Page 27 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Very well, it signified a little.

She tried not to let any of it show. No tensing of her shoulders, no clenching her fists to hide the tremble of fingers. No guilty glances to and fro. She would not acquiesce in advance. She would not be intimidated. And she would not give away those in her care.

She smiled brightly even though it felt odd, her cheeks pulling as if even her own face questioned the cleverness of her tactics. Elderberry landed on a stone urn, seething with light.

“I’m afraid we don’t sell bread from the Hall proper, even for the equinox,” she said, deliberately pretending that must be the reason why a man who carried an axe on his belt might be wandering into the courtyard of a duke’s granddaughter.

“I’m not here for any fucking bread.”

Well, bollocks. So much for pretending this was all perfectly normal. It clearly wasn’t going to work. But it annoyed him, so she carried on. “Oh dear. Then I’m sorry, but we are out of cakes as well. I don’t favor them. You might try the bakeries in Haven.”

“Not here for that either.” He glared around the courtyard, at the tower and the smoke rising from the bakehouse chimneys.

She folded her arms, her smile small and hard, like an unripe crab apple. “Then I’m sure you’ll want to be on your way.”

He only snorted. She hadn’t expected any of it to work, of course. But one had to try. There were too many secrets here, too many creatures who needed protection. She might have no real hope of overtaking such a brute, but she would poke his eyes out with her thumbs if she had to.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “See, I think you’re the one I’m looking for.”

Fear constricted her throat as if she had eaten too many sweet ices, pain seizing the muscles. She reached for the nearest weapon at hand, a broom. “I am quite certain we have not met before. This is all very untoward,” she added in her best granddaughter-of-a-duke voice.

It was mildly effective in the way that his neck turned ruddy, scolded.

And entirely ineffective in that he swaggered closer, cracking his neck.

Bollocks.

She was going to have to hit him with a broom. He really was rather large.

But smaller than an ogre. That was something.

Not enough to save her, but something all the same.

Worse yet, she had tossed her red cloak into the washbasin this morning. The kittens had clearly found it and considered it very entertaining, because it was currently half hanging off a hook where it must have gotten caught. A red cloak was not illegal. Women had red cloaks.

But she could not risk being associated with the Red Cloak. It would be too easy to connect the dots. To look too closely. A manor house that was home to a Minotaur, a hippogriff, a unicorn, a Pegasus, and a veritable army of kittens was not exactly subtle at the best of times.

The dogs barked louder, more frantically. There was no one else to help her. She was partly glad for it, as too many of them would be recognizable. And Hecuba would turn to fire and ash if she stepped in front of the wrong window, never mind directly into the afternoon sunlight.

Sorcha shifted slightly, as if she planned to run. The man sneered and circled, as though playing with his prey. She only stopped when she had him positioned right where she wanted him: with his back to the incriminating red cloak. She tightened her hold on the broom and planted her feet.

It was Sorcha and a broom.

And a dead dowager duchess.

Lady Gloucester appeared with a snap of icy sparks. Her snake hissed. “You do not have an appointment.” Her voice was all frost.

The man laughed. “Back off, old lady, and maybe I won’t snap your neck after I snap hers.”

The beat of silence was exquisite. By rights it should have flayed the very flesh from his bones. Granny’s eyes flashed like daggers. “I beg your pardon?”

The stones under him slicked with ice, crawling up his boots. He kicked it loose, swearing. Sorcha was honestly not sure if Granny was most insulted by the threat to her granddaughter’s life or by being referred to as “old lady.” Either way, the combination would no doubt be lethal.

Sorcha grinned despite herself. “You’ve done it now.”

He snarled.

Granny slammed icicles around him like a dungeon cell. “I think not.”