Page 76 of Wolf's Redemption

Gaharet came up behind him. “It is done.”

Ulrik released his grip, the distinct and unpleasant scent of urine filling his nostrils. Renaud had voided his bladder. Ulrik backed away and shifted as Aimon and Gaharet bound Renaud in rope and gagged him with a strip of cloth. He took the offered wineskin from Gascon and washed the blood from his mouth, spitting it at Renaud. He wanted no reminder of Renaud on him when they rescued Rebekah.

Ulrik took his clothes and armor from Gascon and quickly dressed. “What now?”

Gaharet nudged Renaud with his boot. “Now we go to the keep and rescue your mate. We can no longer afford to wait until nightfall, lest someone come looking for Renaud.” He jerked his chin at Aimon. “You will answer Lothair’s summons. We still have a traitor, and he will be there along with the others. Ulrik, Gascon and I will take Renaud through the postern gate and enter the keep via the secret passageway. We will free Rebekah and leave Renaud in her place. We may have to kill a few guards, but that cannot be helped.”

Yes.Ulrik fist-punched the air.Hold on, Rebekah. I am coming for you, baby.

“Gascon,” said Gaharet, “fetch the horses.” Gascon retreated through the forest. “We will get your mate back, Ulrik. I vow it to you.”

Ulrik gripped Gaharet’s arm. “Thank you. I do not think I could…”

“You have suffered enough loss in this lifetime, my friend. We all have. Come.” He pointed to the writhing archeveque, his moans muffled by the gag. “Help me get this weasel onto my horse.”

Together, they lifted Renaud and slung him across Gaharet’s stallion.

Ulrik tossed Gaharet a rope. “Have we made a mistake, do you think, in turning him? Not that I did not derive great pleasure from biting Renaud.”

“At his age”—Gaharet shook his head—“it will surprise me if he survives the turning. Three days of agony should be enough to stop his heart.”

“And the evidence of our existence?”

“Do you think Lothair would like it known he had a werewolf confined in his keep?” Gaharet wound the rope around Renaud and secured him to his saddle, pulling the knots tight. “Besides, the church would not view favorably his chaining up of an archeveque in his underground chamber.”

Ulrik took his horse’s reins from Gascon and swung himself into his saddle. “And the information we need about the traitor?”

Gaharet mounted his horse. “Once in that chamber, we can confine him in silver and get the answers we need.” Gaharet set his jaw. “Then we leave him there to die.”

A smile hovered on his lips. Leaving Renaud to die in the chamber that had once confined him… A fitting end, and it pleased him well. He would see it done.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The grate clanged open and Rebekah picked herself off the cold, damp step. Perhaps they were bringing her more food. Another lump of stale bread and more water of questionable cleanliness? But she’d eat the bread and drink the water. She had no idea how long she’d be here, and she wasn’t in a rush to die of dehydration or starvation. One thing at a time.

Flickering candlelight preceded boots down the stairs. Then one, no, two guards stepped into the room. She eyed them warily, her hands clenched into fists, ready for anything.There’d not been a repeat of her first visit to the dungeon. No smarmy guard looking to rape her.Yet.Bek searched their expressions, looking for a hint of their intent. They stared at her dispassionately. She’d rejoice at a breath of compassion, but she’d settle for this. It beat the alternative.

One guard said a few words and held something up. Not food. Shackles. Metal manacles linked with a thick chain. They approached, and Bek held her hands out. There was no point in fighting them. They were taking her out of here—a plus—and she wasn’t about to give them a reason to get handsy.

The cuffs enclosed her wrists, frigid metal against her cold skin, and the guard locked them into place. Taking an arm each, they led her up the stairs. She squinted against the bright light of the room. Had Ulrik come for her? Is that why they were taking her from the dungeon?

A thread of hope tugged at her heart. How long had she waited for Spider, expecting the lawyer the Devil’s had in their pocket tobe engaged for her defense? He’d never shown. But if Ulrik had come…

How long have I been here? Half a day? A day?

She wanted to rejoice, but the cold cynicism of past experience weighed her down like a pair of cement shoes.Don’t get your hopes up, Bek.More likely, the count tired of waiting.

The guards propelled her past the game of dice on the table and out into the corridor. A set of stairs, more stairs and endless corridors. She tried to get her bearings, should an opportunity to escape present itself, but the guards kept her moving and it all looked the same. Down a long corridor, they stopped at a small door. She could hear voices. Lots of them. At a knock from a guard, the door swung open and they dragged her through.

The noise, the smell of sweating bodies, the sheer size of the room hit her and Bek stumbled, the guards’ grip on her arms the only thing preventing her from falling. She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, and gagged. The air in the dungeon had been stale and dank. Here, beneath a sickly sweet herbal smell, was the odor of rotting garbage and raw sewerage. The council bin at the back of The Spicy Dragon hadn’t smelled this bad. Her eyes watering, she lifted her head.

The immense room was filled with people milling about in groups and hugging the walls. There had to be over a hundred people in the room. Lording it over all of them, on a raised platform, sat the count. The dragon on his shirt spewed fire at her, and his dark eyes promised nothing good. Her stomach clenched, and she swallowed the nausea that rose in her throat.

Lined up in front of him, their faces stern and unforgiving, were four men. Four knights. None of them were Ulrik. One man she recognized, with his white-blond hair and eyes as blue as his coat. Aimon. A flash of concern flickered across his face. What did it mean that he was here? That all four men were here? Linedup in front of the count like naughty schoolchildren in front of a headmaster. Were they all shifters like Aimon?

She sized up the man next to Aimon. Large and muscled, there was a hint of gray at his temples and in his beard. His coat, a dirty orange-red, covered his armor. His crest, some sort of weird bird—part dragon, part rooster—in deep red. Like Aimon he wore chain mail, but neither he nor Aimon had a sword belted at his waist.

She skipped to the next man.Fuck, he’s huge.He wore a coat of green with a brown bear as his crest—fitting—and his face he’d twisted into a scowl. Not at her, but at the count. A possible friend? Someone who would come to her aid?

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