Page 66 of Kingdoms of Night

Among the hum of insects, the chits and tinks of great mésanges echoed, not unlike a squeaky wheelbarrow. As he proceeded, the calls multiplied, boldly proclaiming he was in their territory. He’d only been away a few months, if that, and how quickly they’d forgotten him. His feet still knew this path, down among the denser ferns toward a clearing where deer sometimes grazed, and a cave that his folk called the Devil’s Cellar.

If they were lucky, Annette had run off to see the deer. If they weren’t, then the dusk was a bigger problem than he’d thought.

“Does she explore like this a lot?” Brennan asked, matching his pace.

Explore. That was putting it mildly. A strange lord had shown up with a coach and a sword. Annette had done what her mother, his sister Anouk, had taught her to do—run and hide. Brennan seemed to be of some use to his sister, but to the common working folk of this village, a lord never brought good tidings. Annette knew that as well as anyone, even at her age. Justsomepeople, once they left the village, seemed to forget the wisdom of survival.

It was clear what his sister Danielle—or Liliane, whatever she called herself these days—thought she saw in this arrogant lord. Just over six feet tall and well muscled, he and Brennan more or less shared a similar height and build, but that was where their similarities ended. Beyond the basics, they couldn’t be more different.

This lord had a brutally handsome face women’s eyes gravitated to and a set of gleaming hazel eyes they’d find themselves eager to obey. And the smug bastard loved the attention. Sure, it likely meant a more frequent roll in the hay—or was it silk?—but otherwise, it was better to remain unseen. Not for the sake of stealthy goals, but in his own experience, when people noticed him, things tended to go wrong. Besides, he didn’t need unwanted questions or new friends. It was better for everyone involved if he didn’t look a woman—or anyone—in the eye any longer than was necessary.

Of course, this lord probably dealt with a lot more looking than most people. With dark close-cropped hair and deep bronze skin, he no doubt had some ancestors from the southern continent in his Emaurrian bloodline, as nobles and royals did. They had the coin to travel where and when they pleased, and when it came to marriages, the betrothed’s nationality didn’t really matter, as long as they had ample coin and property.

Meanwhile, if anyone here in Guillory ever met a foreigner, they’d sooner believe it to be witchcraft than reality. Lords weren’t all that different, although rather than being the work of witchcraft, they were more like a curse.

Circle back to that brutally handsome part,Brennan spoke into his mind, a smug grin playing about his mouth.

Damned werewolf pack tricks.

“Stay out of my head,” he hissed, speeding down a hill, wending among the beeches and crisp deadfall toward the clearing. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Annette! It’s time to come home,mon chou,” he called out. Her scent was getting stronger—she must’ve come this way.

“I know you’re worried about controlling your Change,” Brennan persisted, keeping up.

He grunted. “You don’t know me.”

“I know your sister, and I’d like to get to know you. If you’re struggling, you need a pack.”

Laughable. He already had a family, and it was bad enough that he had been bitten last year and become a risk; he wasn’t about to bring an entire pack of wolves into their lives and multiply that risk twentyfold or more. Once he picked up Annette and went home, he’d tell Danielle in no uncertain terms to take her lordly werewolf employer and get out. The last thing Annette and her mother needed was more werewolves showing up here.

He didn’t need anyone, not this lord, and not his pack.

“I know you must not hear this often”—he eyed the smug lord—“but the answer is no.”

Brennan heaved a lengthy sigh. “As they say, you can lead a wolf to a pack, but you can’t make it join.”

No one said that. Ever. He grimaced.

Down in the clearing, he inhaled deeply, taking in the musty moss and foliage, the crisp autumn air, the drying grass and withering carline thistle, black bryony, and pink mallow flowers, Annette’s scent among them, and… the musk of a predator. A lynx.

He froze, a tremor weaving through him. His wolf brushed up against his control, but he fought the thrill of the hunt, fighting to suppress it, until the urge abated.

“Annette!” he called again, more desperately. “This isn’t funny. Come out now!”

He took in the scent, rubbing the back of his neck. She was fine. She had to be.

“There’s something there,” Brennan said, narrowing his eyes at the copse across the clearing.

There, among the autumn undergrowth, lay a shock of red.

He sucked in a breath, fighting his racing heart, and ran. The wind shuddered through the distorted canopy, trapping the fading light and leaving behind shadows that lapped at the forest floor. Caught among the briars was a long, red scarf. It was Anouk’s scarf, oversized even for her, but Annette loved playing with it. She must’ve taken it with her.

He snatched it up, bringing it to his nose. Closing his eyes, he ignored the noises of the woods and the lord’s talk beside him. Anouk’s scent dominated, but Annette’s was strong, too. No blood. At least she wasn’t injured, as far as he could tell. He lowered the scarf, balling up its length in his fist, or trying to. Exasperated, he finally threw it around his neck.

The deadfall littered the forest floor, but its damp mass left recognizable tracks. He crouched, eyeing its chaos. Just ahead, little boot prints pressed into the leaves and the spongy moss. He followed the trail, leading down toward the Devil’s Cellar.

Off to the side, Brennan beckoned him over.

He approached, following Brennan’s eye line to the mud. A paw print, round but asymmetrical, with small round toe pads, not unlike elongated fingertips. The lynx’s musk lingered in the air, but this paw print was fresh.

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