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"I stayed hidden," Blaidd said. "And I heard her speak to the tree in the old tongue." He lifted his head. "I heard their voices answer her—from the tree, from the roots, from inside the bark." His voice remained steady, but something in his eyes fractured. "I nearly pissed myself. They spoke of bringing the child back once born. Of how long it had taken…eight years. And of making more offspring for the colony."

"What they didn't know was that changeling inhabiting Isolde's body was enjoying its freedom. I wondered why I grew weaker, why she would turn away from me when I was her mate? She wanted to…experiment. She had found herself a lover. And because she wasn't my real lifemate, I only felt a mild discomfort when they…"

Blaidd nodded once. "That was when I went to the witch on the western ridge. I didn't know what else to do, and she was the only witch I knew of."

Maxen sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Of course you did. You realize she hates wolves."

They all knew of her. They knew the tales of how deeply she despised wolves, and how little patience she had for their laws or bonds.

But things had only gotten worse from there.

Chapter 16

More than eight years ago…

The forest seemed to go quiet the moment he crossed the boundary.

Blaidd felt his wolf growl continuously underneath his skin as he walked the path.

The air seemed sour with old magic and rotting leaves, and the trees thinned into winter-bare sentinels—oak and ash stripped of all foliage, their branches bare, the bark peeling from the trunks. Not a creature moved.

He looked up and froze when he noticed the stick figures hanging from the high branches.

Wooden dolls, with unblinking, painted eyes. Straw-bound shapes with knotted limbs and empty faces, suspended by twine and hair. They twisted gently in the wind, tapping against one another with soft, hollow knocks, like bone against bone.

The forest moaned a sorrowful whimper with the howling wind—a low, breathy sound that crept along the ground and rose through the trunks, threaded with rustling whispers that slithered just beyond comprehension. His wolf pressed hard against his ribs, hackles raised, instincts screaming for him to retreat.

Turn back.

This place is wrong.

Blaidd swallowed and forced himself forward.

Desperation drove him deeper, step by careful step, boots sinking into leaf-mould blackened by decay. He looked up as wings fluttered above him. Crows—first one, then many—perched in unnatural stillness along the branches. Their beady eyes tracked him as he passed, heads tilting in unison, feathers ruffling softly as if waiting for a signal.

Then the trees opened to reveal a pebbled garden path that opened into an oasis of bloom. Flowers rioted in the garden, and trees were laden with fruit. But not a bird sang on the branches, nor a squirrel chirped from the trees. It was eerie.

A cottage sat nestled in the clearing, it’s cobbled path swept clean, neat as a storybook picture. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the windows glowed amber from the warmth within.

It looked like the home of a kindly old grandma.

His unease didn't abate when he noticed the chicken.

It hung by its feet from a hook near the door, headless, blood dripping into the soft earth below.

The crows seemed to close in, but not one tried to steal the chicken.

Blaidd hesitated on the threshold, his wolf pacing, coiled tight as if ready for an attack. Then the door creaked open.

Light spilled out, warm and golden, carrying the scent of herbs, woodsmoke, and something else he couldn't name.

"Come in," a woman's voice called softly.

He stepped inside.

The cottage was cozy…and a bit too welcoming. Rugs woven thick and bright covered the floor. Shelves brimmed with jars of dried plants and polished stones. A fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth.

By it sat a woman in a worn armchair.