Page 41
“D’accord.”
His musky scent intensified, dark shadows swirled in his eyes and his canines dropped. He held her gaze, locking her in, and she couldn’t look away as he punctured his finger with one long, pointed fang. Blood pooled and, still holding her gaze, he let it drip on the inkblot. One, two drops. The wound closed over right before her eyes. There was a harshness to her breathing, a racing of her heart that had nothing to do with fear.
Grace snatched her gaze away as the blood soaked into the page and the blob of ink swirled and became letters. She focused on the name revealed. “Cordoylla.”
“That was her real name,” said Maxime. “The one she was born with.”
“Who?”
“Cordelia,” said Alain.
“You mean like an ancestor of Cordelia’s, and the name was handed down through the generations.” It wasn’t a question. It was the only rational interpretation.
“Non.” Alain regarded her with serious eyes. “I mean the woman you know as Cordelia King was once, back in the Dark Ages, known as Cordoylla.”
“What?” She looked between Alain and Maxime. “That’s not possible. I mean, Cordelia’s old, like ancient, but no one can be centuries old.”
Maxime opened the archive box and retrieved the other grimoire. He opened it to the last page and handed it to her. “Read this.”
Grace took it and frowned at the spell. Magic trickled off the pages, settling an oily sensation in her gut. Loath to touch it, she skimmed the first few lines, then leaned closer, paying more attention to the words, the intent behind them. This was a… “Are you saying Cordelia King can travel through time?”
“Oui.” Alain and Maxime spoke in unison.
Grace stared at the once-obscured name. Was it possible the evil old witch sitting in her fancy parlor in San Francisco and this peasant woman who’d cursed Alexandre were one and the same?
“Cordelia King was the witch who cursed Alexandre and created the first Black Wolf, Maxime’s and my ancestor,” said Alain. He was watching her with an intensity to rival Maxime. “Do you know what that means for us? For the Langeais wolves?”
She stared at the page again, at the lines of the spell. The Langeais wolves were Cordelia’s creation. It was all clear to her now. The secret Maxime and Alain were hiding, not from the world, or from her, but from the pack. Why they wanted, needed, Cordelia’s grimoire. Cordelia was as old as dirt. When she died, her energy would vanish from the world. Along with her, anything, any spell, any curse she’d created. “The Langeais wolves are on borrowed time.”
Alain nodded.
“We need your help, Grace. You’ve met Cordelia. We know of her only through the writings of our ancestors, and our clashes with her minions.” Maxime indicated the grimoires and the book with the red wax seal. “She’s been trying to wipe out the Langeais wolves, to get her energy back, for centuries without success.” Maxime tapped Cordelia’s grimoire, grimacing as he did. “Cordelia wants this back. Desperately. I think, and so does Alain, it’s because the answer is in here. There’s something she needs from it. And maybe that something can save us.”
An ancient curse, a witch who could travel through time, werewolves who could turn humans. It was a lot to take in. If it were all true. She couldn’t say it challenged everything she knew about Cordelia. Rather it corroborated every dark, uncharitable thought she’d ever had about the old witch and her family, Bernard excluded.
Alain and Maxime were watching her, waiting for her to say something.
Alain took her hand. “Will you help us?”
Since the moment she’d stood in Cordelia’s parlor, Grace hadn’t believed she’d any option but to do Cordelia’s bidding. “If I don’t, will you stop searching for my mama and Bernard?”
Alain flinched. “No. I gave you my word as a Langeais wolf. As a member of the Council of Witches.”
She turned to Maxime.
There was a softening of the alpha’s expression. “We will find your parents, whether you help us or not. Nobody deserves to be at the mercy of Cordelia.”
She sucked in a breath. The stress of the last few days, the weight of responsibility eased as she exhaled. “I’ll help you. And I’ll tell you everything I know about Cordelia.” It wasn’t much, but maybe it’d be of some use. She pointed at the grimoire, and the story of the creation of the Langeais wolves. “Maybe it’s time someone did something to stop her.”
* * * *
Alain clenched his hand around his fork so hard it threatened to bend. Maxime had been right. Showing Grace the grimoire had destroyed any loyalty she might’ve harbored toward Cordelia. It’d done more than that. With each spell they’d torn apart, line by line searching for answers, Grace’s fear had gathered like a dark cloud hanging over her and threatening to break.
The midday meal had been a subdued affair. Then more hours wading through death, destruction, pain and suffering. Some spells were aimed at the individual. Others on a scale so vast it took his breath away. Now dinner was spread before them, as fine a meal as had ever come out of the kitchen, but it all tasted like ash in his mouth. Maxime ate with practical consideration and little enjoyment. Grace, her face pale, pushed the food around her plate, eating nothing.
The spells in Cordelia’s grimoire were some of the vilest, most destructive ones Alain had ever encountered. Reading them was affecting them all, but Grace the most, and it was killing him watching her sink lower in her chair, her shoulders hunched. His wolf prowled in his mind, and his urge to snatch her up and pull her into his lap, to promise her everything would be okay, that they’d find her mother and Bernard and get them away from Cordelia, was almost overwhelming. But he couldn’t promise her that. He didn’t know it would be, and he’d not heard from Pierre and Louis all day. How long had it taken them to find Cordelia last time? Months.
Grace dropped her fork with a clatter and leaned her head in her hands.
