Page 4 of The Wolf Queen’s Curse

“Please make sure the Pack knows that I offered to go and she wouldn’t accept.”

His brow furrows. I fuss with the reins before looking over. “I don’t want anyone thinking this could have all been fixed if I went along willingly. I also don’t want anyone thinking their new Alpha chose his mate over his Pack.”

“Ah. Julius will already be doing that, but I’ll make sure it’s clear, for the few who might question.”

“And even those who wouldn’t openly question but might quietly wonder. I need the Pack to understand why I’m still here. To support you and them. Not to hide from Beryl.”

“I know. However, on the subject of hiding, I do believe I see what I was looking for. A place to conceal ourselves and ambush this wolf.”

TWO

We ride into the forest. Lying in wait is tricky with horses. We find them a grassy stream and then tie them, so they don’t eat and drink their fill and then come to find their people. There’d been a dozen horses at Trevelyan, and Felix had freed them all, but these were the only two who weren’t too panicked to follow him. They’re older horses, a gelding and a mare who are quite content to stick close to the source of sweet apples and shoulder scratches and an easy life. They’re also, thankfully, placid enough not to blink at being tied to a tree.

Once they’re happily grazing, we hurry back to where we came into the forest. I suggest we hide on opposite sides of the path. Bishop vetoes that with a look. Gods forbid I’m ten feet away from him in a dangerous situation.

We hunker together, and it isn’t long before the werewolf arrives. He’s on horseback, which means he brought his own horse because that’s one thing werewolves can’t steal. The wolf in their scent makes animals uneasy, and I presume horses need to be raised with werewolves.

But if this is his horse, is the werewolf from Britain? The Levine Cabal is not. I’d presume it’s tricky for a werewolf to find a horse when he travels abroad, but bringing his own would be even—

Oh.

I turn my head to Bishop’s ear. “Is that a horse from Trevelyan?”

His eyes narrow. “It’s mine.”

As Bishop focuses on the rider, I scan the horizon for the wolf’s confederates. The secondary traits of a werewolf are mostly canine. They can hear better and smell better than humans. They can also see better at night. Day vision, though, is the same, and so all I can do is look out at that field for signs of life. It’s May, meaning the grass isn’t long, but the trees and bushes are in full foliage and would provide hiding spots. I identify two possibilities where the wolf’s confederates could hide. One is too sparse to conceal more than a single person. The other is so far to the right that once the werewolf enters the woods, they’ll lose sight of him. I still mentally mark the spots. Then I turn my attention to the wolf himself.

He’s paused on the edge of the woods, where he’s openly sniffing the air. Then he seems to catch the scent of our horses. His face turns in that direction, and he nods and continues forward.

He’s older than us—I’m twenty-three and Bishop is twenty-eight. This fellow looks forty, though werewolf aging means he’s likely in his fifties. Average height, lean, with weathered skin and brown hair worn longer than is the fashion.

Bishop’s posture—poised but not tensed to spring—tells me he plans to let the wolf pass us, so I cast a cover spell. And I do it just in time, because as the mare goes by, she glances over with a whicker. The werewolf tugs the reins to halt the horse and then stands in the stirrups to look around. A grunt, satisfied no one’s here, before he prods the horse forward with a hard jab that has Bishop letting out the softest growl. Fortunately, the wolf doesn’t hear that, and the horse continues on.

Bishop stands abruptly, breaking the spell. “Cinder.”

The horse turns, sees Bishop, and rears, unceremoniously dumping her rider.

Bishop pounces. He might be in human form, but when he fights, it’s as if he channels his wolf, fast as a whip and light on his feet, with a power to his blows that makes me wince. I suppose I should say that I wince thinking of the person taking those blows. But no, I wince in sympathy for Bishop, lest he strain himself.

When I watched him fight last night, there’d been no time to admire him. Certainly I hadn’t done that when he fought my father, knowing it was a battle to the death and Bishop was physically outmatched.

Here, I can ease back and enjoy watching him trounce this wolf. I have a spell casually in reserve, my only fear being that the wolf will pull a weapon. That’s unlikely. Using a weapon is considered cowardice for werewolves, admitting you aren’t good enough to win by speed and strength and cunning.

I’ve taken pugilism lessons—my aunt Lenora believed in learning to physically protect ourselves and reserving spell power as a backup. Still, I don’t fight like this. Maybe I can’t—having a different body shape and different abilities—but I think I could learn a great deal from Bishop. Also, I would enjoy the process, and I believe he would, too. Very much, if I’m not mistaken.

I watch with the intention of learning, but really, I’m just admiring—his enviable expertise, his cool calculation, the effortless way his body moves. When I’ve seen him fight before, he’s been fighting for his life. This is slower, letting me see how good he really is when he’s not jabbing and punching and ducking and diving as fast as he can.

Not every blow lands, but not every blow is meant to land. I can see that—how he’ll start to punch and let his opponent dodge that, only to follow up with one that sends the other man flying. He doesn’t avoid every punch either. He can’t. Instead, I swear I can tell when he decides to let the wolf get one in—a glancing blow or kick that doesn’t do any real damage, but makes the other wolf feel the thrill of victory … and keeps him from realizing he’s losing and fighting harder.

The other wolf is a brawler, just punching and jabbing and then punching again, no sense of timing or planning. He’s such a mediocre fighter that Bishop doesn’t need to adjust anything. He hits, spins out of the way, kicks, feints, jabs, blocks, and then, when he seems to tire of the dance, sends the other wolf to the ground with a volley of fast blows.

Soon it’s over, and I’m glad of that. Really. It would be wrong to wish it had gone on longer, and if there’s any twinge of disappointment at such an easily won fight, it’s lessened by the sight of Bishop, pinning his quarry, resplendent in his victory.

Bishop looms over the wolf. He doesn’t say a word. He just looms. Then he looks at me, chin jerking for me to move where he can see me.

“Privacy,” he says, and it takes a moment to realize he wants me to cast a privacy spell, letting the two of us converse.

I do it, and he says, “That was too easy. Be careful.”