Page 3 of Wolves’ Witch

That Annabelle didn’t argue was another hint they weren’t expecting her to return.

“Tell him…” What should she say to her father? He would be beside himself. Heartbroken if she failed to return.

“I’ll explain it all to him, Bella. Your illness, why you’re going on this mission, everything. I promise.”

Gabriel’s phone dinged. “We have incoming. Stay alert.”

Annabelle let her go, and Stef hugged her before stepping back to give her room. “Trust us, Isobella. Trust me. You’re going to like the outcome.”

The sparkle in her friend’s eyes, and her knowing smile, sent her stomach fluttering. Isobella wasn’t stupid. With the Langeais wolves’ bite capable of turning humans into werewolves, it didn’t take a genius to read between the lines. She would survive because the tenth-century Langeais wolves would turn her. Nothing else could cure stage four ovarian cancer. Not in the Dark Ages.

But the Langeais wolves didn’t go around turning people into werewolves on a whim. Only the alpha could sanction a turning, and Gabriel had made it clear that while they could turn her here, now, they wouldn’t. One exception was when a Langeais wolf met their mate, and the mate was human.

Was she ready to be in another relationship? To put her trust in another man so soon after Douglas?

Annabelle stepped back and into Gabriel’s arms, and he dropped a kiss on top of her head. Ever since the pair had reunited at Christmas, Gabriel hadn’t been able to keep his eyes or his hands off her stepsister. He was forever touching her—brushing his fingers across her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand reaching for hers. As if not touching his mate, not reaffirming their connection every chance he had, was something unthinkable. It’d been hard to witness after the way things had ended with Douglas. It’d made her envious of what Annabelle had.

Isobella huffed. She hadn’t been enough for Douglas. What made her think she’d be enough for a Langeais wolf?

With Annabelle and Gabriel focused on each other, Stef leaned in close. “No matter what happens, Isobella,” she whispered in her ear, “no matter how bad it gets, trust me when I say it will all work out.”

What? How bad it gets? What did Stef mean?

Isobella pushed her concerns aside. She was doing this. There weren’t a lot of other options open to her. She drew a pentacle in the dirt, lit her candles, and placed one at each point, setting her bowl at its center. This was her best chance to survive, and she’d be helping her coven, the Langeais wolves and thousands of witches who’d come before her.

She kneeled and mixed a pinch of each of her ingredients together, stirring them through. With her athame against her palm, she held her hand over the bowl and closed her eyes, shutting out all sound, and focused on her breathing, settling herself into a meditative state.

It wasn’t a simple spell, and from what Annabelle and Gabriel had told her about their experiences, it would hurt. Anything that broke the laws of nature, that was conceived to do harm and not good, would always have a price. That the spell came from a grimoire with darker spells than this one, a grimoire they suspected had belonged to Cordelia King, did not bode well for Isobella’s journey. All she could do was prepare her mind.

Awareness of her surroundings slipped away, her steady breaths and the lazy beat of her heart the only sounds penetrating her calm. In her mind’s eye, she brought up the images she’d created of the Langeais wolves—Gaharet, Erin, D’Artagnon, Constance—and held them there, focusing her intent on joining them at the d’Louncrais keep.

She sliced her palm, the sting of the blade grounding her. Squeezing her hand into a fist, she let her blood drip into the bowl.

“Blood and bone and hair and skin,

Rend a hole in time so thin.”

As she spoke, acrid smoke teased her nostrils. The spell was working.