Chapter Two
San Francisco
Seven months later
Nerves skittered up her spine. Not long now, and she would be in a tenth-century French village. Well, that was the plan. She was glad Annabelle and Stefanie were here with her for moral support. She might have bailed if they weren’t.
They left the trail and people behind, heading deeper into the woods until they came to a secluded clearing. This was it. One decision and five months of training and now she was here, ready to change the past. And hopefully her future.
With shaky hands, Isobella pulled supplies out of her backpack. Tucking her skirts out of the way, she kneeled and sorted through her ingredients. It would take a bit of getting used to—wearing layers, a chemise, a heavy dress—but she couldn’t go back in time dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Longer to get used to the absence of an engagement ring on her finger.
The mark it’d left behind had faded, but the pain in her heart—and the humiliation—had not.
She’d been wrong. Those pitying looks from other witches hadn’t been because she’d not got Douglas to walk down the aisle.
They’d known. All of them. About Douglas and Irena. Isobella was one of the few who hadn’t.
How could I have been so stupid? So blind? And why was she still letting that…that culero, and what he’d done, upset her? Isobella had bigger things to worry about now. Life sure liked to kick you when you were down.
“Hey.” Stef squatted in front of her. “You’ve got this, okay? Just remember, don’t take on Eveque Faucher on your own. Find the Langeais wolves and work with them.”
Go back in time, find the Langeais wolves, take down Faucher and don’t get dead. Stef made it sound so simple. At least she wouldn’t have to face Douglas and Irena across a coven gathering anytime soon.
Isobella wasn’t sure how one twenty-first century witch was supposed to prevail against a tenth-century bishop with a reputation as a successful witch hunter, but that was her task. Bishop Faucher, Eveque Faucher, had to be dealt with. Somehow.
The fear that had plagued her from the moment her doctor had called with her test results tightened in her chest. Was she doing the right thing going back in time?
She was putting a lot of faith in the Langeais wolves.
In Gabriel Montagne and Stefanie d’Louncrais.
They were putting a lot of faith in her, too.
She wasn’t so sure their confidence, their belief in her was warranted.
Isobella placed a bowl in the dirt, along with candles, matches and a Ziploc bag of ingredients—herbs, berries and snail shells.
Two sets. Gabriel, head of pack security and her stepsister’s mate, had said she would survive and thrive in the tenth century, hinting she may not be returning.
Isobella was willing to put her faith in him, but only so far.
If things all went to hell in the tenth century—not an unlikely possibility—Isobella wanted a way home.
A way back to modern hospitals and chemotherapy, if it turned out they had it all wrong.
Survive and thrive. That was a mighty big carrot to dangle in front of someone with a cancer diagnosis. One Isobella couldn’t ignore.
Stef squeezed her hand. “Do you remember everything I told you about the Langeais wolves?”
Isobella stood, took a shaky breath and nodded. “Thanks, Stef.”
Along with practicing her skills as a witch and adding Old French to her language repertoire, Isobella had spent the last five months learning about the Langeais wolves’ tenth-century counterparts. Stef had drilled her on them relentlessly.
“Don’t forget, stay away from Comte Lothair,” said Stef. “He’s bad news.”
Avoiding Comte Lothair might prove a little difficult when they went after Faucher, but she’d do her best. From all she’d learned about him from Stef, she didn’t want to draw his attention. Not if she could help it.
“All right, everyone.” Gabriel clapped his hands.
“We need to get this started. We have a limited window before the Kings or the Faucherians get wind of this. Given they’ve taken to working together, if they find out, they might descend on us with bigger numbers than we can counter.
” Gabriel turned away to organize his men, shaking his head. “Faucherians. Stupid name.”
Yep. Even in the twenty-first century, Eveque Faucher had followers.
Go figure. And the Kings…Cordelia King… Isobella shuddered.
You’d think a woman in her eighties who knitted Christmas sweaters for her many descendants—Irena being one of them—would be content to bake cookies and spoil her grand-spawn.
Not Cordelia. The woman ruled the King family with an iron fist and had more arcane power at her gnarled fingertips than any one person had a right to.
Isobella had only met her a few times, but she’d made an impression. Cordelia was one scary old lady. With any luck, she wouldn’t encounter anyone like Cordelia in the tenth century.
“You’re going to be fine.”
“Yeah.” Maybe. It’d be nice to have Stef’s confidence. The she-wolf didn’t back down from anything. Or anyone. She more than held her own against any of the male shifters. Or to have half of Annabelle’s courage. Never was there a more kick-ass witch than her stepsister.
But it wasn’t Annabelle or Stef going back to the tenth century. According to Gabriel, only Isobella could change the fate of the Langeais wolves and rewrite the history of witches. All she had to do was…what? Take out the eveque?
Annabelle wrapped Isobella in a hug. “You know I wouldn’t be letting you go if I didn’t believe it was for the best.”
A grand admission from Annabelle, since she’d been the one most against Isobella going.
“If something goes wrong, if for some reason I don’t come back, take care of my papá, yeah?”
“Of course.”
That Annabelle didn’t argue was another hint they weren’t expecting her to return.
“Tell him…” What should she say to her father? He would be beside himself. Heartbroken if she failed to return.
“I’ll explain it all to him, Bella. Your illness, why you’re going on this mission, everything. I promise.”
Gabriel’s phone dinged. “We have incoming. Stay alert.”
Annabelle let her go, and Stef hugged her before stepping back to give her room. “Trust us, Isobella. Trust me. You’re going to like the outcome.”
The sparkle in her friend’s eyes, and her knowing smile, sent her stomach fluttering.
Isobella wasn’t stupid. With the Langeais wolves’ bite capable of turning humans into werewolves, it didn’t take a genius to read between the lines.
She would survive because the tenth-century Langeais wolves would turn her.
Nothing else could cure stage four ovarian cancer. Not in the Dark Ages.
But the Langeais wolves didn’t go around turning people into werewolves on a whim. Only the alpha could sanction a turning, and Gabriel had made it clear that while they could turn her here, now, they wouldn’t. One exception was when a Langeais wolf met their mate, and the mate was human.
Was she ready to be in another relationship? To put her trust in another man so soon after Douglas?
Annabelle stepped back and into Gabriel’s arms, and he dropped a kiss on top of her head.
Ever since the pair had reunited at Christmas, Gabriel hadn’t been able to keep his eyes or his hands off her stepsister.
He was forever touching her—brushing his fingers across her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand reaching for hers.
As if not touching his mate, not reaffirming their connection every chance he had, was something unthinkable.
It’d been hard to witness after the way things had ended with Douglas.
It’d made her envious of what Annabelle had.
Isobella huffed. She hadn’t been enough for Douglas. What made her think she’d be enough for a Langeais wolf?
With Annabelle and Gabriel focused on each other, Stef leaned in close. “No matter what happens, Isobella,” she whispered in her ear, “no matter how bad it gets, trust me when I say it will all work out.”
What? How bad it gets? What did Stef mean?
Isobella pushed her concerns aside. She was doing this.
There weren’t a lot of other options open to her.
She drew a pentacle in the dirt, lit her candles, and placed one at each point, setting her bowl at its center.
This was her best chance to survive, and she’d be helping her coven, the Langeais wolves and thousands of witches who’d come before her.
She kneeled and mixed a pinch of each of her ingredients together, stirring them through. With her athame against her palm, she held her hand over the bowl and closed her eyes, shutting out all sound, and focused on her breathing, settling herself into a meditative state.
It wasn’t a simple spell, and from what Annabelle and Gabriel had told her about their experiences, it would hurt.
Anything that broke the laws of nature, that was conceived to do harm and not good, would always have a price.
That the spell came from a grimoire with darker spells than this one, a grimoire they suspected had belonged to Cordelia King, did not bode well for Isobella’s journey. All she could do was prepare her mind.
Awareness of her surroundings slipped away, her steady breaths and the lazy beat of her heart the only sounds penetrating her calm.
In her mind’s eye, she brought up the images she’d created of the Langeais wolves—Gaharet, Erin, D’Artagnon, Constance—and held them there, focusing her intent on joining them at the d’Louncrais keep.
She sliced her palm, the sting of the blade grounding her. Squeezing her hand into a fist, she let her blood drip into the bowl.
“Blood and bone and hair and skin,
Rend a hole in time so thin.”
As she spoke, acrid smoke teased her nostrils. The spell was working.
“Thy body held not in place—”
A growl broke her calm. Then another.
“Keep going, Isobella,” Gabriel ordered. “Stef and Annabelle, stay close to her. Nothing must stop Isobella from completing her spell.”
Isobella steadied herself, refocusing. They would protect her.
“Instead to thine imagined space.”
More snarls and sounds of fighting echoed around her. A gun went off, breaking her concentration.
“Don’t stop.” Stef, her voice guttural and deep, as though her vocal cords were changing, hovered close.
“Bleed mind and soul to point, to plunder,
To change, to bend, to tear asunder.”
“Douglas, no!” Annabelle this time.
Douglas? No. He’d hurt her enough. He wasn’t taking this chance away from her.
“So mote it be.”
A hand gripped her arm with bruising force. “I can’t let you go after Faucher.”
Douglas.
The vision in her mind’s eye blurred and changed. Gone was the face of the tenth century alpha of the Langeais wolves. Replaced by a man in the flowing robes of a priest. No!
Her eyes snapped open. “Douglas, what have you done?”
Isobella tried to regain her calm, to get back the image of the Langeais wolves, but it was too late. Darkness descended, and a thick silence blocked out the forest, Annabelle, Stef, the werewolves fighting, everything but the grip on her arm.
Pain ripped through her. Douglas shrieked.
Isobella gritted her teeth, biting back her scream.
When it was almost more than she could bear, a force so strong propelled her forward, pushing and tugging at her, and Isobella feared it might tear her apart.
Douglas let go. Then Isobella slammed to a stop, winded, hurting and gasping for breath.
The darkness eased. With a groan, Isobella raised her head. A set of boots, leather and fur-lined, filled her vision. Had it worked? Was she in the tenth century? Lord Almighty, she could be anywhere. Or any when?
The man kneeled before her, his black robes billowing about him. Priest robes. Isobella swallowed and raised her gaze. Staring down at her was a young priest. Malevolent glee flickered in his eyes as he scooped up her Ziploc bag of ingredients.
From Stef’s descriptions, this could only be one person. Eveque Faucher.