Page 25 of Wolves’ Witch

Douglas sat on the edge of a stool, not willing to touch anything, least of all the wine. She who?

Didier didn’t elaborate, chugging down his wine like it were water and he a man fresh from the desert and dying of thirst. Douglas would drown himself in drink, too, if he had to live in this shithole. Didier poured another and drank it down as fast as the first one, assessing Douglas over the rim of his mug.

Douglas slid his athame from the waistband of his pants. It was a ceremonial blade, used for spells, but he kept it sharp. It would do in a pinch, should Didier decide to try something. From the gleam in Didier’s eye, it was definitely on the table.

He was about to leave, take his chances on the streets of Langeais, when the door swung open. A woman, elegant and dressed in tenth-century finery, entered the hut. Not beautiful, but handsome, striking and with an aura of command about her. Dressed like that, she’d have to be nobility.

Christ. She’s more out of place here than I am.

She unwrapped her head veil, staring down her nose at him. “Who is this, Didier?”

There was something about her voice that niggled at his brain. Something familiar. And an accent. American? What the actual fuck?

Didier’s hand tightened around his mug, and he glared into his wine. “You tell me, Mother. You are the one who sent him here.”

Mother? The woman couldn’t be older than mid-forties. And Didier was…a cretin, and not young enough to be her son. How could she possibly be his mother?

Then Douglas sensed it. The power emanating from her. A witch. A powerful one. As powerful as… He met her gaze. One green eye, one blue, and recognition slammed into him. It couldn’t be. But the more he studied her face, the more certain he was.

Here, in the flesh, and forty years younger, was Cordelia King.

* * * *

Lance leaned against the wall, keeping to the shadows, the hood of his cloak covering his face and his attention fixed on the door with the broken hinge. Didier’s hut. The wound in his back had yet to fully heal, and pain radiated down his spine with each step, but he could no longer hide away. Gaharet would be coming for him, and he needed to be prepared. He needed to strike first. As luck would have it, he had arrived at the right moment.

She was here. The witch. Dressed in finery far above her station, she had swept across the threshold of the squalid building like a queen. She was powerful, and she was useful to him, but she was no queen. She was nothing but a peasant. Kicked off the d’Louncrais estate by Gaharet’s grand-père.

Anger coiled in his gut, and his wolf pushed forward. Had her spell landed him inside the d’Louncrais keep as he had intended, he would not have alerted the villagers to his presence. Had his body not experienced the agony of being forcefully thrust through space and time twice, the she-wolves would have been no match for him.

Pain pulsed through his spine. And Old Tumas had landed a lucky strike with his pitchfork. His lip curled up in a snarl. Felled by an old farmer and a bunch of she-wolves. Him. A man strong enough to be an alpha wolf.

Tumas had paid for it with his life. In time, when he took what was his, the she-wolves would pay, too. They would kneel before him. Do their penance on their backs. Especially the redhead who looked so like her. Like Elise. The woman who should have been his mate. She was long gone, by his own hand, leaving him with only vengeance to warm his soul. And he would have it.

And the witch… She would feel his wrath for her failures. Then she would aid him again.

He pushed off the wall and stepped toward Didier’s cottage. A figure shrouded in a hooded cloak, and flanked by two armed men, skulked into the street. He pulled back into the shadows. A woman. No amount of darkness, no cloak, could hide that from him. Nor the surcoats of the armored men. House Allard.

She paused at Didier’s door, checked the street, peering into the darkness. A glimpse of her face confirmed his suspicions.

Comtesse Marguerite.

Well, well, well. Maybe he did not need Didier and his witch mother after all.