Page 125 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

“Why not? A girl has to eat.”

“All this for money?”

“Certainly. People will pay very good money to watch wolves fight. And there are only so many ogres and Minotaurs to be had.” She sighed again at Sorcha’s expression. “You’ve never been hungry, have you, Lady Sorcha? Or overlooked? I have, and I do not care for it.”

A howl announced the arrival of a wolf. Birds filled the sky, startled. Sorcha’s palms felt less damp. They had found her. Aidan had found her.

Until she realized that Amelia did not look nearly concerned enough.

Or even at all.

“Lovely. And just in time,” she said. “I do so hate to be tardy.”

Dread was an iron ball in Sorcha’s throat, choking her. “What do you mean?”

“That was the real spell, to bring them here, to have them ready for the moon—but on my schedule. On my leash.”

It was a trap. Another trap among traps. Like a huntsman waiting in the woods.

Sorcha opened her mouth to scream a warning. One of Amelia’s guards shot out of the shadows and clamped a sweaty hand over her mouth.

“That wasn’t very polite.” Amelia sniffed. “I might need you for my spell, but I don’t need you with your limbs intact. Or your tongue.”

The guard moved his hand. The dagger remained at Sorcha’s side, poking into her rib. “Please don’t do this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The moon is nearly at its zenith, and it’s the equinox. I’ve spent far too long preparing for this. Do you know how hard it was to lace their bread? To build that link?”

“The roses,” Sorcha realized. “You poisoned them with it?”

“Simon was very accommodating. Fancied himself in love with me, didn’t he? I gathered the roses after that sleep curse on the summer solstice and had him put them in the bread, but it did take some time. All of this has taken far too much time. And I wasn’t poisoning them—where’s the finesse to that? I do admit it’s rather difficult to poison a wolf. But a charm, here or there? One they can’t smell or taste? I deserve some recognition for my hard work, I should think.” Amelia nodded to the guard. “Now bring her.”

Sorcha was hauled unceremoniously into the tower.

The fighting pit fires were burning again, the spectators gathered, tickets in their pockets, bottles of ale in their hands. They seethed with impatience. For a show. For blood. The ogre sat in one corner, drinking black ale. There was a satyr and three imps.

And the missing wolves. They were chained and collared. And as meek as the wolves in the woods.

A new tremor of uneasiness went through Sorcha. It was as though the fog had been cleared from a window, but she still wasn’t quite able to see what was on the other side.

Amelia wound her way toward a tall platform. “You’ve been quite the nuisance,” she said. “But now you can be useful.”

The guard shoved Sorcha inside the ring of green fire and it burned at her dress, licked at her hands as she passed through. Pain lanced through her. She stumbled but kept her footing. Barely.

“Is that Lady Sorcha Beauregard?” someone asked.

“This is exciting.”

“I don’t know about this.”

One of the guards shoved the last speaker and then tossed him through the archway.

No help from that quarter, then.

Amelia took her seat on an ornate chair, piled with cushions. The audience stared at her, rapt.

“The Collector is a woman?” someone asked.

“As is the Red Cloak,” Amelia added, her voice carrying easily. “And here she is to pay for her crimes.”