Page 82 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Twenty

Sorcha followed the paper bird down the hill and over the next rise, wolves at her heels. Aidan kept pace beside her, a solid, comforting shadow that snarled if anyone moved too close to her. The paper bird was slowing down, the answering tingle in her witch knot fading.

An owl called from the edge of a copse of aspen. The moon silvered the hills, the tumbled standing stones scattered through the moors, the gleam of the river in the distance. The bird stuttered, losing altitude. “Not yet,” Sorcha pleaded, pushing more magic toward it.

It wasn’t enough.

The paper bird stuttered again and dropped to the ground. Its wings were worn thin, and as Sorcha approached, it simply fell apart with no magic left to animate it. All that was left was the smell of fennel seeds and salt.

“There’s blood here,” Aidan said from behind her.

And blood.

Lorcan was the next to join them, nostrils flaring. “I know that blood.” His lips lifted off his teeth. “Gretel!”

A soft whine reached them from the trees. A crow cawed, and then another. “There.” Sorcha pointed. Lorcan was already running, the other wolves crowding behind them.

They found a tawny wolf lying in the undergrowth, blonde fur stained with blood. Her breathing was labored, each exhale ending on a whine. “Someone get a healer!” Lorcan barked. “She’s not shifting? Why isn’t she shifting?”

Wolves shifted to heal themselves. The Collector knew that.

Sorcha pushed closer. Lorcan snapped at her, teeth barely missing her arm. Aidan knocked him back. “She can help your sister!”

Lorcan’s mouth still twisted in a growl, but he let her approach. Sorcha nodded, careful not to meet his frantic gaze. She didn’t think he was quite himself. Even as himself, she assumed he’d go for the challenge.

“We need a bloody healer,” Lorcan barked.

“No time. I’ve seen this before,” Sorcha said grimly. “This is a trick from the Cauldron.”

Aidan sniffed the air. “Aye, I can smell it on her.”

“The Collector had her?” Lorcan bit out. “I’ll kill him.”

“They soak their chains in salt and wolfsbane,” Sorcha said. “Just enough to keep the Lycan weak until they’re dropped in the pits. I’ve seen it.”

“She’s been burned.”

“Yes, from the chains. But those will heal. The real danger is if she heals around that musket ball. It’s been soaked as well.”

“It stinks of wolfsbane,” Aidan confirmed. “And roses.”

Sorcha’s pockets were full of bread, as usual, but also salt, comfrey ointment, thread, embroidery scissors. “I have to dig it out, so you’re going to need to hold her steady for this. And don’t let her bite me.”

“If you don’t save her,” Lorcan said, crouched next to his sister, “I’ll bite you myself.”

“Lorcan.” Aidan’s eyes flashed gold. Lorcan’s eyes turned silver. Gretel’s wolf shivered, snapping weakly.

“I need room to work,” Sorcha said. She didn’t care if there were a hundred Alphas breathing down her neck. “None of you are helping. Back off.”

The silence was stunned, sharp. The hairs on the back of her neck noticed, but the rest of her did not care. She could save Gretel. She knew she could. She had managed to convince the hippogriff to try stewed plums today. She had stitched the gash on Simon’s leg and reset his ankle bone. She once stroked Nimue’s mane and did not lose a hand.

“What do you need?” Aidan asked softly.

“Just keep her steady.”

It was nerve-racking work. One wrong movement and not only could Gretel turn on her, but so would her brother. So would the other Alphas. The magic clinging to the injured wolf might also turn on Sorcha.

There were hundreds of ways for this to go wrong. So few ways for it to go right.