Chapter Ten #2
“I know,” Aidan replied. “They wouldn’t dare. Not here. Not even Brutus, in his state.”
“How long did the Cauldron have his daughter?”
“Too long.”
Aidan set her down, and she decided it was inappropriate to immediately miss the warmth of his arms around her, the press of his chest. Inappropriate but still fact.
He stopped in front of a shrine with a statue of Luperca, braids of flowers and wheat stalks at her feet. Water sat in glass bottles, waiting to be charged under the full moon. Crescent moonstones were strung between the trees, interspersed with wolf teeth and tiny bells.
Past the shrine, an old woman waited. Freya had long white hair worn in braids wrapped like a crown.
There were chains of moonstones wound through them and a pendant dangling between her faded, milky eyes.
She wore a simple blue blouse and a long skirt the color of oak bark, such as village women had worn for centuries.
Sorcha imagined that gowns requiring a lady’s maid were not much use in the forest. She knew there were Lycan in Haven and London who followed the fashions and would have disdained anything but the very best, just as her grandmother had, but clearly this camp was something different.
Did Simon know of this gathering? Shouldn’t he be here? Had his father made him unwelcome?
Freya, though clearly blind, faced them expectantly. “Coventry,” she said in a strong voice. Three wolf pups leapt out of the tall grass, wrestling with excited yips. They spotted Sorcha and raced toward her. She crouched, searching her pockets, but she’d given Nuala the last of her bread.
When the first pup closed his sharp teeth around her knuckle and tripped over his own paws trying to pull her over, she decided to treat them exactly as they seemed: as infants.
After all, this was hardly the first time she had felt teeth.
She had been gnawed on by any number of creatures.
The second pup, the one with a floppy ear, growled.
“Yes,” she agreed. “You’re very fearsome.”
The third sat and watched her.
And then the first gnawed at her again, and the second leapt on him and accidentally took out the third with his back leg. Joyful mayhem ensued. The goldfinch took to the sky, unimpressed.
Freya snapped her fingers, and the rolling chaos of teeth and tails and paws came to a halt. “Off you go.”
One whine of protest, a lick to Sorcha’s red knuckles, and they raced away toward the camp.
“They like you,” Freya said. “Even with the stink of the curse.”
Sorcha rose to her feet, resigned to everyone suddenly telling her she smelled bad. “I think pups probably like everyone.”
“Well, that’s true enough.” She nodded to Aidan, stoic and patient. “But this one’s no pup.”
“No.”
“And he likes you.”
Sorcha flicked him a glance. “He tolerates me. Mitigating circumstances, you understand.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought he might have flinched.
“He likes you well enough to bring you to me.” Freya sniffed once. “You smell…complicated.”
Sorcha supposed that was better than Hecuba telling her she smelled like fish scales, but truthfully, she was beginning to wonder if she needed better soap. Especially around wolves.
“There’s magic on you.”
“Aye,” Aidan said.
“And you smell like…a unicorn. And a Black Shuck?”
Sorcha winced. “Yes, I imagine I do.” Was that what Aidan smelled on her? The ladies he was used to must smell like roses and lilies.
Not the point, Sorcha, she reminded herself sternly. She was never going to smell of anything but stables and monsters and bread. No sense fussing over it now.
“Hmm.” Freya reached up and sent one of the bells twirling.
It touched the next, sending them into each other.
The sound of a hundred tiny bells rose around them.
“Wolves have very good hearing,” she explained.
“But not everything is for their ears.” She pointed at Aidan.
There was a large moonstone ring on her finger. “Explain.”
Aidan did not bristle at the command. “She stole the Bisclavret tooth from Winterwell,” he said.
“I can see that.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes at Aidan. “I already said I’d give it back.”
“You can trust her,” he said to Freya. “She is no friend to the Cauldron.”
Sorcha straightened. “Is this about the Cauldron?”
“The Collector has an interest in the wolves,” Freya said, voice hard as iron nails. “He cloaks the Cauldron from us but steals our young for his games.”
Sorcha thought of Simon and Orla and the others she had found chained. “Yes.”
“We cannot track the Cauldron when it should be easy for us.”
Aidan had found it. Had found her.
“And so we set a trap for him,” Freya continued.
“Oh, good.”
Aidan glanced down at her. “And then you stole it.”
Sorcha winced. “Oops.”
Aidan’s mouth twitched, but she might have imagined it. “I put a tracking spell on the tooth, but Freya cursed it.”
A true curse cast by someone as powerful as Freya would not be broken by salt or a hundred iron nails. Blast.
“But why should I remove the curse?” Freya asked. “She meddled. There are consequences.”
Well, that was not heartening. Perhaps Granny knew of a way to remove the curse. Or the Iron Witches? Or Sorcha could just ask Pippa. She would have a book on the subject, surely. Or a hundred.
“She is not a wolf.” Freya sounded…bored. “And therefore not my concern.”
“And as she is not a wolf, she should also therefore not suffer the consequences of a wolf,” Aidan pointed out. “The curse will only amplify. Every wolf will smell it on her and be distracted from our true goal. And she might not be a wolf, but she is…mine. I marked her.”
That Sorcha felt a fluttering heat in her core at his words and his implacable tone was not helpful. “And I was abducted,” she pointed out. “Brought here against my will. By force. We could call it even.”
Freya sniffed, but she did not toss Sorcha out of the woods. That was something. Progress—maybe? Sorcha could not afford to wrestle with a curse. Maybe not even for the length of time it took to get home and consult with Granny.
The Red Cloak had too many secrets. And curses were too clever.
“She gave Simon Whelan sanctuary from his father,” Aidan said. Did he know what else she had done? He must be wondering how she knew Orla was safe. How she knew Orla at all.
Freya’s attention sharpened. “Did she?” She tilted her head. “And what else?”
Sorcha frowned. Aidan shook his head at her imperceptibly. A warning.
“I can help you find the Collector,” Sorcha said. “If you help me stop the Cauldron altogether.”
“And how’s that?”
“Because I am the Red Cloak.”
Aidan closed his eyes briefly, as if he had known it already. As if he remembered her from that night but had chosen not to say anything. “Freya,” he said, and there was no command this time, only weariness and the hint of a plea.
But Freya had caught the scent, as it were.
And Sorcha knew it was a risk, a big risk, to admit to being the Red Cloak, but it was worth it.
She hadn’t been able to stop the Cauldron on her own.
She had a real chance now. She was running out of options.
Out of funds. And the captured were running out of time.
“You need me,” she added, just in case it wasn’t clear.
“Do we?” Freya said.
“I can find the Cauldron. I have before, and I can do it again. Together, we can take it down. For good, not just for one night.” She sent Aidan a sidelong glance.
He may as well have been one of his precious pyramids or museum exhibits for all that she could decipher his expression. “And he needs me.”
“Do I?” he asked, and still he may as well have been speaking in an ancient language.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re very good. Honorable.”
“And you aren’t?”
She snorted. “Not like you, Lord Coventry.”
He only shook his head. But she knew she was correct in this. He was careful and methodical and just. She was… Well, far less savory words had been used to describe her. Petty. Vengeful. Feral.
Freya nodded once. “Do you understand what this means, Sorcha Beauregard?”
Sorcha nodded as well.
Aidan stifled a groan. “She doesn’t.”
“Hush, you’re embarrassing me,” she murmured.
Freya smiled slowly. “This will work just fine.” She flicked her hand. Her bracelets added to the song of the chimes. “Very well. We have an agreement.” The smile lines around her mouth turned to stone. “Do you know what happens if you break a pact with a wolf?”
Sorcha swallowed. The fear that snaked up her spine was primal, instinctual. But so was her reaction to being threatened. She kept her voice light and unbothered. “I imagine it involves eating my entrails, etcetera, etcetera.”
Freya barked a laugh. It was not comforting in any way. “Something like that.”
“Sorcha, think about this,” Aidan said, quietly but fervently.
Freya was still grinning. “Too late now, Coventry.”
Sorcha took in his tight jaw, the white of his knuckles, the gold of his eyes. “It’s worth it,” she said.
And then there was nothing left to say. It was too late to change her mind, to take it back.
Far too late.
Curses were not broken easily, even by those who’d cast them. Sometimes they did not break at all until their work was done.
And they always, always hurt.
Freya had laid a crown of rowan branches bright with red berries on Sorcha’s head.
She drew a circle of salt around her bare feet, laid more on her tongue.
An iron nail went into the ground directly in front of her and behind her.
Her witch knot started to burn almost immediately. A hawk screeched in the distance.
Sorcha struggled to stay calm, to even her breathing. She was too hot. Too cold. Too everything.
Elderberry shrieked and dove into her chest, scattering feathers of light. It helped. A little.
Not nearly enough.