Through the window, the afternoon sun dipped low. So she’d gone forward in time, but how far forward? She turned on the television and flicked through the channels until she found a news station. Two weeks. She’d gone forward two weeks.
Cordelia shuffled about the room, searching every nook and cranny. She checked all her secret hiding places. Every last one. Desperation fueled her search, her rage. Nothing. It wasn’t there. Her grimoire wasn’t there. It wasn’tanywhere.
Her memories of that day taunted her. The tenth-century mud brick hut, rough and unkempt. Her drunken, useless son sprawled on the cot snoring. And Isobella Rodriguez flanked by two men—the brutish Montagne twins— storming in, tearing the place apart and taking her grimoire.
No.Cordelia slammed her cane down on the kitchen counter, splitting her stick in half.
Veilleux hadfailed. Isobella had gone back in time. Her grimoire remained lost. She wanted to scream, to rail against fate. Once again, she’d been unable to subvert that capricious bitch, fate.
She slumped into a chair, heaving. Grace. She still had Grace.
* * * *
“Well, if all it takes is for a book to distract you, I’m leaving.”
Alain barely glanced at the stunning brunette glaring at him from across the room. The door slamming told him she’d left, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t tear himself away from the item that had arrived by special delivery. This was no ordinary book.
His trepidation grew with each blood-stained page he turned. Had he not been wearing gloves, he wasn’t sure he’d want to touch the thing. An ancient grimoire with some of the vilest spells he’d ever encountered. This was the witch they were upagainst. And yet, from what Pierre had told him, she’d had ample chance to use a spell on them and hadn’t. Was her power waning?
Some of these spells required hours of preparation—strength of mindandbody. If Cordelia King was weakening, now was the time to strike. If they could find her again.
* * * *
Maxime downed the last of his cognac and pegged the empty glass at the wall. What was the point of drinking if he couldn’t get drunk? If, no matter how much he drank, it did little to numb the pain. He’d gained one sister, only to lose another. Stefanie. Gone to him forever. He cursed the day his father had handed him his ancestor’s journal.
He was a dominantfils de puteand he was never going to be anything but an alpha, but that came with responsibilities. Not all of them pleasant. Preparing Stefanie for what she would face had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Second only to giving her the amulet to ensure her fate.
Maxime glared at the journal on his desk. Everything outlined—their origins, Cordelia. Details of the women who were to go back in time and change the fate of the Langeais wolves. Erin Richardson, Rebekah Clarke, Isobella Rodriguez and… Maxime leaned on his desk. Stefanie d’Louncrais. His sister. Of all the things he’d read in the damn book, this cut him the deepest.
Beneath his ancestor’s concise hand, a few lines in his sister’s familiar scrawl. What she’d written, centuries ago, was the only reason he’d followed through with what needed to be done.
* * * *
Stefanie turned the golden amulet over in her hand. A sacred relic of the pack, imbued with magic centuries ago, and designedto protect and keep the Langeais wolves safe. Erin Richardson had found one and accidentally activated its spell and ended up in the tenth century, mated to Stef’s ancestor. Rebekah Clarke had had a similar experience.
Maxime had given it to her last Christmas. An odd gift, with a cryptic message. She hadn’t known what to make of it. Until Isobella had cast her spell to go back in time and thatconnard, Douglas, had followed her through. In that moment, she’d known what she had to do.
Coals glowed in the brazier in the corner, giving the room a soft glow. Lining the walls, chests overflowing with tomes and scrolls. The vaunted library of the d’Louncrais. The tenth-century version. On the desk before her, the one book that mattered.
A journal. One she’d seen many a time—her brother, Maxime, had pored over its pages for hours. It belonged to her ancestor, Gaharet d’Louncrais.Hewas in the great hall, surrounded by the heroes of her childhood tales—Ulrik Voclain, Aimon Proulx, Edmond and Aubert Montagne.
She picked up a quill and opened the book. One last letter to her brother, though he wouldn’t read it for another eleven centuries. Stefanie dipped the quill into the ink and started writing.
* * * *
Grace handed her ticket to the flight attendant and boarded the plane, finding her seat in cattle class. With the magnitude of her mission, Cordelia could’ve at least stumped for a business class ticket.Not that miserable old witch.
She stared out of the window at the tarmac. Any other time, she’d be delighted to be flying to Paris. She’d always wanted to visit the city of love—climb the Eiffel Tower, walk along theSeine, visit the Louvre, gorge herself on French pastries. Would Cordelia forever ruin her thoughts of Paris?
Grace leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes.Seduce Alain d’Louncrais. Get the grimoire. Save my mother.If ever there was a person less suited to this task, it was her, but Cordelia had her over a barrel. She would do what she had to do. Including some old dude on the witches’ council.
Epilogue
It had been one week and four days since Melinda had awoken a werewolf. Eleven days of not knowing her own strength, not being able to control her form and tearing through almost all of her clothing, Manchu not knowing what to make of her, and lots and lots of hot sex with her attentive mates.
Today, they’d given her a reprieve. She needed more clothes. Louis had suggested she not bother with clothes at all. That would have pleased him no end, her walking around perpetually naked. Pierre had sent for Annabelle. They’d never getanytraining done if she never wore any clothes. That hadn’t seemed like a bad thing to Louis.
So here they were, Melinda swamped in one of Louis’ T-shirts, crowded around the kitchen bench as Louis helped her prepare Kung Pao chicken. It wouldn’t be so bad—she would have enjoyed chatting with Annabelle again, asking her a few questions about her turning as her mates talked with Gabriel—if Louis hadn’t found her remote-controlled vibrator.
