Page 3 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

The black wolf yawned and stretched out his body, the heat from the flames in the central fire pit easing some of the stiffness in his old injuries.

It had been many winters since he had enjoyed the warmth of a blaze, a rug beneath his bones and the security of four walls surrounding him. He could take a moment to enjoy it.

The familiarity of this hall soothed him, with its large oak table where he had enjoyed many a meal, the fresh meadowsweet rushes that covered the floor and the flicker of the oil lamps that gave the air a smoky haze.

But his keen eyes noted the changes. There were wolves here he had not met, living in this keep, if his nose did not betray him. It never did.

The uproar his arrival had produced had died down.

His brother had stopped asking him to shift, and they had all settled at the table to discuss him, resigned to await the return of a white-haired chevalier he did not recognize.

Gaharet had sent him for a healer the moment his brother had set eyes on him.

D’Artagnon huffed. His scars were old and he had long grown accustomed to them.

There was nothing even the most skilled of healers could do for them now.

Nor would he want them to. They were a reminder of his purpose, of his failure.

Every twinge, each time the skin pulled tight, every time he blinked his one good eye, it fueled the coals of his rage and stoked his determination. He had no need of a healer.

The thin, balding human who had shown him to the hall—he remembered him, though the servant’s hair was grayer and thinner now. The sandy-haired wolf had once been a childhood friend. Ulrik? They had sent him away after some trouble.

There was a human male, vaguely familiar, who he could not quite place, and with him a redheaded she-wolf.

An image of another redheaded woman, one with eyes blue like his own and a fiery temper, hovered in his mind.

His mother. This she-wolf reminded him of her.

Is this female my sister ? He did not remember having a sister.

From the matching color of their eyes, she was kin to the human male.

The human male was most definitely not his father. That was a face he remembered well.

Another unfamiliar she-wolf had fled the hall the moment the kitchen maids arrived with the midday meal, one hand on her stomach and the other covering her mouth. His brother’s scent on her had been strong, though not strong enough to mask the pup growing in her womb.

In his absence, his brother had found his mate.

A good thing, a wonderful thing, but it gave him pause.

He had come here with the purpose of reuniting with his brother, of fighting side by side with him once again, but his brother’s circumstances had changed.

His brother had a mate now, and the future of the d’Louncrais line to protect.

He eyed the hall entrance. It had been a mistake coming here. His father had entrusted this task to him and, as before, there were valid grounds for not including his brother. The burden must be his alone. He rose and padded silently across the hall, only to have his path blocked.

Gaharet. His brother. A bigger black wolf than him.

Alpha of the Langeais wolves. Though his brother’s love for his new mate coated every word he uttered, there were deeper lines of worry around his eyes and a hardness about him he had never seen before.

Not even after the death of their mother, or their father.

Gaharet crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised. “Thinking of leaving so soon, D’Artagnon?”

D’Artagnon. His brother meant him. It had been many seasons since he had thought of himself as a man. As D’Artagnon. Years since someone had called him by his name.

“It is good you have returned. For now, more than ever, we need you here. Much has happened since you last set foot in this keep. Stay a moment, and I will tell you of our troubles.”

Troubles? Could things be worse than when I left? He stared at his brother’s boots, debating his course of action.

“No longer are we the strong pack you once knew,” his brother continued. “Our numbers are few, and the only females we have are those in this keep. Our pack is on the verge of extinction.”

D’Artagnon jerked his head up. On the verge of extinction?

He sat his haunches down. What had happened in his absence?

Had he stayed away too long and his pack suffered for his silence?

Why was his brother only telling him this now?

It seemed he was not the only d’Louncrais wanting to spare his sibling a heavy responsibility.

“I see I have your attention. An archeveque named Renaud set about capturing one of us for his own purposes, and has killed most of our pack in doing so,” explained Gaharet.

Archeveque Renaud? Not my enemy?

“The only wolves left of the pack you knew are Ulrik, the twins Edmond and Aubert, Godfrey and Lance.”

His nemesis was one of the few this Renaud had spared? Coincidence? D’Artagnon thought not.

“Aimon became one of us three years ago.” Gaharet motioned to a wall hanging where embroidered figures danced across the fabric in the flickering firelight.

Where once one embroidered panel had hung on the wall, now there were two.

The second, a battle scene where his fellow pack fought on horseback.

There, embroidered into the fabric, was his enemy.

He pared his lip back and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

That man, that traitor, had struck him down, and yet still he remained a trusted member of the pack.

Trusted enough to grace the walls of what was once his home.

He studied the figures on horseback—his brother, the twins, Ulrik, Lance and Godfrey.

At the bottom of the piece, the young, white-haired chevalier.

He lay in a pool of blood. Dying. This must be Aimon.

The redheaded she-wolf reeked of him and the scent of mating.

Had his brother turned this Aimon? The pack had not sanctioned a turning since…

D’Artagnon could not remember a turning.

He eyed the entrance again.

Gaharet squatted before him, blocking his view. “How did Renaud slay so many werewolves, you might ask?”

D’Artagnon peeled his gaze from the doorway.

“One of our own betrayed us. I am betting”—his brother’s dark stare bored into him—“that does not come as a surprise to you, brother.”

D’Artagnon met his stare, unflinching. His brother knew of the traitor, suspected he had aided this Renaud, but did he know of the true depths he had sunk to?

“The traitor’s deception did not end there, did it, D’Artagnon?

” His brother’s voice was soft, but dark shadows flitted in his eyes and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“He killed our father. He killed our mother, and in doing so, he turned Kathryn.” Gaharet pointed to the redheaded she-wolf sitting at the table.

“I suspect you knew of his treachery, and that is why he tried to kill you.”

D’Artagnon swiveled his gaze to the female.

Kathryn. The she-wolf who reminded him of his mother was Kathryn.

He had heard that name before, yet… A memory floated up from the dark recesses of his mind.

Of a little girl with flaming red hair, hazel eyes and a nose covered in freckles chasing him through the keep corridors with unrestrained glee. Kathryn. Not his sister. His cousin.

He turned his eye back to his brother. Kathryn had been there when his mother had died? She had seen her attacker? And he had let her live?

Gaharet rose and paced the floor. “Kathryn was but a child during her turning. She remembers only that her attacker is dark-haired, my height, and carries a sword with a stone on the pommel. That is all we know.”

“I keep trying to remember, but…” Kathryn hung her head, and her father laid a comforting hand on her arm.

“What Kathryn has been able to remember has narrowed it down to two,” said Gaharet. “Godfrey and Lance. And Godfrey is missing.”

D’Artagnon swiveled his ears forward. Godfrey is missing? Since when? He had followed Godfrey and Lance through the forest, only to lose them both in the storm. Had only one of them returned?

He tracked his brother’s agitated steps. Gaharet wanted him to shift, to return to human form and give him a name. That had been his intent, but now…

D’Artagnon stared unblinking at Gaharet.

“Can you tell us, D’Artagnon? Give us a clue?

” His brother walked over to the wall hanging, tracing the figure of Godfrey with his finger.

“I never would have thought Godfrey would betray us. He has stood by my father’s side, and now mine.

He has always given me sound advice, but his absence at this time is damning, and his behavior of late has been unpredictable. ”

His hand shifted to Lance. “But Lance, after all these years of his support, of putting my trust in him as an adviser, has lied. At a time when honesty and the truth are so imperative. I have always believed both of them to be good men. Loyal pack members. I do not want to think either of them could be guilty of such a thing.”

His brother turned his back on the wall hanging. “Or is it, as someone suggested, a wolf from Ludenwic or further afield? From Rus? Wanting revenge for all that happened centuries ago?”

“I do not believe this is the work of the Ludenwic wolves. Victor would not risk their alliance with us,” said an unfamiliar voice, husky to the point of a harsh whisper.

Intrigued, D’Artagnon turned to the group at the table. Who did that voice belong to?

“The Rus pack? Maybe,” said the voice.

Ulrik? Scars crisscrossed the man’s throat. Scars made not by a sword, but by teeth. From his time in Bretaigne?