ONE
The first order of the day is food. Finding food, that is, which is going to mean stealing it, and stealing enough not just for me and my new husband but for what remains of his werewolf Pack. Ten very hungry werewolves with stomachs even more bottomless than my own.
This endeavor would be so much simpler if either Bishop or I had ever actually stolen anything.
That isn’t entirely true. We have stolen something—clothing and saddles, taken only a little while earlier, from clotheslines and stables outside the village where we now seek breakfast. At least we already had the horses, though that is the only thing we were able to take with us when we fled the burning of Trevelyan last night.
I do feel bad about stealing the saddles and clothing. If I had coins in my pocket, I’d have left some behind, and I suppose—lacking that—I could mentally promise to return and repay them, but that’s where the line falls in my ethical landscape. I feel guilty, but our own situation is too dire to worry about repaying stolen goods.
Unsurprisingly, Bishop has found the butcher shop, and that’s where we are. I’m crouched low behind it while taking advantage of the fact that I’m wearing men’s clothing. We also stole a dress for later, but the menswear makes running and hiding so much easier.
Bishop is dressed in homespun—laborer’s clothing, which looks odd when I’ve never seen him in anything but the most fashionable gentlemen’s attire. It suits his long, lean frame, though he keeps tugging at the cuffs in obvious irritation and smoothing his jet-black hair, as if the waves are in disarray. Which they are, but I don’t mind.
While I can smell fresh bread nearby, I know meat will be the best source of sustenance for his wolves. He must catch me looking toward the bakery, though, because his dark eyes soften.
“You’d like that?” he asks.
“No, this is fine.”
“Come.”
He extends a hand and leads me down a passage between buildings, expertly making his way to the bakery. The ovens are in the rear, surrounded by a high fence. Without a word, he grabs the top and swings himself up with an ease that leaves me breathless … and envious.
I still have so much to learn about werewolves.
I’m a witch, descended from a long line of dark witches. While that might seem obvious from my very fleeting moral quandary about our thefts, I’ve discovered that my mother and aunt’s “dark” is really more a middling shade of gray.
I’m also a lycan, which means my father was a werewolf and I inherited some of his secondary traits, such as an improved sense of smell. Sadly, I did not inherit the sort of easy athleticism and grace Bishop displays hopping a six-foot wooden fence.
I take a moment to watch him crouch on the top, admiring him, the sharp line of his jaw, the unruly dark hair curling around his face, the intense burn of his eyes as he focuses on his goal. Then he springs, as nimble as a cat, hitting the ground silently.
As Bishop lands, I peer through a knothole. To conserve magical power, I won’t preemptively use a blur spell here, but I watch with a spell at the ready.
Bishop looks about and then grabs several sacks from a pile. When he eases open an oven, I expect him to use the sack to pull out the hot bread, but he only snatches out loaves with his bare fingers, making me wince. Once two sacks are full, he opens the second oven, grabs something, drops it inside a bag, and hops the fence again.
I take his hands and whisper over his scorched fingers.
“We heal quickly,” he reminds me, but I keep casting. The spell will relieve the pain.
He opens one bag and hands me what he’d snatched from the second oven—a currant-dotted sweet bun. I grin and take a bite. When I offer him some, he shakes his head and pulls out a loaf of bread, rips off a chunk as big as my fist, and has it gone in two bites, which also gives me permission to be less dainty with my bun. I devour it and sigh happily. He eats another piece of bread and then we creep back to the butcher shop.
“I took the bread first because this will be trickier,” he says. “We’ll have to flee as soon as I’m done.”
I nod. “Tell me what spells you need.”
He considers and says, “It’ll be best if you follow me and use whatever works. Just … remember that I need to feed my Pack.”
I arch my brows, but he’s already on the move. He sets down the two bread-filled sacks behind the butcher shop and keeps the two empty ones. Then he listens at the rear door. I can make out two voices within. When the customer leaves, Bishop eases open the door. He pauses, listening, but the only sound is that of someone moving about inside. A raised finger asks me to wait.
I cast a blur spell as Bishop slides through the doorway. He reaches the end of a hall and peers into the shop proper. Then he motions for me to follow.
I creep after him until I can see the butcher cutting up meat. I cast a lock spell on the front door. Bishop slides behind the butcher and then, when the man puts down his knife, Bishop grabs him, his hand going over the fellow’s mouth.
Bishop glances my way, as if gauging my reaction, but I have none—I didn’t expect him to ask nicely for free food. His attention turns back to the butcher, and the brawny man fights, but it’s like seeing a child grapple against an adult. Werewolf strength means Bishop doesn’t even struggle to hold him.
Bishop’s other arm goes around the man’s neck, and his face remains impassive as he holds him there. Seconds tick past. Then the man slumps, and Bishop lowers him to the floor.
The way Bishop carefully lowers him tells me the man is alive, but he still looks my way and murmurs, “He’s only unconscious.”
I nod, and I hope my expression reassures him that I’m fine with this. The Alpha will do what he must to feed his Pack, as he said. He didn’t need to kill this man, so he didn’t, but if it came down to that, he’d weigh his options and make the choice he had to.
Bishop wasn’t raised in a Pack. I wasn’t raised in a Coven. But I think anyone who grew up in a loving family understands this. When it comes to survival, we have our priorities. We must.
Bishop and I begin to fill the sacks as quickly as we can. We’ll be emptying the poor man’s shelves, but again, there’s nothing to be done for it. Maybe, in this case, we’ll find a way to repay him.
As I grab hunks of meat, I keep one eye on the front door. There’s a small window next to it, and I watch that for the shadow of a customer. Yet when someone does come, they approach from the opposite side. Bishop hears the person first, his head jerking up.
The person—presumably a customer—yanks on the door, expecting it to open. I ease over and see a middle-aged woman in a day dress and bonnet.
Bishop and I duck down behind the butcher table as I consider spells. Fog? No, that’d look odd indoors. A cover spell? I think we’re hidden enough and, again, I need to conserve power for an actual emergency.
A shadow passing over the window means the customer is peering in. A loud rapping follows.
“George?” she calls. “George, are you in there?”
“Ma’am,” a man’s voice says. “Might I trouble you for directions?”
Bishop’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing. A stranger to town diverting the woman’s attention when we need it diverted? That’s much too coincidental. The obvious answer is that one of the Pack followed us, but that narrowing of Bishop’s eyes says he doesn’t recognize the voice.
“We should leave,” I whisper.
He looks toward the door, where a conversation continues. Then he nods abruptly, and we grab what we can, our sacks already almost full.
We slow at the rear door and listen, but it’s quiet out back. Bishop cracks open the door and inhales, and I swear his hackles rise.
I sniff and frown as a smell wafts around the building, familiar in one way, unfamiliar in another. “There’s a werewolf at the front door?” I whisper.
Another abrupt nod.
“But not one from the Pack?” I ask.
A grunt that means yes, it’s not a werewolf from the Pack and also, that’s a problem.
Bishop takes the sack of meat from me. “Carry the bread, please. We’ll get to the horses as quickly as we can.”
I only nod, but he still says, “I’m not fleeing. I need to lure him out of town before I confront him.”
“I presumed as much,” I say, and we hurry along the back of the buildings.
* * *
We reach the horses. While Bishop arranges the sacks of food, I pretend to wander, checking a buttercup here, smiling at a little yellowhammer there. Putting on a show of communing with nature … while keeping all senses on alert.
“Nothing,” I say when I return to Bishop. I hadn’t gone far from him. If I had, he’d have reacted and given away our game of acting as if nothing is awry.
“It can’t be a coincidence, can it,” I say.
“No.”
“My grandmother implied she has werewolves in her cabal. That would be who she’d send to track us.”
“It would,” he says grimly as he helps me onto the horse.
Until yesterday, I knew nothing about my grandmother. I’d heard of cabals, but they were European or American and always run by sorcerer families. Werewolf Packs and witch Covens are for specific supernatural types and open only to that type. They’re tight-knit community groups with a chosen leader and strict rules that keep their members safe.
Cabals are businesses. At the top is a spellcaster family, which surrounds itself with supernaturals of all types. While some of these supernaturals are bound by blood oaths, most come for the same reason anyone takes employment—money.
I would presume a cabal offers benefits similar to Packs and Covens, which provide much-needed services supernaturals struggle to find elsewhere—like Bishop’s cousin Julius being the Pack doctor, with a full understanding of werewolf physiology. But, in the end, a cabal is all about making money.
The crowning achievement of sorcerers, cabals have made them—outside Britain—the wealthiest supernaturals. Since sorcerers have been the enemies of witches since the Inquisition, I can’t help being impressed at my family building their own cabal. But I’m not convinced it’s a good thing to beat your enemy at his own game when that game involves murdering innocent people. I can’t help but feel the real way to win is to play by your own rules.
If this werewolf is Beryl’s employee, tasked with tracking us, why would he have helped us in town? Because the world of humans has no idea that supernaturals exist, and we like to keep it that way. Once I’d saved a young sorcerer from exposure when he nearly got caught stealing a necklace. I have no particular antipathy toward sorcerers myself—my aunt having taken one as her longtime lover, Alfred Blackwood—but I didn’t do it to help this young man. I did it because any exposure puts us all at risk.
In gratitude, the young sorcerer had snapped at me to mind my own business and stalked off, never noticing that the necklace was no longer in his pocket.
But I digress.
The fact that this werewolf helped us at the butcher shop makes it more likely he’s sent by my grandmother, who absolutely would not want me exposed as a thief in the village square. I’m no good to her dead or imprisoned.
Bishop and I ride side by side, and I let him lead the way. We’ve seen no sign of someone following us, but that’s more concerning than if we did see the werewolf, because it means he’s tracking us to the rest of the Pack.
“May I ask your plans?” I whisper to Bishop as we ride.
“Not to lead him to the Pack.”
I give him a look. “May I ask the part of your plans that isn’t perfectly obvious?”
A strained smile. “Apologies. I’m distracted.”
“I know, and you don’t need to answer me now. I would have liked to know your plan with the butcher. I trust you, but I also need you to trust me. I wouldn’t have argued for some less violent scheme.” I glance sideways at him. “You do know I’m not a Coven witch, yes?”
His lips twitch. “And more apologies are in order. An Alpha traditionally takes the lead, and his wolves follow, trusting in his plan.” He lifts a hand against argument. “I know, you’re my mate, not my wolf. But while it may seem very autocratic not to share plans with one’s Pack, it’s what they prefer.”
I nod slowly. “If you tell them your plan, it sounds as if you’re uncertain of it. Acting decisively inspires confidence.”
“Yes, and you can point out that I’ve been Alpha for less than a day, but I’ve been leading missions for years. I’ve become accustomed to not explaining myself. I do take your point, though. As for my plan right now, I’m still thinking it through. The problem is that I have no idea what I’m facing.”
“A werewolf tracker who is almost certainly supported by a group of supernaturals, waiting for his signal.”
He sighs. “All right. Apparently, I should be discussing it with you. The question is…”
“Can we stop him before he signals his confederates? Stop him and question him.”
He slants a look my way. “Are you quite certain you haven’t led missions yourself?”
“I’m a witch. Seeing and handling threats is second nature. As for this wolf, even if I could convince you to let us separate—stop making that face—we don’t know which of us he’d follow.” I steer my horse past some brush. “If we thought they’d take me and leave you alone—”
“No.”
“We need to consider that, Bishop.”
“I don’t believe we do.”
I glower at him, and he glowers back.
“We do,” I say firmly. “If I could turn myself over to Beryl, on the condition she left the Pack—”
“You tried that yesterday. Against my wishes, I might add. But you were very clear that you would go with your grandmother if she’d release us. She refused.”
“I’m not enough.”
His voice softens, and he rides close enough to touch my knee. “Only because she doesn’t know you. Otherwise, she’d realize she made a very foolish mistake by not taking you up on your offer.”
I smile at him. “I don’t need reassurance, Bishop. I only wish she’d accepted the deal. She won’t because it’s just that—a deal, a negotiation. To accept it implies I have power. I might be her granddaughter, and she might be offering a warm welcome, but she really just wants to break me. Shatter me and reshape me into what she wants.”
“Then she is a fool.”
“May I ask something of you?”
“Of course.”
“Please make sure the Pack knows that I offered to go and she wouldn’t accept.”
His brow furrows. I fuss with the reins before looking over. “I don’t want anyone thinking this could have all been fixed if I went along willingly. I also don’t want anyone thinking their new Alpha chose his mate over his Pack.”
“Ah. Julius will already be doing that, but I’ll make sure it’s clear, for the few who might question.”
“And even those who wouldn’t openly question but might quietly wonder. I need the Pack to understand why I’m still here. To support you and them. Not to hide from Beryl.”
“I know. However, on the subject of hiding, I do believe I see what I was looking for. A place to conceal ourselves and ambush this wolf.”
TWO
We ride into the forest. Lying in wait is tricky with horses. We find them a grassy stream and then tie them, so they don’t eat and drink their fill and then come to find their people. There’d been a dozen horses at Trevelyan, and Felix had freed them all, but these were the only two who weren’t too panicked to follow him. They’re older horses, a gelding and a mare who are quite content to stick close to the source of sweet apples and shoulder scratches and an easy life. They’re also, thankfully, placid enough not to blink at being tied to a tree.
Once they’re happily grazing, we hurry back to where we came into the forest. I suggest we hide on opposite sides of the path. Bishop vetoes that with a look. Gods forbid I’m ten feet away from him in a dangerous situation.
We hunker together, and it isn’t long before the werewolf arrives. He’s on horseback, which means he brought his own horse because that’s one thing werewolves can’t steal. The wolf in their scent makes animals uneasy, and I presume horses need to be raised with werewolves.
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