Alpha Prince's Little Dagger

Chapter 2

ASTRID

As three crisp knocks sound through our front door, I race for one of our old precautions: a trapdoor hidden beneath a threadbare rug that leads to an underground cellar.

“Hurry,” I whisper to Luca, pulling the rug free in a cloud of dust.

It’s been a decade since we hid anything—or anyone—down here.

Our father and one of his comrades dug this cellar beneath our shack. For years, it was where they hid important belongings and people whenever the guards came looking.

Luca glances toward the front door, then back at me. The tortured look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s thinking.

He’s considering giving himself up.

That same damned righteous streak that got our father killed, that got our older brother disappeared, runs powerful as a river through him.

But now is not the time to be a hero.

“Luca!” I insist, my voice concealed by the now near-constant knocking.

“Luca Smith!” a voice from outside echoes, deep and threatening. “Announce yourself!”

Luca’s eyes widen, and I use the distraction to grab his wrist and yank him to the open trapdoor.

“Inside. Now.” I keep my voice low, but leave no room for argument. “And don’t come out, no matter what. Do you understand?”

Luca nods, grudgingly.

I grab his chin and force him to look me in the eyes.

“No matter what, Luca.”

“I heard you!” he protests, then the edge in his voice melts into fear. “You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be okay,” I promise, holding my voice with a steadiness I don’t feel. This is no different from picking a pocket: confidence is key. “I’ll let you out when it’s all clear.”

He throws his skinny arms around me before clambering down into the cellar.

I silently lower the trapdoor and drag the rug back into place.

It takes only five steps to reach the front door. In that time, I move my blade from my sleeve to my boot, running my fingers over the simple letter N carved into the dagger’s hilt.

The etching is almost worn away now. Noah, our brother, gave it to me eight years ago, before he left us to pursue our father’s unfinished “mission.”

I’ve barely tucked the dagger beside my ankle when the front door explodes inward in a shower of splinters. I yelp and throw up a hand to shield my eyes.

When I can see again, I want to vomit.

My little brother didn’t rob any old Mooncrest merchant. He robbed Rodolfo, a man rumored to have his fat fingers in as many poisonous pies as he does up women’s skirts.

Now this man stands in my doorway, glowering, flanked by two Mooncrest guards.

“Astrid Smith,” one of the guards growls. “Where is your brother?”

“Your younger brother,” the other guard smirks, as if I need the reminder.

I inhale slowly, steeling my nerves.

“I’ve yet to see him,” I say, widening my eyes in what I hope looks like innocent confusion. “He must not be back from his apprenticeship.”

The first guard bares his teeth. “And yet, our esteemed Rodolfo swears he saw Luca just before he noticed his coin pouch was missing.”

Rodolfo steps forward, crossing the threshold.

He narrows his eyes in disdain as he takes in the rough-hewn shelving, the chipped kitchenware, the two sagging chairs that lean into the ramshackle table.

“We didn’t come down to the slums for the scenery, girl,” he says, sneering. “We came for my money.”

I take a slow look around the house.

“Don’t see any money here,” I say flatly.

“My coin pouch!” Rodolfo snaps. “Don’t test my patience. Bring it to me. Now.”

I look past him to the guards, forcing my voice to sound pleading. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rodolfo raises his hand as if he's going to strike me, but he snatches at my forearm instead, his grip like a vice.

“You don’t want to play games with me,” he purrs.

“No,” I say. “I don’t. And I’m not. Your coin pouch isn’t here.”

“Your reputation precedes you, little thief,” one of the guards growls. “If it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t your brother, who was it?”

“How am I to know?” I ask, faux indignant. “Half of Phaegia is here. Ask them! If my reputation truly precedes me, then you know I wouldn’t be dumb enough to try and rob a merchant of Rodolfo’s… caliber.”

“And your brother?” the other guard snaps.

“Made better choices than me,” I snap back, fear making me reckless. Every second we stand here is another second Luca could sneeze, cough, or make some other sound that gives him away. “Ask the baker, he’ll vouch for Luca.”

The first guard prowls around me, sniffing the air. Lore says werewolves can smell almost anything, even lies.

My stomach twists.

Will Luca’s residual scent be enough to cover for the fact that they must still smell him here? Though the fall day is cool, sweat beads at my hairline, drips down my neck and along my spine.

“Or hold a trial!” I blurt out. “I’m an adult; put me on trial. Let a werewolf jury hear my innocence firsthand.”

The instant the words leave my mouth, I want to swallow them back.

Werewolf trials are notoriously harsh. Their resulting punishments are even worse.

But I need to get these guards out of here, away from Luca, and the promise of such a spectacle may be the only way to do so.

“Not a chance—” Rodolfo begins, but the guards are already nodding in unison.

“No!” Rodolfo insists. “She’s clearly covering for her brother! I know it was him that I saw!”

“It’s Prince Cassius’s wedding ceremony today,” one of the guards reminds him. “This girl’s trial will please him far more than a boy’s whipping.”

Rodolfo opens his mouth again, and the other guard flashes his teeth in warning, reminding the merchant who holds their loyalty.

“Fine,” Rodolfo snaps. “A trial it is.”

He sweeps his eyes over me, his expression murderous, before stalking over the remains of the front door and out onto the street, where I can see neighbors gathering.

“Turn,” one of the guards orders me, and I do. He clamps iron cuffs around my wrists, then warns, “If you try to run, we’ll go for the throat.”

As they march me through the street, clusters of familiar faces watch in silence. Some of these people have known me my entire life. Others I’ve known all of theirs. Their faces twist with sympathy, but no one speaks.

It’s the second damning silence I’ve heard in as many hours. I wonder what’s happening to Ollie at this moment. I wonder whether what happened to him was worse than what’s waiting for me.

It takes both a blink and a lifetime to reach the looming Tower of Justice.

The guards shove me into a cell occupied by a handful of other humans. Their presence only depresses me further; they look as helpless as I feel. Their eyes are red and swollen with tears. Their clothes are ragged. They have no more resources than I do.

We’re all at the mercy of the wolves.

After only a few minutes in this dank stone box, I realize I’m also at the mercy of my own mind.

If they keep me in here much longer, I may truly go insane. I have no way of knowing what happened to Luca after I got hauled away, if he’s still cowering in his own dark cell, praying that I’ll return.

I must return.

After our father was executed ten years ago, after Noah disappeared two years later, after our mother died of a broken heart, I swore to Luca that we would always have each other. Whatever it takes, I have to get back to him.

When the prison door clangs open once more, it feels like a twisted blessing from fate. Because when the group of guards comes into view, their leader—a gigantic man dressed in crisp white, with the sigil of a werewolf’s head stitched in gold across his chest—stops directly in front of me.

“This one,” he says, pointing to my paralyzed form.