Page 114 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Simon followed suit, and the lively orchestra music was drowned out by bones re-forming, teeth snapping, growling.

There was not enough space for two wolves and a witch in the apse.

Aidan nudged Sorcha back toward the archway. “Aidan!” she cried as Simon lunged at his back.

Muscles rippled under his fur as Adian twisted to block the attack, snarling. A bust of a Roman flower nymph fell off a pedestal and cracked down the middle. Aidan’s snarling grew more vicious.

Two wolves fighting each other was harrowing enough to be near, never mind in such cramped quarters. Sorcha’s skin prickled and some primal instinct had her knees burning to run, run, run. The sparrow flew at the windowpane, trying to escape.

Simon hit the cabinet and something else shattered. He was taller than Sorcha would have thought, and stockier. There was no hint of injury or a limp to his russet wolf, no hesitation as he tried to tear out Aidan’s throat. His teeth scraped through fur, hitting his shoulder. Blood welled. Aidan turned his head and snapped, also connecting. Simon’s paws scrabbled on the floor as he tried to find purchase, whining. The shifting mass of violent muscle and fur was disorienting to watch. The kelpie magic seared Simon when he got too close to a doorway or window.

Sorcha did not know how to help. There was no spell she could work that would not also hit Aidan. And no ingredients anyway, not even breadcrumbs in the hidden pockets of her ball gown.

Aidan barked at her, just before the wolves crashed into the wall and slid dangerously close to where she was frozen. He had his jaws clamped around Simon’s neck, forcing him to the ground, forcing him to submit. The combination of growls and whines made her shiver. Simon’s eyes flared. He fought but could not free himself, not from an Alpha and not from the kelpie’s magical bindings.

Sorcha staggered back out of the way, into Tavish, who was wearing not only pants, but a proper frock coat. He yanked her out of the way, swearing. “Agnes is coming around the other side to block the window,” he said. “Just in case.”

“Simon…”

“Aye, I can smell the traitor.” Tavish paused. “He smells like roses.”

Sorcha frowned. “Roses?”

“Aye. Too strong and gone a bit off.”

She felt the pieces come together, like a sparrow suddenly free of the thicket. “The bread at the camp, the bread at Nettlestone. It smelled strangely of rosewater as well.” She grabbed Tavish’s arm. “That’s part of his spell. Orla smelled of roses, remember?”

“Rosewater is overpowering. Too strong for us to smell much else. He was hiding again.” Tavish kissed her head. “You are brilliant.” Aidan barked in their direction. Tavish snorted. “Just fight your battle, Alpha.”

“Aren’t you going to help him?”

“Alpha has him,” he said. “Nothing else for us to do but wait. But Sorcha, in the meantime?”

“Yes?”

“There’s an ogre on the front lawn.”

The ogre did not stand a chance.

Not only were there several wolves ready and eager to take him down—even with the majority dragging Simon out through a side door in order to take him back to the Wolf Wood and the judgment of the Packs—but there were also antiquarians, and librarians.

There were priceless and ancient artifacts in the chapel, after all. And worse, several rare books that could not be replaced.

The ogre had come to Simon’s aid, one of the few willing fighters of the Cauldron. He had not been captured or forced—he enjoyed the pits. He enjoyed fighting wolves. But he soon found himself so tangled in witchcraft that he could only tumble like a felled tree, bellowing as he collapsed. He had the superior strength and was as tall as the chapel—but the librarians had the rage.

He was fortunate not to be dismembered.

As it was, he was chained with iron while the Order of the Iron Nail was summoned. Lycan business might not be under their jurisdiction, but an ogre threatening a building full of witches most definitely was. Someone crowned him with roses—one of an ogre’s few weaknesses. Sorcha was certain Pippa had read that in a book somewhere. That the roses were mostly thorns was down to Briar.

Aidan eventually came out of the chapel, wrapped in a plaid, bloody scratches already healing on his chest and face. Sorcha caught her breath. When he smiled down at her, his teeth were a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

She knew wolves healed quickly, but she still itched to dab at him with comfrey ointment or a honey poultice. To feed him bread.

“Tavish and Lorcan have taken Simon away. I stayed to clean up the artifacts.”

Fondness swelled inside her. “Of course you did.”

“The bust was seven hundred years old!”