Page 9 of Wolves’ Witch

Chapter Five

Aubert sat at the table in the hall and, with a discipline born of years of training, he focused on the dagger in his hand, not on the doorway. Not on the first step of the stairway leading up to the second floor. Leading to her. The woman in the bedchamber at the top of the stairs. The one whose plight had settled like a stone behind his sternum, haunting his dreams and his every waking hour.

His wolf prowled close to the surface, as it had since the moment he had set eyes on her in her filthy peasant dress, her hair a dark mess of curls around her pallid face and those big, terrified eyes staring up at them as she had huddled in the dark. The urge to rid her of the chains about her wrists and wrap her in his arms had been so strong it had almost felled him like a woodsman would a tree.

As Edmond had carried her from the chapel, weak and wretched, it had taken everything in him not to wrest her from his brother’s arms. L’enfer, with every moan, every whimper, he had wanted to abandon the reins, let the horse run wild and leap into the cart with her. It had a familiarity to it that had unease slithering through his entrails.

Even now, the pull to return to her was strong. He pushed it down, focusing on his task at hand, on the stubborn nick in his dagger and the slide of his whetstone along its edge.

Edmond paced by the fire. Every so often he would glance at the door, take a step toward the stairs, then change his mind. His twin had ordered Marceline to make the woman her priority. To save her. They needed to let her do her job.

Aubert slid the whetstone down his blade. His brother saved things. As a pup, he was forever bringing wounded animals home. A bird with a broken wing, a litter of kittens whose mother had died. He snorted. Kittens in a keep full of werewolves. The wee creatures had been too terrified to eat. A stable hand had taken them home to his wife to care for, resolving the issue. And setting a precedent. One summer, Edmond had spent more time at the stable hand’s hut than he had inside the keep.

As a grown man, Edmond rescued people instead of animals. The old farmer who could no longer tend his fields. Remi, the young thief who had tried to steal his purse. But Aubert had never seen his brother this invested. So apprehensive of the outcome. It unnerved him. As did his own reaction to the woman.

“There is something really wrong with her.” Edmond stared into the flames, his brow creased with concern. “Something deeper. She smells of death.”

Aubert stilled his hand. His brother was right. She was fading. Whatever ailed her, nothing they had done was having an effect.

The wounds on her wrists were healing, though the bruises had yet to fade, and the cut on her palm no longer pulsed an angry red, but her skin was of a sickly pallor and the dark circles under her eyes remained.

“I fear we are not doing enough.” Edmond raked a hand through his hair. “That we may lose her.”

Each day, she ate less, drank less. This morn she had barely stirred. They had tried everything. Marceline had plied her with every herbal remedy she knew of and then some. They had settled her sleep, but still the wrongness of her scent had intensified. What they needed was Constance and her healer’s skills.

It had been impossible to miss the determination in D’Artagnon’s eyes as they had left the chapel. He had no doubt Constance would be in the throes of a turning. She would be of no use to them until it was complete. And it was too soon to take the woman to the d’Louncrais keep and risk the pack’s future—the mates of his fellow wolves and Gaharet’s unborn pup.

There was little they could do but wait. She would either survive or she would not.

That is a lie. There is something we could do.

Aubert tested the edge of his blade, then slid the whetstone along it once more, drowning out the errant thought. “Any news from Remi?”

Edmond frowned at his shift in the conversation. “No. The cook has been sending him food and drink, but so far Remi has not had anything to report.”

Were they wrong? Was the use of Lothair’s seal enough to have given Faucher pause? Aubert had expected…something. A visit from the eveque. Mercenaries infiltrating their forest, waiting for them to emerge. He gripped his dagger hard, letting the handle bite into his palm. In a way, he wished they had. He would like nothing more than to vent his fury at what Faucher had done to the woman in the room at the top of the stairs. On someone.

Edmond tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I would give my canines to know what Faucher is planning.”

So would he. This waiting around for something to happen was testing his patience. He ran the whetstone along his blade for a few more passes. It was not a good place to be. Impatient men made mistakes.

“And to know if Gaharet has tracked Lance.”

Lance. The betrayal was still a raw, seeping wound in their pack. How could one of their own stand by as their pack had fallen? Cut down by his betrayal as surely as they were by swords? Men, women and pups? Betray their secrets and their vulnerabilities? All because of some twisted need for revenge against the d’Louncrais. Anyone, even the blind beggar who sat on the steps of Langeais Keep, could bear witness that Jacques and Elise were true mates. Everyone but Lance.

The bang of the keep door and a flurry of footsteps brought Aubert to his feet.

Remi rushed into the hall, their head steward close behind him. He leaned on the table, out of breath. “They are coming.”

Edmond gripped Remi’s shoulders. “What did you see?”

“There are mounted warriors on their way here,” Remi puffed out between breaths. “A lot. Twice as many as what Comte Lothair would take with him when he leaves the keep.”

“Two score.” Edmond turned to their steward. “We will need our armor. And inform the men. Have them prepare for battle.”

Their steward bowed. “At once, Mon Seigneur.” He scurried away.

“Faucher?” demanded Aubert of Remi.