Page 75 of Wolf's Redemption

Did she still have the amulet? Or was it another fallen werewolf?

Gaharet drew his sword. “Maybe.”

Ulrik slid his sword from his scabbard. “Maybe not.”

Aimon also drew his sword, and he moved with Ulrik to flank Gaharet. United they stood, and waited.

A figure in black, his robes shot through with silver thread, appeared, grunting as he landed on his hands and knees. In his bleeding hand, he clutched an amulet.

Ulrik gaped at the figure. “Renaud?”

The man who had trapped and killed so many of their kind. Had turned Comte Lothair against them. How the hell had he gotten his hands on an amulet?

The archeveque looked up, and he blanched. “D’Louncrais. You are supposed to be—” Renaud pressed his thin lips together and got to his feet.

Ulrik raised his sword. “Nowwill you let me kill him?” At Gaharet’s raised hand, Ulrik stilled. “You cannot mean to let him walk away?”

Gaharet’s jaw clenched. “No. We cannot.”

Renaud backed away a step.

“You are not going to suggest we simply tie him and leave him, are you?” Ulrik stared at Gaharet, incredulous. “We risk him escaping. Or Lothair’s guard’s finding him.”

“Kill me”—Renaud’s face twisted in a vicious snarl—“and you will burn inhell.”

“Oh, I will not have Ulrik kill you, Renaud, but you may well wish for death.” Determination glittered in Gaharet’s eyes. “Thanks to you, Lothair wants an enhanced army. I plan to show him what is involved in that, and you are going to help us.”

Ulrik’s eyes narrowed on Renaud. The archeveque, eyes wide and his heartbeat loud and racing in Ulrik’s ears, shuffled backward. A slow smile spread across Ulrik’s face, and his canines punched through his gums.

“Get some rope, Aimon.” Ulrik sent Gaharet a questioning look. “May I?”

“You are the one who Renaud trapped with wolfsbane and bound in silver.” Gaharet held out his hands, offering up the archeveque. “The pleasure is all yours.”

Ulrik sheathed his sword, unbuckled it from around his waist and handed it to Gaharet. As he prowled toward a retreating Renaud, he removed his vambraces, greaves and boots.

Renaud’s face paled, and his steps quickened. In his haste, he tripped over his robes. He scrambled to his feet. “Call off your dog, d’Louncrais.”

Ulrik ignored Renaud’s high-pitched command, the scent of the archeveque’s fear sweeter than any fine wine. He pressed forward, shucking his hauberk and gambeson, and pulling his tunic over his head.

“I can tell you who my informant was!” Renaud’s voice rose to a screech. “Who betrayed you!”

Ulrik paused. This was important information. Would Gaharet stop him?

His alpha shrugged. “Soon he will be in so much agony he will tell us whatever we want to know.”

Ulrik grinned and slipped out of his breeches, the change rippling through him the moment he stepped free of them. Sandy-colored fur sprouted across his shifting body, his snout elongating and his spine contorting. With a shriek, Renaud turned and fled.

Ulrik laughed, the sound distorted by his changing vocal cords. Renaud could not run fast enough or far enough to escape him. He slunk down on all fours, his transformation complete, and ran after his prey. Renaud ducked and wove through the trees, pushing aside branches and plowing through shrubs. Ulrik, vengeance in his heart, nipped at his heels.

“Stop toying with him, Ulrik,” yelled Gaharet.

Ulrik whined but increased his pace. Renaud was an agile man for his age, but he was no match for a wolf. Especially not a werewolf. Ulrik bore down on him. All his pain and rage, all his suffering in that chamber, the lack of control forced on him by the cursed wolfsbane, and the bite of the silver against his skin that had bound his wolf, he directed at Renaud. He leaped on the archeveque, hitting him hard and bringing him to the ground. His two front paws held Renaud in place as he leaned in, putting his muzzle next to Renaud’s face. He bared his teeth.

Renaud’s eyes widened, and his body trembled. “No, no, no. You cannot. I am an archeveque.” His voice pitched higher. “Youcannot make me…I cannotbe one of you.” His words tumbled out of his mouth, his face deathly pale and sweat beading on his upper lip. “I am going to be a cardinal!” he shrieked.

Not anymore.

Ulrik lunged and sunk his teeth deep into Renaud’s neck, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. Renaud screamed, and he beat his fists on the ground. Ulrik tightened his hold as his saliva entered his victim’s veins. Renaud’s body shuddered. A spasm ripped through the prone archeveque and his back arched, his mouth open in a silent scream.

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