Page 19

Aubert snorted. Was that a ‘it was no big deal I’m already healed’ snort? An ‘I’m still angry with you, apology not accepted’? Or was it a ‘damn right you’ll be talking to our alpha’ kind of snort’?

Edmond finally moved, stepping up to the table. “There is no need to speak to Gaharet.” He gestured to a seat, then set out three mugs, filling them with wine.

Isobella sat, and he placed one in front of her. He studied her as he sank into a seat opposite, his large hands engulfing his mug until it all but disappeared. Aubert dropped the haunch onto the table with a thump. Isobella flinched. He slipped a tunic over his head, covering up his bare chest, produced a wicked-looking knife and proceeded to skin the haunch with the skill of a true hunter. The silence returned, heavy, suffocating.

Say something. Anything. “You are the Montagne twins, aren’t you? Edmond and Aubert.”

The twins shared a look, but neither answered her. Isobella squirmed. She took a swig of wine, as much to wet her lips as to give herself a moment to gather her courage. Could she have got it wrong? He’d called his brother Aubert, hadn’t he? Were there other wolf shifters in the tenth century? No. Shifters, ordinary shifters, could not turn a human. Only the Langeais wolves had that ability. And as far as Isobella knew, out of the few surviving Langeais wolves in the tenth century, there was only one set of twins.

“Aubert,” the one with the scar, with the wicked-looking knife, confirmed.

A hint of a smile teased the corners of Edmond’s lips. “And I am Edmond. We are the Montagne twins.”

A half-smile. More a quirk of his lips on one side, but some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Stef had said the twins were good men, good wolves, if somewhat intimidating. Try a lot. She had to trust her friend. Stef wouldn’t have led her astray.

The mouse in the roof scratched a path through the straw. A log popped in the fire. The slice of Aubert’s blade as he worked the knife, skinning the hide, set her teeth on edge.

Aubert’s attention did not swerve from his blade. “Who are you?”

No smile from Aubert. She took another sip of wine to ease the dryness in her throat. “My name is Isobella, Isobella Rodriguez.”

Isobella turned her mug around and around. The intensity in Edmond’s eyes all but sent her body up in flames. She glanced at Aubert, and her warm buzz cooled. He didn’t like her. That much was obvious. Why? Had he not wanted to turn her?

She straightened, cleared her throat and pushed her disappointment aside. She was here to do a job, not to be universally liked, and though it stung he’d passed judgment without knowing anything about her, she would deal with it. All those women persecuted down through the centuries were counting on her. “I’m…a witch, and my coven sent me here to help the Langeais wolves.”

Aubert cut the last of the hide from the meat and set it aside. He pointed the tip of the dagger at her. “What know you of the Langeais wolves?”

Edmond rolled his eyes at his brother. “Put the dagger down, Aubert. You look as if you are ready to kill someone.”

Edmond shot her a rueful grin. Isobella risked a smile back. Aubert grunted, then tossed the dagger onto the table. It was sharp. Perfect for slitting someone’s throat.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Swallowed again as it tried to lodge in her esophagus. She needed to prove herself. To Edmond as much as Aubert. “I know your pack is on the verge of extinction. That Lance Vautour betrayed you, and D’Artagnon has returned from his exile in Rus. Comte Lothair wants to create an army of werewolves and probably wants to be one himself. Ulrik has spent some time in Comte Lothair’s dungeon, and you once suspected him of being a traitor.” She pointed to the chain around Aubert’s neck. “I know about your amulets. How Erin and Rebekah each found one in my time and ended up here in the tenth century.”

The smile on Edmond’s face slipped, and there was a wariness in his eyes. And Aubert… That thundercloud frown of his was fast on its way to becoming pyroclastic.

By sheer force of will, Isobella kept her gaze from straying to the door. Running from a shifter was never a good idea. Even if she was one now. “I know all this because your pack survived. It still survives in the twenty-first century, which is over a thousand years into your future. I know this because your descendants are the ones who told me all about you. They, along with my coven, were the ones who sent me here.”

More silence, and this one held weight. Conscious she was fidgeting, she laid her hands flat on the tabletop, then dropped them into her lap. All the while, two sets of brown eyes followed her every move.

Edmond cleared his throat. “You are saying Erin and Rebekah are from”—his Adam’s apple bobbed—“a thousand years from now?”

She glanced from one to the other. They didn’t know? Gaharet would’ve told them, surely. Erin’s Australian accent would’ve been hard to hide, and Ulrik’s mate, Rebekah, had green streaks in her hair, and tattoos and piercings…everywhere. “Yes. They’re from the twenty-first century. Like I am. Except I used a spell to come here, not an a—”

The door flew open, and Remi burst into the cottage. “They are coming.”

Who’s coming?

“Faucher has found us again.”

Again?