Page 51 of The Wolf and his Witch

The High Priestess, Aunt Marjory, smiled at her. “Of course you can, Isobella. I trust Annabelle’s judgment. If she didn’t think you capable of taking on the mission to the tenth century, she wouldn’t have recommended you. Neither would the Langeais wolves.”

Her father frowned. “It’s not that we don’t think you capable,mija, but—”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” interrupted her stepmom. “It is understandable, after what happened with…” She blushed and cleared her throat. “Of course you’re looking for a new adventure, something to sink your teeth into, but…”

“This has nothing to do with my breakup with Douglas. This is about me. Iwantto do this.”

Leaving her father was going to break her heart, and her father’s, but Gabriel and Annabelle would be here to tell him the truth. To give him some comfort. If the choice were between her not going and dying, and going and surviving in the tenth century, her father would make the same choice she had. All she had to do was keep her illness a secret until she left. If they knew, they’d all try to stop her.

* * * *

Cordelia’s gnarled fingers gripped her knitting needles. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one. Knitting calmed her, and she needed a lot of calm after the mess Dutton had made of things. Stupid fool had nearly gotten himself killed by that slip of a girl, Annabelle. If he hadn’t been so besotted with the idea of having the pretty blonde witch in his bed, they might not be in this position. He’d underestimated her. Typical. Men always underestimated women. And sadly, women overestimated men. As she had with that fool son of hers.

Her needles clacked together with a vicious snap. She should never have trusted him after he got himself cast off the d’Louncrais estate back in the tenth century. He’d had one job. Ingratiate himself with the alpha of the Langeais wolves—Jacques d’Louncrais—and he’d failed. She should never have trusted him with her grimoire. She should have gone back for it, risked another trip to the tenth century to ensure it was safe. Even after what had happened.

Where else would Annabelle have gotten a time-traveling spell if not from her grimoire? Cordelia snorted. Not from a French illuminated manuscript, as she claimed. It was a shame Roger had found the listening devices in Marjory’s office. The interesting conversations she’d still be privy to if they hadn’t.

She rocked back and forth in her chair, her needles clicking around green and red wool as she knitted a Christmas sweaterfor Douglas, the new paramour of one of her great nieces. All was not lost. The coven hadn’t found her. And they were unlikely to. Nor would the Langeais wolves. She had several properties to hide out in, none of them connected to her via any paper or digital trail. And she had her contingency plan. It would keep those clever Montagne twins busy unraveling all her false trails.

The death of Gerard Boucher, while an inconvenient situation, had not severed her connection with the Faucherians. She made a gurgling sound in the back of her throat. What a stupid name for an organization, but one couldn’t expect too much from zealots.

She paused in her knitting and rested her gnarled hands in her lap. For too long she’d been on the losing end of her skirmishes with the Langeais wolves. Not this time. She’d get her grimoire back, she’d take over the coven, and then she’d destroy those French werewolves. Here, now, or in the tenth century, she didn’t care which. With the knowledge and resources of the Faucherians, she could not fail.

* * * *

Alain d’Louncrais scrolled through the images on his phone, the blood in his veins icier than the frosted air beyond his hotel window. Spells, each one darker than the first, sent to him by Gabriel.

The bedsheets rustled behind him. “Come back to bed, Alain.”

He eyed the pretty, naked witch in his bed, her dark hair spread across the pale sheets. “In a minute,ma chérie.”

She pouted.“We’re supposed to be celebrating your election to the witch’s council.” She let the sheet slip down, revealing one full breast and a dark, pert nipple. “Come celebrate with me.”

Alain knew who the grimoire had belonged to, who’d written it. She’d come for it, sooner or later, but there was nothing he could do about any of it tonight.

He smiled and set aside his phone. “What did you have in mind,ma chérie?”

Alain climbed back into bed and pushed the grimoire from his thoughts. For now.

* * * *

Pierre leaned back on the sofa,Joyeux Noelplaying on the television. “You have outdone yourself this year, Louis. I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

His twin, Louis, slumped next to him. “Me either.”

Pierre’s phone pinged, and he dragged himself up to check it. “Typical. It’s Christmas Eve and Maxime’s still working.”

Louis groaned. “Wasn’t the Christmas tree in his office enough of a hint?”

“I guess not.” Pierre frowned at the message on his phone. He turned and disappeared into their office, returning with a laptop. He set it on the coffee table and powered it up.

Louis turned off the television. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until after New Year?”

With a few keystrokes, Pierre had an image open on the screen. “Gabriel and Annabelle haven’t been able to locate Cordelia King. Maxime wants us to track her down. He said this thing with Annabelle’s coven and the Faucherians was more about the Langeais wolves than we thought.”

“In what way?” Louis peered at the screen. “Looks like he’s sent us something out of an old manuscript.”

Pierre checked his phone. “Maxime says it’s from his ancestor’s journal.” He scrolled through the document, his eyebrows shooting up. “Merde.”

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