Page 2 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

I nod, and I hope my expression reassures him that I’m fine with this. The Alpha will do what he must to feed his Pack, as he said. He didn’t need to kill this man, so he didn’t, but if it came down to that, he’d weigh his options and make the choice he had to.

Bishop wasn’t raised in a Pack. I wasn’t raised in a Coven. But I think anyone who grew up in a loving family understands this. When it comes to survival, we have our priorities. We must.

Bishop and I begin to fill the sacks as quickly as we can. We’ll be emptying the poor man’s shelves, but again, there’s nothing to be done for it. Maybe, in this case, we’ll find a way to repay him.

As I grab hunks of meat, I keep one eye on the front door. There’s a small window next to it, and I watch that for the shadow of a customer. Yet when someone does come, they approach from the opposite side. Bishop hears the person first, his head jerking up.

The person—presumably a customer—yanks on the door, expecting it to open. I ease over and see a middle-aged woman in a day dress and bonnet.

Bishop and I duck down behind the butcher table as I consider spells. Fog? No, that’d look odd indoors. A cover spell? I think we’re hidden enough and, again, I need to conserve power for an actual emergency.

A shadow passing over the window means the customer is peering in. A loud rapping follows.

“George?” she calls. “George, are you in there?”

“Ma’am,” a man’s voice says. “Might I trouble you for directions?”

Bishop’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing. A stranger to town diverting the woman’s attention when we need it diverted? That’s much too coincidental. The obvious answer is that one of the Pack followed us, but that narrowing of Bishop’s eyes says he doesn’t recognize the voice.

“We should leave,” I whisper.

He looks toward the door, where a conversation continues. Then he nods abruptly, and we grab what we can, our sacks already almost full.

We slow at the rear door and listen, but it’s quiet out back. Bishop cracks open the door and inhales, and I swear his hackles rise.

I sniff and frown as a smell wafts around the building, familiar in one way, unfamiliar in another. “There’s a werewolf at the front door?” I whisper.

Another abrupt nod.

“But not one from the Pack?” I ask.

A grunt that means yes, it’s not a werewolf from the Pack and also, that’s a problem.

Bishop takes the sack of meat from me. “Carry the bread, please. We’ll get to the horses as quickly as we can.”

I only nod, but he still says, “I’m not fleeing. I need to lure him out of town before I confront him.”

“I presumed as much,” I say, and we hurry along the back of the buildings.

We reach the horses. While Bishop arranges the sacks of food, I pretend to wander, checking a buttercup here, smiling at a little yellowhammer there. Putting on a show of communing with nature … while keeping all senses on alert.

“Nothing,” I say when I return to Bishop. I hadn’t gone far from him. If I had, he’d have reacted and given away our game of acting as if nothing is awry.

“It can’t be a coincidence, can it,” I say.

“No.”

“My grandmother implied she has werewolves in her cabal. That would be who she’d send to track us.”

“It would,” he says grimly as he helps me onto the horse.

Until yesterday, I knew nothing about my grandmother. I’d heard of cabals, but they were European or American and always run by sorcerer families. Werewolf Packs and witch Covens are for specific supernatural types and open only to that type. They’re tight-knit community groups with a chosen leader and strict rules that keep their members safe.

Cabals are businesses. At the top is a spellcaster family, which surrounds itself with supernaturals of all types. While some of these supernaturals are bound by blood oaths, most come for the same reason anyone takes employment—money.

I would presume a cabal offers benefits similar to Packs and Covens, which provide much-needed services supernaturals struggle to find elsewhere—like Bishop’s cousin Julius being the Pack doctor, with a full understanding of werewolf physiology. But, in the end, a cabal is all about making money.

The crowning achievement of sorcerers, cabals have made them—outside Britain—the wealthiest supernaturals. Since sorcerers have been the enemies of witches since the Inquisition, I can’t help being impressed at my family building their own cabal. But I’m not convinced it’s a good thing to beat your enemy at his own game when that game involves murdering innocent people. I can’t help but feel the real way to win is to play by your own rules.