Page 108 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Brutus dropped her abruptly. “I forget you’re not a wolf.”

Sorcha beamed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Aidan frowned thoughtfully.

“Anything you need,” Brutus choked out. “My wolf is yours.”

Sorcha patted his shoulder again, uncomfortable with so much gratitude. She was far more accustomed to being bitten for her troubles. Especially since Orla might be home now, but she was far from healed. “Aidan is the one who got through to her, really,” she said. “He sent her home.”

Brutus wiped his eyes. “She was lost.”

Orla whined from her cage. Brutus turned on his heel and rushed away without another word.

Despite Brutus’s relief, the atmosphere of the camp was subdued, while at the same time also burning with a combination of fear and fury.

Orla whined as she struggled against Freya’s bindings. She shoved at the bars of her iron cage no matter how much Brutus pleaded with her to be still, telling her that she was safe now. She was home. There was no way of knowing what she could remember, or if she even recognized him.

Some of the Lycan wanted to form raiding parties, wanted to fight the Collector, but also anyone who might cross their path. Freya forbade the wolves from leaving unless it was to track the missing wolves. Odessa was the latest to go out hunting and not return.

The Alphas convened deeper in the forest, Aidan among them. Orla continued to alternate between whining and growling so threateningly that Sorcha’s hair stood on end and would not flatten.

She eventually found herself in the kitchen tent, needing to keep her hands busy. The loaves of bread and rolls were dwindling and they had an odd smell, like far too much rosewater. She put them aside and went to work mixing flour and yeast and honey into a large bowl. If there was anything Granny had taught her, it was that no matter the circumstances, bread was a balm. People always needed to eat.

She mixed dough and covered it with a towel to let it rise, then made bannock dough for something that would be ready much quicker. She used an iron skillet with lots of butter, making several of the rustic, thick flatbreads and cutting them into triangles. Some of the children drifted closer, following their noses. “Is it true you have a familiar?” one of the young girls asked. Her feet were bare and she had made a chain of daisies for her hair.

Sorcha nodded. “I do. His name is Sir Elderberry.”

They stared at her in awe. “Can we see him?”

Lycan did not have familiars in the way of ordinary witches—they became their animal spirit. It had never occurred to her that little wolves would be as entranced by the idea of familiars as little witches were at the idea of turning into a wolf.

Elderberry shot from her chest like a shooting star, all glowing feathers and gleaming beak, swooping around the children until they shrieked with laughter, chasing him.

One of the fathers sent her a smile. Sorcha returned it and went back to mixing dough. Gretel ducked into the tent and dropped onto a bench, eyes rimmed with red. Sorcha passed her a plate of warm bannock. Gretel ate three pieces before she spoke. “That helped, thank you.”

Sorcha nodded. Anger and sorrow and fear all tended to leave one feeling like boiled celery. She had seen it time and time again. Once you felt safe again—whether you were a sparrow being untangled from a thicket or a witch from a binding spell or a wolf from chains—you became ravenous. When the hippogriff had finally started eating again, he had consumed twelve loaves of bread, fourteen apples, and three beef pies.

“Do you know Orla?” Sorcha asked. “Is she a friend?”

Gretel nodded and pursed her lips when they began to tremble. “I didn’t realize how much until she went missing.”

“That’s the way of it sometimes.”

“And now Lorcan is gone as well.”

Sorcha stared at her. “No. I’m so sorry.”

The Collector was winning. It made her bare her own pitifully human teeth.

Gretel wiped the tears from her cheek. “Even I can’t find him, and we’re kin.”

One of the children darted under the tent, reaching for a slice of bannock. He took a large bite and, in his haste, nearly choked. “This is so much better than the bread this morning! It tasted like soggy roses.” He looked around furtively. “Don’t tell my ma.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Sorcha assured him.

He grabbed two more slices, then noticed Gretel. “Brutus is asking for you. He says Orla gets worse when you’re not there.”

Gretel jumped to her feet, eyes still glistening. “I can’t find Lorcan, but I can at least help Orla.”