Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Tonight we’ll watch an earl murder his betrothed,” Amelia said, as if announcing the next play at the theatre.
“No one will forget what the Lycan truly are. Beasts. And their blood will seal the wards on this place so we might continue unbothered.” She raised her eyebrows.
“I am not bluffing, earl. Into the ring with her, now.”
She smiled again. Sorcha was beginning to truly hate that smile.
Sorcha saw true fear in Aidan’s gilded eyes. His worst nightmare, to be caught with her under the moon. But he had fought this nightmare before and he could fight it again. Sorcha believed it with every ounce of her being.
Even if the little hairs on her arms prickled.
She rushed forward, but he held up his hands. “Don’t come any closer.”
And then the moon touched him.
Sorcha smelled roses.
Even Aidan was not strong enough to hold back the wolf. Not when the full moon shone down on him, not with Sorcha in danger, not when he had been fighting it all the way over the hills to track her.
His teeth sharpened and he clenched his fists, wrestling back the magic. The tendons of his neck were thick as ropes. His muscles bulged as he fought the pull of the moon and the spell. His expression was stark. “I’m sorry, Sorcha.”
She lifted her chin even as her heart raced. “I am not afraid of your wolf, Aidan.”
“I’m so sorry,” he rasped again before the wolf took him.
The power of it rippled through him, contracting his muscles, re-forming his bones, recreating him from blood and flesh and sinew. It only took a moment. He jerked backward when his spine changed and then fell forward onto his paws.
The gray wolf growled as the audience’s gasps turned into cheers.
“Now you’ll all see him kill his own fiancée. As his nature demands.”
His nature demanded no such thing. It was Amelia’s spell.
But she had no idea how strong Aidan was. Aidan didn’t even know it himself. But Sorcha knew. She felt it.
She swallowed, staying very still, giving him a moment to realize where he was, who he was. For his wolf to sort through the shouting and the scents of blood and beer and simmering violence. The howls and whines from the other side of the stone walls, getting closer now.
Amelia’s guards were dragging them toward the pit, toward the moonlight, to tear each other’s throats out.
Aidan’s wolf wanted blood.
He felt his muscles bunching in preparation for attack. Felt the moonlight like silver needles. Wolves got their power from the moon, but it was tainted now. The smell of roses burned his nose.
The wolf who had turned him prowling through the village. A fisherman with his throat torn out. The gnawed bones of the midwife.
The taste of Sorcha’s blood in his mouth.
Sorcha took a step to the side, an idea forming. A plan. A plot.
A desperate shot in the dark, really, but this was not the time to quibble.
Aidan growled, lips lifting off his curved, wickedly pointed teeth.
She halted. His hackles rose, fur bristling like knives.
She swallowed. “We can do this, Aidan,” she whispered, but she knew he could not hear her over the pounding of boots on the ground, the wagers being yelled back and forth, the shouts.
Could not even smell her over the perfume, the roasted meat pasties, the burn of fennel and salt. Magic.
The moon.
Aidan snarled as the light silvered him, as if it were causing him great pain.
She kept circling, and his gold eyes never left her. She tilted her head to show him her throat, where he had marked her.
“I am not afraid of your wolf,” Sorcha said again. “But she should be.”
The spell was claiming the wolves outside, one by one, bound by gold threads and silver chains, led by baneful magic.
He felt it. The misery of it mixed with the taste of Sorcha’s blood on his tongue.
Amelia perched on her chair like it was a throne, wrapped in the threads of her witchery.
The spell might be fed by blood and violence and the moon, but the binding charm was on her person.
The shield that would keep his wolf from jumping over the flickering green fire to go for her throat.
That would make the Cauldron unstoppable.
“Afraid?” Amelia laughed. The crowd laughed with her.
“I have these, don’t I?” She gestured to her necklace of three stolen teeth.
“No wolf bite can harm me. No wolf can harm me now, not with my spell. And you without your red cloak, with only pigeons for your army.” She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth like a disappointed governess.
Only it wasn’t the red cloak that had given Sorcha power. She knew that. It had lent her invisibility, but that was not what was needed here. There were too many fears hiding in the dark and growing too many secrets.
And maybe Amelia could not be harmed by a wolf, as she claimed. But as everyone seemed intent on reminding her, Sorcha was not a wolf.
She was a witch with a clever, vengeful heart.
A heart that belonged to Aidan.
“Maybe he can’t stop you,” Sorcha said. “But I can.”
The wolf cut through the binding threads, sliced them with his claws, shredded them with his teeth. It was almost enough.
Almost.
Sorcha flicked her eyes toward Amelia, sitting on her embroidered cushion with her goblet of wine. Aidan’s wolf followed her gaze, snarling softly.
Sorcha bent her knees.
Sorcha was not running from him. Wolves chased, tracked, hunted.
She was running toward him.
The wolf lunged, soaring through the air, teeth gleaming.
Amelia laughed, delighted.
Sorcha ducked low, his claws grazing the top of her head as he passed. He landed easily, and turned to face her. His eyes burned, his lips curled. He was every inch the predator, the hungry wolf parents warned children about.
And he was hers.
He braced himself as Sorcha jumped, using him for leverage. He took her weight and then bucked, adding height to her leap over the green fire. The flames licked at the soles of her shoes.
Sorcha landed in front of Amelia, who scrambled backward, spilling her wine. It bloomed across her white dress, dripped on the painted wood floorboards. Her guards raced toward her, but they were too far away.
Sorcha did not bother with threats or violence, though she was inclined toward both at the moment. She only reached down and yanked Amelia’s necklace of teeth right off her body. The chain snapped. Amelia grabbed for it.
Sorcha punched her in the nose.
Very well. Perhaps she was more than a little inclined toward violence.
Amelia’s head snapped back. She was used to orchestrating violence like a country dance, not receiving it. She gasped, blood dripping from her nose. “Guards!”
Sorcha noticed that Amelia wore another chain, ornamented with pearls, which held a round glass egg the size of a quail’s.
It swirled with magic and looked to be filled with white rose petals.
Another trap for a Nightmare? Something else?
She intended to find out. She yanked it free as well, and this time Amelia scratched at her with curled fingers.
But Sorcha knew better than to mess with spells she did not recognize.
“Aidan!”
The wolves were inside the tower now, gleaming eyes rolling fitfully.
The audience was frightened, calling up familiars who streaked through the air, adding an eerie glow.
Sorcha was not opposed to a great many of them being bitten.
But the wolves were not themselves and ought not have to carry that with them.
Especially as it was unlikely to end with one warning bite. Blood would spill over the stones.
“Aidan!”
Three times, she called his name.
“Aidan.”
The wolf shivered, shifting into Aidan, naked and tattooed. He rose to his feet and caught the glass egg she tossed at him. His eyes burned gold as he examined it, tracking the threads. He shot her a slow smile and then crushed the egg in his hand.
The glass shards cracked, spitting darts of magic.
The wolves paused, frozen for a brief instant. Then an ear twitch, a shake of the head. The frantic gleam faded from silver eyes, gold eyes, blue eyes. The last of the spectators tripped over each other to flee.
“No!” Amelia gasped.
She had an armed guard, but Sorcha had wolves.
Aidan’s Alpha growl cut through the spell, severing the remaining threads.
The crowd of spectators, so eager to see the fight play out, suddenly wanted to be anywhere else.
But it wasn’t quite enough. Aidan’s gaze sharpened, still tracking the spell. He stared at the top of the tower, roofless, stairless. It would take too long to scale, if it were even possible.
Sorcha followed his gaze. She whistled once, twice. A crow called back.
There, on a cracked parapet stone: another glass egg sitting in a circle of dried roses.
Sorcha promised blackberry scones, loaves of bread, sunflower seeds. An entire cake.
The crow obliged, but mostly because the glass egg was so shiny. He plucked it up in his beak and flew down, dropping it in Sorcha’s waiting palm.
It never landed.
One of Amelia’s guards caught it in the air.
But he held it for only the briefest moment. Furious at the guard’s proximity to his future wife, Aidan strode calmly forward, gripped his ankle, and yanked. The man fell hard. The glass egg soared. Amelia shrieked.
Aidan caught it and crushed it, just like the first.
The severing of the last threads of magic shook the ground. The stones rattled, mortar raining down. There was a blinding flash of light and the tower began to crumble. Someone screamed.
Amelia took it as an opportunity to shove a blinking, disoriented Sorcha off the edge of the platform.
Sorcha could not catch herself in time. She lost her footing and fell.
Aidan caught her in his arms.
She blinked at him, stomach topsy-turvy. “I knew you’d find me.”
“You’re hard to miss, Lady Sorcha.”
“Why, thank you, Lord Coventry.”
The ring of green fire dwindled to nothing. A large chunk of stone hit the ground and shattered, pelting them. The crumbling walls swayed dangerously. The sound was like grinding teeth, cracking ice.
Aidan ducked another stone and ran, hunched over Sorcha to protect her. Wolves tore for the doorway. The few remaining spectators climbed through the windows. Sorcha could not see Amelia anywhere. There was only falling stone, cracked ground, clouds of dust.
And the courtyard, scattered with rose petals and salt.
Aidan did not stop running until he had Sorcha well clear.
The tower swayed once more and collapsed.
Aidan’s arms were tight around Sorcha, his heart thundering in her ear. “You need to eat more,” he muttered. “You barely weigh anything at all.” That was demonstrably untrue, but she kissed his cheek anyway. “Maybe we’ll avoid rosewater desserts for a while. I’ve lost the taste for them.”
“Good idea.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “That was a hell of a risk, songbird.”
She pressed back. “It was worth it.”
Most of the spectators had fled except for a few who remained, shame-faced. They helped pull chains from the captured wolves, only gasping a little as they transformed into naked men and women with curses on their tongues.
It was Orla who stepped out of the dust and shadows, eyes haunted but clear. Her hair was a mess of knots and burrs. She gripped a limp Amelia by the back of the neck.
“My memory is fuzzy, so I can’t remember exactly why, but I have the very real urge to break several of her bones.”