Page 40 of Wolf's Return
Constance placed her hands over the bowl, closed her eyes, took a deep breath in, then released it on a long, steady sigh. She centered herself, a sense of calm washing over her, the words of the spell rising within her mind. Words of healing, release and renewal.
Constance focused her intent on the bowl of ingredients.
“Pain and sorrow, guilt and shame.
Lay at the feet of him to blame
Release from heavy mind and heart
Anger and vengeance doth both depart
Set free that which keeps him bound
So peace and healing can be found.”
When she opened her eyes, D’Artagnon had not moved. Good. It was a beginning. She used her knife to cut a square of cloth from a fresh linen, bound the herbs in a bundle then reached up and shoved it in amongst the thatching above the door. He made no move to stop her.
Constance wiped the bowl clean and began preparing the other herbs—tearing apart the leaves and cutting the root and pine needles into small pieces. She paused. “It is not as though the church does not have good cause to distrust us, unfortunately. Not all of us use our skills, our power for good. Cordelia, the witch from your village, for one.”
She resumed her chopping, then scraped up the pieces and dropped them into the bowl. She cut another slice in her finger, squeezed a few drops of blood over them, and stirred thecontents of the bowl, coating them. “It is witches like her who deserve to be hunted down by the church.”
An icy shiver ran up her spine, and she stumbled against the table as a vision hit her. One of her hands bound before her, begging, pleading. Of a man in black robes with a young, almost angelic face standing over her, a fervor in his eyes.
For a moment, Constance was there, trapped in the body of her future self. Her fear, her certainty she was going to die as real as the small cottage she stood in. She clutched at her chest and slumped onto the seat. The tickle of coarse hair beneath her palm snapped her from her vision, bringing her back to the present. Monsieur D’Artagnon had leaped over the table and pushed his muzzle into her hand.
Her breathing shallow, she ran her fingers through the wolf’s ruff, seeking comfort. That he should offer it to her warmed her heart and eased some of her fear. Constance had no sense of how this would come to pass but, if her vision were to be believed, soon she would become the prisoner of a priest.
D’Artagnon stared at a pale-faced Constance, her eyes bright with unshed tears. What was happening? Was it a vision? When she had sucked in her breath and slumped to the seat, her eyes glazing over, he was on the table, nudging his head beneath her palm, comforting her without giving his actions a single thought. His entire body and soul, wolf and man, cared only that she was in pain. Something in her vision had caused this pain, and he could not resist his need to console her. He fought his urge to rend and tear apart that which would provoke the emotions rolling off her, clogging up the air in the little cottage. He could barely breathe with it.
She took a shaky breath and brushed away her tears. “More blood,” she muttered, taking up her knife, slicing it across her palm this time.
The coppery scent flooded the cottage, and a growl rumbled in his chest. He did not like it when she cut herself so. She ignored him, squeezing her hand into a fist, letting the blood drip into the bowl. With her uninjured hand, she pulled her grimoire closer and frantically searched through the pages before settling on one.
The flowing script of their amulets mocked him. A ward of some kind. Until he unlocked the secret of the language, he could only presume.
Constance read through it several times, then grabbed the flint, striking it. She blew on the little sparks it created, coaxing a flame in the herbs. A swirl of pungent smoke curled in the air, and she gathered up the bowl and raced from the cottage. D’Artagnon leaped from the table and followed her, skidding to a halt in the doorway. Constance had set aside the bowl and was shucking her boots.
What is she doing?
She tore at the laces of her dress, wrenched it off and cast it aside. Her underdress followed. “For the spell to be more effective, to be the strongest it can be, I must have a connection with the earth.” She wiggled her bare toes. “I must be at one with my surroundings. Nothing should stand between my body and the elements.” With her back to him and a nervous shake of her hands, she slipped out of her chemise.
Merde.Constance was…naked.Again. Twice in one day was beyond his forbearance. For a moment, staring at her bare body—the gentle flare of her hips, her smooth skin, the dimples on either side of her spine, the soft curves of her cheeks—D’Artagnon forgot how to breathe.
With impatient fingers, she unpinned her braids, shaking out her hair so it flowed over her shoulders and down her back, glinting in the sun like a river of pale gold.
Beautiful.
He wanted to reach for her. Put his hands on her like he had last eve. Press his lips to her bare shoulder, run his nose along the curve of her throat. Hold her body flush to his and rub his scent all over so all would know she was—
He shook his head and focused on the grass beneath his paws.
“I need to set the ward.Pleasedo not cross the circle until I have completed it.”
She spoke with purpose, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her. It called to him, wrapped its fingers around his heart. The muscles in his shoulders bunched in his effort to stay where he was, to remain wolf. Her soft footfalls moved away. She paused, and he glanced up.
Facing due north, her back to him, she offered her bowl to the sky. She invoked the earth, whispering her incantation, before circling the cottage until she faced east. Here she called upon the wind. Words of protection, of warding. She continued her circle, disappearing out of sight, and he tracked her with his ears. She paused twice more—to the south and to the west. He did as she had asked, and did not move.
Constance completed her circle and stood staring out at the forest. “This is a strong ward, but, as with any ward, I will need to replenish it every day. The more layers it has, the stronger it will be.”
