by Selena Kitt
“What?” Sibyl gasped as she felt her train being tugged again, but this time it wasn’t Moira or the maids. This time it was the guard. He had tunneled beneath the fabric and was now caught in it near the door Sibyl had stormed out of.
“Get back ’ere!” Donal yelled, but the man had freed himself from his white satin prison and practically fell down the stairs at the end of the hall. “He’ll tell me brother I’m free.”
“It will be war,” Sibyl whispered. “The wulver’s mate is coming for her. We must find her and let her go. If we can just free her…”
Had she sacrificed herself for nothing? Sibyl wondered, looking back at Donal’s face. The color had drained from it. Was Laina already dead, as the maids had intimated? She couldn’t bear the thought. Tears came to her eyes, spilling down her cheeks.
“Ye cry fer a dog?” The dark-haired maid rolled her eyes.
“Shut up!” Sibyl snapped. “Donal! Where are you going?”
But he was already halfway down the hall, sword in hand, going after the guard.
Sibyl quickly followed, shoving by Moira and the maids, but she found herself stuck halfway down the stairs, her train too heavy to move on her own. Donal had the guard by the throat, but it was too late, he had already sounded the alarm. Alistair’s men were gathered at the foot of the stone steps, looking up at Donal holding one of their men at sword point and Sibyl standing at the top of them in her wedding gown.
“Please!” She pleaded with them all, hoping she could reason with someone, anyone. “Let the she-wolf go! If you let her go, then the wulvers will not come after you!”
“Let ’em come!” Alistair’s voice echoed through the great hall as he stalked into it, his men parting as he approached the stairway.
“It will be war!” she cried. The sight of her betrothed made her dizzy with disgust and she clutched the stair’s railing.
“King Henry will’na stand fer it,” Donal insisted. He still had the guard at sword point. “He does’na want war wit’ the wulvers.”
“Yer wrong, brother.” Alistair called up the stairs, smiling that cold smile that never reached his eyes. “King Henry wants his demon seed dead. He wants no challenge t’is throne.”
His words carried through the hall. The maids gasped, of course—Sibyl didn’t expect anything less. But everyone seemed to understand his meaning. They all knew the legends, the stories that had been told about the wulvers and the wolf pact. Perhaps some of them had even been alive, Sibyl realized, looking back at Moira’s pale face and the way she crossed herself at the mention of the wulvers, when a young man named Henry had come looking for soldiers to help him win a crown. When that same man, who would one day be king, had taken what he wanted from the wulver woman, as men were wont to do, and had abandoned her with child, as men were also wont to do.
The consequences for those actions were far-reaching, and likely riding toward them right now, half-man, half-wolf, fully armed and ready for battle.
“Raife doesn’t want the crown!” Sibyl’s voice shook when she spoke the words. It was true, but would anyone believe it? She didn’t know.
“Raife is it?” Alistair sneered at her. The hatred in his eyes, the hatred that had always been there, just barely veiled, filled her with dread as he came up the stairs, two at a time, passing his brother to get to Sibyl. “And has he taken what’s mine?”
“I am not yours.” She felt her lower lip tremble but she couldn’t stop the truth from spilling out of her mouth. “I will never be yours.”
“Ye’re wrong about that.” Alistair grabbed her to him, crushing his mouth against hers in a painful, bruising kiss. His tongue forced its way past her teeth as he gripped her behind in one hand, her breast in the other, right in front of everyone like he didn’t care who saw. And of course, he didn’t. He wanted them all to see that he owned her. She was surprised he didn’t strip her naked and take her right there on the stairs.
If it weren’t for the presence of the priest down there, ready to perform the marriage ceremony, she knew he really might have.
“King Henry promised me a proper English bride and the rule of all of Middle March if I would kill those flea-ridden dogs,” Alistair growled, spittle spraying her ear. “There is no more wolf pact.”
“No,” she whispered, closing her eyes to it.
It couldn’t be. Was King Henry so afraid of losing his title, his throne, to a bastard son who didn’t want to have anything to do with the crown? No one knew about Raife—and his claim to the throne was tenuous, at best. He wasn’t just Scottish—he wasn’t even fully human! Henry had a son in line for the throne. The Tudors had regained the title after much maneuvering and fighting, but it was theirs. And the wulvers had helped them win it.
“I’ve a thousand men ready to kill ’em all as soon as those dogs ride up to the gates!” Alistair announced, his arm still around Sibyl’s waist as he grinned down at his men. There were only a hundred or so gathered in the hall, but that didn’t mean a thing. She was certain there were more where that came from—these were just the ones who had heard the commotion and had come running.
“Isn’t that so?” Alistair called out. The men rallied, crying back with a rousing, “Aye!”
They were riding into a trap, just as Sibyl had feared. The wulvers would come down the mountain on horses, armed and ready for battle, transformed as half-man, half-wolf, a few hundred strong. In a battle, they were almost invincible, their healing capacities and super-strength making them fierce warriors, which is what had made them such a force to be reckoned with when Henry recruited them.
But a few hundred wulvers against a thousand men, all set on killing them? It would be an ambush. A slaughter. Sibyl saw Raife falling, saw Alistair—or more likely one of Alistair’s men, because the man himself was too coward to face a wulver—running a sword through her mate’s heart. They might be able to quickly heal from wounds, but they could still be killed. Their hearts could still stop beating.
And if Raife’s heart stopped beating, hers would too.
“Have you ever seen a wulver?” she snarled at Alistair, raising her voice so they could all hear her words. “Have you ever faced a beast who is half-man, half-wolf? They are warriors. I have seen them. They have held me captive for over a month! They do nothing else but train for war. They are far more ready for it than any of your farmers or even your best-trained men! I have seen them rip an animal’s throat out with their bare hands!”
“We can’na fight magic,” the men whispered. Sibyl’s heart soared when she heard the mutterings down below. They crossed themselves and kissed the crosses around their necks. She was sowing the seeds, but she needed more help. “Tis witchcraft. Tis against nature.”
“She’s trying t’scare ye!” Alistair pushed Sibyl away from him and she tumbled, losing her footing, as he went back down the stairs. “They’ll be as easy t’put down as dogs, you’ll see!”
“Donal… please…” Sibyl cried, thankful the man was still standing there. He caught her fall. “You must do something.”
“Me brother’s laird of clan MacFalon.” Donal helped her stand, shaking his head sadly. “He’s the MacFalon now. That was me father’s doin’, nuh mine. These men do’na follow me.”
“But they will!” she insisted, glancing down at the lot of them. More were coming into the hall all the time, having been drawn by the shouting. “The Scots do not have a hierarchy like we do in England. They will follow the strongest leader. Alistair is not that man!”
“Ye bitch!” Alistair sneered up at her, hand on the hilt of his sword. She didn’t care if he came after her. He could run her through with it—death would be a merciful blessing now—as long as she could save Raife and her wulver family. “Ye lying, whoring lil cunt!”
“You must lead these men to do the right thing!” Sibyl spoke only to Donal, seeing a light in his eyes, the same light she’d seen in Darrow’s. It was the passion of the second son, one not born into distinction but who despera
tely craved it, who went after it like a moth to flame.
“Many of these men are too young to a’member the wulver warriors,” Donal said, his voice carrying through the hall. “I was jus’ a chile when King Henry came ta the MacFalons, askin’ fer our allegiance. But some of these men do a’member. Don’t ye?”
Sibyl glanced down, finding some gray-haired men among the group who pursed their lips and nodded in agreement, much to her relief.
“But some of these men followed me father when King Henry created the wolf pact. Some of these men followed King Henry into battle to fight for his right to wear a crown in a foreign land. Their fathers fought alongside mine, and they fought alongside the wolf warriors for God and country, to secure a peaceful future for their families.”
Sibyl watched Donal’s face change as he talked, as the men, even the younger ones, started really paying attention to his words. Alistair’s face grew red with anger.
“How much bloodshed d’ya wanna see?” Donal cried, throwing his arms wide. “D’ya want yer homes burned, yer women raped? Hav’ya seen what warfare does? Me father saw what the border wars did ’tween the Scots and the English. Me father, yer laird, told King Henry he wanted t’live in peace, and King Henry agreed. Scots, English, wulvers—we all bleed. If we fight—we’ll die.”
The crowd murmured its assent. Many of Alistair’s men were too young to remember that kind of bloodshed, but they grew afraid, not only of what the reality of war might mean, but of taking up arms against an army rumored to be more than human. Sibyl smiled triumphantly as she realized Donal had swayed them. Even if Alistair ordered them out to kill the wulvers now—would they do so? She didn’t think they would.
“Do’na listen t’im!” Alistair cried. “I’ve heard from King Henry himself! He—”
A commotion erupted through the crowd. Something was going on outside. Sibyl cocked her head, hearing the sound of a horn, some sort of call. She didn’t understand it but she was glad it had distracted everyone from Alistair’s words. The thought that King Henry himself had made some sort of agreement with Alistair to eliminate the wulvers made her blood turn cold.
“What’s that noise?” Alistair huffed, crossing his arms like a petulant child at the interruption. He clearly didn’t like his brother getting all the attention. “Stop it at once!”
“Tis the wolf pact, brother. The one ye do’na have the honor t’honor.” Donal walked slowly down the stairs, coming to stand face-to-face with his older brother. Alistair’s eyes grew wide with fear. “They’re invokin’ single combat rite.”
“No.” Alistair’s voice barely got above a whisper. She could hardly hear him. “I will’na.”
“According to the wolf pact, ye must,” Donal insisted. “Yer father signed that agreement in blood, and yer honor bound t’it!”
“I’m nah!” Alistair stamped his foot, arms still crossed over his chest. “I will’na!”
“Men!” Donal called, eyes bright as he saw them turned toward him, listening, paying close attention. “Take yer laird t’face the wulvers.”
Alistair howled like a child, but there were too many of them. They grabbed him and hauled him out of the hall, out the open door. She watched the men do as Donal ordered with great relief, knowing they would follow him. Alistair could talk until he was blue in the face, it didn’t matter anymore. Donal was a man who inspired these men, whose integrity showed in everything he did.
“What is single combat rite?” she wondered aloud.
Donal heard her, turning to glance back as he started following his men.
“T’will be leader against leader,” he called back.
“Raife,” Sibyl whispered.
She didn’t think twice. She used the dagger still in her hand to cut away the train of her wedding dress, freeing herself, and ran down the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
“Blood rite!” The words were whispered from one person to another in the crowd as they gathered out in front of the MacFalon castle.
Sibyl looked around at all the people and wondered at the number. Why were they all here? Alistair had claimed he had a thousand men at the ready and he was not speaking in jest. But the rest of the people, where had they come from? The villages around the MacFalon lands weren’t this densely populated. Could word have spread so quickly?
Sibyl pushed her way through the crowd, searching for the source of the horn that sounded loudly above her head. People stopped and looked at her bare legs in her ruined wedding dress, whispering behind their hands, and suddenly she realized—these were her wedding guests. They had come to see their laird marry an Englishwoman and had ended up attending something akin to a joust. That was all she could imagine as this, “single combat,” or “blood rite” everyone was talking about.
Either way, it would be a good show, Sibyl thought grimly, as she made her way to the front of the growing crowd. Alistair had been so sure she would come, that there was going to be a wedding. He had trapped all of them, she realized in horror. He would kill the wulvers, marry his Englishwoman, inherit her lands and titles, and gain the favor of the king. In the end, he would get his way, just as he wanted.
She saw Raife sitting on his horse just across the field. They had come through the woods, just as she had, riding hard. But they were fully armed, their horses geared up for war, the wulvers too. She saw the men she had watched train, men who had teased and funned with her, men she had supped with, men she had watched sleep in a pile at night, half on top of one another, snoring like dogs.
She didn’t want to see any of them harmed, not one of them, and she had the same feeling about Donal as she watched him approach Raife on horseback. Alistair was still howling his objections, his men holding onto him as Donal approached the wulver leader. Raife leaned forward in his saddle, listening to Donal speak, nodding slowly.
Sibyl’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces, just seeing Raife alive and well, his bare chest under his plaid wet with perspiration. They had rode hard to get there so quickly, Sibyl realized, glancing up at the sun in the sky. It had only been a few hours since she’d arrived at Alistair’s. They were armed as men, and had not yet transformed.
Mayhaps bloodshed and panic could still be avoided, she thought.
“One of our pack’s blood has been spilled! Ye, Alistair MacFalon, are in violation of the wolf pact!” Raife raised his sword high, speaking to the gathered crowd, but he was looking straight at Alistair. “We’re invokin’ single combat blood rite!”
“There is no wolf pact!” Alistair spat, shaking loose of the men who held him. “We hold t’no such thing.”
“Will it be war then?” Raife stared the man down.
The crowd murmured its disapproval and Sibyl glanced at many of them, who were dressed in finery for attending a wedding but hadn’t at all planned on being slaughtered in the midst of a battle between man and wulver.
“Ye have t’honor the pact!” A cry rose up from the crowd. Sibyl didn’t know from where, but she was grateful when the rest of them began to take up the chant.
“Honor the pact! Honor the pact!”
Alistair reddened, his face twisted in a sneer at the sudden turn of the crowd’s allegiance from their laird.
“I’ll honor it!” Alistair announced loudly, bowing in Raife’s direction with much show. “The wolf pact allows for blood rite if either party feels the pact has been violated.”
He was explaining to the crowd, Sibyl realized, her heart hammering in her chest at his words. He had that smile on his face, that cold, calculating smile. What was he up to? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.
“But as laird, I’ve a right t’call for a stand-in!” Alistair raised his voice, looking at his men, his eyes a cloudy, glittering gray. “Which of ye brave men will stand in me place?”
Sibyl held her breath, waiting. Of course Alistair would take this way out—and it looked, to the crowd, as if he were being magnanimous by calling on one of his “brave men” to take his plac
e. Of course their laird couldn’t fight—he was laird. He had a clan to run, after all. Sibyl hated the way he made it look, as if the men who stood by, considering his offer, were the ones who were cowards for staying silent.
“He broke the pact!” someone murmured.
Sibyl’s head came up, eyes widening as those phrases peppered the crowd.
“He took the wolf-woman!”
“Fight yer own battles!” This last was spoken so clearly it echoed against the castle’s gray walls.
“Donal?” Alistair turned to his brother, looking up and smiling at him on horseback. “As second son, tis yer place to stand in for yer laird.”
“Tis true. The pact allows for a stand-in.” Donal reined his horse away from his brother, glancing over his shoulder as he clearly replied, “But all have the right of refusal, brother. Even the second son. And I’m sorry, but I refuse. Do as the man said—fight yer own battles.”
A cheer—an actual cheer—went up from the crowd.
“Ye wanna see a fight?” Alistair called, his face twisted in a scowl as he called for his sword and a man brought it to him. The crowd cheered again. Of course they wanted to see a fight. They’d come for a wedding, but a fight was even better, she judged from the reactions.
Sibyl had seen all manner of jousts back home in England but she didn’t understand how this was going to work. Alistair swung his sword through the air, showing off for the crowd. He looked back over his shoulder at Raife, goading the man.
“Ye ready, dog?”
Raife shook his head and a slow smile spread across Alistair’s face.
“Afraid, are ye?” Alistair called loudly—for the benefit of the show, of course. “Get down here and face me like a man.”
“Tis my brother who’s callin’ for blood rite.” Raife’s voice rose over the crowd, sure and clear. Just the sound of it made Sibyl want to run to him. “Tis Darrow ye’ll be facin’.”
“Dog-boy, is that what ye said?” Alistair swung his sword, stabbing at thin air. “What was yer name again? Ruff? Ruff?”