Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Faucherian guard didn’t see him coming and in seconds Pierre had dispatched him and taken his weapon.
On the other side of the garden Louis, with his own newly acquired pistol, signaled his readiness.
Time to storm the house. They took out two more guards in the foyer before meeting up with the Proulx brothers on the stairs.
The sudden silence as the alarm cut off was a relief. Now he could pinpoint where the rest of the Faucherians were. It wasn’t hard. When would these people learn they were dealing with werewolves?
He took the stairs two at a time, leaving the Proulx brothers to secure the rooms downstairs.
On the second-floor landing, he caught a scent.
He dragged it into his nose. Female and age, and something else.
Something fetid and malignant with the sour taint of bitterness and hatred and decay.
Cordelia. He eyed the stairs. Melinda was up there, on the third floor.
Their mate. They’d come here for her. But…
“No, Pierre,” whispered Louis. “Not this time.”
“This might be the only chance we get.”
Louis’ lips flattened into a thin line, but he didn’t refute him. Louis knew he was right. If they lost Cordelia, they might never catch her, and she’d be free to wreak more havoc.
“Go find Melinda. Keep her safe. I’m going after the witch.”
Louis nodded and bounded silently up the stairs. Pierre followed his nose down the hall.
He stepped into a room full of shadows even his keen eyesight couldn’t penetrate. Witchcraft. The smell was strongest here. His wolf held at the ready, close to the surface, he inched his way forward.
A dry and dusty chuckle echoed about the room. “You’re too late, wolf.”
The voice crawled over his skin like a thousand ants, raising the hair on the back of his neck.
“Show yourself, witch.”
The shadows shifted, thick and suffocating, swirling around his face, whispering across his skin, taunting his eyes with glimpses of cream and gold opulence, a brocade chair, but no Cordelia.
He eased a few steps further into the room, his senses peeled, ready to lunge the moment he could pinpoint her.
“You made a mistake coming here.”
The disembodied voice sent shivers along his spine. His wolf had never backed down from anything, but this woman, this witch, set him on edge like no other threat before. Where was she?
“You kidnapped our mate. Nothing would stop us from coming after you.” His voice was little more than a growl, his vocal cords shifting, coarse hairs bristling on the backs of his arms. His wolf wanted out, wanted to take over.
Another cackle. “Oh, I knew that, wolf. That’s why I had Veilleux bring her here.”
Then what was she talking about?
“You should’ve stayed with your twin. Coming after me is going to cost you.” A light flared—a match—and for a brief instant the flame cut through the shadows, laying bare the old woman standing over a bowl of herbs, malevolent glee in her mismatched eyes. “Make your choice, wolf. Me or them.”
A scream ripped through the house. “Louis! No!”
Melinda.
The old woman dropped the match into the bowl of herbs and began chanting, but Pierre didn’t care.
He was out the door, bounding up the stairs.
His twin howled, and the pain of it sliced through him.
The sound cut off, leaving only the harsh breathing of human males and the broken sobs of their mate.
* * * *
Louis groaned. His throat and wrists burned and his wolf was silent.
Silver. They’d bound him in silver. The slight deadening of his senses as he’d stepped into the room had warned him there was wolfsbane present, but with his cuff turned over to protect him, and the image of Melinda on her knees, the barrel of a gun pressed against her temple, nothing short of a silver bullet to the head would’ve stopped him from taking that step.
Filthy fucking Faucherians. He’d sworn the man threatening her would count his remaining lifespan in seconds.
It had been his undoing. That, and the copious amounts of wolfsbane they had stored in the room.
Far too much for the small amount of silver of his wrist cuff to counteract.
The connards had used it to good effect, and Louis had lost control of his wolf.
Now he lay here, naked but for a few scraps of clothing, shackled in silver.
Louis chuffed. Pierre would maintain Louis never had control, and he wouldn’t be far wrong, but he swore to the fates he’d learn some if they ever got out of this situation.
He shifted, hissing as the silver shackles around his wrists and neck blistered fresh skin. Putain. It burned, but the hollow emptiness in his mind, the absence of his wolf, hurt more. And hearing the sobs of their mate…
“Chouquette.”
Melinda lifted her tear-stained face. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
He shook his head. “Non, bébé. I’m sorry. We’re both sorry. We should never have deceived you.” If not for their betrayal, she wouldn’t be here. “It’s going to be okay, Melinda.”
He grunted as a Faucherian kicked him in the ribs. “Quiet. Filthy animal.”
Louis would have growled and chewed his ankle off if he could’ve called forth his wolf. “I’m going to rip out your throat the moment I’m free.”
The fils de pute laughed. “Brave words, but zey mean nozing.” He leaned in close. “I’m going to personally put a bullet in your ’ead ze moment you’re no longer needed.”
Another Faucherian walked into the room. “You could be waiting a while. Veilluex wants this one alive.”
An American accent. The Faucherians’ reach was spreading far and wide.
“And he’s in a foul mood. Things didn’t go so well with their lot.”
Did that mean Isobella’s trip back in time was successful? If he could have, Louis would have fist pumped the air.
“Merde. What does he want him for?”
The American shrugged. “Something to do with some organization. What was it called? The DGSE.”
The Directorate-General for External Security? Putain. Pierre would have his balls if he ended up in the clutches of France’s foreign intelligence agency. Not to mention Maxime. Louis wasn’t keen about the idea of being a science experiment in a lab, either.
“What about ze others?”
“Veilluex wants the twin alive. The others…” The American shrugged. “If we can catch ’em, great. If not, kill ‘em. I’m tired of these shifter fuckers stealin’ our women. A little payback is in order.”
Louis didn’t need to wonder why they needed him and Pierre alive. Science had been using twins for their studies, their experiments for years.
“And ze fille?”
“You mean the girl? She goes with them. Some guy Veilleux calls the Doctor wants to witness a turning.”
Fils de pute. Louis had to get out of these silver shackles.
Had to warn his brother of the high concentration of wolfsbane in this room.
He had to save their mate. For the first time in his life, he regretted his impulsiveness.
Wished he was more like his twin. He prayed they weren’t all destined to die in a science lab because of it.
* * * *
Pierre paused at the top of the stairs, straining to hear the muted voices down the hall.
Why could he not make out their words? He sniffed the air.
Nothing strong or tangible. He checked his wrist cuff.
Still in place, the burn of the silver against his skin a constant.
But there was wolfsbane here. There had to be.
His senses were there, but not as strong as they should be.
The Faucherians had increased the quantities.
The silver against his skin was doing its job.
His wolf wasn’t coming forth uncalled for, but he wasn’t unaffected.
With cautious steps, he made his way down the hall.
The closer he got to the room, the greater the effect of the wolfsbane.
They must have barrels of the stuff in there.
His fear for his twin and his mate urged him to rush forward, but he contained it.
He would be of no use to them if he, too, fell victim.
The soft rumble of his brother’s voice filtered through the closed door. He was alive. Thank the fates. Louis grunted, then hissed. Melinda sobbed. They were both alive. Thank fuck. He would never forgive himself if his decision to go after Cordelia had resulted in their deaths.
Behind him, on the stairs, Alois and Elliot approached.
He held up his hand, halting them, and pointed to his cuff.
They nodded their understanding, poised, waiting.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.
If it was Gabriel, the fucker could wait.
If this all ended badly, if he lost his twin and his mate, he’d beat his brother to a bloody pulp.
He eased next to the door, listening. It was a strain, with his senses muted, but he still far surpassed the abilities of any human. Louis and Melinda. And two men—one French, one American—discussing their plan to ambush him. One paced in front of the door. Pierre let his canines slide down.
Stupid connard.
He raised his weapon, waited until the Americain was clear of Louis and Melinda, then fired a short burst at head height through the door. He didn’t miss. The body dropped to the floor with a thud. Shocked silence, and Pierre used his advantage and kicked the door open.
Fuck. No.
A fury he’d never experienced before roared through him at the sight that greeted him. Louis shackled in silver on the floor. Melinda, beside him, on her knees, the Frenchmen’s hand twisted in her hair, holding a pistol to her temple, sobbing, pleading him with her eyes to help them.
No one put Melinda on her knees but them. Especially not some connard Faucherian.
“Do it,” his countryman taunted him. “Shift. Only your wolf can save her.”