Page 41 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Freya?” Tavish whistled. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’m afraid so. Can’t you smell it?”

Tavish’s nostrils flared and he sighed. “Aye. Best of luck to you, lass.”

Aidan frowned. “Don’t scare her.”

“She doesn’t look like she scares easily.”

Perhaps not, but the growling and the determined footfalls of several wolves stalking toward her through the trees did give her pause. Aidan and Tavish moved together, swearing under their breath.

“You waited too long,” Tavish murmured.

“Aye. I can still see the curse on her, even though I snapped the thread.”

Sorcha’s eyes widened behind their backs. It was a lovely collection of muscles, one she might have admired under different circumstances. “What’s happening?”

“They can smell the curse on you,” Aidan replied.

“I’m sorry?” she called out hesitantly.

“It’s meant to call them to you, to make you easier to track. Your cut, my mark, Orla’s scent. It was only going to distract them for a little while.”

Tavish, human one moment, landed on four paws the next, shifting nearly quicker than her eye could catch. He was grizzled, solid. Aidan stood at his side, eyes glinting a challenge, one that promised to end bloody. “We need to get to Freya.”

The growling inched closer, the flash of teeth. It made the back of her neck prickle. Her legs quivered.

“Don’t run yet,” Aidan snapped.

She froze.

“Nothing a wolf loves more than a chase.”

Sorcha did not know what to do, but she did know that she had no intention of watching Aidan and Tavish be harmed on her behalf. Or the other wolves who might only be following the pull of the curse she had triggered. Like a cabbagehead.

She recognized the wolf leading the silent attack by the blood on his leg where Aidan had caught him. By the way he glared at her as if he would gladly tear her to pieces. Brutus.

“Brutus, I did see your daughter Orla.”

Had his snarl been a weapon, it would have shredded her to ribbons. She would be standing in a puddle of her own blood. She swallowed. “But I didn’t hurt her. I freed her.”

The malevolent gleam of teeth.

“She was a white wolf. I last saw her running for the moors.”

He paused.

But it wasn’t quite enough. She saw it in the bunching of his muscles, the wrinkle of his nose as his lips pulled further back.

So she did what she always did.

She called the birds.

Her whistle pierced the heavy atmosphere, the glitter of danger. It was just incongruous enough to buy her a few moments. Just long enough for the sparrows and the crows and the goldfinches to answer her call.

They flew down out of the tree, pecking at wolves’ tails, staying out of reach of snapping jaws. They darted in and out, pulling fur, pinching. Aggravating more than distracting.

“Hell of a distraction,” Aidan said. “Now you can run.”