Chapter Two
TWO
We ride into the forest. Lying in wait is tricky with horses.
We find them a grassy stream and then tie them, so they don’t eat and drink their fill and then come to find their people.
There’d been a dozen horses at Trevelyan, and Felix had freed them all, but these were the only two who weren’t too panicked to follow him.
They’re older horses, a gelding and a mare who are quite content to stick close to the source of sweet apples and shoulder scratches and an easy life.
They’re also, thankfully, placid enough not to blink at being tied to a tree.
Once they’re happily grazing, we hurry back to where we came into the forest. I suggest we hide on opposite sides of the path. Bishop vetoes that with a look. Gods forbid I’m ten feet away from him in a dangerous situation.
We hunker together, and it isn’t long before the werewolf arrives. He’s on horseback, which means he brought his own horse because that’s one thing werewolves can’t steal. The wolf in their scent makes animals uneasy, and I presume horses need to be raised with werewolves.
But if this is his horse, is the werewolf from Britain? The Levine Cabal is not. I’d presume it’s tricky for a werewolf to find a horse when he travels abroad, but bringing his own would be even—
Oh.
I turn my head to Bishop’s ear. “Is that a horse from Trevelyan?”
His eyes narrow. “It’s mine.”
As Bishop focuses on the rider, I scan the horizon for the wolf’s confederates.
The secondary traits of a werewolf are mostly canine.
They can hear better and smell better than humans.
They can also see better at night. Day vision, though, is the same, and so all I can do is look out at that field for signs of life.
It’s May, meaning the grass isn’t long, but the trees and bushes are in full foliage and would provide hiding spots.
I identify two possibilities where the wolf’s confederates could hide.
One is too sparse to conceal more than a single person.
The other is so far to the right that once the werewolf enters the woods, they’ll lose sight of him.
I still mentally mark the spots. Then I turn my attention to the wolf himself.
He’s paused on the edge of the woods, where he’s openly sniffing the air. Then he seems to catch the scent of our horses. His face turns in that direction, and he nods and continues forward.
He’s older than us—I’m twenty-three and Bishop is twenty-eight. This fellow looks forty, though werewolf aging means he’s likely in his fifties. Average height, lean, with weathered skin and brown hair worn longer than is the fashion.
Bishop’s posture—poised but not tensed to spring—tells me he plans to let the wolf pass us, so I cast a cover spell.
And I do it just in time, because as the mare goes by, she glances over with a whicker.
The werewolf tugs the reins to halt the horse and then stands in the stirrups to look around.
A grunt, satisfied no one’s here, before he prods the horse forward with a hard jab that has Bishop letting out the softest growl.
Fortunately, the wolf doesn’t hear that, and the horse continues on.
Bishop stands abruptly, breaking the spell. “Cinder.”
The horse turns, sees Bishop, and rears, unceremoniously dumping her rider.
Bishop pounces. He might be in human form, but when he fights, it’s as if he channels his wolf, fast as a whip and light on his feet, with a power to his blows that makes me wince.
I suppose I should say that I wince thinking of the person taking those blows.
But no, I wince in sympathy for Bishop, lest he strain himself.
When I watched him fight last night, there’d been no time to admire him. Certainly I hadn’t done that when he fought my father, knowing it was a battle to the death and Bishop was physically outmatched.
Here, I can ease back and enjoy watching him trounce this wolf. I have a spell casually in reserve, my only fear being that the wolf will pull a weapon. That’s unlikely. Using a weapon is considered cowardice for werewolves, admitting you aren’t good enough to win by speed and strength and cunning.
I’ve taken pugilism lessons—my aunt Lenora believed in learning to physically protect ourselves and reserving spell power as a backup.
Still, I don’t fight like this. Maybe I can’t—having a different body shape and different abilities—but I think I could learn a great deal from Bishop.
Also, I would enjoy the process, and I believe he would, too. Very much, if I’m not mistaken.
I watch with the intention of learning, but really, I’m just admiring—his enviable expertise, his cool calculation, the effortless way his body moves.
When I’ve seen him fight before, he’s been fighting for his life.
This is slower, letting me see how good he really is when he’s not jabbing and punching and ducking and diving as fast as he can.
Not every blow lands, but not every blow is meant to land.
I can see that—how he’ll start to punch and let his opponent dodge that, only to follow up with one that sends the other man flying.
He doesn’t avoid every punch either. He can’t.
Instead, I swear I can tell when he decides to let the wolf get one in—a glancing blow or kick that doesn’t do any real damage, but makes the other wolf feel the thrill of victory …
and keeps him from realizing he’s losing and fighting harder.
The other wolf is a brawler, just punching and jabbing and then punching again, no sense of timing or planning.
He’s such a mediocre fighter that Bishop doesn’t need to adjust anything.
He hits, spins out of the way, kicks, feints, jabs, blocks, and then, when he seems to tire of the dance, sends the other wolf to the ground with a volley of fast blows.
Soon it’s over, and I’m glad of that. Really. It would be wrong to wish it had gone on longer, and if there’s any twinge of disappointment at such an easily won fight, it’s lessened by the sight of Bishop, pinning his quarry, resplendent in his victory.
Bishop looms over the wolf. He doesn’t say a word. He just looms. Then he looks at me, chin jerking for me to move where he can see me.
“Privacy,” he says, and it takes a moment to realize he wants me to cast a privacy spell, letting the two of us converse.
I do it, and he says, “That was too easy. Be careful.”
I nod and break the spell, and then I back up with a sniff, fasten the top button of my men’s shirt, and twist up my hair.
“Better, my lord?” I say with obvious annoyance, and the wolf snickers.
Bishop’s lips twitch as he realizes what I was doing. Giving an excuse for the privacy spell.
“Remember yourself,” he growls. “You are my wife.”
I roll my eyes, and the wolf snickers again.
“Go stand over there,” Bishop says, pointing. “The men are talking now.”
I would love to say he’s overdoing it, but the other wolf only smiles, seeing a woman put in her place, as she should be.
“Far enough,” Bishop calls. Then he lowers his voice. “Can you hear me?”
While my enhanced hearing isn’t on his level, I hear him easily. But I act as if I can’t, which is what Bishop wants—me to listen in while the other wolf thinks I can’t.
“Good,” Bishop calls louder when I don’t respond. “Now stay there.”
I glower and cross my arms.
“You’ll have your hands full with that one, Danvers,” the man says, his voice carrying a touch of the Emerald Isle. “She’s a Levine. More trouble than she’s worth, and she’s worth a great deal.”
“Don’t talk about my mate.”
“I understand but, sadly, cannot abide by the restriction, as she’s what I’m here to talk about. You’ve got yourself in a spot of trouble.”
“Thanks to your employer.”
The wolf lifts one shoulder. “My employer, yes, but not my master. I’ve come to offer advice to a fellow werewolf.”
Bishop snorts. “Distract me, you mean, while your confederates close in.”
“I’m alone.” He waves to the field beyond the forest. “If Beryl Levine wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now. She’s let you go.” His head jerks my way. “Because of that one.”
Bishop says nothing. The wolf takes that as encouragement to continue.
“Beryl had three daughters. Silas killed two of them—your mate’s mother and aunt. One remains, and she’s as useless as tits on a bull. The only good thing she did was have two daughters. One takes after her ma. The other…” His gaze shifts my way. “Well, she’s no longer among the living.”
My heart clenches as I quickly school my expression before the wolf realizes I can still hear them.
I killed my cousin. Accidentally. I didn’t know Henrietta was my cousin, but the death itself was also accidental.
She’d tricked me and threatened my human friend, Audrey, but I still regret what happened.
The wolf continues, “That leaves Miss Cordelia, who—as I’m sure you know—is no mere consolation prize. Beryl wanted her back in the fold before she lost Lenora and Henrietta, and after seeing her show of power last night, she will unleash hell to get her.”
“I believe she already did,” Bishop says dryly. “Flames and all.”
“True. That was a temper tantrum, though. Now she’s calmed down, and she won’t do anything to hurt her last hope here. Miss Cordelia isn’t just Beryl’s granddaughter. She’s her heir.” He looks up at Bishop. “You need to give her back.”
Bishop tenses. “My mate is not—” He stops himself, and I know he’d been about to say I’m not chattel to be “given” to anyone, but that doesn’t fit the role he’s playing.
His voice chills. “My mate is not for sale. She’s mine.”
“Proud of that, aren’t you, boy?” The wolf shifts, getting comfortable under Bishop’s hold.
“Can’t say I blame you. A feather in your cap, to be sure.
Not yet thirty and already Alpha of the Albion Pack, won in a fair challenge.
I noticed how few stormed off after you won.
You already have the Pack’s support. That’s impressive.
And a new bride, too? A beautiful young mate from two sterling lineages. ”
“Her father gave her to me.”
“Before you killed him.”
“I earned her, and I’m keeping her.”
“And endangering your Pack in the process? Not a good way to begin your reign.”
Bishop cranks the haughty self-importance up another notch. “My wolves wouldn’t respect me if I surrendered my mate so easily. How I fight for her is a reflection of how I will fight for them. The honor and dignity of the Pack is at stake.”
“And that suits you,” the wolf says. “Because you don’t want to give her up. Even to save your Pack.”
“Cordelia already offered to go with her grandmother, so do not come barking about how much Beryl wants her back.”
“Beryl thought she could have it both ways—exterminate the Pack and then scoop her granddaughter from the ashes. You thwarted her, and she realizes how easily Cordelia could have died in the melee. Beryl has retreated to regroup, and I’ve come to offer you a solution.”
“I’ve already—”
“Hear me out. You don’t need to give her back yet.
It’s too soon to capitulate. Keep the girl.
Enjoy the girl.” A wolfish grin. “I’d even suggest getting her with child.
Once that’s done, declare yourself tired of her.
She’s a handful. I can see that in the way she’s seething at being excluded from this conversation.
Negotiate for her return and then find yourself a more docile mate.
Meanwhile, you’ve kept a tie to the Levine Cabal, in the form of a child. Hopefully a son.”
“I don’t foresee myself tiring of Cordelia anytime soon.
She is, as you say, ‘a handful,’ but there’s fun to be had in breaking a filly.
You’ll note that she came with me willingly last night.
” He glances over and smiles as I feign scowling.
“And while she is, as you say, seething right now, she’s not arguing. She likes where she is. With me.”
A low chuckle. “I noticed. You’re right that there’s fun in breaking a filly. But once you’ve had your fun…” He shrugs. “Use her and then use her in another way. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Not that I would ever surrender her,” Bishop says. “But if I considered it…”
The wolf lifts his head. “Yes?”
“Tell me about this cabal. I don’t know much of them.”
“Because they don’t bother with the British Isles. There are greener pastures elsewhere, in places where supernaturals are grateful for the opportunity a cabal can provide.”
“Give me more specifically on the Levines. If they aren’t in Britain, then I don’t see how much good a connection to them would do me.”
The wolf jumps for the bait … and starts to talk.