Page 73 of Wolf's Redemption

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It could’ve been hours, maybe an entire day—Bek did not know how long she’d sat in darkness before the grate hinges screeched again. After the count’s visit, neither sitting so closeto the grate and the guards, nor sitting alone in the dark, had appealed. She’d found a happy medium near the bottom of the steps, the light spilling through the grate still giving her some comfort.

She got to her feet, her body stiff from the cold, and slunk back into the soul-sucking darkness of the dungeon. Who would it be this time? The count again? Someone bringing her food? Her stomach rumbled, and despite the dampness of the dungeon, her throat was parched.

Bek eyed the descending light warily. A man in a black cassock, a cross around his neck and a magenta skull cap stepped into the small space, his candle held aloft. A priest. Not a bog-standard one either. One with rank, if the silver thread woven through his robe was anything to go by. The archbishop Erin had spoken of?

The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows over the priest’s face, making his cheeks seem sunken and his eyes deeper set, as though his skin stretched tight over his features to reveal the skull beneath. A chill ran up her spine. She’d tolerated the well-meaning priests who’d come to Bronzefield. If she’d had any connection with religion, she might have found comfort in their visits, in their quiet words from the bible, or their prayers for her forgiveness. But if this guy had come to offer her solace, then she was the Queen of England.

She bore the coldness of his calculating scrutiny in silence. Who posed the greater threat? The count or the priest?

He held something out in his palm, something gold.Could it be?She leaned forward.It glittered in the candlelight.Yes. The amulet.She reached for it. The archbishop curled his fingers around it and snatched it back.

He let out a dry and dusty cackle that would have made the Wicked Witch of the West proud. “You know what this is?”

Her eyebrows shot up, and she took a step back. He’d spoken in English. Was he tag-teaming with the count? Bad cop, worse cop?

“I found your piece of parchment.” He held up the amulet again. “Four lines of script. Four lines of Latin, and four lines of a rather strange version of the language of Bretaigne. Is that where you have come from? Bretaigne?”

Would Bek have a better chance of manipulating him into getting her out of here? Better success than she’d had with the count?

He stepped closer, the amulet clasped firmly in his bony hand. “I want to know where it takes you. If you say the words. If you recite the spell.”

He didn’t know how it worked. He didn’t know about the binding stone. Hope, tentative and fragile, fluttered in her chest. She did. Ulrik had the binding stone. He was most likely with Gaharet. Neither would want to be found by the archbishop, but they were both more than capable of taking care of one man. She’d missed her opportunity in the forest. She wasn’t going to waste this one.

The priest’s eyes glowed with an almost demonic fervor. “Tell me what I want to know, and I will see you released.”

Bek’s eyes narrowed. He might be a priest, but Rebekah didn’t trust a word that came out of his mouth.Heshouldn’t trusther, either.

“I…”

He sidled closer. “You want to be free of this horrible place, do you not?” he asked, his voice deceptively gentle.

Bek nodded. That was the truth.

“Then, my dear, tell me how this amulet works.”

She nodded again and gave him what she hoped was a tremulous smile. “Okay. Um… I…don’t know where it takes you.” A complete lie. “Um… I’ve never used it.”

The archbishop scowled.

“But I do know how to make it work.”

Truth. A truth she would use to her benefit.

His cold eyes blazed, and his thin, bloodless lips turned up in a semblance of a smile. “Go on.”

“You have to hold the amulet and recite the words.” She captured her bottom lip between her teeth and fluttered her eyelashes.Too much?She was so bad at this shit. Hapless female wasnother scene, but he was gobbling up the morsels she threw him quicker than a stray dog in a sausage factory. “You have to say the words out loud.”

There was that awful cackle again.

Bek repressed a shudder and leaned in. “And you need blood to make it work. On the amulet. Your blood.”

His beaming smile, all teeth and jutting cheekbones, made for a caricature of a corpse. This dude was scary. Creepy in a way the count was not.

“Thank you.” He turned away and made for the stairs.

“What about me?” she called after him. “Are you going to get me out of here?”.

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