Page 75 of Wolf's Return
No matter the risk of a turning, he must become a werewolf. If he did not, his days were surely numbered.
Epilogue
A sennight later
D’Artagnon lounged in the grass with his brother, Ulrik, Aimon and Farren, watching the women splash their bare feet in the cool waters of the pond. The leaves in the trees had started to turn. Soon autumn would be full upon them, winter following on its heels. Constance, still recovering from her turning, laughed at something Erin said, and he smiled. He had never known such contentment, living in the quiet of the forest, his beautiful mate tucked beside him—or under him—each night.
Not far from them sat Anne, grief etched in the lines on her face and the puffiness of her eyes, but she was not alone. His mentor and friend, Vladimir, sat by her side, letting her stroke his fur. Why his friend chose to remain wolf, he was not sure, but he suspected it had something to do with Anne.
D’Artagnon did not voice his suspicions about the two of them, not even to Constance, but the gentle smile on her face when the old wolf refused to leave Anne’s side told him she already knew. Anne’s life had not been easy. She deserved happiness, too, and Vladimir was a good male. The Langeais wolves’ connection with the Rus pack was about to get stronger. Especially with Ulrik planning a trip to see his family in the spring.
Of Lance, there had been no sign. Old Tumas had landed a grievous wound on him with his pitchfork. It would take timefor him to recover, and Lance was not foolish enough to risk a confrontation with them at less than his full strength.
Faucher had made no mention of the missing women. At least, not to Lothair, but he had continued to ask too many questions about the Langeais wolves. Lothair had spies in the chapel monitoring him.
Still, worrying thoughts niggled at him. Things that made little sense. Did they bother his brother, too?
D’Artagnon plucked at a blade of grass, twisting it in his fingers. “How did Lance arrive at the keep so long after he vanished from the pleasure house?”
His brother frowned. “It is a conundrum that I cannot figure out. If the spell he used was similar to the one on the amulets, he should have arrived there mere moments after he vanished. Yet, we rode in from Langeais, a half day’s ride, and he had appeared not long before we had if the villagers spoke true. I have no reason to doubt them.”
Constance, followed by Erin, Bek and Kathryn, joined them, her expression clouded. It was uncanny how, more oft than not, she knew exactly when her counsel was needed.
“Didier,” she sighed, “my father…”
D’Artagnon clenched his fists. He would like to get his hands on Didier for what he had done to Constance, but he had also vanished. His father had made a mistake not killing him. D’Artagnon planned to rectify that as soon as Didier surfaced.
Constance slipped her hand into his, and his anger seeped away.
“My father,” she addressed Gaharet, “mentioned mygrand-mére, the witch Cordelia. The one yourgrand-pérebanished. I believe it is her spell Seigneur Lance used.”
D’Artagnon growled. “Do not grant him the respect of a seigneur. He is but Lance. Or Traitor. Nothing more.”
Constance squeezed his hand again. He pulled her down beside him and nuzzled her neck. How he loved his little mate.
Gaharet shook his head. “That is not possible. It cannot be the same Cordelia. Humans, witch or no, do not live that long.”
“My father hinted Cordelia had mastered the ability to travel across time.”
Gaharet frowned. “That still does not explain why Lance arrived at the keep so long after he vanished from Langeais. Why would he delay his arrival? And why would he not, as Erin would say, zap himself right into the keep?”
“Bending the laws of nature is no small thing,” explained Constance. “A spell like that, cast by one person, has its limitations. The one worked into your amulets required the power of my entire coven. Thirteen powerful witches. The weight of a spell like that, performed by one person, could lead to significant distortions. You could not depend upon its accuracy. One could end up anywhere, at any time. It is possible Lance hadplannedto arrive at the keep much, much earlier. He was but one man, and he did not take time to prepare for such a complex spell. Nor does his blood have the power of a witch.”
“What a minute.” Erin plopped herself down on the grass beside Constance. “Are you saying this Cordelia, your grandmother, can zap herself into anywhere on the time continuum?”
Constance shrugged. “It is not beyond the bounds of possibility.”
“Then”—Erin chewed on her bottom lip—“could it be thatallthe women mentioned,allthe Cordelias we have come across, are the same woman?”
D’Artagnon stilled. Could it be? He glanced at his brother. Gaharet was no longer relaxed, his body taut with tension. D’Artagnon had yet to tell him of their origins, of the womannamedCordoylla.The scorned woman to whom they owed their entire existence.
“It could also mean,” said his brother, grimacing, “if what Lance hinted at is true, Godfrey could be anywhere in the past or in the future. We may never find him.”
“We need to put this in your father’s journal, Gaharet,” said Erin. “All of it. This information is too important to be lost again. In the centuries to come, they might need it. We don’t want them to be in the dark like we were.”
Gaharet pulled his wife into his lap. “A good idea, my love. I will attend to it upon our return to the keep.”
“What of Lothair?” D’Artagnon asked his brother. “It surprised me how much he helped us.”
