Page 44 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“And how’s that?”

“Because I am the Red Cloak.”

Aidan closed his eyes briefly, as if he had known it already. As if he remembered her from that night but had chosen not to say anything. “Freya,” he said, and there was no command this time, only weariness and the hint of a plea.

But Freya had caught the scent, as it were.

And Sorcha knew it was a risk, a big risk, to admit to being the Red Cloak, but it was worth it. She hadn’t been able to stop the Cauldron on her own. She had a real chance now. She was running out of options. Out of funds. And the captured were running out of time. “You need me,” she added, just in case it wasn’t clear.

“Do we?” Freya said.

“I can find the Cauldron. I have before, and I can do it again. Together, we can take it down. For good, not just for one night.” She sent Aidan a sidelong glance. He may as well have been one of his precious pyramids or museum exhibits for all that she could decipher his expression. “And he needs me.”

“Do I?” he asked, and still he may as well have been speaking in an ancient language.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re very good. Honorable.”

“And you aren’t?”

She snorted. “Not like you, Lord Coventry.”

He only shook his head. But she knew she was correct in this. He was careful and methodical and just. She was… Well, far less savory words had been used to describe her. Petty. Vengeful. Feral.

Freya nodded once. “Do you understand what this means, Sorcha Beauregard?”

Sorcha nodded as well.

Aidan stifled a groan. “She doesn’t.”

“Hush, you’re embarrassing me,” she murmured.

Freya smiled slowly. “This will work just fine.” She flicked her hand. Her bracelets added to the song of the chimes. “Very well. We have an agreement.” The smile lines around her mouth turned to stone. “Do you know what happens if you break a pact with a wolf?”

Sorcha swallowed. The fear that snaked up her spine was primal, instinctual. But so was her reaction to being threatened. She kept her voice light and unbothered. “I imagine it involves eating my entrails, etcetera, etcetera.”

Freya barked a laugh. It was not comforting in any way. “Something like that.”

“Sorcha, think about this,” Aidan said, quietly but fervently.

Freya was still grinning. “Too late now, Coventry.”

Sorcha took in his tight jaw, the white of his knuckles, the gold of his eyes. “It’s worth it,” she said.

And then there was nothing left to say. It was too late to change her mind, to take it back.

Far too late.

Curses were not broken easily, even by those who’d cast them. Sometimes they did not break at all until their work was done.

And they always, always hurt.

Freya had laid a crown of rowan branches bright with red berries on Sorcha’s head. She drew a circle of salt around her bare feet, laid more on her tongue. An iron nail went into the ground directly in front of her and behind her. Her witch knot started to burn almost immediately. A hawk screeched in the distance.

Sorcha struggled to stay calm, to even her breathing. She was too hot. Too cold. Too everything.

Elderberry shrieked and dove into her chest, scattering feathers of light. It helped. A little.

Not nearly enough.