Page 63 of Wolf's Return
The circle of villagers thrust their tools at him, stepping forward and tightening their ring around him. He snarled, raised his sword and sliced his hand. Once again, he chanted the spell. The angry voices of the villagers faded as pain pierced him,as the cosmos push-pulled him once more, and it damn well better take him exactly where he wanted, or Cordelia would feel his wrath.
* * * *
Didier pressed himself against the wall of the blacksmith’s hut, peering around the corner at the confused villagers. It was not every day a man disappeared in front of your eyes. It was no surprise to Didier. He had witnessed such things many times. His mother did it all the time. The spell Lance had used came from her.
He glanced up at the d’Louncrais keep. That was where Lance would have gone—the chevalier’s hatred of the d’Louncrais matched only by Didier’s mother’s.
It did not take long for the villagers to come to the same conclusion. Armed with farming implements, they stormed up the road to the keep gate. Drawing the hood of his cape over his head, Didier followed them. He had a mind to get a closer look at the woman who he had spied going to the farmer’s cottage. She had returned that morn, in the company of the white-haired chevalier. No sign of the black wolf. There was something about her. She reminded him of someone. Someone he used to know.
When the guards raised the portcullis to let the villagers in, Didier slipped through the gates along with them.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Constance paced in front of the fire. She was too full of nerves to sit. The fluttering in her stomach at the thought of D’Artagnon returning to claim her as his mate had long since been replaced by concern for his safety. It seemed an age since the men had left for Langeais, but in reality, it was not that long. Too soon for cause for concern. So Anne said. Itwasa half day’s ride to Langeais, and back again.
She twirled on her heel and did another lap in front of the fire. At the table, Erin sat hunched over the journal. Now and then she would read something out loud to them—memories of the past, anecdotes she found interesting. Constance could not remember a single one of them.
Kathryn, sword in hand, lunged, stabbed and feinted, practicing the moves Aimon had taught her. She was getting good at it. To Constance, it looked exhausting, but… Maybe, if D’Artagnon did not claim her, did not make her one of them, she could prevail on Kathryn to teach her. Such a skill would be helpful if she ever had to face that priest.
Bek lay on the table—on the table—unconcerned at the impropriety of such a thing, staring up at the ceiling. She tossed a rectangular object, cracked on one side and shiny green on the other, into the air and catching it again. Repeating the process over and over. A phone, she had called it. What its purpose was, Constance had no idea. Erin had nodded sagely.
Bek caught thephoneand rolled over onto her stomach. “Constance, I don’t suppose you have anything in your grimoire that could help make tattoos stick?”
Bek’s grasp of the language had improved much in the few days she had been at the farmer’s cottage. Werewolf blood truly was a marvel.
Kathryn paused, lowering her sword arm. “What is a tat too?”
“You would call it stigmata,” said Erin, looking up from the journal as Anne entered the room with a fresh jug of wine. “Bek had lots of them, all over her arms, her shoulders, some on her back. They disappeared during her turning. Werewolf blood heals almost everything, including the things we inflict on ourselves.”
Bek scowled. “Ilikedmy tattoos. I paid a lot of money for them. You know”—she slid off the table, resting her hip against its edge—“I once read a shifter romance where they laced the ink with small amounts of silver. I wonder if that would work?”
“Nope.” Erin shook her head. “Silver is one of our weaknesses. It burns. Adding it to your ink and sticking it into your skin permanently would give a whole new meaning to the pain of getting a tattoo.”
Bek’s shoulders slumped. “I forgot about that.”
Anne filled the goblets on the table. “You lasses should think about getting some rest. The men might not return until the morrow.”
Kathryn screwed up her face in a frown. “What is a shifter roma—”
A loud thud had them turning around. Kathryn raised her sword, Erin got up from the table with a scrape of her chair and Bek straightened.
“Constance.” Erin’s voice had an edge to it. “Come here. Get behind us. Now.”
Constance backed away from the man on the floor. The one who had appeared out of nowhere. He rose to his feet, and the three women, the three she-wolves, closed ranks in front of her.
Anne lumbered forward, hand on her hip and wagged her stubby finger up at him. “Begone, Lance Vautour, you traitorous wretch.”
Lance? The traitor? Constance peered between the women. If he was here, then where were the men? Where was D’Artagnon? And how did he get here? Lance’s hand dripped blood. Was it—? No. The slash on his palm—she had seen that before. Many times. On her own palm.Oh, dear.Lance Vautour had found a witch to aid him. That did not bode well for the wolves of Langeais. For D’Artagnon.
“You have taken enough from this pack, and I will not let you take anymore.” Anne lunged forward, faster than Constance thought the old woman capable of, and slapped Lance hard across his cheek.
His face twisted in a furious snarl. “No.” He struck out, knocking Anne to the floor.
Horrified gasps from Erin and Kathryn, a growl from Bek. Constance covered her mouth to silence her scream.
Lance stood over Anne. “When I claim this pack, this keep and all that belongs to the d’Louncrais, no longer will your lack of respect for your betters be tolerated,peasant.” He kneeled over her and wrapped his hand around her throat. “You will learn your place, if I have to beat it into you.”
“Stop!” A defiant Kathryn thrust her sword at him. “Let her go.”
