Page 30 of A Lady’s Guide to Werewolves

Running barefoot across the hills was not impossible, but it would be uncomfortable. It would slow her down. He might be a brute, but he wasn’t stupid. More’s the pity.

He hauled himself up behind her and urged the horse forward.

A crow flew down, cawing angrily, but the horse was already galloping and Sorcha could only lie draped over the saddle, praying she would not bounce off. Which was worse? Being taken wherever he was taking her? Or landing on her head on a rock? She couldn’t even summon enough magic to call more crows, or send her Elderberry to harass her abductor. Every ounce of concentration was focused on not sliding off and being trampled to death.

She could only see the horse’s side, the dirt he kicked up with every pounding step, the change from grass to forest. But she knew they were no longer alone the moment they crossed into the cool green shadows, undergrowth dappled with sunlight.

She had no idea if it was a good thing or a worse thing.

The horse slowed with a nicker. She could hear wind chimes, the murmur of voices. Something that sounded very much like a growl.

The hairs on the back of her neck stirred.

A worse thing.

Definitely a worse thing.

She hadn’t been kidnapped by a giant, after all, despite evidence to the contrary.

She’d been kidnapped by a werewolf.

Was this Winterwell’s doing? Was he miffed that she had mildly scolded him about his son in his own house? This seemed excessive, even for that git of a man.

None of this made any sense.

Her abductor pulled her to the ground in one rough yank. She teetered awkwardly, nearly smashing her nose into the horse’s side before finding her footing. Her abductor grabbed her as if she had threatened the horse. As if she could do anything but will the feeling back into her legs and her stomach to stop roiling. She breathed through her nose when he shook her again. Her voice was very calm when she spoke. “I will throw up on you.”

He took a step back, glowering, but did not let go.

The blood found its way back into her legs; her ribs shifted back into place as if they had been jostled loose. She was bruised and winded and queasy.

And a prisoner of the wolf camps.

She knew the stories, that the shifters gathered on Festival days, when most magical folk gathered. Usually for feasting, for boasting and horse trading and handfastings that lasted a year and a day, a tradition in Lyonesse. Sorcha had baked hundreds of loaves of bread for gatherings just like this one.

She had never been invited to one. Or forced into one.

But she knew where she was now.

The Wolf Wood.

She had thought it just a name before now. A place wolves might have gathered once.

She’d had no idea they were gathering now in such numbers.

And the presence of so many wolves—in whatever shape—woke some instinct in her. An instinct to run, but also to freeze and hope not to be noticed.

Too late for that, obviously.

She was somewhat gratified to learn that ladies being abducted garnered attention, even in such a place. Less gratified to be the center of that sharp, hungry attention.

She had never felt soft before, all thin skin and slender bones and legs that could never hope to outrun a wolf. The sheer power of them prowling around her, the snuffling from the shadows, the rake of claws through dirt, made her hold her breath. It was partly awe. But mostly trepidation.

If this wasn’t about the Red Cloak, then why was she here? It had to be some sort of misunderstanding. She had no quarrels with the wolves. With any of the shifters.

The spaces between the trees were filled with Lycan in both their wolf shapes and in their human forms. Tawny fur, brown, gray, black. Sorcha did not know where to look, where not to look. Tents had been erected in the clearings, scattered about, painted with family crests. A door sat to one side, painted red, opening to nothing. They were common enough on the island, used to travel between houses and villages. Moon charms hung from the branches, between dozens and dozens of wind chimes. The song they sang was gentle and pretty, at odds with the thundering of her pulse in her ears. She pulled at her bindings again, but the knots had not loosened as she rattled about on the back of the horse.

“What have you got there, Brutus?” someone drawled.