Chapter Fifteen
Their mount reared, and Isobella held onto Edmond for dear life. What was happening? The darkened forest, Douglas, the chevaliers were…gone. Now there were…stone walls? She clutched at Edmond’s surcoat, staring at the gold disc hanging from a chain around his neck as he got the horse under control.
“It worked.” Edmond barked out a surprised laugh. “I did not know it would, what with the horses and all.”
She took in the soaring ceiling, the large and colorful wall hangings she’d never seen the likes of, the fire pit in the middle of the room, the large table. Out of their seats, women tucked behind them, were men—chevaliers, werewolves—brandishing swords.
“We’re at the d’Louncrais keep?” Isobella almost cried. She was here. Finally. The place she’d been aiming for when she’d stood in Muir Woods.
“We are.” Edmond helped her from the horse. “I guess we made quite an entrance.”
The man standing at the apex of the table sheathed his weapon. “That you did.”
With black hair and a beard, he had an aura so imposing it would be impossible to mistake him for anyone other than the alpha of the Langeais wolves. That he wore the binding amulet, still glowing, confirmed it.
Edmond nudged her forward with a gentle hand on her back as swords were put away and everyone resumed their seats. “Isobella, this is—”
“Gaharet d’Louncrais.”
Her voice came out in a hushed, awed whisper, but they heard her, and keen eyes followed her advance on the table.
“Gaharet d’Louncrais.” Her voice was firmer, more sure. “Alpha of the Langeais wolves.”
His nostrils flared as he raked his gaze over her.
Isobella straightened her spine. This was the man who ruled the pack she’d been sent here to help.
Stef’s ancestor. The man to whom, not so long ago, she had promised the twins she would acknowledge and claim all responsibility for her turning.
She swallowed, her mouth drier, her face hotter under scrutiny than if she were standing in Death Valley on a summer’s day.
She slid her gaze away and settled on the blonde woman by his side. “Erin Richardson. Australian archeologist.”
Erin’s eyes widened, and she shared a glance with her mate. Had she cowered before Gaharet when she’d first met him like Isobella wanted to now? Erin raised her chin, meeting her stare head on. Maybe not.
She turned her gaze to the man on the other side of Erin.
“D’Artagnon.” So like his brother, but scarred and missing an eye.
The woman next to him. “Constance.” The witch with one blue eye and one green, who’d mated D’Artagnon after he’d returned from a nine-year exile.
A witch with the second sight, like Cordelia.
Isobella continued around the table, naming the faces so recognizable from Stef’s descriptions.
“Ulrik Voclain.” A sandy-haired man who had once challenged Gaharet and lost, the scars on his throat a permanent reminder.
“Rebekah ‘Bek’ Clarke, bartender from London.” Ulrik’s mate.
Her tattoos and piercings were gone, but the fading green streaks in her hair and her bold stare gave her away.
“Aimon Proulx.” Younger than Isobella, his white-blond hair striking next to the copper locks of his mate. “Kathryn Beauchene.”
The older man next to Kathryn she didn’t know, but he was not a shifter. Of that, she was certain. There was a family resemblance. Perhaps he was Kathryn’s father.
“You all look exactly as I pictured you.” She beamed at Edmond, but the smile had gone from his face.
She glanced at Aubert. He wore his usual scowl, though there was a ferocious edge to it that had her looking away.
She turned back to the table, where she had everyone’s unwavering scrutiny.
Maybe she should have introduced herself first.
“You’re an American,” said Erin, finding her voice. She grabbed her mate by the arm. “Gaharet, she’s an American. Another woman from the future.”
“Yes! Yes! I’m like you. Kind of.” Isobella took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Let me start at the beginning. I’m Isobella Rodriguez, and I’m from San Francisco. I’m here because the San Francisco Bay coven, my coven, and the Langeais wolves, your descendants, sent me here.”
A horse snorted behind her. Everyone at the table stared. It had been less nerve-wracking facing the entire coven, waiting for anyone to object to her initiation.
“Wait a minute.” Erin held up a hand. “You were sent here? And you’re part of a coven?”
“As interesting as this is”—Gaharet set his hand on the table—“it must wait.”
Erin opened her mouth to protest but shut it at the look from Gaharet.
“First—” He beckoned to a servant hovering in the doorway. “Send for the stable hands.” As the man slipped from the hall, he turned his attention back to them. “I take it you had reason to use the amulets?”
Edmond nodded. “We did.”
Two men entered, took the reins and led the mounts away. If it surprised them to find horses inside the keep, inside this grand hall, they didn’t show it.
“And?”
Edmond guided her to a seat at the table, positioning her between him and Aubert, Remi on the other side. “You know Faucher has allied with House Allard?”
Gaharet nodded. “Remi mentioned it when he came for the turning potion.”
Edmond poured wine into three goblets and handed one to Aubert. “Two score or more of her chevaliers surrounded us.”
Gaharet tugged at his beard. “Mm. It is well you used the amulets. The comtesse’s relationship with Lothair is strained, but she is still his wife. We cannot afford to be at war with her. It might test his loyalty to us.”
Aubert glanced at Gaharet over his wine goblet. “Too late.”
Gaharet’s gaze sharpened. “How so?”
“They came looking for us at our keep. We hid out in Constance’s hut, but he came for us there, too.” Edmond offered Isobella a goblet of wine. She waved him off. “Then we tried to lose them in the forest, but a small group ambushed us. We left a half score of them dead.”
Gaharet’s eyebrows shot up. “They ambushed you? In the forest?”
“Faucher is a sensitive,” grumbled Aubert.
A sensitive? As in…?
Gaharet straightened in his seat. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” the twins said in unison.
Isobella remembered the uneasy feeling she’d had as they’d slipped away from Constance’s cottage.
The way Faucher had seemed to see right through the shadows of the trees.
How he’d ordered the chevaliers from House Allard to search right where they’d been only moments before.
And Faucher had never been far behind them, despite Aubert and Remi’s attempts to lead them off course. Had Faucher been able to sense them?
“That explains Faucher’s success. And presents another challenge for us.
” Gaharet turned his attention to the other witch at the table.
“Constance, I am of the understanding one born with the ability to sense other supernatural beings would have to have been born into a family with at least one witch.”
“Yes,” said Constance, “you are correct. That ability, like my second sight, is a trait found only among witches and their families.”
“Faucher’s family has connections to the pontiff,” said Ulrik. “To think he has a witch ancestor somewhere…”
Gaharet steepled his hands on the table. “It is an intriguing conundrum.”
Edmond shrugged. “I guess all families have their secrets.”
Hiding his witch ancestry while he hunted those of his own kind was a big secret, especially for a bishop. One with connections to the Pope. Yet, as Isobella’s coven had proved, not all witches were on the same side.
“Then,” said Gaharet, leaning forward, “it might behoove us to uncover all of Faucher’s.”
“Faucher’s not our only problem,” said Aubert.
A quirk of an eyebrow from Gaharet.
“They have a witch and a warlock with them,” said Edmond. “And the witch is a powerful one. It could be possible she has a familial connection to Faucher.”
Cordelia connected to Faucher? It could explain why she was working with the Faucherians in the twenty-first century. It didn’t explain why she was here. Now. The last witch Isobella would’ve wanted to encounter.
Isobella took in the faces at the table.
All but one of them were werewolves. Half of them battle-experienced chevaliers.
One a witch with the second sight. But they had no idea what they were up against. She cleared her throat, drawing the attention of Gaharet d’Louncrais. “Not just any witch. Cordelia King.”
Edmond searched her face. “You know of this witch, Isobella?”
Erin leaned forward. “Did you say…Cordelia?”
“Ah…yes,” confirmed Isobella. “Does that name mean something to you?” The Langeais wolves had mentioned Cordelia had been a thorn in their side for centuries, but how far back were they talking here? As far back as the tenth century?
“It does,” confirmed Gaharet.
“Gascon,” Erin called a thin, balding servant over. “Can you get the kitchen staff to bring up some food, please? We could be here for a while. And see to it that rooms are prepared for our guests.”
Gascon bowed and disappeared.
“We’ve found mention of Cordelia in Gaharet’s father’s journal,” explained Erin.
“Twice so far. In Gaharet’s great grandfather’s time.
And again, in his grandfather’s time, when she was the healer in the d’Louncrais village.
They cast her out after she killed a villager.
She’s also Constance’s grandmother, and we believe she can travel through time. ”
Grandmother? Constance’s eyes—one blue, one green—so like Cordelia’s, held a softness Isobella would never have associated with the King’s matriarch.
“How do you know of this Cordelia, Isobella?” asked Gaharet. “Is she someone these Langeais descendants you spoke of told you about?”
Isobella cringed. It pained her to admit the truth.
“Unfortunately, yes.” She glanced at Edmond.
“I do know Cordelia King.” She turned to Gaharet.
“And no, we knew of Cordelia King before the Langeais wolves came on the scene. I’m sorry to say”—she shifted uncomfortably in her seat—“Cordelia’s a member of our coven. ”