Chapter Twenty-Five: His Kiss, The Riot

Dangerous this jack of hearts. With his kiss, the riot starts.

It was as if the world tilted. Ylva, disgusted, shoved Greyback away from her. This had been his chance to redeem himself—his chance to prove that he could be brave and kind—his chance to do a good thing for once—to help people for once—and he didn't know?

She had thought his heart was healing, slowly stitching back together.

Now, she doubted if he was good enough to change.

If he was brave enough to heal.

Ylva was a vulnerable person, a sensitive person—but she was fiery and rageful too. She spat on the ground at her father's feet and backed away. "Don't speak to me until you've made a decision," she said, as she stormed down the tunnel. "The right decision."

With her gone, the Fated Ones came back into sharp relief—they were nearly solid again, their cruelty painted across their faces. And now the likeness with Ylva was terribly clear. Of course they were her phantom sisters. They wore Ylva's face—Ylva's dark eyes. They were Ylva, if she were a killer—Ylva if she were cruel.

Sirius sensed the danger like the pressure changing before a storm. He stumbled away from the king's wrath, pulling Remus with him.

And Greyback saw the destruction before him—the destruction he had caused—the stricken look on the pack's faces, the naive hope of those boys, the heckling of the Fated Ones—and he couldn't face it. The King stomped away, his hackles raised—his teeth bared.

He wasn't running, he told himself. No. He just needed time to come up with a plan. He wasn't used to being vulnerable. That boy's words had plucked some string inside him and played his heartbreak like a song, loud enough to everyone to hear.

Greyback raged, slamming a fist into the wall.

He was the king. And kings didn't mourn. Kings didn't fear.

What had Sirius Black done to him?

He pounded down the tunnels. He needed somewhere private—he needed somewhere to think. He needed…

Ylva.

The thought came, unwelcome, unappreciated.

He needed Ylva.

"She said she'd never talk to you," crooned an all too familiar voice in his ear—and Greyback knew at once it was the Fated Ones returned, the Fated Ones terrible and vengeful.

"You're not real," Greyback growled and he pushed himself inside his flat—slammed the door in their faces—locked it three times.

But he only had half a breath of peace. At once, the Fated Ones materialized around him, their leers hungry, their eyes shining with malice.

For this was their terrible power—they could see inside your soul—they knew your every fear because they were your every fear. They were the doubt creeping up the back of your mind. And once you let them in, it was no small task to get them out.

"You can't outrun us, Greyback," said the Tall One.

"You cannot hide."

"We're the poison in your heart and the darkness in your blood."

"You made us."

"You can't get rid of us that quickly."

Greyback lashed out at them—his great claws bared—but right where he should have struck, his hand met only air.

"You have no weapons against us, King," said the Small One—and Greyback saw that it was true. They were his weapons. He'd made them out of fear and grief.

And now his grief was back to bite him.

Greyback paced around his kitchen like a wounded animal. How could he win this? How could he defeat his shadows? And, even if he did, what then did he want?

Ylva—the answer was clear as moonlight. He wanted his daughter safe and happy. He wanted the closeness they'd had when she was a cub. What need did he have for a kingdom? What good were a thousand subjects?

He just wanted his child back.

He turned to the Fated Ones—and saw them for what they were—his love rotted, the good he'd tried to do turned sour and evil. Desperately, he asked, "What do you want?"

The Fated Ones leered.

"We want you to make a decision," said the Broad One.

"The right decision," said the Small One.

"I don't know what that is," Greyback admitted. And for once, he didn't sound enraged or terrible. He didn't sound like a king. He was just a man—lost in the dark. He was as broken as Sirius and Remus—as scared as the pack he'd enslaved.

"Well…" The Fated Ones moved in, preparing for the attack. "What will happen if you don't let them leave?"

Greyback could see it clearly. He'd ruled these two decades in fear—breaking his subjects to rob them of power—making them feel small to make himself big. But times had changed. Sirius had woken the pack, and there was no going back now.

"Riots. Rebellion," Greyback said. After all, the Fated Ones had lost their power to enchant. Now that everybody saw them for what they were, what power could they hold? Greyback couldn't subdue his people on his own—he needed the Fated One's magic to stop a riot. Without it…

Nobody would be safe. The wolves wouldn't stand for it, if Greyback didn't let the boys go. And if they rioted, what then? Greyback was strong—but there were hundreds of people he'd turned. Alone, he wouldn't be able to defend himself. He wouldn't be able to protect Ylva.

"They'd make martyrs out of those boys," said the Broad One.

"They're more powerful dead than alive," said the Tall One.

"You can't keep them here."

And Greyback saw that it was true.

"But what will happen," the Small One continued, relentless, "if you let them go?"

It wasn't hard to imagine. He'd be seen as spineless, boneless. The reign he'd spent so long building would crumble in his hands. The pack would see just how little power he had. They would turn away from him. And a king who let anyone leave was no king at all.

Greyback growled with frustration.

He hated being backed into a corner. Being made to feel weak. How could he get out of this?

He had told that boy the consequence of losing the fight—and hadn't the boy lost? And hadn't he, Greyback, won?

Sirius Black was moments from death when he had turned the tables on him. He'd changed the game. And that was not their bargain. That was not the same thing as winning.

He could kill the boy—and his lover for good measure—put the whole sad story behind him.

But Ylva would never speak to him again. The pack would never stand for it. He would lose his child and his kingdom in one fell swoop.

And it was all those boys' fault.

"What are you going to do?" whispered the Fated Ones.

"Imposter king."

"Weak and vulnerable."

"Nobody wants a king who can't protect them."

"Nobody wants a king who lets his children die."

"ENOUGH!" Greyback spun at them—and his face was terrible—his eyes burning white hot with clarity. He stalked forward—hoping to intimidate the Fated Ones—these devils of his own mind. But they wouldn't back down.

The Small One stared right up at him, her smug expression grating and deeply familiar. The Tall One had her arms crossed, her lips drawn tight into a frown. The Broad One jutted her chin out, defiant, angry.

They were just like his boys. They had been impossible, a handful. Always breaking rules, always pushing against him. They were just like wolves should be. He had loved them. And he had lost them.

And then he had created these phantoms in their image.

Greyback stared at the Fated Ones and forced himself to see them for what they truly were. His own cruelty—his own fear—his own broken heart made flesh. He had lost his three sons—his beloved, beautiful sons—and he had made these monsters in their place.

But his sons were better than this.

Ylva was better than this.

The only person as terrible as the Fated Ones was himself.

And then Greyback spoke, his voice soft and steady. "You have no power over me."

"Oh really?" asked the Small One. "But you can't hurt us."

"You can't touch us."

"You can't fight us off."

"No," Greyback agreed. "I cannot. But I can stop believing in you."

And he stepped away from them—and for once, he did not try to make himself look strong or terrible. For once, he had nothing to prove. "I made you out of grief—I made you so I wouldn't have to feel. So nobody would have to feel."

Greyback swung open his liquor cabinet, stuffed with Ylva's vodka and pilfered whiskey. "But that is not what I want anymore."

The bottles clattered as he pulled them out, one after another. There were so many of them, all lined up like shining grenades. There was so much that Ylva had been hiding.

"What are you doing?" the Small One asked, fear crossing her face for the first time.

"I'm making a decision. The right decision."

Greyback opened bottle after bottle. The sharp smell of ethanol filled the kitchen, sticky and sterile. "I am going to feel the pain I've been running from. Ylva is going to feel it too. We are going to grieve and mourn and feel it all."

And, one by one, Greyback poured every bottle down the drain. "I will never listen to you again. Do you hear me?"

And, in a flash, rage coursed threw him. The Fated Ones had ruined his life, had ruined his child. They had made Ylva turn to alcohol instead of him, shut off and alone, drinking herself into a stupor every night.

It was their fault.

It was his fault.

Greyback roared and threw one of empty bottles across the kitchen. It smashed into the wall. "You are not welcome in the Underworld," he snarled. "You are banished." He threw another bottle. And the glass shattered in an explosion of noise. "Now get out."

And—gradually—almost imperceptibly—the Fated Ones faded. Their terrible leers fixed on their faces, they grew thin, evanescent—and eventually, after a long while—they disappeared.

Greyback stood, staring at the place where they had just been. He panted as the adrenaline faded from his limbs. The empty bottles rolled on the counter around him.

I thought he would go back out to join his people, but after a long moment, he turned back to the kitchen instead. To the pile of empty liquor bottles and shattered glass. Then, he called out, "Regulus Black, I know you are watching this."

Sheepishly, I appeared from where I had been hiding.

Greyback couldn't meet my eye. "You think they're gone for good?"

"I… don't know," I said. "They fed on the despair of this world for a long time. If someone still believes them—maybe a thread of their cruelty will remain. Maybe it will tether them here."

Greyback looked at me and held my gaze, steady. "I will never believe them again," he said.

"No." That much was clear. "And because of that, they'll never be as strong. But maybe they'll still be a whisper in someone's ear, a shard of ice in their heart. It will take a long time for their terror to be forgotten."

Greyback didn't respond. I was too afraid to speak. I wanted to petition for Sirius and Remus's freedom—but I was afraid that if I pushed too hard, he would only push back.

Greyback ran a tired hand over his face, and vanished all the empty liquor bottles, all the broken glass.

Finally, after a long silence, he said, "Here is my plan for your brother. That's why you were here, no?"

"Yes." There was no point in lying.

"They can go," Greyback said—then paused. And I knew in the deadliness of that pause that something more was coming—something terrible and powerful. "I will let them leave—but only under one condition."

Then Greyback told me the rest of his plan—and my heart swelled with hope and despair at the trial these boys had to endure.

"So," Greyback said one he was done, peering at me with a sharp eye. "Do you think they can do it?"

And I could only be honest. Fear struck me, doubt filled me all the way up. But I knew Sirius was strong, that he carried a torch of faith against the darkness. I looked at the king in his desperate, broken hope, and said, "I don't know."