Page 31 of Wolf's Keep

Oh, for crying out loud. You’re an archaeologist in a tenth-century keep, not some hapless teenager in a B-grade horror movie.

She pushed the door open. The candle thrust out, its meager light creating disconcerting shadows, she crossed the threshold. She swung the candle from one darkened corner to another, forcing light into every inch of darkness. Empty but for a few pieces of furniture. She let out a pent-up breath. Too little light, an atmospheric building and way too many spooky movies had her expecting…what…a monster? She laughed, the sound echoing off the walls, sending chills up her spine.

She swung the candle around again. A simple table, a chair and a single cot bed with a few blankets. And no windows. She moved closer, inspecting the cot, examining the thick leather straps attached to the frame. Straps to bind someone. A tower prison. History told many tales of people being confined in towers—family members gone mad, wives who’d been unfaithful and two young princes in the fifteen hundreds never seen again. Who’d Gaharet confined in here? And how long ago? To thinkshecould’ve ended up in here. She shivered. A timely reminder not to get too comfortable, not to underestimate Gaharet. Nor let him lull her with any generosity he might show her.

She fingered the leather straps. The buckles remained fastened. Something had snapped them in two. That would require an awful lot of strength. She thought back to the shackles in the underground cell, the iron chain broken. What did it all mean?

Dropping the straps, she turned to leave, pulling up short as something else caught her eye. There were iron bolts on theinsideof the door and on the outside. Why? Erin pushed the door closed to have a better look. Yes, two heavy bolts, the same as those on the outside. What on earth for? Locks on the inside were to keep people out, not in. If the room was used to confine someone, why give them bolts on the inside? It made no sense. She’d never seen anything like it.

Leaning forward, she held the candle closer to the door. Claw marks. Deep gouges in the timber. Reaching out, she slid her fingers down the grooves. What had driven someone to do this? Fear, madness, hunger? Trying to claw their way out? Had someone bolted the door from the outside?

She doubted Gaharet had this room in mind when he’d urged her to look around. Or maybe he did. Maybe he wanted her to see what fate awaited her if she crossed him. Gaharet d’Louncrais was likely no less barbaric than any other lord in the tenth century. She’d do well to keep that in mind.

Stepping back, knees a little less steady, she exited the room without a backward glance, seeking refuge in the armory, the simplicity of its instruments of death far more preferable than the grim confusion of the room next door.

Chapter Thirteen

Gaharet tossed the scroll on the table. He had found no new information in that one either. Ensconced in the library, a cozy room he usually found soothing, today it only added to his frustrations. Books, scrolls, tomes on every topic he could think of, yet nothing of what he looked for, what he needed to find. This task he had set himself a far more difficult exercise than he had anticipated. How many months had he been at it? Too many, and the answers to his questions still eluded him.

Last night, Erin had rightly questioned his lack of knowledge regarding the amulet. Not knowing anything of its origins had proven a mistake. Until recently, he never had cause to question it, but their complacency regarding their lore was inexcusable and something he planned to rectify. Now they were under threat, their numbers dwindling, they needed all the knowledge they could get.

It had occurred to him, late one night, that those who had created the amulet, had imbued it with its power, may very well be able to assist them now. If only he knew who they were. After months of searching, he was still no closer to knowing.

He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his face with his hands. This morning, his task proved more challenging than usual, his attention distracted by thoughts of Erin. The determined way she thrust out her chin when evading his questions. How her green eyes sparkled when she laughed. The two little lines that appeared between her eyebrows when his answers did not please her. The way she chewed on her bottom lip when she was unsure of herself. He leaned his elbows on the desk, his chin on his hands. It all played havoc with his concentration. That and knowing he most likely had only weeks to live.

Not if I can prevent it.

His first inclination upon waking was to seek Erin out and continue their conversation—to elicit more information about his death, about this excavation site of hers, about the location of the amulet she had found—but after such a restless night, he needed time to cool his own ardor. So he had kept to his routine of spending the morning in the library researching the pack origins, the amulet, their history, leaving her to her own devices. Anne would see to it she did not remain in her bedchamber all day.

He eyed the two piles of books and scrolls before him. One stack he had already skimmed through and found nothing of use. The other he had yet to start on. He scowled at the second, larger pile, forcing himself to pick up a smooth, leather-bound book. Stained and marked with age, its pages worn, its cover stamped with the d’Louncrais wax seal. A journal. This one showed some promise. Obscured beneath a stack of scrolls at the bottom of a chest, he had come across it this morning. Could it hold the information he searched for? He opened it to the first page, the date in the top right-hand corner—December 565. The name: Robert d’Louncrais.

Writing flowed across the page. Latin. So his forebears were of the nobility even back then. He read the first line.

I hereby commit thine thoughts to page to guide thy progeny with wisdom and true knowledge, for we are cast divergent from mortal men, and so our paths shall always differ.

Finally.Some mention of his kind. He flicked through the journal. Page after page of daily entries, a chronicle of Robert’s life, his sons, their sons, generation after generation. He found the last entry, recognizing his father’s bold, concise writing. His father had known of this journal? He checked the date.

The twentieth day of the month of October, year 988.

Barely one week before his father had died.

Gaharet skimmed the page, searching for a hint of despair his father must have been feeling, his overwhelming grief at the loss of his wife, his mate. Nothing else could explain his lackluster form during the battle that had cost him his life the following week. He found hints of sorrow when he made mention of Gaharet and D’Artagnon, but nothing more. Mostly his father detailed issues cropping up on the estate, issues amongst the pack.

Gaharet turned back a few more pages and found the same. He went further back looking for the day his mother had died, but he couldn’t find an entry for that day, nor the next month. Then the entries started again.

He read through a few of the pages, skipping ahead. He could see changes over the months, less bitter ramblings of love lost and more day-to-day business. Yes, his father had been grieving, but if this journal revealed anything, by the last entry Jacques had begun the slow process of healing. What the hell had happened during that battle?

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Enter.”

Anne poked her head around the door. “Shall I bring your meal to you here, Gaharet?”

“Where is Erin? Has she eaten?”

“She ate in the kitchen with me earlier. She is in the hall now, admiring the wall hangings.” Anne chuckled. “Curious one, that one. Asking all sorts of questions about the keep.”

Gaharet nodded at Anne. “Good. I will eat in the hall presently.”

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