Mistress of the Stone

by Maria Zannini

  Shadrach plummeted beside them, smashing the clay tile floor into shards. Both wings were perforated from the knifelike beams of moonlight. He rolled and examined his damaged wings. “Save your sister, Daltry, and run from this place.”

  “I won’t leave Luísa.”

  “You must. She’ll come to no harm. Izabel will not harm her kin.”

  Sibyl woke with a whimper.

  “There now,” Daltry cooed. “Don’t move too quickly.”

  “Xander,” she whispered. She looked up at her brother and then at the gargoyle. Her smile warmed with relief. “Shadrach.” She reached for him.

  The gargoyle stood up and bowed his head. “Milady. Can you will yourself away? You must leave this place.”

  Daltry lifted her up and placed her in Shadrach’s arms. “She’s weak. You must take her, my friend. I entrust you with her safety.”

  Shadrach stepped back, stunned. “I cannot.”

  “You must. You’re the only man I trust.”

  “Look at me, Daltry. I am no man, but a beast of stone, thralled by the Sorceress.”

  Daltry put a hand on Shadrach’s chiseled arm. “Izabel made you stone, my friend, but she couldn’t turn your heart. That part of you is still flesh and blood. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

  “Are you sure about this, Daltry?”

  “I trust no man more.”

  Shadrach seemed to stand straighter despite his injuries. “Then it seems our destinies lie in different directions, lycan.” He nodded toward a staircase. “Find your woman in the bowels of this keep. Mind that you stay out of sight of Izabel’s guards, for they see all.” He folded Sibyl close to his chest with one arm and extended his damaged right hand.

  Daltry grasped it in friendship and found it surprisingly warm. He kissed his sister on the cheek and bid her farewell. No matter what happened now, at least he knew his little sister would always have a champion.

  “Go,” he ordered. “Take her away from here with my gratitude and debt.”

  The gargoyle nodded in acknowledgement then turned away with a hobble.

  “And Shadrach,” Daltry called out. “Forgive a fool for not seeing your true self.”

  The corners of Shadrach’s mouth turned upwards. “We were both fools, Daltry, but no more.”

  He spirited Sibyl out through a hidden passageway, while Daltry took to a winding staircase carved entirely from stone.

  Darkness and the cold damp of mold assaulted him. Torches were few, and Daltry had to rely on his keener werewolf senses to get him to the keep’s underground lair. He paused when he reached the ground floor. The gargoyles roused in a frenzy as they darted to every door and window. Something had agitated them, something outside. Izabel’s eyes were hard at work.

  Daltry snuck a peek out a small cross-shaped cavity set into an outside wall. Something rustled in the bushes. He hoped it wasn’t Shadrach and Sibyl.

  He lingered for a while longer to make sure his sister and her lover hadn’t been spotted, and soon the transgressor stilled. The gargoyles relaxed and crouched down to their haunches in wait for the next alarm. Daltry moved on.

  As he reached the bottom of the staircase, the sound of women’s voices bounced against the stone walls.

  Daltry’s chest tightened when he recognized Luísa’s voice. How was he ever going to get her out of here? He pressed his back against the cold stone of the fortress. A diversion, he thought. That’s what he needed. If he could keep the crone occupied, it would give Luísa a chance to get away.

  His upper lip curled involuntarily. Izabel wanted a lover. Bugger! He would’ve rather given her the full of his sword, especially after what she’d done to his sister, but if arousing her could keep her distracted, it would be the saner route.

  He took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

  “I wondered where you two went off to,” he said as smoothly as he could.

  Izabel looked up at him. She was caught in her underclothes, while Luísa finished tying the last of her laces on a long dress the color of golden sunlight.

  “What are you doing here, werewolf? Can’t you see we’re undressed?”

  “Apologies, Madam. I’ve been meditating upstairs and have come to the conclusion that you were right.”

  “Eh? What’s this?”

  “My sister has been lost to me a long time, and my pack refuses to recognize me as a true leader. I’m adrift and rudderless. You, Lady Izabel, have offered me my only lifeline. If you seek a companion, I’ll fill that void gladly.”

  Izabel cackled. “Think me a fool, Xander? What about the girl? Surely, you’d rather have her.”

  Daltry barely glanced at Luísa though he sensed she hung on every word. He flicked his wrist at Luísa as if she were inconsequential. “She’s a child, Sorceress, and I’m a man of ambition and destiny. I’ve not roamed the seas for countless years just to dally with a girl. At your side, the pack would submit to me without question. If I chose this child, I’d gain nothing.” He bowed to Izabel. “A business transaction, my lady. If I please you, I ask only for the right to claim the title of pack leader.”

  “Blast your hide, Xander Daltry.” Luísa’s skirts rustled as she tramped to a corner and sulked.

  Izabel only laughed. “Think you can please me, wolf? I’ve had many lovers to measure in comparison.”

  Daltry strolled up to her with a confident gait. “You’ve never had anyone like me, Izabel.” His fingers grazed the edge of her jaw. The skin was cool and creased, but it had a life beneath it. He felt her surrender a sigh before collecting her wits once more.

  Izabel pointed at him accusingly. “You…you will be tested,” she said at last.

  “Send the girl away, Izabel.” Daltry pushed the strap of Izabel’s under-dress off her shoulder. “You can test me now.”

  Izabel’s mouth dropped open, a rare look of indecision on her face, but before she could utter a word, several gargoyles barreled down the steps in alarm.

  “The hold is being raided! We must take you to safety, Sorceress.” The biggest one pulled her into his arms and lifted off to the stairwell.

  “Stop, you fools! Stop!” Izabel cursed her stone guardians to no avail. They were created to protect, whether she wanted that protection or not.

  The assault was real. A stroke of luck. The crack of steel and the cries of men echoed from the main floor. Daltry wasn’t going to give Izabel a chance to regroup. He grabbed Luísa by the hand, but she jerked away from him.

  “I’m not going with you.”

  He smacked the palm of his hand against his forehead. “Oh, for the love of seawater! Why not?”

  “You said you wanted to be with her.”

  Daltry wrapped her in his arms and forced her to his chest. “Young lady, if you want to argue about this later, I will gladly oblige you, but right now we have to get out of here.”

  “But you said—”

  He hushed her with a kiss. “Listen with your heart and not your ears, kitten.” He captured her lips once more and warmed them with his own. “What do you think I’m saying now?”

  Her teeth scraped against her bottom lip. “I guess we need to go.”

  He pressed his forehead against hers. “Good girl.”

  They wound their way back up the steep staircase until they reached the ground floor landing. He had nearly gotten her out the servant’s entrance when Luísa bolted from his side and into a fracas of muscle and steel.

  “It’s my crew!” she shouted. “Come on!”

  “Luísa, no!” But it was too late. The girl had escaped his grasp.

  The crew of the Coral attacked the gargoyles with all their might. Clubs and irons clashed against stone, sparking on impact. But they didn’t fight alone. Daltry lifted his nose and caught the scent of the pack in the room beyond. Fur and flesh fought against the gargoyles.

  Daltry was faster and more dangerous in his wolf form and right now he needed every advantage. He forced the change quickly, makin
g him feel as if he’d ripped his intestines out with a spoon.

  A wail turned into a snarling growl, and he pounced on the first gargoyle he saw that had pinned a stunned sailor to the ground.

  Gargoyles could not be killed, but they could be broken. The pack and the crew of the Coral would have to keep cracking the gargoyles’ stone flesh until they could take no more.

  The stone guardians proved powerful, but they were cumbersome in tight quarters and their numbers few. Against so many attackers, the gargoyles would give up soon.

  But the Sorceress had returned, bathed in a light so pure it blinded everyone in the room, forcing them to a sudden halt.

  She hissed, speaking in a tongue no one understood, save for one man who turned toward her, shielding his eyes from her brilliance.

  Paqua trudged closer to the radiant Izabel.

  “Bruja! Your time here is over.”

  Izabel lit down to the ground, everyone backing away as she approached the brown shaman.

  “You’re either very brave or very stupid, little man.”

  “I’ve seen your death in the entrails of a fat hen, Sorceress. You die today.”

  “Fool! I will never die!”

  Paqua glowered at her then pulled out a small black bag. Deft fingers opened the pouch, and he poured a thimbleful of white pearly sand into the palm of his hand.

  Izabel looked more intrigued than fearful. “Your petty island magic is no match for me.”

  “Then you are dim-witted as well as vain.” He spat the words like poison. “You’re right, bruja. You cannot die. But I will not let you live in this world.” He lifted the sand to his mouth and blew the white crystals into Izabel’s face.

  She stepped back, surprised at first and then amused. “Is that all you have, priest?”

  It seemed Paqua’s magic had little effect and hope faded. But within moments each pebble of sand lifted into the air and swirled at the witch’s feet, the grains growing in number, until it bubbled like a fount. On and on it churned, the wall of sand growing longer, denser, until it wrapped her in a shroud.

  Izabel tried to step out of the mantle, but it mired her like a prison. She muttered a spell to halt the storm’s progress, but it too proved useless. She screeched at Paqua in rage, yet the sand continued to envelope her, smothering her to silence.

  Paqua nodded contentedly, then turned to embrace Luísa. She jumped into his arms and hugged him, tears rolling down her face.

  “I knew you’d come.”

  “Querida. Your crew would never abandon you.”

  The cocoon wound itself tighter and tighter like a knot pulled taut. One tiny fissure remained and a clawed hand shot out.

  “She’s getting out!” Luísa cried.

  Paqua pushed Luísa to the floor then twirled around, shielding himself with the giant crucifix that hung around his neck. He mouthed a prayer in his native tongue, repeating the words like a mantra.

  The cocoon sealed itself once more, but not before Izabel left her final curse. A jolt of lightning flashed from her fingertips. It struck the crucifix and straight into Paqua’s chest.

  His eyes opened wide and smoke curled from his body. Paqua mouthed something, making no sound.

  Luísa launched herself toward him, but Daltry held her back.

  A squeal of laughter echoed long after the cocoon tightened into one long braided sheath. The body inside twisted within its shroud, but her cage had sealed. The soft trickle of sand seeped out of the now desiccated cocoon, forming a hill of sparkling salt.

  Luísa jerked out of Daltry’s arms and reached for Paqua. She held the old man in her arms. The shaman’s body lay limp, and his wrinkled eyelids had closed in sleep. She shook him. “Damn you, viejo. Why didn’t you run?”

  “I was exactly where I should’ve been, querida.”

  The voice came from behind her. Luísa turned toward the sound, only to find Paqua’s ghost. She held even tighter to the now dead body.

  “Paqua, no!”

  “Don’t grieve for me, Luísa. I knew what I was doing,” he said consoling her. “But the danger isn’t over. Find your father and get off this wretched island before Saint-Sauveur reaches you. The blood moon is tomorrow night. It’s the night your power will be at its strongest. He’ll stop at nothing now that he has you so close.” He looked over at Daltry and smiled. “I was wrong about you, shapeshifter.”

  “I was wrong about you too, Captain.”

  “Take Luísa away from this place, away from Saint-Sauveur.”

  “Aye, Captain. You have my word on it.” Daltry faced Jovis, who had fought alongside the others. “A truce, pack leader. Let us tend our wounds and be away from this place once and for all. I’ll deal with Saint-Sauveur on my own.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Luísa and her crew stumbled into the werewolves’ village. They stared dumbstruck when some of the women and children changed into their wolf state, fearful of the strangers wandering in their midst.

  Jovis bellowed for the women to attend them. “Bring water, bandages. We have wounded.”

  Daltry took Luísa into one of the more modest huts. “Sit,” he ordered.

  He snapped his fingers at a woman with red hair who had slunk in to watch. “Cwen, bring me water.”

  “For her?”

  They eyed each other silently for a moment before she turned away, snatching a wooden pail on her way out.

  “Who’s that?” Luísa asked.

  “Her name is Cwen. Our alpha female died a few weeks ago. Cwen is one of the contenders for the title.”

  “She doesn’t like me.”

  Daltry chuckled. “She doesn’t like me either. Cwen has high aspirations and I’ve disappointed her.”

  Cwen returned, sloshing water over the rim of the bucket. She sat down next to Luísa. “Strip,” she said. “So I can tend your wounds.”

  Luísa looked up at Daltry, but he only shrugged.

  “I’ll leave you two ladies to your ablutions. I need to check on the others.” He left with a curt nod and a wink to Luísa.

  Cwen scooted behind Luísa and untied her laces.

  “I can do that.”

  “Quiet, girl.”

  “My name is Luísa.”

  “I know who you are. Do you think I care?”

  Luísa slipped off her gown, now torn and dirty from battle. Cwen tossed it to one side then grabbed Luísa by her scraped arm and scrubbed it with a wet cloth.

  “That hurts!” Luísa cried and pulled her arm away.

  “What does Xander see in you? You’re weak and whiny.”

  Luísa shoved Cwen to the ground, pinning her arms and digging a knee into her midsection. “Who are you calling weak?”

  Cwen rolled and kicked Luísa in the stomach, jolting her on her ass.

  Luísa howled in rage and punted the pail of water with the flat of her foot, drenching Cwen from head to toe. They crashed into one another like bosomed Titans.

  In the struggle, a fireplace poker rolled out to the middle of the floor and both women lunged for it at the same time. Their hands wrapped around the long, narrow iron pike and each woman grappled for control of the weapon.

  They rolled around the floor, knocking over a heavy table and shattering crockery. Cwen won control of the poker first, but lost it when Luísa kicked it out of her hand. The red-haired demon screamed a curse before throwing herself on Luísa once more.

  “You’re not woman enough for any of our men.”

  “At least they all want me. You’d have to be in heat for them to pay you any mind.”

  “Whore!”

  “Bitch!”

  Cwen lost control and screamed a blood-curdling yowl as the wolf inside her emerged.

  Luísa’s eyes widened, and she tried to pull away. The transformation never ceased to astound—and frighten her.

  The woman shook with convulsions, terrible body-wracking spasms that forced her human self to evolve into something monstrous and deadly. Cwen’s jaw nar
rowed and jutted forward to form a muzzle. The thin tunic she wore burst at the seams then split, leaving her in fur alone. Her eyes, brilliant green, shined with predatory delight, and her primal scream morphed into a spit-slavering growl.

  Cwen bared her teeth, long white sabers, glistening in the low light of the hut. Her dress hung like a rag on her body, and she tore it off, preferring to fight in fur alone. She edged closer, silent now that the transformation was complete.

  Luísa eyed the poker in the middle of the floor. If she could close the distance before her opponent did, she might be able to defend herself.

  The she-wolf must have figured out her intentions because she circled her. Cwen bent her knees ready to spring, when another wolf bounded into the room and attacked her. Both werewolves rolled around on the floor, the bigger wolf biting her on the neck until she cowed into submission.

  The male werewolf hung over her, his mouth covered in blood.

  Cwen crouched on her hands and knees in surrender. A soft doglike whimper issued from her throat, and she pressed her cheek against his thigh. Completing her submission, she licked the drops of blood off his fur and laved a trail to his groin. A low guttural moan of pleasure issued from the male. His claws dug into the she-wolf’s shoulders, nudging her toward his lengthening member when he looked up at Luísa in recognition.

  The werewolf let out a grunt, then snapped at the she-wolf, leaving both he and Cwen unsated.

  Luísa could see he wanted to leave, hungry for his freedom, but the hut jammed with spectators.

  Cwen returned to her human form, shivering naked until a woman from her clan wrapped her in a blanket.

  Luísa felt a prickle of anger surge through her as she watched the male werewolf gradually transform into the human form she recognized.

  Xander. He had bolted into the fray to protect her, yet his animal side submitted to Cwen’s petting.

  Xander’s silhouette stood in profile, but she could trace every bulge of his hard body. Jovis entered and handed him a pair of breeches. Xander put them on without a word.

  Cwen was now dressed and stood tall. “Him,” she said pointing to Xander. “I claim Xander as my mate.”

  “No,” Jovis replied steadily. “You’re an alpha. When the time is right you’ll vie with the other alphas to become my mate.”