Chapter Ten
Aidan held up the wolf-tooth charm, looking more agitated than Sorcha thought a charm warranted, even if it was very, very old. And a tooth. And technically belonged to the Winterwells. “Oops.”
“Oops?” he repeated very evenly. She imagined there were students and museum patrons and underlings throughout London who might cower at such a tone.
As she was neither student nor patron, she had no intention of cowering.
She shrugged again, unrepentant. “Winterwell doesn’t deserve it.
” Aidan did not seem to be in any great hurry to give it back to her.
He had better not be considering returning it to Winterwell.
He closed his hand around the charm. “Hey, that’s mine! ” she said.
“It’s not, actually,” he said grimly, all serious, furrowed brow again. Power simmered under his skin, something as ancient as the forest, the mountains. The moonlight. How had she not noticed before? His magic had teeth.
“Well, it’s not yours either,” she pointed out.
“I’m the one who tracked it down for the marquess’s collection.”
Sorcha snorted, unimpressed.
Aidan’s mouth turned grimmer still. “You really have no idea what you’ve done.”
“If he’s that sore about it, I’ll say it caught on my sleeve and I had no idea I even had it until I got home.”
“It’s too late for that.”
Sorcha frowned. Aidan was serious. Not curator serious. Predator serious. Her crow flew closer, squawking.
Aidan looked down at her, gold eyes steady but searing. “Do you trust me, Lady Sorcha?”
He was big and intimidating, an earl and a wolf and probably twice as clever as anyone she had ever known. And he had kissed her and then walked away. For weeks.
And then he had bitten her. Saved her from an ogre. And Brutus.
He was a very confusing man.
But yes. Yes, she trusted him.
She nodded. Relief warred with something she could not quite identify in his expression. “Good,” he said. “Then you’ll come with me. Now.”
She followed him outside. “You’re not going to make me return the charm to Winterwell, are you?” She would feel like a scolded child. Unacceptable.
“I told you. It’s too late for that. Far too late.”
“Why, exactly?” There was the sound of wood being chopped nearby, like a heart beating too hard, too loud. Or was that her heartbeat?
Aidan’s eyes were the eyes of a wolf, scanning the forest for threats as they left the tent. “Because there’s a spell on that tooth.”
She groaned. “Did I trigger a hex? I have black salt. And thunder water. I can get rid of it.”
“Not this one.”
“Why not?” Hexes and spells and charms were part and parcel of living on Lyonesse.
You learned quickly how to ground loose magic through iron nails, how to wash away curses with salt water, how to use blue evil-eye beads to turn away a hex.
They were already painted above the windows of Nettlestone.
Granted, Granny had insisted on crushed pearls and shells for the white paint and blue lapis lazuli from Egypt for the inlay for the pupils.
“It’s a curse, not a hex.”
She frowned. “What curse?” She would know if she were cursed. There would be signs. The bread would not rise; the candles would refuse to light. The only birds who would respond to her call would be red birds, or white. She would taste ashes, blood, iron.
“I’m not cursed,” she insisted, even though being attacked and abducted by a wolf might be considered a sign of just that. “How would you even know?”
“Because I know who put it there.”
“Oh.”
An older man with a silvery beard and silvery-blue eyes waited at the fire outside the tent. Sorcha did not know if he even realized he was naked or simply did not care.
She did not know where to look, but she was not complaining. She rather liked Lycan society, despite her introduction to it being through an unfortunate kidnapping.
“Tavish,” Aidan greeted the man. “Put on some pants.”
“As if you haven’t seen my naked arse a hundred times.”
“This lady might not want the pleasure.”
Tavish’s frank appraisal of Sorcha made a sound rumble in Aidan’s chest. “Who’s the witch?” Tavish asked.
“She’s not your business, you old busybody.”
“Don’t be like that. You know I’ll always love you best.” Tavish winked at Sorcha. “Heard you caused quite a stir.”
“Sorcha Beauregard,” Sorcha said, introducing herself even though several generations of duchesses in her lineage would have been thoroughly scandalized at the thought. She was fairly certain there were no masters of ceremonies lurking about to provide formal introductions, as there were at balls.
And Aidan was being even more silent than usual. “Lady Sorcha,” he added finally.
Tavish bowed. “My lady.”
He was still naked.
And she decided he absolutely did realize it, and he did care but only to aggravate Aidan and his sense of decorum. She also decided she liked Tavish very much.
Aidan sighed. “You’re still naked, Tavish.”
“Aye, that I am. Your lass seems of good, sturdy stock. Are you going to swoon, my lady?
“Certainly not.” She tilted her head. “Although I suppose I should not say that for certain, as I have yet to actually see your naked arse. It might be swoon-worthy.”
Tavish laughed so loudly that someone answered from the forest in what Sorcha could only describe as a puppy bark.
“And I suppose one must get used to it. I imagine you cannot always guarantee access to clothing,” she added.
“Especially as someone keeps stealing my best plaids,” Tavish muttered.
Sorcha glanced at Aidan. He was smirking without smirking. Smiling without smiling. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. “I once had to shimmy out of my dress when I traded it to a river nymph in return for releasing a trapped badger from an eddy. I had to walk home in my chemise.”
Tavish chuckled. “I like you, witch.”
“Thank you, wolf. I like you too.”
“All right, quit your flirting,” Aidan muttered.
Sorcha jabbed him with her elbow, cheeks heating. “I wasn’t!”
“He was taking to me, lass,” Tavish said.
“Oh, well, in that case, I was too, actually.”
“You have excellent taste.” He nodded to Aidan. “Why do you smell like that?” His nostrils flared. “Brutus?”
“Aye.”
“He’s grieving.”
“Aye. Which is why he’s still standing. Where’s Freya?”
“Freya?” Tavish whistled. “Are you sure about that?”
“I’m afraid so. Can’t you smell it?”
Tavish’s nostrils flared and he sighed. “Aye. Best of luck to you, lass.”
Aidan frowned. “Don’t scare her.”
“She doesn’t look like she scares easily.”
Perhaps not, but the growling and the determined footfalls of several wolves stalking toward her through the trees did give her pause. Aidan and Tavish moved together, swearing under their breath.
“You waited too long,” Tavish murmured.
“Aye. I can still see the curse on her, even though I snapped the thread.”
Sorcha’s eyes widened behind their backs. It was a lovely collection of muscles, one she might have admired under different circumstances. “What’s happening?”
“They can smell the curse on you,” Aidan replied.
“I’m sorry?” she called out hesitantly.
“It’s meant to call them to you, to make you easier to track. Your cut, my mark, Orla’s scent. It was only going to distract them for a little while.”
Tavish, human one moment, landed on four paws the next, shifting nearly quicker than her eye could catch. He was grizzled, solid. Aidan stood at his side, eyes glinting a challenge, one that promised to end bloody. “We need to get to Freya.”
The growling inched closer, the flash of teeth. It made the back of her neck prickle. Her legs quivered.
“Don’t run yet,” Aidan snapped.
She froze.
“Nothing a wolf loves more than a chase.”
Sorcha did not know what to do, but she did know that she had no intention of watching Aidan and Tavish be harmed on her behalf. Or the other wolves who might only be following the pull of the curse she had triggered. Like a cabbagehead.
She recognized the wolf leading the silent attack by the blood on his leg where Aidan had caught him. By the way he glared at her as if he would gladly tear her to pieces. Brutus.
“Brutus, I did see your daughter Orla.”
Had his snarl been a weapon, it would have shredded her to ribbons. She would be standing in a puddle of her own blood. She swallowed. “But I didn’t hurt her. I freed her.”
The malevolent gleam of teeth.
“She was a white wolf. I last saw her running for the moors.”
He paused.
But it wasn’t quite enough. She saw it in the bunching of his muscles, the wrinkle of his nose as his lips pulled further back.
So she did what she always did.
She called the birds.
Her whistle pierced the heavy atmosphere, the glitter of danger. It was just incongruous enough to buy her a few moments. Just long enough for the sparrows and the crows and the goldfinches to answer her call.
They flew down out of the tree, pecking at wolves’ tails, staying out of reach of snapping jaws. They darted in and out, pulling fur, pinching. Aggravating more than distracting.
“Hell of a distraction,” Aidan said. “Now you can run.”
They left the clearing behind, weaving between the oaks and the ash trees.
Running with bare feet was not the easiest, but she managed to avoid stubbing her toe on exposed roots or cutting herself open on branches.
And then Aidan scooped her up and kept running, barely disturbing the undergrowth. He wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Where are we going?” Sorcha panted. “Who is Freya?”
“She’s our Luna.”
Sorcha had no idea who that was, but she was keen to find out. Especially if it stopped her from getting eaten. “And what’s that, exactly?”
“A wolf witch, of a sort. Someone even the Alphas mind.”
The trees spread wide branches around them, primroses and ferns thick at their feet.
A tiny goldfinch landed on Sorcha’s wrist, chirping.
“The wolves aren’t following,” she said, translating the sparrow’s images of wolves tucking their tails to keep them from the birds, of more interesting scents to follow.