Witch of the Wolves

Chapter One

O NE

Nothing ruins a lovely day like being stalked by a supernatural. I know someone is following me. I just haven’t been able to catch a glimpse of the fellow.

I presume it’s a “fellow.” No one ever sends a woman to threaten me, which really is an oversight—the supernatural women I know are far more dangerous than the men. Maybe I just travel in the wrong circles. Or the right circles, depending on how you look at it.

At this moment, though, I would prefer a little less danger in my day, given that I’m walking along a very busy London street with my very human friend and her very human cousin.

If anything goes wrong, I’d never want Audrey and Henrietta to be caught in the cross fire.

Especially when—like most humans—they have no idea that their world contains things like, well, me.

A witch, currently conveying some very dark magic to my aunt’s half-demon client.

Magic this fellow stalking me might be hoping to steal.

Audrey taps me with her parasol, opened against the midday sun. “Don’t turn around now, Cordelia, but there is a man following you.”

She says this lightly, teasingly, but I still tense.

“No need to worry,” she says. “He’s just interested. As usual.”

Henrietta rolls her eyes my way. “And here I thought we might actually finish a walk without Cordelia attracting at least one admirer.”

I sigh dramatically. “He’ll need to get in line. I already have more suitors than I can possibly handle.”

“None,” Audrey says. “You have none, because you accept none, and if you send this poor fellow into the queue, he’ll discover he has stepped over a hole and disappear forever.”

Henrietta laughs.

“I think you might like this one,” Audrey whispers. “He has a dangerous air about him.” She leans toward her cousin. “Cordelia always pays attention to those ones.”

As we pass the next window, I look at my reflection while pretending to adjust my bonnet. At last I spot my stalker across the narrow street, about a dozen feet back.

I frown as I examine him in the reflection. He’s not the sort of “dangerous man” Audrey teased me about noticing. Those are supernatural thugs who look as if they have a blade in each boot and a pistol in each pocket.

This one is a very different kind of threat. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. The sort of man who seems ordinary but radiates a palpable air of menace that has others giving him a wide berth.

A vampire? A high-level half-demon exuding something that even humans sense?

Or maybe I’m overly sensitive to danger, and humans grant him space only because he’s too well-dressed for this street.

He wears a crisp new top hat—very fashionable in fashionable neighborhoods, which this is not.

His relaxed suit is also up-and-coming couture for the man-about-town.

He’s tall and clean-shaven. Maybe only a few years older than my twenty-three.

His jet-black hair is already curling despite pomade.

He does look dangerous. But why? My brain seizes on this little mystery with the ferocity of a terrier. Is it the angles of his face? The set of his jaw? The intensity that pulses from him? Or is it the way he moves, powerful despite his lean build and fancy suit?

I shake off the question. What matters is that he must be dealt with, and I can safely do that, this being midday on a public street.

I catch up to my friends and chatter nonchalantly until we reach the next street.

“And this is where I leave you,” I say, a little louder than necessary. “We’ll meet back here at the top of the hour.”

As Audrey and Henrietta continue along, my pursuer tucks himself behind a group of tradesmen. With that distinctive hat, though, he towers several inches above them.

It’s a poor attempt at concealment. I can do better.

The first step is to raise my parasol, giving him an easy marker to track.

Then I, too, join a group of factory workers.

I’m tall for a woman, but there are enough men in the group to hide me.

Once among them, I turn to a ruddy-faced young woman and say, “You look as if you could use a parasol. Please, take this.”

I press mine into her hand. Her mouth opens in surprise, but before she can say a word, I slip behind a hansom cab awaiting a fare. Her group continues on, the parasol high, her friends tittering and exclaiming over her luck.

I cast a blur spell. It’s sorcerer magic—my aunt and I aren’t Coven witches, so we use every spell we can master.

When I peek out, my pursuer’s top hat bobs along behind a cluster of men. I switch to a witch’s cover spell, which hides me as long as I don’t move. Then I wait until the men pass, and I see the shadow of the tall fellow in his fancy hat. I step into his path—

“Oh!” The man draws back, and I find myself staring at an older gentleman, his hands raised as if I’m about to rob him.

I look up at his hat—the exact one I’d seen on my dangerous-looking pursuer.

“Nicely done,” I murmur under my breath.

The fellow sputters, but I wave him on as I survey the street. It’s emptied, and there’s no sign of my pursuer.

I walk back toward the corner. As I near the spot where I’d last seen the fellow, a smell tickles my nose. It’s a musky scent, not quite buried under an expensive cologne with notes of vanilla and… anise?

The cologne is lovely. The underlying musk should be unpleasant, almost feral, but I find myself inhaling deeper, satisfaction unfolding inside me, as if I have scratched a particularly difficult-to-reach itch.

How strange.

The fact that I can tease out a complex scent, though, isn’t strange at all. My father—whoever he is—was a perfumer, and I have inherited his finely honed sense of smell.

I try to follow the scent, only to notice two women watching me.

“You don’t smell that?” I say. “Vanilla pastries, I think.”

They sniff obligingly, and one mentions having passed a bakery. I thank them and continue following the scent for a few steps, but it’s fading quickly, and I have an errand to run.

Another slow look, this way and that, and then I cross the street and hurry to my destination.

A half hour later, my errand is done. I have delivered the magical items to Lord Wilkes, a powerful half-demon who has been my aunt’s client for a decade.

It goes so smoothly that I get out a quarter hour before Audrey and Henrietta will return.

The distant smell of bread has my stomach rumbling, and I remember what the two women said about a bakery.

I could use a snack. Lenora would tease that I could always “use a snack” but she also concedes that, while I’m not at all slender, I’m in obscenely good health, with a figure that most people—especially men—find pleasing.

Of course, there was that seamstress who tried to convince me that I needed to drop two stone or better tighten my corset.

She lost not only my respect but my aunt’s business.

I’m following my nose to the bakery when another scent slips in. Vanilla and anise with an undertone of musk.

“Don’t turn around,” says a deep voice behind me. “I’m going to walk beside you.”

I stop short.

“Miss Levine…” he murmurs, and my hackles rise.

I don’t use that surname. No one in my family does. As witches, we fly under as much cloud cover as we can gather. My grandmother began using the name Carter, and my mother and aunt followed suit. Calling me Levine feels like a threat.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers.

“I’m not afraid, sir. You ordered me to continue walking, so I stopped. I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Please continue walking.” The words are polite, but spoken with an air of command that has me narrowing my eyes.

“I will”—I turn to face him—“once we’ve been properly introduced.”

“I don’t have time,” he says.

“You don’t have time to give me your name? You could have done it as easily as saying that. Here, let me demonstrate.” I extend one gloved hand. “Miss Cordelia Carter. You, sir, owe me an explanation and a parasol. I’ll settle for the first.”

“You didn’t like me ordering you to continue walking, so I requested it politely. If you’d prefer I returned to ordering it…”

A shiver runs through me. A not-unpleasant shiver that I decide not to analyze. Instead, I say, “You’ve already made it a request, sir, which means I have the option of denying it. I’m asking for an introduction. Your name at least. If you can’t provide that—”

“I don’t have time for games.” He grinds the words out now. “Either you resume walking…”

“Or?” I say when he trails off. “An ‘either’ requires an ‘or.’ I presume you were about to threaten me. You need to finish or I won’t know whether or not I want to comply.”

His mouth opens.

I cut him off. “If you tell me again that you have no time for games, I’ll show you how a witch plays games, and I suspect you won’t like it.”

That gets no reaction from him, which is admittedly disappointing.

“I will explain later,” he says. “You need to come with me.”

“Why? You can’t expect—”

He grabs my arm, tight enough that I gasp. My free hand flies up in a knockback spell, and he stumbles, releasing me.

Around us, several people have slowed, the women’s gazes uncertain, the men’s narrowing on the stranger.

“Take care,” I say, in a voice so low I’m not sure he’ll hear, but his expression says he does. “Touch me again, and I’ll scream. No one here will tolerate a fancy toff laying hands on a local woman.”

“I’m not a threat to you, Cordelia.”

“You take liberties, sir, and calling me by my given name is the least of them. I gave you an opportunity to speak to me. Now, as you know who I am, you also know where to find me. Pay me a proper visit, provide a proper introduction and explain yourself.”

“Cordelia!” a voice calls, and I look to see Audrey waving a handkerchief to get my attention.

“Walk away, sir,” I say. “Cause a scene in front of my companions, and I’ll interpret that as a threat against them, which I absolutely will not tolerate.”

“You’re making a mistake, Cor—”

“Miss Carter to you. Now walk away.”

His jaw sets, his eyes black coals that burn with a look that should terrify me. Except there’s no rage in it. Just the frustration of having his will thwarted, coupled with a sense of outrage that says this doesn’t happen to him often.

That look has me longing to stoke the fire, to thwart him further and see what happens. Again that shiver runs through me.

“Cordelia,” Audrey says as she reaches us. “Good day, sir. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” he says gruffly as he withdraws, his gaze shuttered. “I mistook your friend for someone I needed to speak to.” His dark eyes fix on mine, the unspoken message being that he’s granting me one last chance to be reasonable.

Reasonable… about being manhandled on a public street by a stranger who won’t even give me his name.

I meet his gaze with a level stare.

His cheek twitches, and victory ripples through me.

“Good day, sir,” I say. “I hope you find whoever you’re looking for.”

With that, I take Audrey’s arm, and we continue back the way we came.