Page 36
She looked like someone's grandmother—small and plump, wrapped in a knitted baby-pink shawl, hands extended toward the fire for warmth. Wisps of white hair escaped her untidy bun, catching the glow of the flames.
"Come in, dear," she said, smiling. "Don't be shy."
Blaidd opened his mouth. "I… My name is—"
"I know who you are, son of Myra," she interrupted gently, her eyes lifting to him. "Blaidd."
Her eyes were so pale, they were almost white; the pupils dark and sharp at their centres.
"I know who you are," she continued. "And I know why you're here."
She gestured to the chair opposite her, where he sat stiffly.
"Tea?" she asked.
"No, thank you," Blaidd replied at once.
He knew—every wolf knew—that nothing taken from a witch was ever free.
She tsked. "You wolves…" she murmured as she slowly lowered herself into her seat. "Always so suspicious."
It might have been his imagination, but something seemed to slither beneath her skin—something long and sinuous, like a shadow moving—but then it was gone.
"You want to know about the creature masquerading as your mate," she said lightly.
Blaidd froze, mouth opening soundlessly.
"Yes, yes"—she waved a hand—"I know these things. Are you sure you don't want tea?"
"No."
She studied him, then nodded once. "Very well. An answer for free this time."
She leaned forward, firelight sharpening her features. "No, she is not your lifemate."
He knew it, but the truth delivered without any frills was still too much to take.
"She is a changeling," the witch continued. "An old one bound to the oak. She wears the body of a woman named Isolde, whose remains they claimed when she perished close to their nest. Such things are permitted."
Blaidd could only wait for her to finish.
"She obtained your lifemate's blood—do not ask me how," the witch went on. "But they have been planning this for a long time. The changelings of the Old oak need new blood to survive, and you were the lucky winner."
The witch watched his face as the truth sank in.
Blaidd's hands had curled into fists without his noticing. His rage leapt ahead—past the lies, past the years stolen from him—straight to the oak.
If he burned it—
The fire in the hearth hissed.
The woman's kindly smile vanished, as if she could read his thoughts.
Her body seemed to shudder, as though whatever he glimpsed beneath her skin had grown suddenly restless. Her spine bowed, bones shifting with a wet, unnatural sound, and her face slid away as features stretched, jaw elongated, and eyes narrowed as scales rippled briefly across her cheeks.
A massive serpent with shining white scales looked back at him with milky eyes.
Fangs glistened with venom in the firelight.
