Page 4 of Wolves’ Witch

Douglas? No. He’d hurt her enough. He wasn’t taking this chance away from her.

“So mote it be.”

A hand gripped her arm with bruising force. “I can’t let you go after Faucher.”

Douglas.

The vision in her mind’s eye blurred and changed. Gone was the face of the tenth century alpha of the Langeais wolves. Replaced by a man in the flowing robes of a priest. No!

Her eyes snapped open. “Douglas, what have you done?”

Isobella tried to regain her calm, to get back the image of the Langeais wolves, but it was too late. Darkness descended, and a thick silence blocked out the forest, Annabelle, Stef, the werewolves fighting, everything but the grip on her arm.

Pain ripped through her. Douglas shrieked. Isobella gritted her teeth, biting back her scream. When it was almost more than she could bear, a force so strong propelled her forward, pushing and tugging at her, and Isobella feared it might tear her apart. Douglas let go. Then Isobella slammed to a stop, winded, hurting and gasping for breath.

The darkness eased. With a groan, Isobella raised her head. A set of boots, leather and fur-lined, filled her vision. Had it worked? Was she in the tenth century? Lord Almighty, she could be anywhere. Or any when?

The man kneeled before her, his black robes billowing about him. Priest robes. Isobella swallowed and raised her gaze. Staring down at her was a young priest. Malevolent glee flickered in his eyes as he scooped up her Ziploc bag of ingredients.

From Stef’s descriptions, this could only be one person. Eveque Faucher.