Epilogue
Isobella stood between Aubert and Edmond as they laced up her dress.
She’d awoken, sandwiched between her mates, Aubert’s arm around her waist, holding her close, and Edmond’s leg draped over hers, trapping her in place.
It was intimate, and sexy as hell, but they hadn’t pushed for anything.
Hadn’t assumed she would be up for having both of them together.
Not right away. She’d contemplated it. The time in the training room had been hotter than a bowl of chilate de pollo, and lying between them, she’d been oh so tempted.
Instead, they’d held her in their arms and they’d talked.
About anything and everything. Aubert, too.
Though he mainly listened to her telling stories of her past—her family, her friends, the twenty-first century.
She would miss her papá terribly—and Annabelle and Stef—but her place was here in the tenth century. With her mates.
They’d talked about Faucher and the pack.
Cordelia. It was what had prompted them to get out of bed and venture downstairs.
Isobella had a theory, and the more she thought about it, the more she was certain she was right.
Aubert and Edmond agreed. Gaharet needed to know.
It needed to be put in the journal they often spoke of.
The one that had belonged to Gaharet and D’Artagnon’s father.
Her palm had healed but the memory of how her magic had surged more powerful than it had ever been remained fresh.
She’d thought it might be because of her werewolf blood.
And it was, in a way, but not entirely. By the grace of her turning, Isobella was a part of Cordelia’s curse.
And she suspected every one of the Langeais wolves’ blood contained a little piece of Cordelia’s magic, sang with the power of it.
That was the real reason Cordelia hunted the Langeais wolves.
The curse had backfired on her. Over the centuries, the Langeais wolves had thrived.
With each new wolf born, Cordelia’s power diminished.
Isobella sat on the bed to put her boots on.
It was scary to think how powerful Cordelia might have been to begin with.
With the splitting of the pack, she’d perhaps thought to make them weaker.
But that, too, had failed. As her many attempts had.
No doubt, if they asked the Rus wolves and the Ludenwic wolves, they too would’ve had unpleasant dealings with Cordelia over the centuries.
That wasn’t Isobella’s only concern. When she’d banished Cordelia, her mud monster had ceased to exist. If they destroyed Cordelia, would the same thing happen to the Langeais Wolves?
Leaving the bedchamber, Aubert in front of her and Edmond behind, they took the stairs down to the hall.
Isobella was going to make sure that her coven—Gabriel and Maxime and all the Langeais wolves—knew about Cordelia’s vulnerability.
For it might be the key to defeating her.
It might also grant Cordelia her wish, and see the Wolves of Langeais vanishing from existence.
With the twenty-first century Langeais Wolves hell bent on hunting Cordelia down, that was something they needed to be aware of.
The hall bustled with activity, the Langeais wolves gathered around the fire.
Gaharet and Erin beamed at them. Everyone was smiling.
Everyone except for Lothair. He stared into his wine, a heavy sadness hanging over him like a black cloud.
Why he was still here, she didn’t know, but she understood his emotions.
Had been there herself. It was hard to watch happy couples when your own relationship had ended in betrayal.
He looked up and caught her staring. He scowled, then picked up a book from the seat beside him. Setting aside his wine, he crossed the floor toward her with determined strides. Aubert and Edmond flanked her. If he meant her harm, he would have to go through them.
He held Cordelia’s grimoire out to her. “You are a witch. You can translate this?”
Isobella grasped the edge of it, but he refused to let it go. “I can.”
Using his hold on the book, he dragged her closer to him. “You will translate it. You will tell me everything it says. And you will tell me what happened to the witch in the meadow.”
“I…” Isobella looked to Gaharet for confirmation.
“Do not look at him.” Lothair shook the grimoire, forcing her attention back to him. “I am your comte. You will answer to m—”
“Get away from her, you connard. Right. Now.”
Isobella jerked around, letting go of the grimoire. Stef, her wolf close to the surface, stood in front of a wall hanging.
What the hell? How…?
Stef broke into a run, fury in her eyes.
“Stef, no!”
It was too late. Stef barreled into Lothair, knocking him to the ground.
Her head partly transformed into a muzzle, she snarled and snapped at his throat as they rolled about in the meadowsweet rushes.
Lothair fought back, but Stef was strong and well trained.
Lothair wasn’t a werewolf, but he was holding his ground, flipping her over the moment she had him pinned.
Stef returned the favor in an explosive movement worthy of a black belt in Jui-Jitsu.
Gaharet was on his feet, D’Artagnon too, and they grabbed hold of Stef and dragged her off the comte, holding her firm between the two of them.
She fought them. She’d had a lot a practice on the training mats with her brother, but D’Artagnon and Gaharet together were too strong for her.
The black fur of her wolf and her muzzle slipped away, but her green eyes still blazed her fury, her hatred at Lothair.
Lothair got to his feet, brushing off his tunic.
He raked his gaze over Stef, over her blue jeans, her fitted tee and her black leather jacket.
Over her face and her long black hair tied back in a ponytail.
What he made of her clothing, Isobella could only guess, but he’d have to be blind not to notice the resemblance between Stef and the two men who held her.
Lothair sidled up to her, every bit the comte they’d nicknamed Lothair the devil. “Do you know who I am?”
Stef spat in his face. The room hushed.
“Feisty.” Lothair wiped the spittle from his face. “I like that in a woman.” His smile was all dark malevolence.
Stef sneered. “I know exactly who you are. And I know what you want, but I will see you dead before any of us turns you into a werewolf.”
“Give. Me. Your. Name.”
The cold fury in Lothair’s eyes could’ve stopped an army in its tracks, but Stef was a strong she-wolf.
Confident. Used to standing up to dominant male werewolves.
But this wasn’t the twenty-first century, and antagonizing the most powerful man in the county, a man who seemed to be on their side most of the time, wasn’t a good way to start.
“She’s a d’Louncrais,” said Isobella, stepping forward. The d’Louncrais name might be her saving grace.
Curiosity burned in Gaharet’s eyes. He had to know. Or at least guess. Her clothing was a dead giveaway.
Lothair’s eyebrows shot up. “D’Louncrais? Gaharet, you have no sister or female relative that I am aware of? Though she certainly bears a family resemblance.”
“Gaharet, look!” Erin was out of her seat and pointing at Gaharet’s chest, at the amulet that had swung free of his tunic in the tussle.
“Your amulet, the binding stone… It’s glowing.
” She skirted the fire, stepping between Lothair and Stef, searching Stef’s face.
“Oh my God, Gaharet, look at her eyes. They’re green.
Like mine. And she has your coloring. And look at what she’s wearing.
I know who you are. You’re Stefanie d’Louncrais.
” Before Isobella or Gaharet could stop her, she said, “You’re our many times great-granddaughter. ”