Читать книгу Rebel: - Zoe Archer - Страница 10

Renewal here, in the mountains and alpine meadows. She had felt it when first arriving in the Rocky Mountains, and she still felt it to this day.

As she and Lesperance rode along the base of one mountain spur, the sky gleamed in a chalcedony of blue and white, and the ground still wore its carpet of green velvet. Autumn would soon arrive, but its season was short, and winter beckoned in traces of frost upon the grass.

Home. This was home to her.

After Michael’s death, Astrid had lost her mooring, herself, swept into a tide of grief that saw no cessation. She’d taken the voyage from Africa back to England, alone, dressed in the widow’s weeds she purchased from an English tailor in Cairo. A black shade of herself, she stood upon the ship’s deck and felt nothing. Not the punishing sun, or the sway of the ship upon the waves. She spoke to no one and could not sleep because Michael was not there. They had been married for five years, and she needed his large, solid presence beside her to guide her into dreams.

In Southampton, her parents met her at the dock. Catullus Graves had been there, too, with Bennett Day, Jane Fleetwood, and nearly a half dozen other Blades. All full of condolences, their sorrow at Michael’s loss sincere. Tears marked Catullus’s and Jane’s faces. And yet Astrid remained numb, even when her mother, her dear, middle-aged, lilac-scented mother, embraced her, whispering, “My poor little Star,” Astrid remained entombed in ice.

She couldn’t go home with them, to their little Staffordshire house. It was in that ivy-covered house that she had met Michael. The walls were saturated with him, her father’s study where he’d gone for education, all the bridle paths and garden gates imbued with his gentle presence. So she remained in Southampton for a year, at the Blades’ headquarters, wandering back and forth along the docks late at night as if anticipating a ship carrying Michael—though she’d had to bury him quickly in Africa. Catullus scolded her for inviting peril. The docks were dangerous, full of rough sailors and unsavory types. She could protect herself, though. Hadn’t she been the one to survive, and not her husband?

One night, she could stand it no longer, and left with one of the ships in the harbor with a satchel bearing few belongings. She had no idea where the ship might be headed, only that it took her away. She wrote letters back, to Catullus and her parents, telling them of her latest whereabouts. NewYork. Chicago. Farther west. Where might she lose herself? To the mountains and wilderness of western Canada, still an embryonic land, where she had land and silence, and the towering, snowcapped mountains stripped her of everything but bare existence with their magnitude.

She never lost her healthy awe of the wild. Complacency killed. Though her heart she kept shuttered, she left herself open to the mountains and found, in their impassivity and beauty, sustenance.

Lesperance, riding beside her, wore an expression of sharp-eyed fascination as he took in the land unfolding around him. He’d been mercifully silent since breakfast. She had been afraid he would pepper her with more questions about her life with the Blades, questions she had no desire to answer. That chapter was done. She would not go back, not even in remembrance.

Yet in his silence, Astrid still sensed him. She told herself it was because she was unused to traveling with another person, but something smaller, wicked and insidious, whispered other reasons why she watched him from the corner of her eye. She kept revisiting their conversation from the night before—the words, the gazes. He saw into her, no matter how much she tried to shield herself from him. But his interest did not feel exploitative, a means to take her apart to suit his own needs. He understood her grief, having experienced his own, but he had a will and strength that she had to admire. Few possessed enough spirit to gain her respect. Even Michael, much as she had loved him, wavered at times. Not Lesperance. He was her equal. In many ways. A frightening prospect.

She told her inner voice to be quiet and leave her in peace. But Astrid had always been a headstrong, rebellious woman. Now was no exception.

They reached the top of a rock ledge and stopped, looking down. Below them shone a small aquamarine lake, its golden sandy banks frilled by aspens. From the farthest bank rose steep-sided mountains, still crowned with snow despite the lateness of the summer season. No artist could do it justice, and to think of capturing the scene on canvas or paper seemed the height of hubris.

“This feels right,” he said. The corners of his eyes creased in pleasure, warming the striking planes of his face, and it was more arresting than the view.

“Don’t forget,” she said, forcing her gaze to the glinting surface of the lake, “this is a hard place. With respect, however, it gives back even more than it takes.” Why had she said so much? She hadn’t intended to.

Holding his horse’s reins, he dismounted smoothly and bent to grip a handful of earth and plants. She watched, curious, as he inhaled deeply, the soil cupped in his long-fingered hand.

“So much here,” he said. He gazed at the humble clump of earth intently.

“It’s the wolf in you. It can smell things a mere human cannot.”

He shook his head. “I can scent more—a rabbit passed this way early this morning, it was a damp summer, those Englishmen are still following us, they’re far, but out there—yet, even so, it isn’t just animal senses. There’s blood, living blood, in these mountains.” He looked up at her, holding her gaze with the intensity of his own. Her pulse quickened. “You can feel it, too.”

She could only nod, entranced by the onyx fire of his eyes. The sense of magic clung to him stronger now, its energy turning the air around him alive. Yet she knew, deep within, that her response came not just from his connection to magic, but his own inner brightness, his active power. She saw it in the way he took in the world, open and ready, but also consumed it. A conflagration of a man. Who was more than just a man. She’d said he had the finesse of a wildfire, and realized now the truth of her words. In his heat and passion, the dryness of her heart and body would catch like tinder and be reduced to ashes in moments. A danger she must avoid.

“This,” he said, pointing to a jagged-leaved plant. “What is it?”

“Field mint. Its blossoms are little purple flowers. But they are gone until next year. I love to see the wildflowers in spring, so hopeful after the long, cold winter.” Something about Lesperance’s presence, his energy and stillness, pulled words and thoughts from her.

“Edible?” At her nod, he plucked a leaf with surprising dexterity. Astrid flushed to see the small green leaf cling to his tongue, then disappear into his mouth. When he plucked another leaf and held it up to her, she felt herself lean down and take the mint into her own mouth, inadvertently brushing the sensitive skin of her lips against his rough, blunt-tipped fingers. She tasted the clean brightness of mint and the spice of his flesh.

Astrid almost fell off of her horse, she pulled back so quickly.

She nudged her horse forward, and Lesperance was on his own horse and at her side within moments. They wended down the slope to the lake. She wondered whether he could hear her heart sprinting in her chest.

“What has it given you?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You said that this place gives back more than it takes. Must have given you something.”

Astrid considered. “Purpose,” she said, then, casting a quick glance at him, “and solitude.”

“I always had purpose. Solitude is overvalued.”

This surprised her. “Have you never been alone, Lesperance?”

“All the time.” He said this without a trace of self-pity, only a straightforward relating of the truth. “More now than ever.”

“I don’t count?” she asked, gruff, and was shocked by her own hurt.

“I scratched your pride.” He raised a brow, the picture of arrogant masculinity.

“I’ve no desire to be your bosom companion,” she clipped, then grew heated at her use of the word “bosom.” Especially as her own had been growing increasingly more sensitive since meeting him. She craved his touch with a need that embarrassed and angered her.

Perhaps he took pity on her, because he said, “Alone, meaning I’d always been a rarity. Not white, not Native. Now I’m also a man who can change into an animal. There might be no one else like me.”

An outsider, like her. Without wanting to, she placed herself in his life. A Native, taken from his family and tribe, raised by strangers and taught that those familial, tribal ways held no value. But if he aspired to integrate himself into white society, he would never be accepted, not fully. From an early age, he must have been torn, a creature of uncertainty, neither of one world nor another. And that divide had only grown larger within the past few days.

Threads of empathy and connection threatened to bind her to him. No. She wouldn’t allow it. Not after so much time, not after the wounds she had suffered.

“But I’ll find the other shape changers,” he said, resolve strong in his voice. He wouldn’t mire himself in defeatism. Wouldn’t run from the obstacles in his path. She couldn’t stop her admiration for him. She’d never respected those who surrendered easily.

A cold, biting emotion stirred inside her, something she did not want to face. She immersed herself in the land rather than look inward.

At the lake, they both dismounted and let their horses and the mule drink, while they themselves knelt to gulp handfuls of cold water. The day was clear, but dry, and her thirst was strong. She took greedy swallows. In her work for the Blades, Astrid had experienced the privilege of the finest, rarest beverages—teas for maharajas, devastating liquors from the Italian hills, even the variety of whiskey said to be Admiral Nelson’s favorite. Yet, to her, nothing compared to cold, fresh water that had been, not long ago, snow atop a nearby mountain. Astrid felt droplets fall from her mouth and slide down the front of her throat, dampening the collar of her shirt.

She heard an animal’s rumble and was suffused with heat when she realized it was Lesperance making the sound as he stared at her. Stark desire chiseled his face into something altogether feral.

To her rage—and mortification—her body responded immediately. Liquid need turned her blood both sluggish and fast. Something clenched low in her belly.

She hauled to her feet and stalked to her horse. “Enough. The more time we waste, the closer the Heirs get. They could make a move at any moment, and we still don’t truly know where we are headed.” She checked the cinch on her saddle, even though she knew it was perfectly fine. Yet, when Lesperance rose up and strode over to stand next to her, she pretended deep involvement with the latigo connecting the cinch to the saddle’s rigging. His masculine presence threatened to overwhelm her.

“Astrid,” he said, putting his hand over hers. Damn, why hadn’t she put her gloves back on? It galled her that the feel of his large hand covering hers sent a jolt of raw hunger to her core.

She still would not look at him. “You have no permission to use my given name.”

“Those rules don’t matter out here.”

She pulled her hand out from under his and quickly tugged on her gloves. “If we continue on north,” she persisted, “by tomorrow we should reach the late summer encampment of a band of Stoney Indians. They might know—”

“Backing down?” he challenged.

She turned so she faced him, knowing that anything less would be a capitulation. “I’m keeping us on track.” Her voice held more heat than she realized. “You must see me as your guide and ally, but nothing more.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That can’t happen.”

“It will,” she insisted. “Anything else is not possible.”

“Sounds like a dare.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, confident as an undefeated pugilist. Under other circumstances, she would have admired his self-assurance and tenacity. But when the obstacle in his path was her own preservation, admiration turned to anger. Yet even anger was too hot. It masked another passion.

She retreated behind icy detachment. “I will only guide you and help you. That is all. If you seek anything further from me, you will find such a pursuit to be impossible.”

He smiled, predatory. “My favorite word.”

Dark was coming. Camp would have to be made. She was bone-tired, worn thin not so much from the day’s hard riding as blocking Lesperance from her mind. Not once over the hours or miles did she forget him, riding beside her. She tried to retreat into herself, but, even silent, he threaded into her awareness. His presence, the force of his will, glowed like a brand. The way he took in the world around him, with a ferocious intensity, stirred her.

He was like what she had been, before Michael’s death. A woman hell-bent on seeing and experiencing everything. She had loved the Blades, loved Michael, because they both accepted that hungry, determined part of her. To her parents, she was a beloved anomaly, the adventure-seeking daughter of a quiet scholar. She had never had a place in rural English life. She could not be part of higher society, could not be meek and fragile. A terrible candidate for domesticity. Yet she had found rare understanding with the man who would become her husband, and more in the circle of the Blades.

And now she had found it again. In Nathan Lesperance. Even without the wolf inside, he was an unstoppable force. The shared intimacy of camp would be difficult to withstand, even with the campfire between them.

They rode through a patch of swampy muskeg, the horses and mule slogging across the peat. A bad place to spend the night, too wet, no possibility of fire. Lesperance also took note of the growing shadows heralding the end of day. He knew they needed a place for the night but didn’t question her when she had them press onward.

He trusted her decisions. That itself showed respect. Many men would not rely on a woman’s judgment, even if the woman’s experience was greater than their own. Lesperance was different, for more reasons than the obvious. She scowled to herself. This would be much easier if he wasn’t so damned captivating.

A rustling in the scrub. Astrid held up her hand, signaling silence, as she and Lesperance drew up on their reins. He kept mute as she reached slowly toward her boot. Her hand curled around the handle of her knife. Then, with a single move, she drew the blade and threw it into the scrub. There was a small squeak, then nothing.

Astrid dismounted and gingerly stepped into the undergrowth. Moving through the brush, she felt it, the difference.

“You’re frowning,” he said. “Did you miss?”

She ignored his comment. “Magic is strong here. I feel it in the ground, the plants.”

“Magic’s everywhere, so you said.”

“See this?” She plucked, then held up, a purple-tipped gold flower. “Isis’s Eyes. This isn’t their flowering season.”

“A seasonal anomaly?”

“More than that. Strong magic makes them bloom out of season. Blades use them to track Sources.” She frowned down at the little flower, a portent of something much bigger than its size would indicate. “Changes are happening. But I don’t know what’s stirring to life.”

The flower was edible, so Astrid chewed on it meditatively and resumed her initial search through the scrub. She found what she was looking for. With tall grass, she wiped the blood off the hunting knife’s blade after pulling it up.

When she held the rabbit up by its ears, showing Lesperance her prize, frank appreciation lit his face. She had to admit, it had been a good kill.

“Looks like we’re having meat for supper,” she said, and liked it too much when he grinned in anticipation.

Instead of watching her dig the fire pit, he wanted to try his hand at it. She was obliged to give him direction—but not much, for he learned quickly, and soon had their fire beautifully built and flickering. She skinned and cleaned the rabbit. Before long, it sizzled as it cooked on a spit, and the dusk filled with the sounds of roasting meat and nocturnal insects striking up their song.

“See that?” she said, nodding toward the sky. Lesperance followed her gaze to some low-hanging clouds in the east. “That faint glow at the bottom of the clouds. It’s light from the Heirs’ campfire.”

He scowled. “A taunt.”

“Exactly. They want us to know they’re coming for you, and there’s nothing we can do to stop them.”

He looked murderous, but it was one small drop of the Heirs’ arrogance. “We know where they are. We can stop them—use magic against them.”

“I’ve none to use,” she answered. “The code of the Blades demands that Blades may only use magic that is theirs by birth or gift.”

“Damned inconvenient,” he muttered.

“It can be.”

“You’re not a Blade anymore,” he pointed out.

Hell. The prohibition of magic use was deeply ingrained into all Blades. She’d forgotten that their code no longer applied to her. Astrid knew it was inscribed in her very blood, no matter how much she wished otherwise.

“Just be cautious,” she said instead. He gave a clipped nod. Even though the Heirs were nipping at their heels, she needed to think of something else. “Take care with rabbit,” she advised him. “They are too lean to live on. You can gorge yourself on them and still starve to death. Be sure to eat enough fat. Even pure suet, if you must.”

He looked at her without hiding his interest. “You know a hell of a lot about living out in the wilderness.”

“If I did not, I would be dead.”

“And did you know as much, before you came to the Territory?”

She gave a noncommittal shrug. “I knew some things.”

“What brought you out here?”

Astrid glowered. “This is the edge of nowhere, and you’re cross-examining me.”

He refused to look abashed. In truth, he appeared downright arrogant. “I studied law for three years and took up at the firm right after that. Nobody argued a case better than me. Even ones that others thought unwinnable. I helped a Chinese laborer with settlement against a white banker who cheated the laborer of his savings. Everyone was sure the banker would win. The Chinese have hardly any rights in Victoria. But the banker lost, because I got the truth out of him. I always do.”

She believed all of that. She felt her own truths laid bare before him. And as for arguing, she and Lesperance did that very well.

It would be better if she kept quiet, if she knew as little about him as possible, yet she could not stop herself. “Will you go back to Victoria, go back to the law, after all this?”

Arrogance fell away as he considered his options. “I’d be the only wolf in the courtroom.”

“I’ve heard that lawyers are jackals.”

A corner of his mouth turned up, wry. “Then it could be my advantage. Wolf beats jackal.” He shook his head at the fancy. “Maybe I can’t return. Maybe I won’t be able to find other Earth Spirits. All I know for certain is that I want to rip out the Heirs’ throats.” He gave a small self-mocking snort. “Finding out I can turn into a wolf, and that there’s a gang of murderous Englishmen after me, threw off all my pretty plans.”

What those plans were, he didn’t say, but she was surprised at the loss coloring his deep voice. He didn’t show his vulnerability if he could help it. A twinge of shame pierced her, having, up to that point, mostly considered her own unhappiness at being drawn into this mission. It wasn’t a mission to Lesperance. It was his life.

“I’m sorry,” she said, for that was all she could offer. She knew what it was to have dreams for the future, and those dreams to blow away like ashes.

“I’ll find my way. Could use guidance, though. A firm hand.” He raised his eyes to hers, and a heated interest glowed there.

“You don’t need that kind of guidance,” she answered tartly.

His scarce smile flashed. “A man who believes he’s nothing more to learn about women is a damn fool.”

Her sudden laughter caught them both off guard, but he chuckled with her.

“That’s a nice sound,” he said.

“Rusty,” she replied, grimacing. How long had it been since she’d laughed with another person?

He fed twigs to the fire, but she could not help but notice the masculine grace of his hands. A traitorous thought teased her: How might he touch a woman? With a firm hand, no doubt.

Astrid took her knife and carved the roast rabbit into pieces. Rather than bother with dirtying plates, she shoved a cooked leg into Lesperance’s hand and took one for herself.

She muttered something in Swedish about her disloyal mind, but, before she could take a bite, he asked, “What language is that?”

Astrid sighed. “I’m not used to all this conversation.”

“You intrigue me,” he said simply.

Her body gave a sudden pulse of answering interest. “I shouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

She had been so far withdrawn into herself for all these years, the idea that she could draw any man’s interest—particularly one as devastating as Nathan Lesperance—stunned her. “Why?” she asked, genuinely baffled.

“You’re not like any woman I’ve met before.” When Astrid gave an indecorous snort, he said, “Don’t scoff. We’re alike, but not the same. Tied together somehow, you and I. I knew it the moment I met you. You felt it, too.”

She wanted to deny it but couldn’t. She tried to shield herself behind flippancy. “Who knew a shape-changing attorney could be so sensitive? You should write poetry.”

“Throw your barbs,” he said with a shake of his head. “You can’t scare me off. I want to know you from the outside in.”

Oh, Lord. She could well imagine.

“And,” he added, nostrils flared, “there’s a hell of a lot more heat than poetry in what I feel for you. The animal in me feels the same way.”

She, who had faced enemy gunfire, water demons, sandstorms, and cannibal trolls, trembled at his words. Images flickered through her mind of her and Lesperance, slick and tangled, mouths and hands and flesh. His growls. Her moans. And not only bodies entwined, but minds and hearts as well. Exactly what she wanted. Exactly what she feared.

She had to change the subject before she gave in to her body’s darkest desires. “If I tell you what language I was speaking, do you promise not to say another word all night?”

“I’ll be quiet for ten minutes.”

“Ten! Thirty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Twenty.”

He held out his hand to shake. “Done.”

Her fingers slid into his grasp, and the sensation of fingers pressed against each other echoed in humid pulses through her body. “How did you talk me into this?” she asked, breathless.

He smiled, wry but also confident. “I’m a very good negotiator.”

That, she did not doubt. She wondered how many women he had “negotiated” into bed. A goodly amount, she wagered. Perhaps all his talk of being intrigued by her, their connection, was merely that—talk.

She wished that was true. Yet knew, somehow, it wasn’t. He was no polished city attorney, beguiling women into his bed with glossy words of seduction. What he wanted, he achieved through strength of will. And he wanted her.

It took longer to retrieve her hand than it had taken to give it. The drag of skin contacting skin. Her starved body wanted more. She refused to acquiesce. Yet he knew, too, the effect he had on her, blast him.

She finally pulled back and kept her hand cradled protectively in her lap. “It’s Swedish,” she said, trying to herd her thoughts and the conversation toward more secure ground. “I learned from my father. Bjorn Anderson, born in Uppsala. He was a great naturalist.” Her father’s fame as a naturalist had brought Michael as a pupil, and it was over Latinate texts of botanical disquisitions that her and Michael’s love had taken root and blossomed. In particular, they were both fascinated by the works of one of England’s only female botanists, the Viscountess of Briarleigh. Astrid dreamed of exploring the world as Lady Briarleigh had, with her beloved husband by her side, and soon Michael came to share that dream. Shortly after she and Michael were married, Catullus Graves approached them, offering places within the Blades, the opportunity to travel and study while protecting the world’s magic. It had seemed perfect.

“Was?” Lesperance asked. “Your father is no longer living?”

“Is,” she corrected, relieved that he was willing to talk about something other than the attraction between them. “Alive. In England.”

“You must send him hundreds of specimens for his studies. Plenty to investigate out here.”

She shook her head. “I cannot remember the last time I wrote him,” she admitted. Her father’s correspondence, however, arrived as regularly as post could out in the Northwest Territory. The last letter had related that Michael’s youngest sister had been married and was presently on a bridal journey in the south of France. Astrid had realized that everyone else had picked up their lives, yet she continued her self-imposed exile. The idea had left her moody and restless for weeks.

Lesperance’s brows drew down. “Are you feuding with your father?”

“No. We’ve always been close.” Except for the past four years.

“Why the hell don’t you write him?”

Astrid drew back from the anger in Lesperance’s voice. How could she answer him? She could not even answer herself. When she had first arrived in the Territory, she sent her parents and Catullus a letter each, assuring them she was still alive but had no wish to return home. Their letters, however, did not stop. At first, they pleaded with her to come back, said they were worried, that it wasn’t right or healthy for a young woman to consign herself to a living afterlife. She need not contemplate another marriage. If she was done with the Blades, everyone would respect her decision. But please return, however she wanted.

Her replies, when she had written them, were terse. No, she was staying. If her parents and Catullus wished to keep writing, they were free to do so, only know that she would no longer open their letters if they insisted on pressing her to come back.

“I just…ran out of things to say,” she said to Lesperance after a moment. To write to them of her life in the mountains, her observations of the flora and fauna, her interactions with Natives and trappers—it was too much like returning to life, to admit that her grief was loosening its hold, and what held her immobile in the wilderness was something else. Something she dared not name. “I fail to see why that should upset you.”

Lesperance’s handsome face was stark with fury. He jabbed a finger at her. “Unlike you, who chose to abandon your family, mine was torn from me. They wouldn’t let me see my parents after I turned eight. Didn’t want me to be tainted by their heathenish ways. I saw them alive only once more after that.”

He didn’t explain the circumstances of this final visit, but she did not ask for further details, knowing instinctively that his pain would become her own if she knew more.

“And when I was old enough to leave the school,” he continued, “I went to find my parents.”

“Did you locate them?”

“By the time I reached their village, I learned they’d died the week before from smallpox.”

Astrid swallowed, an ache in her throat.

“I made the medicine man show me the bodies,” he said, bitterness hardening his words. “I didn’t recognize them.”

She struggled not to look away. “I didn’t know—”

He was on his feet, a shadow hovering large and dark, with the glow of the fire turning him gilded, sinister. “My parents were illiterate, but I would’ve killed for something from them, even a damned rock. Didn’t matter. I just wanted them, a family to belong to. And you’re throwing that away.” To punctuate, he threw the cooked rabbit leg into the dirt, then turned to stalk off into the night.

“The Heirs are out there,” Astrid said to his retreating back.

He pulled at his clothes, so she was forced to look away. “The wolf will take care of me.” Moonlit mists began to gather around him, as if he prepared to change, but then he saw her watching him, and the clouds dissipated. He pushed farther into the shadows.

“What about supper?” Astrid asked.

The vicious smile he sent over his shoulder chilled her. “The wolf can take care of that, too.”

Then he was gone, disappearing into darkness. She thought she heard the sounds of paws upon the ground, racing into the night, but the night’s noise soon hid this.

He would come back. He had no choice but to stay with her, since, even with the wolf in him as protection, he would die in this wilderness without her. Yet she did not doubt that, under different circumstances, he would have left her then, to forge his own path.

Though she was hungry, it was a struggle to force herself to eat. She told herself that she didn’t give a damn, that Lesperance could do whatever he pleased, and if he starved out there or got himself killed by a bear, it mattered not a whit. If the Heirs captured him, she might have to come to his rescue, but the location of the Heirs’ fire showed they were at least a day behind, likely more. He was in no danger on that front. And the man had turned into a bloody wolf. He was well situated.

Astrid lay down to rest, uneasy but insisting in her mind that there was nothing to be troubled about. She had spent weeks on her own in the wilderness away from her cabin. She wasn’t afraid.

Had she been selfish, shortsighted? Callously tossing aside love. When she knew that there was all too little of it in the world. The idea disturbed her.

She looked at the empty space across the fire. For the first time in years, she felt very alone.

A warm muzzle nudged her from her light doze.

Astrid’s eyes opened to see a large silver-and-black wolf hunkered over her. She bolted upright, hand flying to her gun.

The wolf made a sound, halfway between a growl and a whine. An alert. It paced closer, brushing against her, moving in a circle around her. A primal fear snaked through her to be so close to the massive animal. Yet she fought against the fear. Even in the darkness, she saw its topaz eyes, the man within.

Her hand dropped from her revolver. “Lesperance?”

He made a small yip of acknowledgment, followed by another warning growl as he looked off into the woods, his ears swiveling toward an unheard sound.

“What is it?” Astrid whispered, rolling up into a crouch. An odd conversation. She’d never met a shape changer. But the novelty of this had no place now as her senses struggled to full wakefulness. There was a threat out there.

Lesperance moved as though to head toward it, but stopped a few feet away. He swung back to her, pacing around her, as if forming some kind of barrier between her and whatever lurked in the darkness. A low growl rumbled in his throat, deep and continuous.

Suddenly, Astrid heard it. Rhythmic beats upon the ground. Steady and fast. A horse. Big, by the sound of it, and riderless. Even a bareback Indian would change the sound of a horse’s hoofbeats. Wild horses weren’t unknown in these parts, but they roamed in small herds, never alone, as this one was. She could only hear it as it headed directly toward her and Lesperance.

Astrid drew her revolver, cocked it, and waited. The wolf’s growls grew louder as the hoofbeats drew closer.

The trees at the edge of the campsite exploded. The air filled with awful screams as a beast plunged out of the night, straight toward Astrid. Lesperance darted forward with a snarl, shoving her aside, and snapped his wicked teeth at the creature.

It was a horse, but no ordinary horse. Bigger than even the sturdiest draft horse, black as tar, with eyes blazing like an inferno and hooves the size of trenchers. Its mane was a black tangle, and about its neck swung heavy iron chains. The fetid smell of the underworld clung to its flecked hide.

She heard, distantly, the sounds of their horses and mule neighing and braying in fright. At least they were hobbled so they couldn’t run off, but they surely wanted to. Astrid could not blame them.

“Hell,” she muttered. “A púca.” A particularly nasty creature from Ireland. And she knew precisely who had summoned it. She leapt backward to shield herself from its flying hooves and hot breath. Its mouth was full of cutting fangs that tore at the air.

Lesperance shot toward the monster, snarling, lunging for its legs. The púca clumsily dodged the wolf’s advances and let out a screeching whinny when Lesperance tore a chunk from its front leg. Sticky black blood spurted onto the ground and Lesperance’s fur.

So the beast could be harmed. Good. Some magical creatures couldn’t be affected by such things as knives, teeth, or bullets. But this one could. Steadying herself, Astrid took aim with her revolver.

The púca bolted toward her as she readied her shot. Abruptly, the chains about its neck unwound themselves and flew at her. Astrid cursed and flung up an arm for protection. A heavy chain wrapped itself around her forearm. Astrid clawed at it, but the chain would not release her.

Then it was pulling at her, dragging her toward the púca. She dug her heels into the ground, scattering their gear lying there, but could not stop the chain’s relentless tugs. Her arm blazed with pain as she fought to liberate herself. She had to get free before she was forced onto the beast’s back. Anyone who mounted a púca would be carried off, never to be seen again—alive.

The Heirs must want her out of the way to get to Lesperance, but like hell would she let that happen. She pulled harder against the chain. Yet it made it damned difficult to aim her revolver.

A wild growl tore the night, something silver and black flew through the air, and the púca shrieked. Astrid was tugged off her feet as the monstrous horse reared up, the wolf gripping the púca’s back with sharp nails. Astrid fell to the ground and rolled, dodging hooves as the beast tried to shake Lesperance from its back. But he held firm, digging into the creature’s flesh. He plunged his teeth into the púca’s neck. The monster screamed.

Drops of thick blood spattered onto Astrid as she struggled to avoid the careening, wounded creature’s enormous hooves. She might have her head smashed in by the panicked beast.

She pulled again on the chain around her arm and let out a gust of relief when she found she could tug free. The wolf’s attack distracted the púca and its dark magic. Without the chain’s restraint, she rolled away, out of the path of the bucking monster. Astrid leapt to her feet and steadied herself, legs braced wide, as she aimed her gun.

“Jävlar,” she cursed. Lesperance still clung to the creature’s back, biting whatever he could sink his teeth into. No matter how hard the púca bucked, it couldn’t dislodge him. But it was too dark and the monster too frenzied for Astrid to take a proper shot, not without possibly hitting Lesperance.

“Let go,” she shouted.

The wolf’s ears swiveled to catch her words, but the animal didn’t release its hold on the púca. In fact, the damned wolf snarled at her.

“Let go,” she yelled again, “so I can put a bullet in its damned head!”

That seemed to convince him. With a final growl, Lesperance released his death grip and sprang away. The moment he was clear, Astrid fired. Her bullet slammed into the púca’s eye.

An ordinary horse would have fallen to the ground, dead, in an instant. Even, perhaps, in other circumstances the púca would have been killed. But the world’s magic was stronger now. The púca shrieked once more and wheeled away. It dove for the shelter of the trees, and Astrid shot again. If she hit the creature, she couldn’t tell, because it evaporated into a noxious mist. In a few seconds, the only thing remaining of the beast was the smell of putrid, stagnant water.

She let out a slow breath, holstering her gun. The wolf trotted up to her.

They stared at each other in the sudden silence of night. It licked at the blood on its muzzle as it gazed levelly at her—almost a challenge, both to itself and to her. This is what I am.

And this is what I am, she thought in answer.

Lesperance let out a small woof of understanding. She almost smiled. Both of them, barely civilized.

Astrid reached out as if to scratch between the wolf’s ears, then stopped herself. He was not a pet. This was a man within a wolf. As for the man…she and he were allies, but not friends.

He must have seen this in her face. Lesperance backed up, then cast a glance over to the pile of clothing he’d left behind earlier. He made a soft whine of distress, looking back at her. She understood.

Astrid turned away and heard the sounds of shifting, movement. Clothing being gathered and donned. When she turned back, Lesperance in his human form stood by the remains of the camp, dressed. A curious and uncharacteristic vulnerability hung about him, even though he still had blood on his mouth, blood he’d drawn with his wolf’s teeth and wolf’s nails.

“Still hard to believe I can do that,” he said, low. He wiped at his mouth and smiled grimly at the dark smears left on his sleeve. Yet another bloodstain on his clothing.

“You did, and did it well.” She also dabbed at the gore on her clothes. She began to move through the camp, gathering up the things that had been scattered during the fight.

He snarled, “The Heirs sent that…thing.” Heglared toward where the púca had dispersed. “I’ll rip their fucking guts out. You could’ve been killed.”

“I have faced worse,” she noted, but did not miss how his outrage was on her behalf.

“That’s not a consolation,” he growled, dragging his hands through his hair.

She had to disabuse him of the notion that he was her sole means of protection and safety. She’d done perfectly well before he slammed into her life. “Truly, Lesperance, far more dangerous magic exists. Not only does it exist, but I’ve faced it and survived.”

“You’ve seen that creature before?” he demanded.

“The púca? No. But many other magical creatures.”

“Demon horses,” he said with a shake of his head. At least he’d calmed down and wasn’t threatening to single-handedly take on the Heirs. “I shouldn’t be amazed, considering.” He glanced down at the blood on his garments and on the ground. “But I am amazed. Amazed and furious.”

“The púca is merely the first of what will be many,” she cautioned, “so save your fight for another day. They are determined to have you.”

His mouth flattened. “And I’m determined to be rid of the Heirs. I can find their camp, go after them.”

“Even though you are a powerful wolf, you could never defeat them.” She rubbed at her arm where the chain had dug into her flesh. “Magic such as the púca is nothing to what they are capable of.”

“Why don’t the Heirs send more?”

She sunk down onto her heels, suddenly exhausted. She knew she should thank Lesperance for coming to her aid, but all she could feel now was weariness in the aftermath of the fight. If she needed convincing that the Heirs were truly in pursuit, she had her proof now. “They will.”