Chapter Six
Edmond paced, his attention split between the dark forest before him and the forlorn little cottage behind him.
It had been two days since they had fled their keep, with no sign of Faucher or the chevaliers from House Allard.
He had not expected they would see them.
The forest was where he and Aubert were most at home, where their kind reigned, but Aubert and Remi had laid many a false trail all the same.
And they kept watch. They did not need two score of chevaliers sneaking up on them.
Not when the ramshackle cottage offered little protection, and the woman within was no longer in a condition to be moved. Faucher may yet get his wish.
He eyed the cottage door. Two days ago, he had laid her down on the humble cot, her body shivering and wracked with pain.
They had fed her a hot broth and raided Constance’s stores for herbs to heal her before she had slipped into a troubled sleep.
She had barely roused since, no matter what they did, or what they tried.
Merde, he had prayed to the moon, to the Fates, to the Christian God he had not a care for, that if he could save one person, let it be her. All to no avail. She was fading. Fast.
Aubert exited the cottage, his expression grim. He snarled and punched his fist into the cottage door. It shuddered but did not splinter. Edmond was not the only one affected by their failure to heal her.
“We can save her,” said Edmond. “You know we can.”
Aubert’s scowl was frightening in its ferocity. “Gaharet must sanction all turnings.”
Edmond shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Or we could let her die.”
Aubert’s chest heaved with his effort to control his wolf, his fisted knuckles white by his side.
Edmond would turn her. In a heartbeat. But he would rather have his brother in agreeance.
He did not wish to be at odds with Aubert.
Not again. That time was long behind them and he wanted to keep it that way.
Aubert took a deep breath, and the evidence of his wolf slipped away. “If you are set on turning her, send Remi to ask for permission.”
“Remi is gone. The little thief slipped away yesterday morn. Probably gone to pilfer valuables from our keep.”
In truth, Edmond had sent the boy to Gaharet to ask for a turning potion from Constance.
He had lied to Remi, and as such he had lied to his alpha.
Told him both he and Aubert had agreed they should turn her.
But they could no longer wait for Remi’s return, or for Gaharet’s approval.
If they did not take action, she would surely die.
Edmond could not let that happen. Not to her.
This woman for whom his heart had bled since the moment he had ducked his head through the doorway beneath the chapel.
“She is weak,” argued Aubert. “The pain would surely kill her. We have nothing to ease her transition.”
There were stories of those who had died from the pain of a turning. Aimon had screamed for three days, begging them to end him.
“She will die if we do not. And we are here.” He spread his arms out, taking in the hut. “With a witch’s cottage at our disposal. We have all the herbs we could need.”
The yearning to go to the woman, to hold her in his arms, to sink his teeth into her neck and save her life—now, before it was too late—sizzled up Edmond’s spine.
“With all that has happened with Renaud, with Lance betraying the pack and now Faucher…” Aubert shook his head. “Edmond, it is too much of a risk. The consequences—”
“I will bear them.” Edmond knew who this woman was. What she meant to him. To them. So, he suspected, did Aubert, but, merde, his brother was afraid to admit it. He was still running from their past.
Aubert growled and raised his chin. “Not alone.” That memory lingered between them. “Never alone.”
“Then you are with me. Constance said hemlock would work. We find it, then we turn her.”
Indecision flickered in Aubert’s eyes.
A soft thud and a moan had them both turning toward the cottage.
“Please.”
The woman’s plea galvanized him into action. Edmond tore the door open, nearly wrenching it off its hinges, and charged into the cottage, Aubert close on his heels. The woman was on the floor, leaning against the bed.
She raised her head, dark eyes imploring them.
“Please.” The pain in her eyes, the desperation, would have made even Lothair’s vicious heart melt.
“You need to turn me into a werewolf.” Her lips were dry and cracked, and she took deep, slow breaths as if talking were too much effort.
“It’s the only thing that will save me.”
Aubert growled. “Did she say…?”
“Yes, she did.” And, by the Fates, Edmond was going to do it.
“I know you’re not supposed to, but… I’ll take the blame. I’m not ready to… Please don’t let me die.” She broke off in a weak sob. Her eyes closed, and her breathing stuttered. “They sent me here to help.”
Edmond had had enough of talking. Of waiting for Remi’s return. “I am turning her, Aubert.” It was time to act. If they did not, they would lose her. “With or without you. You cannot stop me.”
He could. Aubert had always been the stronger of the two. In a fight, Aubert would always be the victor. He had been the one time it had counted.
Edmond scooped the woman up and laid her on the cot. “Aubert, find the hemlock.”
His brother stood in the doorway, an immovable wall.
“Aubert, please. She will need something for the pain.”
Still his brother made no move toward Constance’s shelf of herbs.
“I am doing this. I am turning her. Would you have her suffer?”
Aubert sighed and strode toward Constance’s collection of herbs. Finally.
His twin hunted through the pots, using his nose to sniff out what they needed. He picked up pot after pot.
“Hurry.” Edmond’s canines dropped in preparation for the bite. The woman’s heartbeat was growing weaker, slowing.
Aubert opened the last pot and sniffed, his eyes wild. “It is not here.”
Fear wove a thread through his chest. He would have to turn her without it. Would she survive? Her breathing hitched, stalled, then started again. He had no choice. If he did not turn her now, she would die.
Edmond brought his wolf forward, his jaw elongating and his nose morphing into a snout. Coarse brown fur spouted across his cheeks as he let his wolf out enough to shift his head, nothing more. He leaned over the woman. There was no going back once he—
Remi burst through the door. “I got it.” He held up a wineskin. “I got what you asked for.”
Aubert gaped at the boy, then snatched the wineskin from Remi. Thank the Fates, Remi and Gaharet had come through for them. Though he would have some explaining to do to Aubert when this was done.
Edmond tilted the woman’s head to the side and struck. She screamed, but she did not fight him, rather held on, his teeth buried in her neck, his saliva mixing with her blood. It was not how he had imagined marking a woman. With no preamble, no soft words, but she would be alive. He hoped.
He released her, and his canines retracted. With a shake of his head, the last vestiges of his beast retreated. Aubert unstoppered the wineskin and dropped to his knees beside the cot.
“Three mouthfuls, three times a day,” said Remi. “Constance added a few more herbs, too. Something about the woman needing her strength.”
There were no assurances she would survive the turning. Her body was weak. Werewolf blood would heal her, but it would be a painful process, more so for her because of whatever ailed her. She would need all the help they could give her.
Gripping the back of her head, Aubert raised her up, held the wineskin to her lips, and trickled the concoction into her parted mouth.
She gulped it down, dark eyes meeting his, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Thank you.”
They eased her back on the cot. As her face softened in repose, the lines of pain around her eyes melted away, and the wound at her throat closed.
The steady rise and fall of her chest and the now rhythmic beat of her heart, stronger with each passing moment, gave him hope.
Edmond sank into the chair by her bedside.
It was done. Either she would become a werewolf and heal, or she would die. All they could do was wait.