Page 29

Two days later

Christmas Eve

Isobella held her breath as the shocked silence continued.

Her stepmom’s face had paled and concern shimmered in her father’s eyes, the turkey, stuffing and roast vegetables forgotten.

The Christmas tree lights winked on and off, cycling through the colors, tinging the room with first red, then yellow, then blue, then green.

No one moved or spoke, staring at her like she’d grown another head. Or sprouted horns.

Isobella set her fork down on her plate with a clang. “I can do this. I know I can.”

The High Priestess, Aunt Marjory, smiled at her. “Of course you can, Isobella. I trust Annabelle’s judgment. If she didn’t think you capable of taking on the mission to the tenth century, she wouldn’t have recommended you. Neither would the Langeais wolves.”

Her father frowned. “It’s not that we don’t think you capable, mija , but—”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” interrupted her stepmom. “It is understandable, after what happened with…” She blushed and cleared her throat. “Of course you’re looking for a new adventure, something to sink your teeth into, but…”

“This has nothing to do with my breakup with Douglas. This is about me. I want to do this.”

Leaving her father was going to break her heart, and her father’s, but Gabriel and Annabelle would be here to tell him the truth.

To give him some comfort. If the choice were between her not going and dying, and going and surviving in the tenth century, her father would make the same choice she had.

All she had to do was keep her illness a secret until she left.

If they knew, they’d all try to stop her.

* * * *

Cordelia’s gnarled fingers gripped her knitting needles.

Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one. Knitting calmed her, and she needed a lot of calm after the mess Dutton had made of things.

Stupid fool had nearly gotten himself killed by that slip of a girl, Annabelle.

If he hadn’t been so besotted with the idea of having the pretty blonde witch in his bed, they might not be in this position.

He’d underestimated her. Typical. Men always underestimated women.

And sadly, women overestimated men. As she had with that fool son of hers.

Her needles clacked together with a vicious snap.

She should never have trusted him after he got himself cast off the d’Louncrais estate back in the tenth century.

He’d had one job. Ingratiate himself with the alpha of the Langeais wolves—Jacques d’Louncrais—and he’d failed.

She should never have trusted him with her grimoire.

She should have gone back for it, risked another trip to the tenth century to ensure it was safe. Even after what had happened.

Where else would Annabelle have gotten a time-traveling spell if not from her grimoire?

Cordelia snorted. Not from a French illuminated manuscript, as she claimed.

It was a shame Roger had found the listening devices in Marjory’s office.

The interesting conversations she’d still be privy to if they hadn’t.

She rocked back and forth in her chair, her needles clicking around green and red wool as she knitted a Christmas sweater for Douglas, the new paramour of one of her great nieces.

All was not lost. The coven hadn’t found her.

And they were unlikely to. Nor would the Langeais wolves.

She had several properties to hide out in, none of them connected to her via any paper or digital trail.

And she had her contingency plan. It would keep those clever Montagne twins busy unraveling all her false trails.

The death of Gerard Boucher, while an inconvenient situation, had not severed her connection with the Faucherians. She made a gurgling sound in the back of her throat. What a stupid name for an organization, but one couldn’t expect too much from zealots.

She paused in her knitting and rested her gnarled hands in her lap.

For too long she’d been on the losing end of her skirmishes with the Langeais wolves.

Not this time. She’d get her grimoire back, she’d take over the coven, and then she’d destroy those French werewolves.

Here, now, or in the tenth century, she didn’t care which.

With the knowledge and resources of the Faucherians, she could not fail.

* * * *

Alain d’Louncrais scrolled through the images on his phone, the blood in his veins icier than the frosted air beyond his hotel window. Spells, each one darker than the first, sent to him by Gabriel.

The bedsheets rustled behind him. “Come back to bed, Alain.”

He eyed the pretty, naked witch in his bed, her dark hair spread across the pale sheets. “In a minute, ma chérie.”

She pouted. “ We’re supposed to be celebrating your election to the witch’s council.” She let the sheet slip down, revealing one full breast and a dark, pert nipple. “Come celebrate with me.”

Alain knew who the grimoire had belonged to, who’d written it. She’d come for it, sooner or later, but there was nothing he could do about any of it tonight.

He smiled and set aside his phone. “What did you have in mind, ma chérie? ”

Alain climbed back into bed and pushed the grimoire from his thoughts. For now.

* * * *

Pierre leaned back on the sofa, Joyeux Noel playing on the television. “You have outdone yourself this year, Louis. I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

His twin, Louis, slumped next to him. “Me either.”

Pierre’s phone pinged, and he dragged himself up to check it. “Typical. It’s Christmas Eve and Maxime’s still working.”

Louis groaned. “Wasn’t the Christmas tree in his office enough of a hint?”

“I guess not.” Pierre frowned at the message on his phone. He turned and disappeared into their office, returning with a laptop. He set it on the coffee table and powered it up.

Louis turned off the television. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until after New Year?”

With a few keystrokes, Pierre had an image open on the screen. “Gabriel and Annabelle haven’t been able to locate Cordelia King. Maxime wants us to track her down. He said this thing with Annabelle’s coven and the Faucherians was more about the Langeais wolves than we thought.”

“In what way?” Louis peered at the screen. “Looks like he’s sent us something out of an old manuscript.”

Pierre checked his phone. “Maxime says it’s from his ancestor’s journal.” He scrolled through the document, his eyebrows shooting up. “ Merde. ”

Louis gave a low whistle. “A time-traveling witch. And she’s been targeting the Langeais wolves well before the tenth century. A worthy adversary.”

Pierre grinned. “Game on.” He grabbed his laptop and followed his twin to their office, cracked his knuckles and settled himself in his chair. They liked a challenge.

Louis cocked an eyebrow at him. “New Year’s?”

Pierre nodded. “We’ll have her before then. How hard can it be to find one little old lady?”

* * * *

Maxime swirled cognac around in his glass before draining his drink and setting the glass aside.

The smooth burn of the alcohol went some way to masking his indigestion, if not the disquiet in his mind.

From his desk drawer, he took out a pair of white cotton gloves and slipped them on.

He opened the archival box and, with care, unwrapped the book from its protective glassine paper.

His ancestor’s journal, leather bound and stamped with the d’Louncrais red wax seal.

Red, green and blue light bathed the journal, courtesy of Pierre’s and Louis’ Christmas tree.

The bloody Montagne twins had insisted he get festive.

Well, mostly Louis. His exuberance was more irritating than infectious.

Ignoring the tree and its bright and cheery decorations, Maxime flicked through the pages until he found the one he was looking for.

At the top, the date— the fourth day of the month of November in the year of our Lord, nine hundred and ninety-nine.

There it was , in his ancestor Gaharet d’Louncrais’ bold hand.

Isobella Rodriguez, belonging to the Bayside coven of San Francisco of the United States of America, daughter of Emannuel, step-daughter of Pamela Jackson and stepsister to Annabelle Jackson, mated Edmond and Aubert Montagne.

It was all there. How Annabelle would find the grimoire at her place of work—Rarity.

That she would steal it. How she would introduce the time traveling spell to her High Priestess, Marjory Jackson, and set in action a chain of events that would lead to Isobella using the spell to go back in time to the tenth century.

That Gabriel would also use the spell to save his mate, Annabelle.

How, in the end, the coven would send the grimoire to the Langeais wolves.

To Alain. All Maxime had needed to do was to see Rarity, and subsequently Annabelle, would get the grimoire in the first place.

He’d made sure of it. He’d taken it there personally.

It would piss Gabriel off if ever he found out Maxime had known all along. At least Gabriel had his mate.

Maxime poured himself another large nip of cognac. His mate hated him. Wanted him dead. How was it possible the one woman meant for him, was one of his worst enemies?

It could be worse. He flicked a few pages ahead.

Stefanie’s name jumped out at him. He’d hidden this from everyone.

Would have done anything for it to not be so, but if there was one thing he’d learned—fate would find a way.

Gabriel and Annabelle were proof enough of that.

It didn’t matter if he told his sister or not.

Her destiny was written right here, in his ancestor’s concise hand.

He needn’t tell her. She would find out for herself soon enough.

* * * *

Stef dialed up her brother. She knew exactly what he’d be doing—sitting at his desk with nothing but a glass of cognac to keep him company.

“Merry Christmas, brother,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice.

He grunted, and down the line came the unmistakable sound of him pouring another drink.

She sighed. “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time trying to get drunk, Maxime.” No matter how much cognac he imbibed, his werewolf blood would always negate the effects.

“I know, but I can pretend for a little while it works.”

“Why don’t you go after her?” It seemed the most obvious thing to Stef. “She’s your mate. Let the bond form and then…well…let nature take its course.”

“Mmhm. And how would you feel if you were in her shoes? Fated to be with someone you’d been taught to despise, hmm?”

Stef bit back a retort. She knew exactly what she’d do. She’d fight it. With everything she had. And if he tried to force the issue? She’d fight harder.

“Remember this, Stef. Remember your words. There may come a time when they’re more important than you can imagine.”

An icy shiver rocketed up her spine. “Maxime, what are you talking about? What do you know?”

Lord knows she’d been avoiding thinking about mating anyone for quite some time now.

Why on earth would she want another overbearing male in her life?

She already had Maxime and Gabriel. She could barely breathe without one of them being there to witness it.

And a human mate? Ugh. No thanks. But the way Maxime was talking…

Like he knew who her mate was going to be, and she wouldn’t like it… It was unnerving.

“I’m sorry, Stef.” His weary sigh filtered down the line. “I’m feeling a little maudlin tonight. I don’t mean to imply anything.”

Stef couldn’t sense any lie, but her brother had always been adept at concealing his emotions. “Well, don’t let that go on too long. It’s Christmas.”

“ Oui . I’ll snap out of it. Listen, Stef. Can you do me a favor? I need you to pass on a message for me.”

“Sure. Who’s the message for?”

“You’ll know when the time is right.”

Again that sense of foreboding skittered up her spine. “Why are you being so cryptic tonight, Max? What’s going on?”

Another heavy sigh. “I can’t tell you, Stef. It could change things. Just memorize the message. Trust me, your brother, your alpha.”

“Fine. Whatever. You and your mysterious alpha stuff.” But it wasn’t fine, because Stef’s bullshit radar was pinging loud and insistent. “What’s the message?” Maybe that would give her some clues.

“He’s safe and well, and happily mated in Tasmania, Australia.”

What the… “Who’s safe and well?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Her brother’s determination leaked down the phone line.

She’d heard that tone many a time before.

Her brother would not budge. This was all she was going to get.

She tried anyway. She had a feeling it was important.

Really important. “Maxime, that doesn’t make any sense.

How am I going to know who this message is for if I don’t know who it’s referring to? ”

“Stefanie, know that I love you, and I’ve only ever wanted the best for you.”

“Maxime?”

“You’ve been a pain in my ass, but I wouldn’t change you for the world. You’re a great little sister. The best. Just…don’t forget everything I’ve taught you. Everything you’ve learned from Gabriel.”

Stef’s throat clenched. Why did this feel like a goodbye? “Don’t do anything stupid, Maxime? Gabriel’s staying here in San Francisco, and I’m not cut out to be alpha. Don’t make me come back there and kick your ass on the training mats.”

Her brother’s chuckle eased some of the tightness in her chest.

“I’ll take you up on that challenge, little sis. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve sent you a package to the hotel. It should arrive there any day now. You’re going to need it. Merry Christmas, Stef.”

She was going to need what, exactly? But Maxime wouldn’t elaborate any further.

“Merry Christmas, Max.”

Stef ended the call and stared out at the San Francisco skyline.

That Maxime had had the foresight to buy this penthouse suite four years ago unnerved her.

It suggested he’d known they’d be needing it.

Had Alain foreseen something? Or was it about whatever was in that damn journal her brother kept locked away in his office?

And now this strange message he wanted her to memorize, but he couldn’t tell her why.

As soon as she returned to Saint Epain, Stef was breaking into her brother’s office. She was going to read those damn journals. There was something in them about her, she was certain of it. Something she wouldn’t like. Something to do with her mate.