Page 115 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“I’m sure it’s very important.”

He narrowed his eyes with mock severity. “Aye. ’Tis.”

“You’ve got blood in your beard,” she said with that same inconvenient fondness that harassed her every time she saw him. She reached up to dab at it with a cloth from the refreshment table. It was embroidered with doves. Aidan looked horrified, gripping her wrist before she could touch him.

“I’ve got it,” he said grimly.

She tilted her head at his reaction. “I’m not afraid of a little blood,” she pointed out. “I once fought that ogre, remember?”

He only shook his head, pulling the cloth from her and wiping his face. His jaw twitched. His shoulders suddenly resembled stone. Was he embarrassed? Sorcha did not understand. Why wasn’t he more pleased?

“We found the Collector,” she reminded him. “We should be dancing and drinking champagne.”

“I have to go back to the Wolf Wood. There are a lot of questions Simon needs to answer.”

“Good. I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to. Wouldn’t you rather get some rest in a comfortable—”

“I’m coming with you.” She didn’t know what was going through his head, but there was no chance she was letting him go off alone.

His smile was brief and crooked and too complicated. “Aye.”

The Wolf Wood was silver in the light of the nearly full moon. Even without having a wolf to respond to the moon, Sorcha could feel it. There was the celebration and satisfaction of finding the Collector, of soon finding the missing wolves. Already, several Lycan were searching, even though Sorcha’s paper birds had not yet returned. There was much ale, roasted meats and apples and cake, and more ale.

But there was also the confusion and betrayal that came with knowing that it was one of their own. Brutus had to be forcibly restrained from murdering Simon. A guard was set on him as well, just in case. Orla continued to stay trapped in her wolf, fighting her chains so violently when she smelled Simon that she ripped through her fur.

Sorcha was just as torn as the Lycan. She thought they had been friends. She had stitched Simon’s ankle. He had slept in her house. Just thinking about it made her stomach roil angrily. He had tried to kill her. More than once. But he had never managed it. Was that because he had not truly wanted to, as he’d claimed? Or because there was always someone there to stop him? And did it really matter, in the end?

Aidan was already healing, the blood dried on his chest when he found her watching the dancing around the fire. Someone had created a wolf out of will-o’-the-wisps, and it bounded overhead, howling.

“Freya has him now,” he said.

“Will she…kill him?”

“I doubt it. She prefers far more painful measures.”

“That is not an improvement.”

“No. Treason is not taken lightly among the wolves.”

“We’ll need to find the others working for him,” Sorcha said. “Not to kill them, mind. Maybe turn them over to the Order? And free the rest of their fighters.”

“Aye, but not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.” Her paper birds had not found her in some time. She wouldn’t know where to find the others. It scratched at her.

“Take your triumphs when you get them,” Aidan murmured. Three young wolves were having a howling competition. Someone else was playing a tin whistle. Tavish walked by, naked, and singing a song definitely not fit for polite company. “Enjoy the celebrations. I won’t be long,” Aidan added before disappearing into the shadowy woods.

She took a sip of ale. She ate an apple. She danced a round with Tavish.

And then she decided she had waited long enough.

Perhaps she did not think hard enough, as Granny accused her of every time Sorcha spontaneously brought home a fox kit or a badger that smelled exceedingly bad and chewed the chair legs.

But Aidan thought too hard. And he carried too much. This was not a night for brooding. He had said so himself. It was a night for celebrating.

By the time she found him, up to his waist in the river, she’d made herself quite cross over it.