Page 5 of Wolf’s Return (The Wolves of Langeais #4)

Constance’s breath whooshed from her lungs, and her heart stalled. Another black wolf. Staring at her. Seigneur Gaharet’s brother ? Constance almost dropped her grimoire. A fluttering in her chest eased some of the tightness that had been her constant companion the last few months. Could this be…?

She gaped at the black wolf. “I… I do not understand. I thought—”

“That we had lost him?” Seigneur Gaharet’s hand remained on his brother’s neck. “So did I. By the scars he bears, we nearly did.”

The wolf, Monsieur D’Artagnon, blinked.

Oh. He has only one eye.

A large, puckered scar, a savage white line against black fur, slashed across his head where his other eye should have been.

Another one curved behind his shoulder, down across his ribs and disappeared beneath his body.

Either of his injuries would have killed a human.

Two of them would have posed a significant challenge to a werewolf. This wolf was lucky to be alive.

The black wolf fixed his singular blue gaze on her.

“Where…? What…?” She shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around this new development. D’Artagnon was supposed to have died almost a decade ago. He had survived ? Where had he been all those years?

Seigneur Gaharet shrugged. “We do not know. I would ask him if he were to shift, but he has not.”

Is he stuck? Constance frowned. Is that even possible?

“I am uncertain if that is by choice.” Seigneur Gaharet turned his attention to his brother.

“I tried ordering him to shift. Few can resist an alpha’s command.

Whatever force is holding him is stronger than I am.

” He unfolded himself from his squat. “I need to talk to my brother, Constance. I need to know who did this to him. My instinct tells me it is the same wolf that has betrayed us all. Can you help us? Help him?”

“I…” She met the unblinking gaze of the one-eyed wolf. The wolf was angry. At her, at the world? Did he even wish for help? She clutched her book tighter to her chest. “I will do my best, Seigneur Gaharet.”

L’enfer. A wolf who could not, would not shift. She had never heard of such a thing. But a black wolf, another black wolf… She banished the memory of her vision before it took root. She had mourned that loss once. Was she foolish enough to believe in it again?

Seigneur Gaharet nodded. “That is all I ask, Constance. Thank you.” He gestured toward the table. “Come. Sit. We will talk.”

A servant took her cloak and her bag and Constance followed Seigneur Gaharet to the beautiful oak table large enough to fit half a small village. She slid into a seat, conscious the wolf was not the only one staring at her.

She eyed the fancy goblets and the platters of meat, fruits and cheese laid out on the table.

The room was grand. Far grander than anything she had seen in her lifetime.

A fire roared in the large central fire pit.

On the wall, two magnificent scenes with brightly colored figures engaged in battle.

She imagined its only rival would be Langeais Keep.

She set her grimoire down and curled her fingers in the soft wool of her dress. For all she had benefited from her recent connection with the wolves of Langeais, she was still a peasant, and an outcast one at that. Being here amongst all this wealth set her on edge.

“You have already met Ulrik,” said Seigneur Gaharet, inclining his head in his direction.

Seigneur Ulrik. The sandy wolf. A storm had raged the night he had sought her out, his mate, a woman from the future in his arms. Constance breathed through the tightness in her chest. There was no sign of his mate, Rebekah, but if she had used the potion Constance had prepared, most likely she was still recovering from her turning.

“And Aimon.”

Monsieur Aimon took a seat beside a woman with glorious red hair.

“This is his mate, Kathryn, and”—Seigneur Gaharet indicated an older man—“her father, Farren.”

Dame Kathryn smiled at her, and Seigneur Farren nodded a greeting.

Monsieur Aimon slipped Kathryn’s hand into his and kissed her knuckles.

Kathryn glowed. Constance balled her hands into fists beneath the table and smiled.

Mated pairs everywhere. Watching them together stung more than if she had poured mead into an open and putrefying wound.

Her gaze slid to the black wolf, still fixated on her.

“This is Gascon, my steward,” continued Seigneur Gaharet, indicating the thin, balding man who had shown them to the hall. “And Anne, the cook.” He pointed to a large woman in a flour-dusted apron.

Anne’s eyes narrowed. “I remember you. A little girl with blonde curls.” She wagged her finger at Constance. “I will never forget those eyes.”

Constance stiffened. Always it was her odd colored eyes that people noticed.

The cook’s kind and wrinkled face considered her. “An age of wisdom in them, uncanny for one so young.”

Constance’s breath hitched. No one had ever said that about her before. Freak. Blind. Dumb. Wretched. Cursed. Witch. All words she had borne with stoic acceptance, though they had cut deep and compounded her sense of otherness. But wisdom… Constance gave Anne a tentative smile.

“You came here with your mother many years back,” said the cook. “In the dead of night. Jacques brought you in through the kitchen.”

Seigneur Gaharet’s eyebrows rose. “She did ? He did ?”

“Yes,” confirmed Anne. “When you and D’Artagnon were both boys.”

The black wolf was still staring at her, shadows flitting across his eye. How far gone was he? Did any of the man remain? How much did he understand?

“Anne is correct, Seigneur Gaharet.” Constance did her best to ignore the black wolf’s regard. “Seigneur Jacques summoned my mother. A woman from the future had appeared. The first one I encountered.”

“The first…” Seigneur Gaharet’s eyes narrowed. “ Marie ? Gray eyes and freckles?”

Constance nodded.

Seigneur Ulrik gaped at her. “ Victor’s mate? The alpha of the Ludenwic wolves has a mate from the future?”

“I believe so, yes.” How did they not know this? Wait. Someone did. She caught the gaze of the black wolf and a certainty settled in her bones. He had been there that night. He had seen her, though she had not seen him. And he remembered.

Seigneur Gaharet turned to Seigneur Ulrik. “Did you…?”

Seigneur Ulrik shook his head. “No. This is the first I am hearing of such. Victor, nor Marie, gave any hint. Not to me. And none of the Ludenwic wolves made mention of it. All I knew was Marie was a former maid here, and she had mated Victor when he visited from Bretaigne.”

“Anne, were you aware of this?” asked Seigneur Gaharet.

“No. All I was told was that Marie was in desperate need of work and a roof over her head. I assumed she had arrived from another estate, a product of some scandal.”

“I think Victor and I are going to have a little talk about him keeping secrets.” Gaharet turned back to her. “So, my father knew of you and your mother.”

Constance nodded. “Oh, yes. As did your mother. She was there that night.”

Should she reveal the black wolf’s secret? His blue gaze bored into her. She kept silent.

Seigneur Gaharet rubbed a hand across his chin. “And your mother was also a witch, like you, with knowledge of our kind?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know this, Anne?”

Anne pursed her lips. “As if I would keep such knowledge from you if I did. All those months poring over those scrolls in the library… And Aimon. As if I would let him suffer like that had I known there was a way to ease him through the turning.” Anne huffed.

“You wound me, Gaharet. Jacques kept this a secret. Even from me.”

“A feat in itself,” muttered Seigneur Gaharet. “But…did you not help my mother through her turning?”

“Why, yes. I did. But Jacques banished me from his chamber for the first few days. He said he wished to care for his mate. Alone. Growled at me when I tried to insist on helping the lass.”

Seigneur Gaharet sighed. “For whatever reason, Constance, my father took his knowledge of you and your mother to his grave. And we, as a pack, have been the poorer for it.” Seigneur Gaharet placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

“Soon, Constance, you and I are going to have a long overdue discussion about all that you know of us, of our kind. Right now, however, I need your help. D’Artagnon needs your help. ”

The dark eyes of the man she had once thought would take her as his mate regarded her. They did not plead. They were not solemn. Rather, they held a certainty more familiar with her visions. He believed in her, and in her ability to help his brother.

The skin on the back of Constance’s neck prickled. The black wolf had moved closer and was barely steps away. She stilled. He focused on her, as though she were the only person in the room. What was going through his mind? Did he resent her presence? Or was he merely curious?

The black wolf sniffed and turned away. He picked up a raw haunch of venison and padded over to lie by the fire. This wolf was damaged—physically and, if he truly was stuck, possibly mentally. Would he want her help? But, if they could not help him, he may never return to human form again.