Page 81 of Wolf's Redemption

“You think your greatest weakness is wolfsbane? Or silver?” Lothair tugged Rebekah closer, moving the edge of his sword flush against Rebekah’s throat. Rebekah paled and Ulrik took a step forward until Lothair pressed the blade in firmer, halting him. “You could not be more wrong. Your greatest weakness is your women.”

“Or our greatest strength,” said Gaharet. “Never underestimate the lengths one of our kind will go to, to protect his woman. It is an unwise man who would turn his back on a wolf when you have threatened his mate.” Gaharet backed toward the door. “Your choice, Lothair.”

The prickle of a shift hovered below the surface of Ulrik’s skin, and his musky scent grew stronger.

“Go, then,” Lothair snarled. “After Gaharet.”

Ulrik met Lothair’s snarl with one of his own, but he pushed his wolf down. If he were to shift now, his clothes would shred, but his armor would entangle him. He would be of no help to Rebekah. Though the hackles on his neck rose at having an armed Lothair at his back, he would suffer it. He liked the idea of Rebekah being taken from him even less.

He followed Gaharet’s lead, and they trooped along corridors and down two flights of stairs until they were standing in theroom with the grate. Ulrik eyed the bloodied bodies of the four guards. Would this savagery alarm Rebekah? Offend her? As grateful as she was he had come to her aid, would she view him the same knowing him capable of this?

He stepped over a body as he moved into the room. In the periphery of his vision, Rebekah’s lips twitched and a grim satisfaction played across her face. Shelikedthe justice he had meted out to those who had captured her. His lungs filled and his chest puffed out. His woman was strong and resilient.

Gaharet opened the grate with a screech of hinges, lit a candle and they descended the stairs. Ulrik did not need the light to discern the moaning shape of a man curled on the floor. Renaud, his arms and neck red and blistered from the silver shackles chaining him to the wall, twitched, then his back bowed as a spasm hit him hard.

Ulrik had sat by Aimon as he had gone through his turning. Listened to his agonized screams for days. His inability to do little but hold Aimon down, wash his burning brow with cool water and cover him with blankets when he shivered like a newborn left out in the snow, had tormented him. He had no such sympathy for Renaud. Archeveque Renaud had trapped and killed many of his kind—men, women and children. Friends. All so that he could… What? Rise through the ranks of the church and become a cardinal? The man deserved every twitch, every spasm, every slice of agony the turning would bring him.

Gaharet held the candle aloft, lighting up the space and the figure on the ground.

“Renaud?” Lothair’s face twisted in grotesque fury. He spun on Ulrik, dragging Rebekah with him. “You bitRenaud? I wanted an army of werewolves, not some decrepit werewolf priest!”

Ulrik stood his ground, conscious of the sword against Rebekah’s quivering throat. “You wanted me to bite someone. I wanted to bite Renaud.”

Renaud struggled to his feet with a clinking of chains, panting, his blood-tinged lips peeled back in a snarl. He must have bitten his tongue. Renaud opened his mouth to speak, but another spasm hit. He strained against his chains and let out a bloodcurdling shriek that bounced off the walls and pierced Ulrik’s sensitive ears. Renaud dropped to his knees, his chest heaving.

Feel it all, you miserable old cretin. You deserve every bit and more.

“Be grateful I did not bite you,” Ulrik rasped. “That is what Renaud wanted. You turned and bound in silver. So he could present you to Rome, no doubt. He had plans to rise in the church ranks. He had eyes on a cardinal’s robes.”

“And what, pray tell,” spat Lothair, tension rippling through his body, “am I supposed to do with himnow?”

His grip tightened on Rebekah, and she whimpered. Ulrik clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lunge at him.

“If I hand him over to the church as a werewolf, they will descend on my county in droves. If I kill him—the same. I cannot have him wandering my county, free. I would not trust Renaud as a werewolf any more than I do as a man.”

“Look at him, Lothair.” Ulrik stabbed his finger toward the archeveque. “Look at what being turned means.”

Another spasm hit Renaud, and his teeth snapped at the air. His eyes rolled back in his head, revealing only the whites of his eyes, and his veins stood out blue against his pallid, sweaty forehead. He tipped his head toward the ceiling and howled. Lothair recoiled.

“Three days of this. He will be lucky to survive. If he does, he could well have lost all sense and be nothing more than theravaging monster the myths proclaim us to be. Is that what you want for yourself? For your men? Is that a risk you want to take?”

Lothair stared at the groaning shape on the floor. Renaud reached out and his blood-shot eyes pleaded. Lothair pulled back, dragging Rebekah with him. Ulrik edged closer. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide as the horror of a turning unfolded in front of her. With Lothair so distracted, could he pull her free of his grasp? He reached for her, and she slipped her hand into his.

Renaud staggered to his feet, his bony hands clutching at the wispy strands of his gray hair. The silver prevented him from shifting, but there was nothing human about him. His eyes bulged, and he bared his teeth, gnashing at the air. He pulled against his chains, straining them to their limits.

Ulrik’s grip tightened around Rebekah’s hand. Aimon had snapped his bindings in the throes of his turning. It had taken everything both heandGaharet had to restrain him. Aimon’s straps had been leather. Iron chains held Renaud fast to the wall, but would they hold?

Renaud shuddered and shrank back, the chains slackening as he leaned against the wall, panting. He wrapped his arms around himself, hissing as fresh welts appeared on his wrists and fixed a malevolent stare on Lothair.

No hint of Renaud remained in his blood-shot eyes, only pain and rage. He roared and lunged, hitting the end of the chains hard and, as Ulrik had feared, the iron chain snapped. Renaud fell to his hands and knees. Lothair stumbled back and raised his sword, and Ulrik took his chance, pulling Rebekah from him. He shoved her behind him, shielding her with his body.

Renaud held up his hands, the broken chains dangling from his wrists. He lurched to his feet and roared his triumph. Thensomething happened Ulrik had never thought possible. Still bound by the silver shackles, Renaud part shifted.

Merde.

Ulrik pushed Rebekah toward the safety of the stairs. He had no weapon other than himself, and he had no time to remove his armor. Renaud’s head, fully wolf, swiveled to follow Rebekah’s retreat and his lips peeled back, revealing slavering jaws.

“Gaharet.” Lothair’s voice had an alarmed edge to it that Ulrik had never experienced. Not even on the battlefield. “I thought silver would contain your kind.”

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