Page 45 of Wolf's Return
D’Artagnon leaned forward, an eagerness, a hunger in his eyes.
She smoothed out the page. “There lived in the small village of Louncrais, a stable master by the name of Alexandre.” Constance skimmed her fingers beneath the lines of script, translating as she read. “Alexandre was a kindly man, a good neighbor, loved by all in his village, a hard worker and an exceptional trainer of horses. It was said he could take the most difficult and wildest of horses and tame them to be ridden, to be obedient and gentle.”
Constance paused. To this day, the d’Louncrais were renowned horse trainers. They had to be. A chevalier without a horse was nothing more than a foot soldier. And a horse not trained by the d’Louncrais would be of no use to a werewolf.
D’Artagnon grunted, taking a sip of his mead.
“Over the years, Alexandre’s reputation with horses spread across the land, and he gained much recognition. He was but a humble man, and though he took great pride in his work, his newfound acclaim did not change him. Only the horses mattered.”
As when she was a child reading this story, Constance pictured the crude little village with its simple mud huts, the stables, the wild horses, and the man they would come to call the Black Wolf.
“He was a handsome man, with dark hair, dark eyes and a strong nose, and he set many a young woman’s heart aflutter. None caught his eye, so dedicated was he to his horses and his work. Until one day, a Vicomte came to see him about a horse. With the Vicomte came Genevieve, a daughter of uncommon beauty and willful nature. So wild and stubborn was she, refusing to behave as a woman of her station should, the Vicomte despaired of finding her a suitable husband.”
It was not lost on Constance that the mates of Seigneurs Gaharet and Ulrik and Monsieur Aimon shared similar traits to Genevieve. Was it naïve of her to presume she would be a suitable match for any Langeais wolf, and a Black Wolf, no less? A direct descendant of the first Black Wolf?
“Intrigued by Genevieve, Alexandre admired the untamed quality of her character. Surprised Alexandre enjoyed her company, Genevieve challenged him with wilder, more willful behavior. It only made him want her more, and the two soon fell in love.”
It was easy to see now how, as a child, Constance had been so enraptured with this story. How it could have fueled her fantasies. A woman who did not fit with society’s expectations, a woman shunned by men and despairing of finding a match that was accepting of who she was, was something young Constance had felt in the depths of her soul. As though the story could be her own. But Constance was neither wild nor willful. Nor didshe have one ounce of noble blood. That had not stopped her from dreaming of being plucked from her humble existence by a dashing black wolf. Neither did it dim the longing now.
“The Vicomte was upset his daughter wished to marry a commoner, but such was his desperation to see her married, he prevailed upon the King to grant Alexandre a title so Genevieve could marry a man equal to her station. Because of Alexandre’s reputation, the King agreed. On one condition. Alexandre must commit to training all the King’s horses. Alexandre accepted, and a wedding was planned.”
Constance turned the page, flicking a glance in D’Artagnon’s direction. His elbows on the table, his chin resting on his hands, he stared into his mug of mead. If learning his family descended not from nobility but from a hardworking stable master surprised him, he did not show it.
“Not everybody in the village rejoiced at the good fortune of Alexandre. There was a woman, a fair beauty despite…”
The words clogged in Constance’s throat, and she dragged a trembling finger back across the page. There was no mistaking the translation. How had she missed it? How many times had she read this, recounting the origins of the Langeais wolves, and yet…never connected…?
Long before she had learned the secret language, her mother would read her this story. Over and over again, with the book on her lap, Constance snuggled into her side as the fire crackled and the wind whispered through the gaps in their straw roof. Even as she read it now, her mother’s sing-song voice as she recounted the tale echoed in her mind. Could her mother have omitted these few words deliberately? Fearing Constance might identify with this woman? Think herself doomed?
That did not explain how she herself had not noticed this. Had she recited it more from memory than translated it word for word? Saw only what she wanted to see?
D’Artagnon shifted in his seat. “Constance?”
“I… My apologies.” Constance cleared her throat, though it did little to ease the tightness lodged there. “There was a woman, a fair beauty despite”—she glanced up, gauging his reaction—“having eyes of two different colors, and she had set her heart on Alexandre.”
An uncanny stillness settled over D’Artagnon, and those dark shadows danced in his eye. His wolf hovered close. The inked characters swirled on the page, and Constance blinked them straight. What other secrets would this story reveal?
She dragged in a fortifying breath. “The villagers had warned Alexandre about this woman. That despite her knowledge of herbs, she used her skills more oft to harm than heal. An evil witch. All those who crossed her had befallen serious misfortune, but Alexandre scoffed at their superstitions and would hear naught said against—”
Always before, there had been a smudge of symbols. Through age, or a deliberate scrubbing out of the name, Constance had never been certain. Names held power. But a spot of mead had splashed on the edge of the page. With careful fingers she blotted at it, the mead stinging one of the small cuts from her ward preparation. With each press, the symbols untangled and became clearer, revealing the word they concealed.
Constance gasped and stared at the name on the page.
D’Artagnon leaned forward and placed his hand over hers, startling her. His head cocked, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.
“I…” Constance leaned away from her grimoire, but she did not pull her hand free from D’Artagnon’s warm grasp. What did this mean? This could not possibly be a coincidence.
D’Artagnon’s squeeze of her hand, more insistent this time.
Constance reread the name. There in ink, bold and unmistakable.
Constance placed her hand on her brow. “I do not know how this happened. I have never been able to read this word before.” She stared at her cut finger. “It must have something to do with my blood, because the name is now clear, and… The woman responsible for creating the first werewolf, your ancestor, was a woman by the name of…” She met his gaze. “Cordoylla.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cordoylla. Were he in wolf form, his hackles would have risen. Cordelia. Cordoylla. Too similar to be a coincidence. Three women across time. Two with the same defining characteristic of two different colored eyes. And perhaps the third, too, though his ancestor had made no mention of it. All three connected to the d’Louncrais—and not in a good way.
His gaze dropped to Constance’s hand, still in his. He had not questioned his instinct to reach for it. Nor his need to keep hold of it, the rightness of it—her small hand in his much larger one. She made no effort to pull away. Nay, she held tighter, as though she fearedhewould pull away. He gave her another gentle squeeze, urging her to continue with the story.
