Page 1 of Angel's Conquest

Chapter 1

An ancient oak’s spindly tree branch snagged against Clara Ander’s fine cloak, nearly choking off her air supply and her hasty retreat. Her preference for keeping the former alive and well was only mildly contingent on the latter succeeding.

If she failed, well . . . it wasn’t something she was willing to contemplate.

She’d learned long ago that Hell wasn’t simply some pit in the ground reserved for those with bad behavior and dark intentions. For Clara, it was a highly personalized and promised experience, complete with custom-measured cells and unbreakable chains, and one that was tipping closer to her defenses with each passing moon.

The cloak pulled harder against her windpipe, and pain lanced across a throat already too tight and dry from her exertions. Before the forest’s darkened terrain swallowed her entirely, she managed to kick her leg out and steady herself against a moss-slicken log.

Maybe she did need a moment of rest. Just one moment, though. A slight nod of relief over not having been taken out before she’d had her first chance at freedom, and by a damned tree at that. Outside of the occasional controlled hunts her father, the king, permitted her to entertain, her wolf’s reflexes had received little use as of late. Thank the Moon Mother they’d not failed her now. She’d take whatever they could offer.

Though the moon was newly high overhead, its crescent sliver was hardly enough to illuminate the slim footpaths winding across the forest floor. Clara had heard tales of passages leading away from the stronghold, ones that led to the human lands, but how the hell did she know she’d taken the right one? Surely, the merchant she’d purchased her hiking boots from hadn’t lied to her, had she?

She isn’t in my father’s employ, not directly. Did I misjudge the old female’s loyalty?

No, best not to think that way. Clara had to be on the right path, especially after the kind of money she’d been forced to pony up. In that line of work, a trade so reliant on favorable word of mouth, giving out poor information was bad for business.

Yes, the female had sent Clara in the right direction.

Shoring up her shaky beliefs, she clasped her cloak tighter around her shoulders and breathed in the forest around her. The slow speed at which she inhaled grated at her wolf. Patience had never been a strong suit for her lycan side, and that was a danger Clara could not afford. Yes, her wolf’s sense of smell was infinitely stronger, as well as the beast’s eyesight, but with Clara’s luck, her wolf would veer her off in the direction of whatever late-spring game hadn’t managed to hole itself up in its den this far into nightfall, and then where would she be?

Not in the direction of the human lands and definitely not in the more urgent direction away from the stronghold.

It was a risk she couldn’t take, and the inward growls that answered made her wolf’s stance perfectly known.

Great. Another thing to feel guilty about.

Putting her wolf from her mind, Clara again inhaled, this time drawing in the furtive aromas of a wood that had been just as much a garden to her as it had been a guardhouse.

Damp earth. Piquant bulbs to ward off predators. Moldy leaves, rotting bark, crisp water . . . Her eyes flew open.

“Water! Yes!” Clara bolted in the direction of the soft babbling stream, which the merchant had assured her would lead Clara safely out of lycan territory and into the human lands.

Humans.

For a race of creatures so foreign to her own, they’d certainly taken up more of her thoughts over the past several weeks than anything else. Even as she urged her exhausted body over gnarled tree roots and trained all her senses on the tinkling murmurs of the water ahead, her wolf again voiced her concern at what Clara was rushing them toward.

With each clumsy step she took away from her father’s stronghold, a different weight settled within her bones, one of urgency and desperation that cocooned the one emotion she and her wolf could agree upon: hope. Clara clung to the stuff like the vital resource it was. All good things dried up eventually: wells, fossil fuels, love. Not hope. Clara would roll over and offer her wolf’s belly to the earliest awaiting fangs before she’d accept that.

As if summoning the precious stuff, Clara reached beneath her leather-lined wool mantle and clasped the moonstone relic dangling from her neck. The smooth surface cooled her clammy skin where the curve of it nestled against her palm, anchoring her to the unknown path before her. When she’d taken it from the royal coffers after offering to see it safely stowed there, she had been surprised at how light it was. Topping out at no more than six inches in length, the curved fang-like stone had been shockingly easy to steal, especially for one so foreign to the act.

Yet another thought she forced herself to bury beneath her fleeing footsteps.

Please work. Please.

The boots were clunkier than she was used to, but they got the job done, propelling her faster through the woods and over the rocky terrain better acclimated for paws than rubber padding. Beneath the uncomfortably thick soles, soft well-packed earth gave way to thicker copses of overgrowth. Reedy tendril-like branches snagged at her cloak, pinching through the heavy fabric like claws yanking her back home.

“No,” she breathed through heavy lungs, then shook her shoulders free of the constricting vegetation. “Almost there.”

Her wolf whined as Clara pushed her legs harder, higher. They shook with the combined weight of never-been-tested endurance and the crushing load of paranoia. Thighs trembled through the sludge of what she’d left behind and how much time she had before her absence would be noticed.

Reluctantly, she let go of the relic and tucked the thing into her blouse, letting it settle comfortingly between her breasts, rocking against her skin in time with the frantic flutter of her heart. The ancient stone’s steady sway was like a metronome taunting her with its incessant ticking, guiding her down a path that would only reveal itself if every step she took was correct. No lagging behind, no alteration in pace. Just keep moving.

Harder. You’re almost there. You’ve got to be.

As Clara scrambled up a small hill that was only scantily lit by the meager moonlight, her recent machinations played out in her mind like the haunted maneuvers of another, someone more skilled in the arts of evasion. Clara’s studious nature had made it impossible for her not to triple-check everything before she fled, but her solitary circumstances also punctuated the severity of her calculations. Drugging her father’s guards had been surprisingly easy, but the excuses she’d made to the other household staff as to her whereabouts, however, would have no alibi.

If they looked into her story too deeply, asked the wrong person the right question . . .

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