“Annabelle and her mutt, Gabriel, have gone to ground with Isobella and the d’Louncrais she-wolf. They’re still planning on using your spell to go back to the tenth century. From the whispers I’m hearing, it’s Isobella going back in time, not Annabelle.”
Isobella? No. Thatcannothappen.
Dutton helped himself to a whiskey from her sideboard. Annabelle choosing to mate a werewolf over him still consumed him. Dutton needed to find himself a willing bedmate. It was what she’d been forced to do all those years ago.
“It makes no sense to me,” said Dutton, between sips of whiskey. “Isobella is unwell. No one’s talking, but I tracked her to the hospital the other day. Cancer, I think. Why sendherback?”
Because, you stupid sod, of what she becomes.Cordelia had seen it. The woman she knew as Isobella usingherspell to journey back in time, and mating the other pair of Montagne twins, the tenth-century ones. She remembered them well. Big brutes of men. Pure Frankish blood. No hint of the bronzed skinof their descendants. “We can’t allow Isobella to go back to the tenth century.”
Dutton’s glass halted part way to his lips. “Forgive me, Aunt Cordelia, but… It was you who suggested the coven send someone back to the tenth century. Now you want us to stop it?”
With Annabelle under their control, sendingherback to the tenth century had been a masterful plan. Two-fold in nature. She was an unknown, and unexpected. A lost and helpless female, the d’Louncrais would’ve taken her in. As they’d taken in Cordelia when she’d arrived in the village, her belly rounded with a babe. Through her, they could have wreaked havoc on the Langeais wolves. On the d’Louncrais. And Annabelle wasn’t Isobella. Preventing Isobella from going back in time would strike a blow close to the heart of the Langeais wolves. All three Montagnes—Gabriel, Pierre and Louis—would cease to exist. And it would do much more than that. She could not let Isobella succeed.
But no matter how much she tried, Cordelia had yet to subvert fate. What use were her damn visions if she couldn’t use them to alter the course of history?
“You don’t have to understand,” she snapped.
Dutton dropped his gaze. “Of course. I’ll update Douglas. He’ll see it done.”
“I’ll allocate a few of my operatives to assist him,” said Veilleux.
The man might not have an ounce of esoteric power running through his veins, but where Dutton had failed to make the connection, Veilleux hadn’t. She would have to keep a close watch on the leader of the Faucherians. He would turn on her. Eventually. When he did, she’d be ready for him. And she wouldn’t make the mistake of turning him into a werewolf. Not like she had all those centuries ago withhim.When he’drejected her.
Him.Alexandre d’Louncrais. Her creation. The first ever Langeais wolf. It had all started with him. And here, in the twenty-first century, his ancestors continued to flourish. Progeny begotten from the womb of that wretched nobleman’s daughter, Genevieve. Alexandre was long dead, lost to dust over the centuries, but it was not enough to ease the rage that burned in her chest.
“Dutton, fetch me that country bumpkin herbalist, Grace Williams. I have a task for her. Call her mother in, too.” A little leverage went a long way. She pinned the Faucherian leader with her gaze. “And Veilluex, get me that hacker.”
She’d wipe out the Montagnes, get rid of anyone who could trace her, and Grace would get her back her grimoire. Then she would finish off the d’Louncrais and the rest of the Langeais wolves once and for all. She’d created them. She was going to destroy them.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Melinda, with Manchu snuggled on her lap, closed another tab, resisting the urge to shove her laptop clear across the table.Nothing. It’d been four days since the events at the abandoned warehouse and neither she nor the twins had found any trace of MysticMage. Four days hunched over her laptop. Four nights spent in a super-sized king bed lapping up the attentions of two insatiable men. Werewolves. Their stamina far surpassed hers. In the wee hours of the morning, thoroughly sated, she would succumb to a deep and dreamless sleep.
Today, guilt was riding her hard. How could she lose herself to passion, how could she sleep so undisturbed when her poor client was…? It didn’t bear thinking about.
Across the table from her, surrounded by tech Melinda would’ve given a kidney for, Louis devoured a large slice of pecan pie with whipped cream. Yesterday, it’d been apple pie. The day before, banana cream. American pastries leaned more to the pie variety, and Louis seemed determined to try them all.
Pierre pushed back from his chair. “I’m going to make more coffee. Anyone want any? Melinda, tea?”
A chorus of yes, pleases, and Melinda leaned back in her chair, her gaze glued to Pierre’s taut ass as he sauntered into the kitchen.
Louis chuckled. “Can’t wait until tonight,bébé?”
Melinda flushed and glared at her lover. They weren’t the only ones in the room. Gabriel, phone to his ear, paced to a backdrop of blue sky and city buildings. Stefanie and Annabelle loungedon the sofa. All three were werewolves. If what she’d learned about Louis’ and Pierre’s enhanced senses was anything to go by, she might as well shout it from the rooftops she was having sex with both of them. But having intimate conversations in front of other people wasn’t something she was used to, even if it was the norm for werewolves.
Annabelle wasn’t just a werewolf. She was a witch, too. Not that Melinda had seen any evidence of that yet. Pierre had assured her it was true, and that Annabelle had played a role in the warehouse, keeping her safe and helping them. Melinda had been too busy hiding behind a barrel, terrified, to witness anything.
What did it even mean to be a witch? Boiling cauldrons, pointy hats and a big book of spells? Weird occult-like ceremonies in the forest? Annabelle, despite being both a werewolf and a witch, appeared completely normal.
Isobella, Annabelle’s sister, was a witch, too. A sick one. She wasn’t here today. She’d had an appointment with her oncologist. Witchcraft, it seemed, had its limitations.
Pierre returned as Gabriel finished his call.
Stefanie accepted a coffee from Pierre. “What did my big brother have to say?”
“He’s sent back up. They should be here tonight.”
“Good.” Annabelle sipped her coffee. “I don’t think we can wait much longer. Isobella’s oncologist is pushing her to start some form of treatment. If she has surgery or chemo, or both as he’s suggesting, she’ll be too sick, too weak to go. We can’t hold off any longer.”
