Page 40 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

D’Artagnon, his stomach pressed to the ground, peered out of the forest at the walls of Langeais.

Beside him, Vladimir. He had barely left Constance behind when he had sensed the familiar presence shadowing him.

It should not have surprised him. In truth, he was grateful for the older wolf’s company and his support.

The steady beat of the blacksmith’s hammer ceased and the heavy tread of boots along the streets slowed.

Night would soon fall and darkness would creep through the streets of the village.

The beginnings of a busy night echoed through the still air, but this part of the village had yet to come alive.

When it did, it would with a furtiveness that would suit D’Artagnon’s purpose well. Soon he would make his move.

Lance had not been at his estate. It had taken D’Artagnon some time to establish the chevalier’s absence, skulking around the edges of the Vautour village until he had found an empty hut with some clothes they could steal, before sneaking into the keep.

The traitor’s scent had been everywhere, but there had been no sign of Lance.

A captured conversation between two maids confirmed what he had suspected.

They would not find his nemesis there. They had wasted more time listening to the gossip of the kitchen staff, the guards on the wall and the stable hands, hoping to glean where Lance would have gone, to no avail.

Their noses were of no help. Many a horse had left through the Vautour gates.

Anyone of them could have carried Lance.

In desperation, he had turned to Langeais, and it was there, at the base of the wall, backing onto a pleasure house, they had found Lance’s scent.

Somehow, his enemy had gone over the wall.

He eyed the darkening sky. Gaharet would have made the same mistake, presuming Lance to be holed up in his keep. The most obvious place, but also the most defensible. He had time yet.

Vladimir rose, his ears pricked and his nose tilted to the breeze. With a soft chuff, he slunk away into the forest. D’Artagnon tensed, and sniffed the air. Coming toward him, the soft clop of horses’ hooves and the unmistakable musk of werewolves.

Merde. How did my brother get here so fast?

They rode out of the gloom—his brother, followed closely by Farren, Aubert, Edmond and a…a boy?

Gaharet dismounted, his nose twitching, eyeing the flattened patch of grass beside him. He circled D’Artagnon, scanning the forest. D’Artagnon ignored the question in his brother’s eyes. Vladimir was too wily to be found unless he wanted to be.

Gaharet shrugged and squatted in front of him. “Did you really think I would leave you to face Lance without me, brother?”

D’Artagnon huffed.

Gaharet dropped a sack in front of him that reeked of steel and sweat.

“Will you shift, D’Artagnon? Shall we hunt him down together?

Side by side.” He glanced over his shoulder as the others dismounted, gathering behind him.

“They have lost loved ones, too, because of Lance’s treachery.

Because of his alliance with Renaud. Vengeance belongs to all of us, do you not think? ”

“He does know he is talking to a wolf, right?” whispered the boy, sidling up to Edmond.

Gaharet ignored the boy and opened the sack, revealing breeches, a tunic, boots and his armor. “Come fight with us, D’Artagnon, like you once did. As a man.”

D’Artagnon eyed the hauberk, the vambraces and greaves, the padded gambeson. He had not worn such things since the day Lance had cut him down. Would he even remember how to use a sword?

The walls beckoned, his enemy’s scent lingering. Langeais was not like the Vautour village. Sneaking in as a wolf would be difficult, and any hope of confronting Lance on his own was long gone now Gaharet was here. The only way he could protect his brother was to fight beside him.

D’Artagnon closed his eye and called forth the change. He stood before his brother, eye to eye, man to man, for the first time in nine years.

Dark shadows shifted in his brother’s eyes. Then he was pulling D’Artagnon into a rough embrace. “Welcome home, brother.”

Emotion threatened to choke him. He was home. Truly home.

Edmond gripped his shoulder. “Welcome back, D’Artagnon.” He turned to the boy. “Come, Remi. Now is your chance to prove your usefulness.”

The boy’s eyes were wide, and he backed away from them. “I had thought you lot insane, but…but…” He eyed them all warily. “Are you all werewolves?”

Edmond snagged the boy’s arm before he could back away too far. “Not so fast. We brought you here to do a job, remember?”

“Or what?” Remi’s face paled. “You will eat me? Or turn me into one of you?” Remi stopped pulling against Edmond’s hold, and his expression turned cunning. “You know, being a man who can turn into a wolf could be interesting. Can you smell better and hear—”

Edmond growled. “I am not turning you.”

Remi’s gaze turned on him as D’Artagnon slipped into his clothes and armor. “He might?”

D’Artagnon snorted. The boy was bold. D’Artagnon liked him. Gaharet handed him a sword, and he tested its weight, the grip settling into his palm as though he had handled it only ‘ere-yesterday. He returned it to the scabbard and buckled around his waist.

Edmond cuffed Remi. “Nobody is turning you, Remi, and nobody is going to eat you, but I might consider thrashing you if you do not tell us this secret way of getting across the wall.”

Remi pouted. “The least you could do is consider it.” He shrugged and faced the wall. “You might change your mind one day. About the turning part, not the eating part.”

Edmond growled.

Remi held up his hands. “Do not get your hauberk all twisted. I will tell you.” He grinned. “I kind of like the idea of being part of a werewolf pack. I could get up to all sorts of mischief knowing I have you lot at my back.”

Edmond rolled his eyes. “I have created a monster.”

Remi winked. “Not yet, but maybe one day.”

D’Artagnon growled. They were wasting time. The sky had darkened, and for the first time in a long time, D’Artagnon was eager for battle.

Remi turned to Aubert. “He is grumpier than you are.”

D’Artagnon snarled, baring his teeth at Remi.

Remi swallowed and backed up a little further. “No need to get testy. To get over the wall, you throw three rocks at the pleasure house roof. Someone inside will throw a plank across to the wall, then a rope will drop. And you will need some coin to pay passage.”

D’Artagnon slid his sword out a little, revealing the blade.

“Oh, you have coin. Of sorts.” Remi glanced around at the group. “Are you going to be able to climb up a rope wearing all that steel?”

D’Artagnon slammed his sword back into his scabbard. If his enemy was in this pleasure house, no madam, or any of her henchmen, were going to stop him, coin or no.

He scooped up three rocks. One by one, he threw them, hitting the roof of the pleasure house. Shutters banged open and the scrape of timber against stone echoed in the night air. The end of a plank jutted across the wall and a rope dropped to the ground.

Gaharet stepped forward. D’Artagnon placed a hand on his brother’s chest, halting him, and growled. Gaharet may be alpha, but D’Artagnon had not come this far, sacrificed so much, to let him walk head-first into danger.

D’Artagnon strode out of the forest and across the open ground.

His brother, Edmond, Aubert, Farren and Remi, followed him.

He grabbed the rope and, using the knots tied along it at intervals, climbed to the top of the wall.

Crouched low, he unsheathed his sword and crossed the board to the open window.

The smell of sex, stale sweat and rotten meadowsweet rushes coated the back of his throat, but beneath it all, the one scent he was hoping for. Lance.

D’Artagnon slipped inside. A burly man with small, squinty eyes in a battered face barred his way.

The man took in his armor and sword and grinned, holding out his meaty hand. “Four Sol.”

Gaharet stepped into the room behind him.

“For each person.”

“That is outrageous!” said Remi, climbing through the window. “The price last week was four denier. ”

The man scowled. “Keep yer mouth shut, boy, or the price will go up to four livre. ”

D’Artagnon stepped forward, his sword raised.

Gaharet put a hand on his arm. “Would you kill a man for doing what he is paid to do, D’Artagnon?”

Remi spluttered. “But…but…the price…”

Gaharet held out five gold coins and one silver. “One sol per man, and a denier for the boy. Take it. It is more than fair.” He jerked his head in D’Artagnon’s direction. “Or I let my brother pay. His way.”

D’Artagnon rested the tip of his sword at the base of the man’s thick neck.

The man blanched and grabbed the coins. “Thank you, Mon Seigneur.” He backed away into the corner of the room.

D’Artagnon pushed through the doorway and rushed down the hall, following his nose. His brother cursed behind him, but he did not slow. He would take his enemy down. He would spare his brother.

At the end of the corridor, he encountered Ulrik and Aimon. If they were here, who was watching over Constance? His wolf pushed forward.

Ulrik grasped his shoulder and leaned close. “She is safe, D’Artagnon,” he whispered in his ear. “Protected along with all our mates.”

The tightness in his chest eased a little.

Ulrik jerked his head toward a closed door, Lance’s scent heavy on the air. And something else. Blood. And fear. No more. This ended today. The traitor would haunt his family no longer. D’Artagnon would avenge his mother’s death. And his father’s. Today Lance Vautour would die.

He kicked the door open and stalked into the room.