Page 121 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Paper birds flocked toward her, dozens and dozens of them, made of folded drawing paper, old letters, pages torn from magical apothecary journals, recipes for black currant jelly.

They crowded out the light of the moon, circling like a crown.

“It’s not over,” Sorcha said softly.

Aidan caught Sorcha’s elbow when she turned to follow. “Aidan, I released those birds long before the ball. I thought they’d gotten lost or taken by the weather. But these are definitely the ones I spelled to find the pit, to find the missing wolves.” She sounded excited, determined.

But he only felt his wolf shoving and pushing to get out. It was like sharp teeth inside his ribcage. Like mists choking him.

It felt wrong.

Crows gathered above, cawing loudly. The moonlight fell between the leaves, flashing into his eyes. He felt them turn gold and stay that way. His bones were heavy as iron.

The drums went silent. Freya’s song died in her throat.

Sorcha froze. “Aidan?”

The wolves answered before he could. The combination of growls and choked, panicked whines turned his teeth to fangs in his mouth. He bit down, fighting the change. “Sorcha, get out of here.”

“No.”

He felt his muscles bunching and rippling under his skin, trying to shift.

“Aidan, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” he ground out. He softened his eyesight, pushing aside the wolf through sheer willpower and experience. The others had not wrestled their wolves, not like him. Was this why he was able to keep control? He already knew it would not last, so he would make it count. Alpha power sharpened his every sense: he could hear the frantic heartbeats, the bells, the fires crackling back at the camp. A badger in its den. He smelled earth and pine trees and those damned roses. He saw clearer: a moth hovering, moonlight on each individual grass blade at his feet, Sorcha’s hair glowing like fire, her scattering of freckles like a constellation of stars.

And the threads of a spell worked against the wolves.

As the full moon met the equinox, something else was awakened.

Silver and gold threads wrapped around each wolf, tangling, strangling, knotting around them. The more they struggled, the tighter the magic constricted.

“Binding spell,” he choked out, yanking at the threads that surrounded him. One cut into his arm, drawing blood. His wolf snarled, snapped.

Sorcha’s pulse rushed but her expression stayed calm. The woman who played with a Black Shuck and fed a unicorn by hand could handle anything. She reached into her pockets, pulling out breadcrumbs, thread for sutures, a hagstone. “I need salt.”

“Salt’s not enough.”

“Then I need to find the witch who’s doing this! Is it Simon?”

“It smells like the fighting pits.”

When she broke into a run, he actually struggled to keep up. The threads kept tripping him up, flaying him open as they searched for his wolf. A stone dug into the heel of his foot but he ignored it. He pushed on, running faster, chasing the glow of Sorcha, the soft call of her heartbeat.

She frowned at him over her shoulder. “You’re not even wearing boots,” she scolded him.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“We’re going to talk about your self-destructive tendencies again later.” She paused. “If we survive.”

“You’re surviving,” he growled.

“We’re surviving,” she corrected him with her own tiny growl, which, under any other circumstances, would have made him feral with the need to kiss her and claim her. To feel those fingernails in his back again. His every instinct screamed to keep her close, to hold on as tight as he could. To never let go.

The few wolves who had not been at the ceremony poked their heads out of their tents as Sorcha and Aidan passed. Wolves heard each other, felt the change when there was trouble. And Aidan’s wolf, frantic to protect Sorcha, was not being quiet.

Tavish had stayed behind to help guard Simon, and Brutus was sitting with Orla. Her ears were flattened as she panted. Aidan saw the threads cocooning her as well, keeping her still. Incapacitated.