Page 39 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Chapter Ten

Aidan held up the wolf-tooth charm, looking more agitated than Sorcha thought a charm warranted, even if it was very, very old. And a tooth. And technically belonged to the Winterwells. “Oops.”

“Oops?” he repeated very evenly. She imagined there were students and museum patrons and underlings throughout London who might cower at such a tone.

As she was neither student nor patron, she had no intention of cowering. She shrugged again, unrepentant. “Winterwell doesn’t deserve it.” Aidan did not seem to be in any great hurry to give it back to her. He had better not be considering returning it to Winterwell. He closed his hand around the charm. “Hey, that’s mine!” she said.

“It’s not, actually,” he said grimly, all serious, furrowed brow again. Power simmered under his skin, something as ancient as the forest, the mountains. The moonlight. How had she not noticed before? His magic had teeth.

“Well, it’s not yours either,” she pointed out.

“I’m the one who tracked it down for the marquess’s collection.”

Sorcha snorted, unimpressed.

Aidan’s mouth turned grimmer still. “You really have no idea what you’ve done.”

“If he’s that sore about it, I’ll say it caught on my sleeve and I had no idea I even had it until I got home.”

“It’s too late for that.”

Sorcha frowned. Aidan was serious. Not curator serious. Predator serious. Her crow flew closer, squawking.

Aidan looked down at her, gold eyes steady but searing. “Do you trust me, Lady Sorcha?”

He was big and intimidating, an earl and a wolf and probably twice as clever as anyone she had ever known. And he had kissed her and then walked away. For weeks.

And then he had bitten her. Saved her from an ogre. And Brutus.

He was a very confusing man.

But yes. Yes, she trusted him.

She nodded. Relief warred with something she could not quite identify in his expression. “Good,” he said. “Then you’ll come with me. Now.”

She followed him outside. “You’re not going to make me return the charm to Winterwell, are you?” She would feel like a scolded child. Unacceptable.

“I told you. It’s too late for that. Far too late.”

“Why, exactly?” There was the sound of wood being chopped nearby, like a heart beating too hard, too loud. Or was that her heartbeat?

Aidan’s eyes were the eyes of a wolf, scanning the forest for threats as they left the tent. “Because there’s a spell on that tooth.”

She groaned. “Did I trigger a hex? I have black salt. And thunder water. I can get rid of it.”

“Not this one.”

“Why not?” Hexes and spells and charms were part and parcel of living on Lyonesse. You learned quickly how to ground loose magic through iron nails, how to wash away curses with salt water, how to use blue evil-eye beads to turn away a hex. They were already painted above the windows of Nettlestone. Granted, Granny had insisted on crushed pearls and shells for the white paint and blue lapis lazuli from Egypt for the inlay for the pupils.

“It’s a curse, not a hex.”

She frowned. “What curse?” She would know if she were cursed. There would be signs. The bread would not rise; the candles would refuse to light. The only birds who would respond to her call would be red birds, or white. She would taste ashes, blood, iron.

“I’m not cursed,” she insisted, even though being attacked and abducted by a wolf might be considered a sign of just that. “How would you even know?”

“Because I know who put it there.”

“Oh.”