eilea,” Phoenix rasped, her voice cracking like splintered ice.
Eilea refused to turn around as she answered curtly, “My place is here with my mates and
children.”
Well, damn. Phoenix never thought she’d be so disgusted and disappointed in her own race.
“Can Hecate at least come visit Eilea?” Daeva pleaded.
“No,” Boris boomed. “Demons aren’t welcome among the Amaroki.”
Phoenix looked to Tor, whom many Amaroki thought of as the leader of all tribes. His eyes were
surprisingly cold and devoid of feeling as he focused on the folded chairs behind her. She clutched
her chest, feeling as if he’d struck her heart with a hammer.
Daeva laughed, cocking a hand on her hip. “Only when you need to steal our souls?”
“So why did you let us come here?” Horatiu demanded.
Tor finally cleared his throat and stood. “You were Amaroki first, and we welcomed you for an
initial meeting, but it is yet to be decided if we will continue to allow your visits.”
“How can you be so prejudiced?” Phoenix blurted, gaping at the wolf who’d been a father to her
these past few years. He hadn’t just crushed her heart, he’d pulverized it.
“How can you forget what the last demons did to our race?” Magnus asked.
“Those were succubi,” Daeva hissed, “and we already told you they weren’t our friends. We’re
nothing like them. Neither is Hecate.”
Magnus clucked his tongue. “She’s not like us, either.”
Horatiu threw up his hands. “She’s the creator of wolfkind!”
Tor shook his head. “She’s the creator of hell’s wolves, but our Ancients are the creators of
Amaroki.”
Just when Phoenix didn’t think she could be any more disgusted by the Amaroki chieftains, they
sank even lower. “Well, it seems you’ve already made up your minds.”
Horatiu folded his arms across his chest. “I wonder why you allowed this meeting at all.”
Boris nodded toward Daeva and then Horatiu. “To see if you were Tori and Beniamin or demons
possessing them.”
Phoenix wanted to scream. How could they be so ignorant?
“And if we’d been possessed by demons?” Horatiu asked in a voice surprisingly as smooth as
steel.
Boris shrugged. “Then we would’ve banished you to hell.”
“Don’t bother. We’ll go willingly.” Daeva tugged on Phoenix’s arm. “Come on, sister.”
Magnus shifted within a blink, glaring down at them as a mammoth protector covered in brown
fur. “She stays with us,” he boomed so loud, it shook the ground beneath their feet.
Every muscle in Phoenix’s body tensed. “No.”
The other alphas shifted into huge protectors, roaring down at them while pulling dart guns from
beneath the table.
“Phoenix, this isn’t up for debate.” Tor pointed the gun at Horatiu’s chest. “Both of you back away
from her,” he said to Daeva and Horatiu.
Phoenix instinctively stepped in front of her sister and Horatiu while she focused on Tor. “You
were like a father to me.” Her voice cracked with watery emotion as tears blurred her vision. “I
trusted you.”
His heavy mouth turned a frown. “Do you think this decision was easy? I love you like a daughter,
Phoenix. I only want what’s best for you.”
When she heard a motion behind them, she knew they were out of time. She lunged for Daeva and
Horatiu while summoning the darkness. Their howls filled her ears for a heartbeat before they were
back outside, standing by their rental car. Phoenix shivered, and not just from the chill wind that blew
back her hair. Low, dark howls resonated from inside the tribal lodge.
She turned to Daeva and Horatiu, who were leaning against the car, looking disoriented. “We
have about five seconds before dozens of angry wolves armed with amethyst guns come through that
door. Tor will never give me permission to go with you.” She gave her sister a pointed look. “So are
you going to take me to hell or not?”
 Daeva shared a look with Horatiu. With a grimace, she pulled the crystal out of her pocket and
whispered, “Reserare.”
Phoenix jerked back when a dark tunnel opened up in the center of the parking lot. It swirled like
a sideways tornado, whipping up gravel and dirt.
“Come on,” her sister called, tugging on her arm.
With a huge sigh of relief, Phoenix followed her sister into the vortex when the double doors to
the tribal house slammed open and a dozen angry protectors came barreling outside. Phoenix’s heart
twisted and ached as Tor’s agonized howl rent the air, just as the portal closed behind them.

PHOENIX STUMBLED INTO a room that reminded her of a larger version of inside her mother’s
lamp. The stone walls were lavishly decorated with several hanging woven murals and the slate
floors were covered with striped fur rugs. In the center of the room was what looked like a raised
stone well with mists that swirled in the middle, gently spilling over the stones in thin whisps.
Phoenix recoiled when a whisp spun on the floor toward her like a slithering serpent. These mists
looked too much like the one in the Vindictus’ tower, a grim reminder that Hecate had once been one
of the evil witches.
Daeva broke away from them with a strangled cry, running into Dragomir’s arms. Phoenix
squinted at Daeva’s bronze arms as she wrapped them around her mate’s neck. Her entire body shone
like a copper pipe. When her sister turned from Dragomir and flung herself into her mate Cyrus’s
arms, her skin shimmering like fish scales, Phoenix knew that her sister’s transformation wasn’t just a
trick of the flickering torch lights above. How strange. Her sister’s appearance had changed from one
dimension to the next. How? Had Hecate restored Daeva’s demon form like Phoenix had once done
for Horatiu? Odd, because Phoenix had visited her sister through the fires about a month ago, and
she’d still looked like Tori. Horatiu had turned into a silver demon, too, but she’d expected that from
him.
Daeva’s eyes flashed golden when she went to Lucian and her lips curled back in a fanged grin.
This demon hardly looked like her sister.
“You’ve changed,” she blurted when Lucian finally let go of her sister.
“I’ve taken on my demon form.” She flashed a fanged grin while smoothing hands down her
curvaceous hips. “Hecate restored me.”
“How nice,” Phoenix answered through a stiff smile. Phoenix couldn’t deny she was jealous of
her sister’s relationship with Hecate. During their brief meetings, it seemed that was all Daeva talked
about, some new miracle Hecate had performed. And now it seemed Hecate had completely erased
every last bit of her sister’s Amaroki roots. Tori was definitely gone for good.
Daeva went to her, taking her hand in hers. “I’m still your sister, Phoenix, or should I call you
Bennu now?” Her golden eyes twinkled, then warmed to a dull amber like a waning summer sun.
“It’s Phoenix,” she answered gruffly. She didn’t even like the name Bennu.
“How did it go?” a woman’s voice echoed around them.
Phoenix looked over Daeva’s shoulder as the beautiful woman approached them. Hecate. She was
dressed like an ancient Greek goddess in flowing white robes criss-crossed with golden rope belts.
She wore a simple gold crown on her head placed between her two spiked horns. She looked much
like her shifter sons with long, raven hair, golden eyes, and silver skin that glowed like an ethereal
moon.
Horatiu stepped forward and kissed his mother’s cheek. “Not well.”
 She frowned, taking his and Daeva’s hands. “I feared it wouldn’t. What did the chieftains say?”
Horatiu shook his head. “They don’t trust demons, not after dealing with succubi.”
She gave him a questioning look. “Do they not understand the Amaroki originate from demons?”
Daeva laughed. “I don’t think they’re too fond of that story.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Phoenix blurted. “We don’t need them anyway.”
Phoenix wanted to crawl out of her skin when Hecate turned an assessing gaze on her. “Phoenix,
how nice to see you again.” She released Horatiu and Daeva and crossed over to her, kissing both of
her cheeks. “It’s been too long.”
Phoenix felt like a fly trapped in a spider’s web when Hecate’s fingers dug into her shoulders.
Something about the witch unnerved her. “It has, but I’m finally here now.”
“Yes,” she said as she pulled back, shadows falling across her features. “You’re here for now.”
Phoenix tensed. No way was she letting Hecate kick her out, no matter how much power she
wielded. “Forever. I’m not going back.”
“Tor will be pissed,” Daeva said from behind Hecate’s back, but she might have well been
behind Phoenix’s back, driving a knife between her shoulder blades. Why wasn’t her sister supporting
her?
“I don’t care.” She squared her shoulders, glaring at Hecate and then at her sister. “I’m a grown
woman and can make my own decisions.”
“He’ll try to get you back,” Horatiu said as he crowded behind his mother.
She flashed a triumphant grin. “He doesn’t have a way of getting here. The Amaroki have
abandoned Romania and the haunted forest.” And, therefore, the portal to hell.
“So I take it you brought Jezebeth’s lamp with you?” Hecate asked in a voice that was
suspiciously flat.
“Damn.” Phoenix chewed on her lip. “I left her behind. Do you think she’ll bring Tor here?”
“She will if they think you’re unsafe,” Hecate answered. Which meant Jezebeth would definitely
bring Tor to hell.
She gave her sister a pleading look. “What do I do?”
Phoenix wasn’t comforted when Daeva and Horatiu shared worried looks. No doubt they were
telepathically speaking.
Dragomir came up to her and puffed up his chest. “You let us worry about Tor.”
She cringed at the undertone of menace in his voice. “I don’t want him getting hurt.”
“Hopefully it won’t come to that.” Hecate’s smile widened. “This meeting will be a good thing.
Maybe I can convince Tor to join our cause, and in turn, he can convince Eilea.”
Ugh. Why is she still so fixated on Eilea? “We don’t need her,” Phoenix spat, regretting the harsh
bite to her words. “We have a crystal now. We can go get my mates ourselves.”
Hecate clucked her tongue, looking at Phoenix as if she was reprimanding a child. “It’s not that
easy.”
“Why?” Phoenix pressed. Why, after over a year, had they still not tried to save Phoenix’s mates?
“There’s a very tricky demon in their dimension,” she said. “One who I fear will give us
problems.”
“Why would having Eilea make the difference?” she asked.
Hecate folded her hands in front of her. The smile she gave Phoenix was one a mother would give
to her wayward toddler. “Because she had the power of celaris?”
“Celaris?” Phoenix asked.
 “Also known as hidden magic,” she answered. “Those with prognosticating abilities couldn’t see
her next move. When they tried to scry her in their mists, they saw only a blank slate. Why do you
think the Vindictus struck her down first when they attacked? They couldn’t trust what they couldn’t
see.”
Phoenix’s blood turned to ice. “And this tricky demon in the next dimension has the power to
prognosticate?”
“He does.” Hecate frowned. “He’s a powerful oracle. He’ll know our next move before we do.”
Phoenix had no idea why she’d expected saving her mates would’ve been easy. “Did I know
hidden magic when I was Eilea’s apprentice?” She thought of that inky darkness she could summon at
will.
Hecate shook her head. “You were learning, but it’s not a skill that can be easily taught.”
“But nobody can see me when I call on the darkness.” Phoenix held up her hands, letting the inky
magic seep from her fingertips, spilling over her arms like those mists flowing from Hecate’s pool.
“Shadow magic,” Hecate answered. “Yes, the magic is similar, but still not the same. Hiding in
the shadows is different than blocking the oracle from seeing your next move in his mists.”
Phoenix wasn’t convinced her shadow magic wouldn’t work on the oracle. She could still hide
herself and others. “Look, we need to come up with a new plan.” She turned up her chin, her voice
firm and unwavering, even beneath Hecate’s unnerving stare. “Eilea and her mates have made it clear
she’s not helping us.”
“Then we wait until they do,” Hecate said calmly, as if time wasn’t of the utmost importance, as if
Phoenix’s mates weren’t languishing in hell.
A vice of frustration crushed her skull. “That could take years.” Years of yearning, years of
worrying while guilt ate at her soul. How could she abandon her fated mates in hell? Helius.
Drakkon. Cadmus. Damon.
Hecate shrugged. “A drop in time for a demon.”
“Not for me.” Rage clouded her vision. “I want my mates!”
“I want to rescue my nephews, too,” Hecate answered, her voice too neutral, too apathetic, “but
not until I’m assured of our success.”
Phoenix stomped, dark magic dripping from her fingers. “This is bullshit!”
Hecate blinked but didn’t say anything.
“Phoenix!” Daeva scolded, wagging a finger.
“Don’t you scold me, Daeva.” She said her sister’s new name as if it left a bitterness on her
tongue, and it did. Her sister had all but forgotten her after she’d changed. Tori wouldn’t have
dismissed Phoenix’s need for her mates. Tori would’ve insisted they take action. Daeva, on the other
hand, was all about placating her mother-in-law and selfishly enjoying time with her mates. “You
have your mates!”
A shrill scream rent the air, and Phoenix shrank back as if she’d been scalded by the flames that
rose up and crackled from the stone hearth at the far end of the chamber.
Hecate turned toward the fire and cracked a smile. “Well, that didn’t take long.”
The flames rose higher, licking the stones and singeing the wooden mantel. “Phoenix Freya
Wolfstalker!” Her mother’s familiar voice echoed across the stone walls as her face appeared in the
flames. “How dare you run off to hell and give us all a scare!”
“I’m a grown woman and will go where I want.” She cringed at the churlish tone in her voice,
making her sound anything but adult.
 “You are an Amaroki wolf and will follow your chieftain’s orders!” a deep voice rumbled,
rolling through the room like thunder.
Tor’s furry protector apparition appeared in the flames beside her mother.
Hecate clasped her hands, beaming. “You must be Tor Thunderfoot.”
“I am,” he spoke through a fanged snarl. “And you must be Hecate.”
“I am.” She placed a hand across her heart and gave him a curt nod. “Jezebeth, thank you for
bringing him here,” she spoke into the fire. “I’ve been wanting an audience with you, Tor
Thunderfoot.”
Tor’s big, golden eyes narrowed. “How do you speak our language so well?”
“We are all spellcast to speak the same language,” she said with a casual flick of the wrist. “You
may think you’re speaking your mortal language, but you speak demon when you’re in hell. Won’t you
come inside?” She stepped back, motioning to the fur rugs. “We mean you no harm.”
Her sons, Daeva’s mates, all grumbled while folding their arms. The two alphas had shifted into
big, black, behemoth protectors with horns curling out of their skulls. The beta and gamma, still in
their demon forms, stood protectively beside Daeva, fur sprouting on their faces.
“I’m not here to discuss an alliance.” Tor glared at Hecate’s sons and then at Hecate. “I’m here
for one reason only—to bring Phoenix back.”
Phoenix jutted a foot forward, her eyes narrowing on Tor’s apparition in the flames. “I’m not
going back.”
“Phoenix, stop being unreasonable,” Jezebeth cried. “You belong with your family.”
She repressed the urge to scream. “Daeva is my family. So are my mates!” She looked to Daeva
for support, her heart clenching when her sister wouldn’t meet her gaze.
“Phoenix, calm yourself,” Hecate reprimanded, a flash of anger in her eyes.
Phoenix glared at the witch. How dare she treat her like a child?
“Tor, Jezebeth, please come in.” Hecate waved toward the fire. “You have my word you will
come to no harm.”
Phoenix tensed when Tor and her mother slipped into the room, their apparitions materializing,
though her mother was still slightly translucent. What was Hecate playing at? When Tor looked at her,
his eyes drilling holes through her skull, Phoenix went to her sister. Ignoring Lucian’s grumbling, she
wedged between him and Daeva. Her heart faltered at the way these demon wolves treated her more
and more like a child sent to time out, like a useless outcast. Once upon a time, she was considered a
powerful witch. Had they forgotten that she’d helped them defeat the Vindictus? In fact, without her,
they wouldn’t have rescued Daeva and Dragomir.
“What is this place?” Tor asked as he spun a slow circle. He was still in his protector form, as if
he could defend himself against Daeva’s mates who were at least a foot taller and far wider in their
demon protector forms.
“It’s our palace.” Hecate tossed her long hair over her shoulder, her smile too seductive, her
voice as smooth as glass. She batted her lashes. “Do you like it?”
Phoenix growled at the witch, feeling personally offended on behalf of Tor’s mate, Mihaela,
who’d been like a mother to Phoenix.
“A palace in hell?” Tor asked, seemingly oblivious to Hecate’s flirtations.
“We have many luxuries here.” Hecate cocked a hand on her hip. “See for yourself.”
Tor looked at Hecate as if he could see through her, as if she was no more interesting than a fly on
the wall. “Is that a lake?” He jutted a finger to somewhere beyond her shoulder.
“It is.” She turned and beckoned him to the double doors that led to a curved, marble balcony.
 He followed her, and they stood together, clutching the banister while looking down at the verdant
landscape below.
Phoenix felt compelled to follow, if for no other reason than to protect Tor from Hecate’s
advances. She dodged Jezebeth when she reached for her, tossing a scowl over her shoulder. The sun
was setting, an illusion created by Hecate, for there were no sun or moon in hell, but it was a good
way for them to tell the time, though she wasn’t sure why time mattered in Hell.
“And that is our newly rebuilt city,” she heard Hecate saying to Tor. “We call it Atlantia.” Hecate
raised her hand and snapped her fingers.
Two familiar green buzzing demons with bulging eyes and translucent wings flew down from
somewhere behind the castle turrets behind them.
“Drisinda, Bug,” Hecate said to them, her tone sharp. “Wine.”
Tor gaped at the creatures as they quickly flew off. “What are those things?”
“Loyal servants.” Hecate grasped Tor’s thick bicep. “They are like family to us.” She thrust her
breasts toward him in an obvious and shameful display of flirting that rivaled even Jezebeth’s
attempts at seduction. “If you’d like, I can take you on a personal tour of our dimension,” she said as
she dragged a fingernail down his furry arm.
Tor stared down at her hand on his arm as if it was a slug. “I shouldn’t stay long.”
“Why?” She giggled, tossing her hair over her shoulder again. Clearly, she was out of moves and
her seduction skills were rusty after spending almost three thousand years as a Vindictus zombie.
“Are you so afraid of the truth? Of changing your perception of us?”
“Hecate, we come from different worlds,” he grumbled as he pulled away. “A few buildings and
a body of water will hardly change my perception.”
Hecate turned her lip down in a pout. “I suppose not when you’re blinded by prejudice.”
Jezebeth loudly sighed behind her. “Let’s just take Phoenix and go.”
Phoenix tossed her mother a scowl. “I’m a grown woman, Mother. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Well, you’re not staying here”—she scowled at Hecate—“with her!”
Phoenix laughed under her breath. It was clear her mother was jealous of Hecate, though Phoenix
wasn’t sure why.
Tor held up his meaty paws. “We can’t give you what you want.”
“Eilea is a powerful witch,” she said, crossing her arms under her breasts and pushing them high
above the low neckline of her robe. “She can give me exactly what I want.”
“I’m sorry,” Tor said to her, his heavy jowls turning a frown. “Believe me when I say I want to
help, but not at the risk of Phoenix losing her eternal soul.”
Tor gave Phoenix a forlorn look, making heat rise into her cheeks. She hated putting him through
this, but she had no choice. She had to save her mates.
“I understand.” Hecate heaved an overly dramatic sigh. “One meeting with Eilea. That’s all I ask
for, and Phoenix can go with you.”
“What?” Phoenix gasped. “No!”
Hecate gave her a sharp look. “We cannot have peace between our races if the Amaroki believe
I’m keeping you captive.”
“You aren’t. I’m here willingly.” Phoenix backed away from Hecate and Tor, then ducked under
her mother when she lunged for her. “I’m a grown woman who should be able to decide where I get to
live.” The irony didn’t escape her that she was technically not alive in hell, but that didn’t matter at
the moment. She wasn’t leaving. She wasn’t. She went to Daeva’s side, her heart faltering at the look
of pity in her sister’s eyes.
 “I know this,” Hecate said as she advanced on her, “but they don’t.”
“That’s their problem.” She clung to Daeva’s arm, giving her a pleading look.
Hecate gave her an apathetic look, as if she was no more significant than a speck of dust.
“I will ask the Lupescus for a meeting,” Tor said as he followed Hecate back into the chamber.
“So is that all I am to you?” Phoenix sneered at Hecate, her heart pounding out a wild drum in her
ears and magic crackling in her palms. “Just a pawn so you can get to Eilea?”
Hecate shook her head, clucking her tongue. “We can’t save your mates without her.”
“Bullshit!” Phoenix spat, magic flaring off her skin. Helius. Drakkon. Cadmus. Damon. She
wouldn’t forget her mates. She wouldn’t allow anyone else to forget them, either.
“Phoenix,” Tor said on a warning growl while holding a beefy hand out to her, “this isn’t up for
debate.”
“I’m not going back.” Her voice cracked and splintered. How could they treat her like this? How
could they dismiss her feelings after everything she did for them? “I’m not!” She caught the glare of
the crystal out of the corner of her eye and lunged for it, snatching it out of Daeva’s pocket. She was
momentarily stunned by the way it throbbed in her hand like a beating heart. Magic pulsed off it in
strong waves. She shoved it in her pocket, her hand protectively wrapped around its smooth sides.
“Phoenix!” Her sister turned on her with a snarl. “What are you doing?”
Her mother cried out.
“Phoenix, put that down!” Tor boomed.
Daeva’s mates slowly approached her, looking at her as if she carried a grenade in her hands.
“I don’t have time for your political games.” She snarled at Hecate and Tor. “I’m going to get
them without your help.”
“Phoenix, no!” Daeva screamed.
Her sister lunged for her, but she quickly backed away and whispered, “Reserare.” She screamed
when the world opened up beneath her and she fell into a pit so dark, she felt as if she was flailing in
the abyss.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
deputation from Canterbury, one paragraph of the royal reply was in
these words: ‘When my accusers offered to load me with wealth, on
condition of depriving me of honour, my habitual disinterestedness
and my conscious integrity made me spurn the golden lure. My
enemies have not yet taught me that wealth is desirable when it is
coupled with infamy.’ This was something of self-laudation; but in
answer to the Norwich address the Queen directed attention from
herself to the perils which menaced the State through her
prosecution. The manner of that prosecution was described by her
as ultimately threatening the vital interests of individual and general
liberty. ‘The question at this moment is not merely whether the
Queen shall have her rights, but whether the rights of any individual
in the kingdom shall be free from violation.’ There was more dignity
in this sentiment and language than in the Queen’s letter addressed
to the King. Of course this epistle was not the Queen’s, but a mere
manufacture, which the King, naturally enough, would not read, or at
least would not acknowledge that he had read. ‘Your court became
much less a scene of polished manners and of refined intercourse
than of low intrigue and scurrility. Spies, bacchanalians, tale-bearers,
and foul conspirators swarmed in those places which had before
been the resort of sobriety, virtue, and honour.’ But the object of the
letter was less to contrast the Regent’s court with that of the Queen
Charlotte than to protest against the constitution of the court before
which she was to be tried. In that court, she said, her accusers were
her judges; the ministers who had precondemned her commanded
the majority; and the husband who sought to destroy her exercised
an influence there perilous to the fair award of justice. She
demanded to be tried according to law: ‘You have left me nothing but
my innocence,’ she remarked, ‘and you would now, by a mockery of
justice, deprive me of the reputation of possessing even that.’
In the reply to the Middlesex address occurs the sole admission
of blame attaching to her through indiscretion. ‘My frank and
unreserved disposition may, at times, have laid my conduct open to
the misrepresentations of my adversaries.’ But ‘I am what I seem,
and seem what I am. I feel no fear, except it be the fear that my
character be not sufficiently investigated. I challenge every inquiry. I
deprecate not the most vigilant scrutiny.’ Against the method of
carrying on the scrutiny she continued to protest most heartily. ‘In the
bill of Pains and Penalties,’ she replied to the address from
Shoreditch, ‘my adversaries first condemn me without proof, and
then, with a sort of novel refinement in legislative science, proceed to
inquire whether there is any proof to justify the condemnation.’ To the
more directly popular mind, to the address of the artisans, for
instance, she delivered an answer in which there is the following
passage: ‘Who does not see that it is not owing to the wisdom of the
Deity, but to the hard-heartedness of the oppressors, when the
sweat of the brow during the day is followed by the tear at its close?’
This was stirring up popular opinion against the King, of whom she
invariably spoke as her ‘oppressor.’ She, however, as significantly
directed the public wrath against the peers in her reply to the
Hammersmith address, wherein she says: ‘To have been one of the
peers who, after accusing and condemning, affected to sit in
judgment on Queen Caroline, will be a sure passport to the splendid
notoriety of everlasting shame.’ The married ladies of London went
up to her with an address of encouragement and sympathy. Her
answer to this document contained an asseveration that she was not
unworthy of the sympathy of English matrons. ‘I shall never sacrifice
that honour,’ she observed, ‘which is the glory of a woman.... I can
never be debased while I observe the great maxim of respecting
myself.’ An eye-witness well remembers seeing several of these
ladies (principally wives of small shopkeepers) descend from the
hackney coaches in which they were conveyed to Brandenburgh
House. They descended the steps as a man comes down a ladder!
The Queen’s answer to them was, however, full of dignity. But her
reply to the inhabitants of Greenwich had even more of the matter in
it that would sink deep in the bosoms of mothers. After alluding to
the period when she was living happily with her daughter, among
those who were now addressing her, she added: ‘Can I ever be
unmindful that it was a period when I could behold that countenance
which I never beheld without vivid delight, and to hear that voice
which to my fond ear was like music breathing over violets? Can I
forget? No; my soul will never suffer me to forget that, when the cold
remains of the beloved object were deposited in the tomb, the malice
of my persecutors would not even suffer the name of the mother to
be inscribed upon the coffin of her child. Of all the indignities I have
experienced, this is one which, minute as it may seem, has affected
me as much as all the rest. But if it were minute, it was not so to my
agonising sensibility.’ But she observed in her reply to the Barnard
Castle address: ‘My conscience is without a pang—and what have I
to fear?’ Her Majesty at the same time seldom allowed an
opportunity to escape of placing the King in, if the phrase may be
allowed, a metaphorical pillory. ‘To pretend,’ she thus spoke to the
Bethnal Green deputation, ‘that his Majesty is not a party, and the
sole complaining party, in this great question, is to render the whole
business a mere mockery. His Majesty either does or does not
desire the divorce which the bill of Pains and Penalties proposes to
accomplish. If his Majesty does not desire the divorce, it is certain
that the State does not desire it in his stead; and if the divorce is the
desire of his Majesty, his Majesty ought to seek it on the same terms
as his subjects; for in a limited monarchy the law is one and the
same for all.’ In the answer to the people of Sheffield the same spirit
is manifested. ‘It would have been well for me,’ she exclaims, ‘and
perhaps not ill for the country, if my oppressor had been as far from
malice as myself; for what is it but malice of the most unmixed nature
and the most unrelenting character which has infested my path and
waylaid my steps during a long period of twenty-five years?’ Her
complaint was, that during that quarter of a century her adversaries
had treated her as if she had been insensible to the value of
character. ‘For why else,’ she asks, in addressing the Reading
deputation, ‘why else should they have invited me to bring it to
market, and let it be estimated by gold? But—a good name is better
than riches. I do not dread poverty, but I loathe turpitude, and I think
death preferable to shame.’ Finally, she flattered the popular ear by
placing all the authorities in the realm below that of the sovereign
people. In her reply to one of the City Ward addresses occurs the
assertion that, ‘If the power of king, lords, and commons is limited by
the fundamental laws of the realm, their acts are not binding when
they exceed those limitations. If it be asked: “What then?—are kings,
lords, and commons answerable to any higher authority?” I distinctly
answer, yes. “To what higher authority?” “To that of God and of the
people.”’ Lord John Russell, too, told the King that the crown was
held at the will and pleasure of the parliament; and the Queen,
speaking on that hint, now maintained that crown and parliament
were, under certain contingencies, beneath the heel of the peuple
souverain.
It perplexed many of the clergy that the Princess of Wales should
be continued to be prayed for up to the period of George III.’s death,
but that Queen Caroline should not be named in the Liturgy after the
decease of the only true friend she ever had in the royal family. One
military chaplain, a Mr. Gillespie, of a Scotch Yeomanry regiment,
was put under arrest for daring to invoke a blessing upon her in his
extemporary prayer for the royal family; but this was the only penalty
inflicted for the so-called offence.
 CHAPTER X.
THE QUEEN’S TRIAL.

The Queen’s reception by the House of Lords—Royal progress to the House

—The Queen’s enthusiastic reception by the populace—Their treatment of
the King’s party—Marquis of Anglesea—The Duke of Wellington’s reply to
them—The Attorney-General’s opening speech—Examination of
Theodore Majocchi—The Queen overcome at the ingratitude of this
knowing rogue—Disgusting nature of the evidence—Other witnesses
examined—Mr. Brougham’s fearless defence of the Queen—Mr.
Denman’s advocacy not less bold—His denunciation of the Duke of
Clarence—Question of throwing up the bill entertained by Ministers—
Stormy debates—Lords Grey and Grosvenor in favour of the Queen—
Duke of Montrose against her—Ministerial majority—The Queen protests
against the proceedings—The Ministers in a minority—The bill
surrendered by Lord Liverpool—Reception of the news by the Queen—
Her unspeakable grief.

The Queen’s trial, as the proceedings in the House of Lords were

called, commenced on the 17th of August. ‘Now we are in for it, Mr.
Denman,’ said her Majesty’s Attorney-General to her Solicitor-
General. With what spirit Brougham went in for it has been left on
record by Lord Denman himself, in the ‘Memoir’ edited by Sir Joseph
Arnould.
‘Let me here state, once for all, that from this moment I am sure
that Brougham thought of nothing but serving and saving his client. I,
who saw him more nearly than any man, can bear witness that from
the period in question his whole powers were devoted to her safety
and welfare. He felt that the battle must be fought, and resolved to
fight it manfully and “to the utterance.”’
 The Queen had signified her intention of attending daily in the
House during the proceedings, and suitable accommodation and
attendance were provided for her. In the House, at all events, she
was treated as Queen-consort, and she more than once adverted to
the fact when about to take her seat on the throne-like chair and
cushion placed at her disposal, near her counsel. Her usual course
was to come up from Brandenburgh House early in the morning to
the residence of Lady Francis in St. James’s Square. From the latter
place she proceeded, in as much ‘state’ as could be got up with her
diminished means, to the House of Lords. On these occasions she
was attended by Lady Anne Hamilton, her chamberlains, Sir W. Gell
and Mr. Keppel Craven, and Alderman Wood, who invariably
endeavoured to have the honour of escorting the Queen into the
House, but was as invariably forbidden to pass in that way by the
local authorities. The alderman, being a member of parliament, was
compelled to pass through the entrance allotted to the ‘Commons;’
and the Queen, who was received with military honours, was usually
led into the House, or to the apartment assigned to her use, by Sir
Thomas Tyrwhitt and Mr. Brougham, each holding her by a hand.
The royal progress from St. James’s Square to the House of
Peers and the return were daily witnessed by a dense multitude, and
hailed with acclamations. The Queen thought the popular sympathy
for her far stronger than it really was. It did not indeed want for
earnestness, intensity, or honesty, but it did not go deep enough to
urge the multitude to make any serious demonstration in her favour.
They cheered her as she passed, cheered the soldiers who saluted
her, and hissed those who failed to show her that mark of respect.
They hissed or cheered the peers on their arrival according as they
knew that they were opponents or supporters of the Queen. They
were especially delighted when they succeeded in compelling a
lordly adversary to shout, or seem to shout, for the Queen. They
strove mightily to bring the Marquis of Anglesea to this; but on his
assertion that rather than do a thing against his inclination they might
run him through the body, they laughed, cheered, and let him pass
on. The Duke of Wellington served those who assailed him quite as
characteristically: he was violently hissed on his way to the House on
the first day of the trial; he checked his horse for a moment, looked
round with a half-smile, as if the people had been guilty of some
absurd mistake, and then quietly walked his horse onward. On
another occasion, as he was returning from the House, the mob
insisted upon his crying ‘The Queen! the Queen!’ ‘Yes, yes!’ was his
reply; but his persecutors were not content therewith, and continued
to assail him as he rode slowly forward. At length, wearied with their
importunity, he is said to have turned to his assailants and
exclaimed, ‘Very well; the Queen then, and may all your wives be
like her!’
Caroline was early in her attendance on the 17th of August. She
entered the House at ten o’clock, while the names of the peers were
being called over. She wore a black satin dress, with a white veil
over a plain laced cap. The whole body of peers rose to receive her,
and she acknowledged the courtesy with that dignity which she could
well assume, and which she could so readily throw off.
It was not till the 19th of August that the case was actually
opened by the Attorney-General. The preliminary proceedings were
not, however, of much interest, save on the part of the Duke of
Leinster, who attempted by motion to get rid of the bill at once, in
which he failed, all parties being nearly agreed that there was now
no possibility of retrocession. The second incident of interest was in
the speech of Mr. Brougham against the bill, and the method by
which it sought to crush his illustrious client. While praising her self-
denying generosity, which induced her to refrain from all
recrimination, he ably adverted to the anomaly of the accused
person in a case of divorce being prevented from showing the guilt of
her accuser.
On the 19th the Attorney-General opened his case. He
professed his conviction that he should state nothing which he could
not substantiate on proof, and, reviewing the general course of the
Queen’s life abroad, he deduced from it that she had been guilty of
conduct which stamped her with shame as Princess and as woman.
Caroline entered the House towards the conclusion of his speech,
shortly after which he introduced the first of the batch of Italian
witnesses lodged near the House, in Cotton Garden, and whose
presence there was sufficient to render uneasy the spirit of the
philosopher who gave his name to the spot, and the wreck of whose
library is among the richest treasures of the British Museum.
The entrance of the first witness gave rise to an incident
dramatic in its effect. He was the celebrated Theodore Majocchi, and
he no sooner appeared at the bar than the Queen, overcome, as it
would seem, at seeing one who owed her much gratitude arrayed
against her, exclaimed ‘Oh, traditore! (oh, traitor!)’ and, hurrying from
the scene, took refuge in her apartment, from which she did not
again issue except to return home. The chief points supposed to
have been established by Majocchi were that on the deck of the
polacca Bergami slept at night beneath the tent wherein the Princess
also slept, and that the same individual attended her when she was
in the bath. The tent was partially open in the hot climate beneath
which the wayfarers were travelling, and in the bath the Princess
wore a bathing dress, so that, if the indiscretion was undoubtedly
great, indecorum was not (it was suggested) very seriously injured.
Of the remainder of Majocchi’s evidence it has been well remarked,
by one who heard it, that ‘all his subsequent assertions did not, in
consequence of what he implied by this statement, weigh the worth
of two straws with me, for it was of the nature of inference, and
deduced by the imagination. Besides, I do think he was a knowing
rogue, who forgot to remember many things which perhaps might
have changed the hue of his insinuations. I do not say that what he
did say was not sufficient to induce a strong suspicion of guilt itself in
the members of an English society; but this is the very thing
complained of. The Queen was in foreign society, in peculiar
circumstances, and yet our state Solomons judge of her conduct as
16
if she had been among the English.’ The remark is worth
something, for even at so short a distance from town as Ramsgate
Sands the law of modesty does not appear to be the same as it is in
other parts of England; and as for the incident of the bath, our
grandfathers and grandmothers, in the heyday of their youth, used to
walk in couples in the ‘Baths of Bath,’ and no one presumed to take
offence at the proceeding. The writer last quoted further remarks, as
a matter worthy of observation, that Majocchi did not appear to be ‘at
all shocked or shamefaced at what he said.’ The inference deduced
is that the witness had been ‘taught to dwell so particularly on
uncomely things by one who did know how much they would revolt
the English.’
It would indeed be revolting to go through all the evidence: it
must suffice to tread our way through it as lightly and as quickly as
possible. All the government witnesses deposed to an ostentation of
criminality in parties who, if guilty, must have been most deeply
interested in concealing all evidences of guilt, and one of whom at
least knew that she was constantly watched and daily reported of.
This contradiction very soon struck Lord Eldon himself, who
intimated that some measures should be taken to punish perjury, if it
could be proved to have been committed. It is certain that the King’s
case was materially damaged at a very early stage of the
proceedings, not only by discrepancy in the evidence, but by the
suspicious alacrity of the witnesses in tendering it.
A close watcher of Majocchi, when giving his evidence, says: ‘I
cannot understand why so much importance is attached to the
evidence of Majocchi. He did not state any one thing that indicated a
remembrance of his having put a sense of indecorum on the conduct
of the Queen at the time to which he referred; and in this, I think, the
want of tact in those who arranged the case is glaringly obvious. As
men they could not but have often seen that it is the nature of
recollected transactions to affect the expression of the physiognomy,
and particularly of those kinds of transactions which the traditore
knew he was called to prove; yet in no one instance did Majocchi
show that there was an image in his mind, even while uttering what
were thought the most sensual demonstrations. In all the most
particular instances that pointed to guilt he was as abstract as
Euclid; a logarithmic transcendent could not have been more
bodiless than the memory of his recollections. I do not say that he
17
was taught by others, but I affirm that he spoke by rote.’
Many of the servants examined swore positively to much
unseemliness of demeanour between Bergami and the Princess,
and some went very much further than this. Of these, several
confessed to being hostile to the courier; some were jealous of him;
but they all, despite some discrepancy of detail, kept to the leading
points of their evidence, which was destructive to the reputation of
the Princess.
Captain Briggs and Captain Pechell, with whom she had sailed,
deposed to some folly, but no positive guilt. Something was
attempted to be made out of the arrangement of the respective
berths on board the ship commanded by the first officer, but with no
remarkable success. The captain of the polacca gave evidence that
was much more damaging, with reference to the unseemliness of
sleeping on deck, beneath a tent—for which the heat of the
atmosphere and the horses and mules that were below deck hardly
offered sufficient authority. Again, there was testimony of such
disgraceful conduct at inns that, if it be accepted, no other
conclusion can be arrived at than that those guilty of it must not only
have been lost to all sense of shame, but eager that their iniquity
should be a spectacle to all beholders. ‘As the whole case now is,’
says a contemporary writer, ‘by making it more gross than in all
human probability it could be, the evidence, where it might otherwise
be trusted, is rendered unworthy of credit.’
But there were incidents in the drama that were not all for the
audience. ‘Nature,’ says the writer of the ‘Supplementary Letters’
annexed to the ‘Diary Illustrative of the Court of George IV.,’ ‘often
mixes up the sublime and the ridiculous helplessly, as it would seem;
and I met to-day with a curious instance of her indifference. I forget
how it happened, but I was driven accidentally against a curtain, and
saw, in consequence, behind it Lord Castlereagh, sitting on a stair by
himself, holding his hand to his ear, to keep the sound and words of
the evidence which the witness under examination at the bar was
giving. Notwithstanding the moody wrath of my ruminations, I could
not help laughing at the discovery, and his lordship looked equally
amused, and was quite as much discomposed. He smiled, and I
withdrew. I met him afterwards in the lobby of the House of
Commons, when he again smiled.’
Masons, painters, whitewashers, and waiters vied, or seemed to
vie, with each other in the dirty character of their depositions.
Rastelli, a groom, but discarded as a thief, did not go further, but
both sides evidently considered him as an unmitigated scoundrel,
and he was somehow permitted to disappear, as if either side was
anxious to be rid of him. Scarcely more respectable was the woman
Dumont, who dwelt on the abominations to which she swore as if
she loved thinking of them. She was worse than the boatmen,
bakers, and others with aliases to their names, who, however,
deposed to circumstances sufficiently gross in character, and drew
dreadfully strong inferences from generally slender but occasionally
very suspicious premises.
The loathsome mass was got through by the 7th of September,
when the House adjourned till the 3rd of October. The members
needed breathing time, and all parties, the public included, stood in
urgent need of that peculiar civet whose virtue, according to the
poet, lies in its power to sweeten the imagination.
The course of the trial exhibited more than one trait illustrative of
the English Bar, and also of individuals. Thus, in the interim between
the closing of the King’s case and the opening of the Queen’s
defence by Mr. Brougham, the last-named gentleman went down to
Yorkshire to attend the assizes there. The chief advocate of one
Sovereign against another was there engaged in a cause on behalf
of an old woman upon whose pig-cot a trespass had been
committed. The tenement in question was on the border of a
common of one hundred acres, upon five yards of which it was
alleged to have unduly encroached, and was therefore pulled down
by the landlord. The poor woman sought for damages, she having
held occupation by a yearly rental of sixpence, and sixpence on
entering. The learned counsel pleaded his poor client’s cause
successfully, and, having procured for her the value of her levelled
pig-cot, some forty shillings, he returned to town to endeavour to
plead as successfully the cause of the Queen. The re-opening of the
case took place on the 3rd of October. Before Mr. Brougham rose to
speak, Lord Liverpool made severe introductory remarks, for the
purpose of disavowing all improper dealing with the witnesses on the
part of Government. He also expressed his readiness to exhibit an
account of all moneys paid to the witnesses in support of the bill.
 Mr. Brougham then entered on the Queen’s defence in a speech
of great boldness and power. The sentiments put forth in that oration
were probably not endorsed by Lord Brougham. He declared, too,
that nothing should prevent him from fulfilling his duty, and that he
would recriminate upon the King if he found it necessary to do so.
The threat gave some uneasiness to ministers, but they trusted,
nevertheless, to the learned counsel’s discretion. He would have
been justified in the public mind if he had realised his promise. The
popular opinion, however, hardly supported him in what followed,
when he declared that an English advocate could look to nothing but
the rights of his client, and that, even if the country itself should
suffer, his feelings as a patriot must give way to his professional
obligations. This was only one of many instances of the abuse of the
very extensively abused and widely misunderstood maxim of Fiat
justitia ruat cœlum.
Denman’s famous speech, which many peers thought superior to
Brougham’s, was partly prepared, as to some of its points, at one of
the ‘Sundays’ he used to spend at Holland House. There, Denman,
after suggestions from Dr. Parr, resolved to draw a parallel between
Caroline and Octavia, George and Nero. And this he did with such
effect as regards George IV. that, veiled as the most personal
allusion was, the King never forgot him who made it.
Mr. Denman, the Queen’s solicitor-general, was not less legally
audacious, if one may so speak, than his great leader. In a voice of
thunder, and in presence of the assembled peerage of the realm, he
denounced one of the King’s brothers as a calumniator. Mr. Rush,
who was present on the occasion, says, ‘the words were, “Come
forth, thou slanderer!”—a denunciation,’ he goes on to say, ‘the
more severe from the sarcasm with which it was done, and the turn
of his eye towards its object.’ That object was the Duke of Clarence;
and in reference to the exclamation, and the fierce spirit of the hour
generally, Mr. Rush says: ‘Even after the whole trial had ended, Sir
Francis Burdett, just out of prison for one libel, proclaimed aloud to
his constituents, and had it printed in all the papers, that the
ministers all deserved to be hanged. This tempest of abuse,
incessantly directed against the King and all who stood by him, was
borne during several months, without the slightest attempt to check
or punish it; and it is too prominent a fact to be left unnoticed that the
same advocate who so fearlessly uttered the above denunciation
was made attorney-general when the prince of the blood who was
the object of it sat upon the throne, and was subsequently raised
to the still higher dignity of lord chief justice.’
By the end of the third day of the defence the testimony had
assumed so favourable an aspect for the Queen that ministers
began to deliberate upon the question of throwing up the bill
altogether. During the following fortnight, however, the subsequent
testimony was not so decidedly contradictory of what the witnesses
on the other side had sworn to, and the government then decided
that the bill should take its course. The first witness was a Mr.
Lemann, clerk to the Queen’s solicitor. His deposition was to the
effect that he had been sent to Baden to solicit the attendance of
Baron Dante, the Grand Duke’s chamberlain. The baron, who was
proprietor of an estate in Hanover, and who consulted his
memoranda before answering the solicitation, finally, and under
sanction, if not order, of his ducal master, refused to attend as a
witness. Colonel St. Leger simply proved that he did not resign his
appointment in the Queen’s household from any knowledge of her
having conducted herself improperly, but on account of ill health. The
Earl of Guildford spoke to the general propriety of the Queen’s
conduct abroad while under his observation; and Lord Glenbervie
showed that the royal reputation had not been dimmed, in his eyes
at least, during his residence in Italy, or otherwise he would not have
permitted Lady Glenbervie to act, even for a brief time, as lady-in-
waiting to the Princess. Lady Charlotte Lindsay deposed to having
heard reports unfavourably affecting that reputation, but she had
never seen anything to confirm them. Persons of inferior rank, in
attendance on the Princess, deposed to the same effect. The
testimony of Dr. Holland and Mr. Mills was of a highly favourable
character, exact and decisive. The evidence of other witnesses was
equally favourable to the character and conduct of the courier
chamberlain; and, partly in answer to the evidence which spoke of
her Royal Highness receiving strangers in her sleeping apartments,
the Earl of Llandaff, who had resided in Italy with his lady and family,
showed that such a circumstance was a part of the custom of Italy.
Mr. Keppel Craven, who had originally engaged Bergami for the
service of the Princess, declared that the individual in question
brought excellent testimonials with him, and that he was of
respectable family and behaved with propriety. Mr. Craven added
that he had heard much about spies, and that he had admonished
the Princess touching the being seen with Bergami in attendance as
a servant. This evidence was corroborated by that of Sir W. Gell. A
writer, commenting upon the testimony of these witnesses and that
given on the other side, remarks: that the witnesses on the King’s
side ‘told improbable stories, and none of them had the look of
speaking from recollection ... there is a visible difference between
the expression of the countenance in telling a recollection and an
18
imagination, especially such stories as they told.’
It was further proved that, if Bergami kissed the Princess’s hand,
he did no more than what was commonly done by respectable Italian
servants by way of homage to their mistress.
This ‘plain sailing’ was, however, somewhat marred by the
contradictory evidence of Lieutenant Flynn; and even that of
Lieutenant Hownam was sufficient to show that the Princess, if not
the most gross, was certainly the most indiscreet, of ladies. Other
witnesses spoke to dresses and dances, which had been described
as disgraceful in their character, being really harmless; and others
again showed that certain unedifying sights could not have been
seen by the witnesses who had sworn to having been spectators of
them from the place in which they stood. Again, the evidence did not
lack which proved the purchasing of testimony on the other side, and
some excitement was raised when, on the presence of Rastelli being
required, it was found that he had been permitted to leave the
country. In the opinion of some, he had been conveyed away by the
prosecuting party. A few thought he had disappeared with the
connivance of both sides.
The entire evidence was closed on the 30th of October. Allusion
has been already made to Mr. Denman’s speech, which was ably
made, now, in summing up the evidence for the defence. It closed
rather unaptly in terms, the remembrance of which embittered many
years of the speaker’s life—for it seemed to undo all that had been
previously said and done: ‘This, my Lords, is the highest tribunal on
earth; it can only be exceeded by that where all the world shall be
judged, and the secrets of all hearts laid open. I invoke you, my
Lords, therefore, to imitate the wisdom, justice, and beneficence of
that high and sacred Authority who said to the woman brought
before him: “If no accuser come forward, neither will I condemn thee.
Go in peace, and sin no more.”’
The Lords adjourned to the 2nd of November, from which day to
the 6th the peers were engaged in debates upon the evidence,
almost every member assigning reasons for the vote he intended to
give. Mr. Rush describes the character of the debates as the case
approached its close. It was ‘stormy’ in the extreme. ‘Earl Grey
declared that, if their lordships passed the bill, it would prove the
most disastrous step the House had ever taken. Earl Grosvenor said
that, feeling as he did the evils which the erasure of the Queen’s
name from the Liturgy (a measure taken before her trial came on)
was likely to entail upon the nation, as well as its repugnance to law
and justice, he would, had he been Archbishop of Canterbury, have
thrown the Prayer-book in the King’s face sooner than have
consented to it. On the other hand, the Duke of Montrose said, even
after the ministers had abandoned the bill, that, so convinced was he
of her guilt, whatever others might think to do, he, for one, would
never acknowledge her as his Queen.’
The bill, however, was not yet abandoned. The House divided on
the 6th of the month, on the second reading, which was carried by
123 to 95, giving ministers a majority of 28. The Queen immediately
signed a protest against the nature of the proceeding. The document
terminated with these words: ‘She now most deliberately, and before
God, asserts that she is wholly innocent of the crime laid to her
charge, and she awaits with unabated confidence the final result of
this unparalleled investigation’—and as she signed the protest she
exclaimed, with a dash of her pen, ‘there, “Caroline regina,” in spite
of them.’
 By a clever manœuvre of her friends the ministers were next
cast into a minority. The House had gone into committee on the
divorce clause. The clause was distasteful to some of the bishops.
Dr. Howley, indeed, is said to have held that the King could do no
wrong, even if he broke the seventh commandment. Others,
however, thought that a man so notoriously guilty in that respect was
not justified in seeking to destroy his wife, even if she were as guilty
as he was. The clause was objected to by many peers, and
popularly it was distasteful for something of the same reasons. The
ministers, thinking to gain a point by abandoning a clause, moved
the omission of this very clause of divorce. But the Queen’s friends
immediately saw that, by the retaining of the clause, the bishops and
others who preferred the bill without it would be less likely to vote for
the passing of the bill itself. They accordingly voted that the divorce
clause should be retained, and the ministers, in a minority on this
point, proposed the third reading of the bill with the clause in
question in the body of it. One hundred and eight voted for it, and
ninety-nine against it. The ministry were thus only in a majority of
nine—exactly the number of the peers who were members of the
cabinet—and after a short delay Lord Liverpool made a merit of
surrendering the measure as an offering to popular feeling, although
they had carried the bill—with too small a majority, as he confessed,
to enable ministers to act upon it.
The Queen was in her own apartment in the House of Lords
when the intelligence was brought her by her excited counsel that
the bill of Pains and Penalties had been abandoned. She received
the intimation in perfect silence, hardly seeming to comprehend the
fact, or perhaps scarcely knowing how it should be appreciated. The
ministers had carried their bill, but even their withdrawing of it would
not prove her guiltless. ‘I shall never forget,’ says one present, ‘what
was my emotion when it was announced to me that the bill of Pains
and Penalties was to be abandoned. I was walking towards the west
end of the long corridor of the House of Lords, wrapt in reverie, when
one of the door-keepers touched me on the shoulder and told me the
news. I turned instantly to go back into the House, when I met the
Queen coming out alone from her waiting-room, preceded by an
usher. She had been there unknown to me. I stopped involuntarily. I
could not, indeed, proceed, for she had a dazed look, more tragical
than consternation: she passed me. The usher pushed open the
folding doors of the great staircase; she began to descend, and I
followed instinctively two or three steps behind her. She was
evidently all shuddering, and she took hold of the bannisters,
pausing for a moment. Oh, that sudden clutch with which she caught
the railing! Never say again to me that any actor can feel like a
principal. It was a visible manifestation of unspeakable grief—an
echoing of the voice of the soul. Four or five persons came in from
below before she reached the bottom of the stairs. I think Alderman
Wood was one of them, but I was in indescribable confusion.... I
rushed past, and out into the hastily-assembling crowd.... I knew not
where I was; but in a moment a shouting in the balcony above, on
which a number of gentlemen from the interior of the House were
gathering, roused me. The multitude then began to cheer, but at first
there was a kind of stupor. The sympathy, however, soon became
general, and, winged by the voice, soon spread up the street. Every
one instantly, between Charing Cross and Whitehall, turned and
came rushing down, filling Old and New Palace Yards as if a deluge
19
was unsluiced.’
It was asked by many why Bergami himself had not been
summoned to deny upon oath any charge of guilt with the Queen,
but Mr. Denman had given sufficient reason in his speech. ‘If,’ he
said, ‘any man guilty of the charge was examined he would deny it. I
firmly believe the feeling among mankind in such a case would
triumph over morality. It would be found better to violate the oath
than betray the victim.’ This is, doubtless, true; but like the
concluding sentence of Denman’s speech, already quoted, it
seemed to some persons to damage as much as defend. The Queen
had said, in her fear of her attorney-general, ‘If my head is placed on
Temple Bar, it will be through Mr. Brougham.’ She stood in greater
peril from the studied words of Denman than from the
unpremeditated and impetuous utterances of Brougham. The
Queen’s own utterances did not want for boldness. It is reported of
her having said at the time of the trial that she was, perhaps, not
altogether blameless, since she had certainly lived with Mrs.
Fitzherbert’s husband!
 CHAPTER XI.
‘TRISTIS GLORIA.’

The result of the Queen’s trial advantageous to neither party—The Queen’s

application to Parliament for a residence—Lord Liverpool’s reply—Royal
message from the Queen to Parliament, and its discourteous reception—
The Queen goes to St. Paul’s to return thanks—Uncharitable conduct of
the Cathedral authorities—Their unseemly behaviour rebuked by the Lord
Mayor—Revenue for the Queen recommended by the King—Accepted by
her—The Coronation of George IV.—The Queen claims a right to take part
in the ceremony—Her right discussed—Not allowed—Determines to be
present—The Queen appears at the Abbey, and is refused admittance—
With a broken spirit retires—Her sense of degradation—The King labours
to give éclat to his Coronation—The Coronation-festival in Westminster
Hall described—Appearance of the Duke of Wellington—His banquet to
the King—The King’s speech on the occasion—True greatness of the
Duke—Anecdote of Louis XIV. and Lord Stair—Regal banquet to the
foreign ministers—The Duke of Wellington appears as an Austrian general
—Incident of the Coronation—Lord Londonderry’s banquet to the minister
of Louis Napoleon.

The Queen was in tears when the ‘people’ were rejoicing, less
certainly for her sake than for the popular victory which had been
achieved. There was nothing in the issue of the trial for any party to
rejoice at. The ministry could not exult, for although they had carried
the bill which declared the Queen worthy of degradation from her
rights and privileges, rank and station, yet they refrained from acting
upon it, because the popular voice was hoarse with menace, so
unfairly had the case of the two antagonists been tried before the
august tribunal of the peers.
The popular voice had been heeded, and was satisfied with the
triumph. Caroline must have felt that she was really of but secondary
account in the matter, that the victory was not for her, and that,
righteously or unrighteously, her reputation had been irretrievably
shaken into ruins.
Her great spirit, however, was as yet undaunted. The bill was no
sooner withdrawn than she formally applied to Lord Liverpool to be
furnished with a fitting place of residence and a suitable provision.
The premier’s reply informed her Majesty that the King was by no
means disposed to permit her to reside in any of the royal palaces,
but that the pecuniary allowance which she had hitherto enjoyed
would be continued to her until parliament should again meet for the
regular despatch of business. Caroline, determined to harass her
husband, next sent the following note to the prime minister:—‘The
Queen requests Lord Liverpool to inform his Majesty of the Queen’s
intention to present herself next Thursday in person at the King’s
Drawing-room, to have the opportunity of presenting a petition to his
Majesty for obtaining her rights.’
The following humiliating minute was accordingly made to guide
the King:—‘If the Queen should decline delivering her petition into
any hands but the King’s, the King should not be advised to permit
her to come up to the Drawing-room, but should himself go down to
the room where the Queen is, attended by such of his household
and his ministers as may be there, and receive the petition.’
The then present parliament was about to be prorogued, and the
Queen was resolved that, if possible, that body should not separate
until it had granted her what, as Queen-consort, she had a right to
demand. Her solicitor-general, accordingly, went down to the
Commons with a royal message, which he was not permitted to
deliver. The House probably never presented such a scene as that
disgraceful one of the night of the 23rd of November. Mr. Denman
stood with the Queen’s letter in his hand; he was perfectly in order,
but the Speaker chose rather to obey that brought by the usher of
the black rod, summoning the members to attend at the bar of the
Lords and listen to the prorogation. The Speaker hurried out of the
House, and the Queen’s message was virtually flung into the street.
The public, however, knew that its chief object was to announce the
Queen’s refusal of any allowance or accommodation made to her as