Page 83 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

And not a single moment to waste.

Gretel’s blood was bright on her fur, dark on the leaves. Her eyes rolled fitfully with pain and fear. She smelled like scorched lemon balm, smoke, mud. She growled half-heartedly when Sorcha reached for her leg. Her fur was singed, skin burned all around it. “I know,” Sorcha murmured. “But the faster you let me help you, the faster you can tear out his throat.”

The wolf stilled. Lorcan huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “You’ve clearly met my sister.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Sorcha promised. “The Collector expects us to use magic to fight his spellwork. So we won’t.”

Magic would be quicker. Probably less painful. But also riskier and not as effective.

Sorcha used her tweezers to dig out the tiny musket ball still lodged in Gretel’s jagged flesh. Blood pooled. The moon was bright, but not quite bright enough for Sorcha’s human eyes. She squinted, willing her fingers not to tremble. Gretel panted, whining. “Nearly finished.”

Sorcha finally found purchase on the slippery iron ball and popped it free. More blood welled, filling the raw hole left behind. She pressed the cloth over the wound, as hard as she could. Gretel yipped, snapping.

“Get back.” Aidan pulled Sorcha away.

The tawny wolf shuddered. Bones splintered and re-formed as she shifted into a blonde woman, then back into the wolf again, fur sparking with power. She shifted one more time, landing as Gretel, naked, her right leg bloody but healing, her hair matted with sweat. “What happened?” she croaked.

“You went looking for the Cauldron, you idiot,” Lorcan said.

“I was looking for Orla.”

“You nearly died. I’m telling Mother.”

Gretel groaned, weak but well enough, considering. “Haven’t I suffered enough?”