Page 67 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“There’s too much lingering anger and despair,” Aidan said. “It all smells like danger.”

The tower was in shambles, as expected. There was more dried blood on the ground, bottles that once held ale, torn tickets, a tooth that did not belong to a wolf and which Sorcha declined to examine further. One of the paper birds twirled like a seed pod from a tree, landed on a discarded cup, and did not move again. The others circled frantically before also dropping. They had been leading her somewhere after all, not just finding her.

Sorcha approached swiftly but cautiously. She knew Aidan thought her reckless, but she had plenty of experience dealing with wounded creatures of all kinds. It might be a rabbit or a badger or a fox. She reached for the currant bun in the pack Aidan had insisted on carrying for her. The paper birds had dropped near a pile of fishing net, which the Collector no doubt used to capture Selkie women and mermaids. Sorcha whistled softly.

The pile rustled.

She crept closer, murmuring comfortingly, “We’re here to help.”

A blue eye blinked at her between the netting. Her witch knot tingled when frantic images were flung at her: falling from the sky, landing too hard, a net of stinging nettles and iron nails.

“It’s a lightning bird,” she told Aidan. “Something is wrong with his foot. I think it must be caught.”

Lightning birds were shy, elusive creatures with enormous wingspans of white feathers, as well as viciously curved silver beaks. Also, the power to create lightning.

“You’re far from home,” Sorcha said. “Let’s get you back to the cliffs.” The white birds roosted outside of Holdfast and on some of the craggy bits of island farther out to sea. It was monumentally dangerous to trap one. He might have gotten lost in the storm and been pulled into the maelstrom of magic created by the Cauldron. The Collector and his men would not have bothered to try to keep him—he was no use in the fighting pits. He would only fry the spectators, and then there would be no one to lose large sums of money on wagers.

“I need to move the netting out of the way,” Sorcha said, drawing the focus of that one wild eye. “And then we can see what needs to be done. Don’t bite me,” she added sternly. She crouched and reached for the edge of the net closest to her and pulled it aside, uncovering the bird.

When he spotted Aidan looming behind her, a spark of lightning seared the air. Smoke stung her nostrils. Electricity arced like veins of light, hovering over the stones. Aidan snarled. “Sorcha, get back.”

“He’s trapped and he’s afraid,” Sorcha said, responding with images of the wide blue sky, the sun on the treetops. “And he’s just seen a wolf.”

“I am not wearing the wolf at present.”

“You are always wearing the wolf and he, you,” she said. “Now, if I can just cut the netting there, I can free him. I’ve done this sort of thing a hundred times.”

“I am not reassured by that.”

“Funny, no one ever is.” Aside from the creatures she managed to help, of course. Although Aesop, being one of those creatures, would still agree with Aidan.

“Let me do it,” Aidan suggested quietly.

Sorcha speared him with a quelling look. “That is a lightning bird.”

“Aye, exactly why you should let me. He could fry us where we stand like eggs for breakfast.”

“Can you talk to birds, Aidan Carnahan?” she demanded.

“No.”

“Can you understand them?”

He sighed. “No.”

“Well, I can, so kindly step aside and stop being so ridiculous.” No doubt there was a nicer way of saying that, but she did not have the patience. And she was Granny’s granddaughter, after all. One did not interfere with the baking of bread or conversations with birds. Magic was magic.

Aidan inclined his head and did not argue, which made her want to kiss him again.

He did not move away, of course, but she had not expected him to. If magic was magic, then a wolf was a wolf. And Aidan was Aidan. “Do you smell roses?” he muttered, nostrils flaring.

“The whole island still stinks of roses, surely. After that curse.”

“True enough.” But he did not sound convinced.

Sorcha crept closer, the small scissors from her reticule in hand. Lightning flashed overhead but did not strike. She crooned softly as she pulled the netting away from the bird’s leg. He flapped his wings again. Another lightning flash, this one closer. Her eyes were full of lightning as well—it was all the bird could communicate. “Almost done, almost done. Don’t cook me, if you please.”

One snip, two. Then she slipped his foot free and he launched into the air, frantic and free.

“Sorcha!” Aidan bellowed.

It wasn’t the lighting bird that was the danger after all.