Page 43 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance paced in front of the fire. She was too full of nerves to sit.

The fluttering in her stomach at the thought of D’Artagnon returning to claim her as his mate had long since been replaced by concern for his safety.

It seemed an age since the men had left for Langeais, but in reality, it was not that long.

Too soon for cause for concern. So Anne said.

It was a half day’s ride to Langeais, and back again.

She twirled on her heel and did another lap in front of the fire. At the table, Erin sat hunched over the journal. Now and then she would read something out loud to them—memories of the past, anecdotes she found interesting. Constance could not remember a single one of them.

Kathryn, sword in hand, lunged, stabbed and feinted, practicing the moves Aimon had taught her.

She was getting good at it. To Constance, it looked exhausting, but…

Maybe, if D’Artagnon did not claim her, did not make her one of them, she could prevail on Kathryn to teach her.

Such a skill would be helpful if she ever had to face that priest.

Bek lay on the table— on the table —unconcerned at the impropriety of such a thing, staring up at the ceiling.

She tossed a rectangular object, cracked on one side and shiny green on the other, into the air and catching it again.

Repeating the process over and over. A phone, she had called it.

What its purpose was, Constance had no idea. Erin had nodded sagely.

Bek caught the phone and rolled over onto her stomach. “Constance, I don’t suppose you have anything in your grimoire that could help make tattoos stick?”

Bek’s grasp of the language had improved much in the few days she had been at the farmer’s cottage. Werewolf blood truly was a marvel.

Kathryn paused, lowering her sword arm. “What is a tat too?”

“You would call it stigmata,” said Erin, looking up from the journal as Anne entered the room with a fresh jug of wine.

“Bek had lots of them, all over her arms, her shoulders, some on her back. They disappeared during her turning. Werewolf blood heals almost everything, including the things we inflict on ourselves.”

Bek scowled. “I liked my tattoos. I paid a lot of money for them. You know”—she slid off the table, resting her hip against its edge—“I once read a shifter romance where they laced the ink with small amounts of silver. I wonder if that would work?”

“Nope.” Erin shook her head. “Silver is one of our weaknesses. It burns. Adding it to your ink and sticking it into your skin permanently would give a whole new meaning to the pain of getting a tattoo.”

Bek’s shoulders slumped. “I forgot about that.”

Anne filled the goblets on the table. “You lasses should think about getting some rest. The men might not return until the morrow.”

Kathryn screwed up her face in a frown. “What is a shifter roma—”

A loud thud had them turning around. Kathryn raised her sword, Erin got up from the table with a scrape of her chair and Bek straightened.

“Constance.” Erin’s voice had an edge to it. “Come here. Get behind us. Now.”

Constance backed away from the man on the floor. The one who had appeared out of nowhere. He rose to his feet, and the three women, the three she-wolves, closed ranks in front of her.

Anne lumbered forward, hand on her hip and wagged her stubby finger up at him. “Begone, Lance Vautour, you traitorous wretch.”

Lance? The traitor ? Constance peered between the women.

If he was here, then where were the men?

Where was D’Artagnon? And how did he get here?

Lance’s hand dripped blood. Was it—? No.

The slash on his palm—she had seen that before.

Many times. On her own palm. Oh, dear. Lance Vautour had found a witch to aid him.

That did not bode well for the wolves of Langeais. For D’Artagnon.

“You have taken enough from this pack, and I will not let you take anymore.” Anne lunged forward, faster than Constance thought the old woman capable of, and slapped Lance hard across his cheek.

His face twisted in a furious snarl. “No.” He struck out, knocking Anne to the floor.

Horrified gasps from Erin and Kathryn, a growl from Bek. Constance covered her mouth to silence her scream.

Lance stood over Anne. “When I claim this pack, this keep and all that belongs to the d’Louncrais, no longer will your lack of respect for your betters be tolerated, peasant .” He kneeled over her and wrapped his hand around her throat. “You will learn your place, if I have to beat it into you.”

“Stop!” A defiant Kathryn thrust her sword at him. “Let her go.”

Lance released Anne, rising to his full height. “You think to threaten me with a sword, little she-wolf? Me?” He slapped his blade against Kathryn’s.

Kathryn parried and jabbed the blade in his direction again, forcing him to take a step back from Anne.

“I made you, you ungrateful wench. You will kneel at my feet.” He pinned them each with a stare. “All of you.”

“Like hell we will,” muttered Erin.

“Sod off,” said Bek, lifting her chin. “Over my dead body.”

“So be it.” Lance lunged.

The ring of steel against steel echoed as Kathryn blocked Lance’s strike. Angry growls, the ripping of fabric and the popping of bones filled the hall as Erin and Bek shifted.

Two wolves, one blonde and the other dark brown with green streaks, faced the chevalier, snapping and snarling at him.

As women, they were extraordinary. As wolves, they were fierce.

Kathryn with her sword was no less ferocious.

She swung her blade again, but Lance fought her off, knocking her sword from her hand.

It skittered across the floor beyond her reach.

She abandoned it, and shifted into her wolf, gloriously red and angry.

Kathryn snarled and lunged. Lance leaped out of her path and she skidded across the floor, sending meadowsweet rushes in all directions. Bek and Erin were not far behind her, forcing Lance to dodge teeth and claws.

“ Wretched women.”

Kathryn, the most experienced of the three, latched onto Lance’s sword arm.

He lashed out with his boot, catching her on the flank.

She yelped, and he shook her off, but not before Bek leaped at his back, almost knocking him to the floor.

Lance threw his elbow back and connected with her jaw.

Her teeth tore into his tunic, exposing his skin to her sharp canines.

She drew blood. Lance roared, throwing her away from him.

Erin worried at his side, dodging his sword.

The she-wolves were not letting up. Lance had underestimated them and the training they had received from their mates. But he had yet to call his wolf forth. And if he did?

Constance retreated from the struggle. She must do something, but she was no use to them in this fight. Unless… She had a few spells, ones her mother had taught her. She searched the table for something sharp. Platters, goblets, her grimoire—no knives.

In the meadowsweet rushes by the stairs to the kitchen, Kathryn’s sword gleamed.

The chevalier’s gaze snapped to Erin, and he sniffed the air. A malicious grin spread across his lips. “You are with pup.”

Oh, no. Dread curdled in Constance’s stomach and she raced for the sword, snatching it up. Lance lunged for Erin. Without taking her focus from the fight, Constance sliced the blade across her palm, a spell on the tip of her tongue.

Noise filled the hall. The villagers, Old Tumas in the forefront, his pitchfork brandished like a weapon, poured through the doorway.

They had come to their aid, and with them Seigneur Gaharet’s men.

One look at Anne, prostrate on the floor, and rage flickered across Tumas’ lined face.

Fixated on Erin, Lance turned too late, and Tumas plunged his pitchfork into Lance’s side, the tines sliding between the links of his hauberk.

But Lance did not go down. He roared, wrenched the pitchfork out and cast it aside. With a mighty swing of his sword, he sliced his attacker’s head off. Tumas dropped, his head rolling across the floor.

Constance gasped, and stumbled. Tumas. A wail so heart-wrenching split the air. Anne.

Lance slumped to his knees as more men entered the hall, their weapons at the ready. Constance sagged against the wall, her palm stinging and sticky from her blood. Help was at hand. They would prevail. Lance slumped to his knees, wrapping his hand around his blade. The chevalier sliced his palm.

No. He cannot get away. He cannot live to haunt them still. “Stop him! He’s going to—”

A hand banded about her waist and pulled her backward through the doorway and into the stairwell.

The sword, knocked from her grasp, clattered to the floor and a hand clamped over her mouth. “Oh, no. No spells for you, little witch.”

Constance struggled and kicked, but he was too strong.

“But I have one for you.”

He began to chant, and as blackness closed in, as he dragged her away from the hall, she glimpsed lank dark hair with streaks of gray, then nothing.

* * * *

Constance stirred and blinked open her eyes.

She squinted, her head pounding. Where…?

Why am I in the forest? Why… Am I in someone’s arms?

D’Artagnon. Had he returned? She shook her head and winced.

No. That did not feel right. Her memory danced in and out of focus.

Snatches of three wolves—one blonde, one red and one with green streaks.

A chevalier, angry, blood dripping from his hand.

Villagers storming into the keep with pitchforks.

Lance. She remembered.

But who…? Why…?

Whoever carried her was moving fast. Moving where? She had blacked out and… Constance froze. Someone had grabbed her. The man who held her?

Constance struggled, flailing her arms and kicking her legs. The man grunted, dropping her to the forest floor. She scrambled to her feet, but not before he grabbed her arm.

He tugged her forward, and she almost lost her balance. “Now you are awake, you can walk.” He propelled her forward.

“No. Wait.” She dug her heels in and locked her knees, but he continued to drag her along.

“What do you want? Where are you taking me?” She was not supposed to be here.

Out in the forest. She was… She glanced over her shoulder.

The d’Louncrais keep, silhouetted by the moon, moved further away from her with each step. No. She was moving away from the keep.

“You will see soon enough.”

“I’m a healer. They need me at the keep. Tumas…”

The haziness in her head cleared. Tumas was dead. He had no need of her skills now, but someone else might. Erin, Rebekah, Kathryn. Anne. “I have to go back. Anne needs me. Did you not hear me? I am a healer.”

“I know what you are, woman. You are far more than a village healer. Those eyes of yours do not lie. And you are far more valuable than your soft-hearted mother.”

Constance squinted through the dappled moonlight at the back of the man’s head. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” The man laughed. “The question you want to ask is, who are you ? The very image of Helene and with the same eyes as my mother, you can only be one person.”

She tried to wrench free of his grip, but he was too strong. “I do not understand.”

“Your mother never told you about me? Never mentioned the name Didier?”

Constance gasped. “Didier?”

He halted in front of a horse, untying its reins from around a tree. “Yes. You must be my daughter. And you are coming with me to Langeais.”