Daltry paused behind a stand of lush palms and turned on her. “Damn it, Cwen. Why did you have to turn? Why didn’t you fight Luísa in skin like you were supposed to?”
“I tried.” Cwen’s voice quivered. “But the wolfsbane…it only works for a little while, especially if you use too often.”
He knew it well, too well.
Sibyl had taught him meditation and breathing exercises, and that helped him from turning involuntarily, but it took enormous self-control. In the end, it wasn’t enough. He needed the wolfsbane too. They all did.
Was it worth giving Saint-Sauveur complete autonomy in return for independence from that cursed flower?
Again he felt torn between the needs of the pack and his desire to give his sister’s soul eternal rest. Sibyl had never asked anything of him. And that made it difficult to choose between them. The werewolves had never had free will, but his sister had a right to peace. All those poor souls trapped in the mortal plane had a right to peace.
Each group had a valid reason for commanding the moonstone, but only one could get their wish.
Daltry took a step and immediately got slapped backward with a draught of cold air. A wind rustled through the trees and a new wraith manifested before him. It was Paqua.
“You’re going the wrong way, Inglés. You must go after Luísa.”
“Go away, bone-reader,” Cwen yelled at him. “The girl will free my people once and for all. If Xander has any loyalty to the pack, he’ll obey Saint-Sauveur and leave you and your kind to the devil.”
“Enough, Cwen. I go to seek alliances.”
“They’ll not help you, Inglés. You are dead to them.”
“Then I’ll need to resurrect myself.” He strode past Paqua and right through Cwen. The moment he came out into the clearing the pack surrounded him.
“Coward!” someone yelled.
“Fool!” cried another.
Jovis, who had been allowed to pack his belongings, raced in front of Daltry. “He did what I ordered him to do. Unlike you ungrateful dogs, he obeyed me.”
The crowd muttered until Cwen’s second, Etta, came forward. “You’re no longer pack leader, Jovis. Cwen revealed you for the weakling you are. That you found one fool to obey you without question means nothing. Take the rogue with you. We’re through following you.”
Grunts of accord echoed throughout the mob.
Tomas, now leading the pirate gang, pulled out a cutlass. “Then our alliance is ended. We’ll not leave our mistress to the likes of Saint-Sauveur.”
“A war, skin? Is that what you want?” A stiff-lipped young male strutted to the fore.
“There will be no war,” Jovis shouted. “Saint-Sauveur has guaranteed this crew’s safety in return for the scion’s cooperation. Harm them, and you ruin our chances of ever getting the moonstone.”
Etta shoved the young male werewolf who had challenged Tomas aside. Her fur and claws sprouted, but she kept them in check.
“You’re no longer pack leader, Jovis. You cannot speak for us.”
A large brooding man pushed his way to the front. “But I can still speak.”
Malachai.
They’d been friends since Daltry first arrived on the island. Quiet and reserved, Malachai preferred to follow rather than lead. Daltry knew he interceded now only to protect him. He hoped.
“No one named you speaker for the pack, Malachai,” Etta snarled at him.
“Nor you, Etta. But I am a warrior in this pack and a member of Council.” His gaze scanned the growing crowd. His foot flipped over the knife Luísa had dropped, and he picked it up and slipped it into a leather pouch. “Am I the only one here who realizes we must keep the pack united?”
Daltry could feel the pack closing in. Fifteen men from the Coral had made it to the village. But more than seventy werewolves in their prime surrounded them. Bloodlust ran strong. They had lost one of their breed-ready females, and they needed someone to blame.
Tomas reached for a matchlock, but Daltry stayed his hand. “Don’t do it,” he muttered under his breath. “They’ll tear out your throat before you can even light the match.”
The men fell back, the pack crowding them into a tight circle.
Several of the pack had turned, their long snouts and sharp teeth diminishing the courage of the men. Each tribe faced the other, unsure of their next move.
“What do we do with them?” someone asked Malachai.
Etta threw her head back and laughed. “We make them slaves.”
“They’re under Saint-Sauveur’s protection,” Malachai warned. He took a glance to his left and right, but anyone could see he was on the losing end of this argument.
“You’re daft, Mal. Do you really think he cares if they live or die? He only said it to keep the scion submissive.”
Etta motioned to the younger men in the pack. “Tie them up by hand and foot. When Saint-Sauveur’s crew comes to rendezvous with us, we’ll sell them to the French.”
“Etta!” Malachai growled.
The young woman raised a finger at him in warning. “They mean nothing to us, Mal. They’re not of the blood.”
“Xander is.”
Good old Mal. He was defending him, but he was also likely to knock out his teeth when this was over. Malachai didn’t like altercation.
Etta kicked dirt in Daltry’s direction. “The bastard may be one of our own, but he still gets tied up. We’ll release him after the scion has done her part, just to make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish.” She stared up at Daltry as they tied him up. “More’s the pity, Xander. Cwen said you were quite the lover.”
“Bloody cur!” Tomas yelled at her.
Etta rushed him, but Malachai held her back. She jerked out of his grasp and snarled at the quartermaster. One thick sharp claw scraped down his jaw. “You, I will have now.”
Tomas’s wrists were bound behind his back. Etta shoved him in the general direction of her hut serenaded by the taunts and jeers of other female werewolves that filed behind them in close procession.
The women of their pack could be brutal when provoked. And Tomas had insulted her in public.
Chapter Thirty
Tomas’s screams carved the air for hours until all that was left were mewling whimpers. Etta had finished with him and now other members of the pack were having a turn. She-wolves were greedy lovers and vengeful ones. He’d be lucky to leave with his bollocks intact.
Daltry and the remaining crew of the Coral were bound at wrist and ankle, the hemp rope digging down to the bone. The stench of fear was in their sweat as they huddled in one massive wall of flesh, the rot of their wounds swelling in the afternoon sun.
Paqua glided into their midst. The ghost approached each man in his crew, but they shrank away, hiding under the cowl of shoulders and bowed heads. Save for Daltry, no one dared acknowledge him.
Some prayed aloud. Others begged forgiveness for their sins. Superstition and fear drove them into submission.
“Cowards,” Daltry rebuked them. “This is your friend. Your captain. Ghost or man, he is the same.” He looked up at the shaman. “What say you, Paqua? Can you hear what the pack is planning?”
Paqua shook his head. “Your Council speaks in a sacred circle. Their words are protected there.”
Daltry grunted an acknowledgement. With so many of the undead wandering the island, sacred circles grew common on the island. It was the only way the living could get any measure of privacy. He looked up at the sky. The sun would set soon, replaced by the blood moon. Tonight the gates between the dead and the living swung open, and no one would be safe.
“Listen to me, shapeshifter. The crew of the Vengeance is coming this way. One of our own, the boy named Dooley, is with them. I go to save Luísa, but I need you to save Dooley and the rest of my crew.” He paused.
“At present, I’m not in much of a position to help.” Daltry lifted his bound hands.
Paqua arched a brow at him. “You’re a clever man, Inglés. I’m su
re you will think of something. In the meantime, I must find allies among the dead. I’ll not leave my querida to that French cockscomb.”
“There’s no time to make allies, old priest. But I know someone who might be able to help.”
Paqua lifted a gray brow. “Who?”
“A gargoyle—a friend. But I need to get word to him.”
“You trust this thralled beast? A minion of Izabel?”
“I trust him with my sister.”
Paqua doubled his brow with a grimace. “Very well. But he will need more than the strength of his stone flesh. He’ll need Luísa’s knife. The one she dropped when Saint-Sauveur took her.”
“Malachai has it now.”
“Then we’ll need to get it back.”
“Getting the knife isn’t the problem.” He tilted his head toward his bound companions. “It’s finding a way to get these men out of here.”
Paqua steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips in a kiss. “We’ll need a diversion. If you can distract your brethren, I can get Dooley to untie the men.”
Daltry cut his eyes at him and groaned. “I was afraid you’d say that.” He scanned the village for a likely target and settled on Malachai. He blew out a breath. This was going to hurt. “I’ll give you as much time as I can. But you must get Dooley away from the French, so he can untie these men and escape into the jungle.”
The pack milled at the edge of camp. They were the first to hear strangers approach. Daltry warned the men. “They’re coming, mates.”
Paqua hovered a few inches off the ground, his body as translucent as new snow. “Wait for my signal. I need time to explain things to Dooley.” Then he disappeared; the glittery proof that he’d been present wafted on the wind.
Malachai was the first to approach the crew of the Vengeance. They talked quietly, glancing back at the captive crew from time to time.
Daltry waited on bated breath. If Paqua needed a diversion, he had found one. All he needed now was for Malachai to play along.
He dragged himself to the front of the bound men. Tomas, bruised and bloodied, was brought back while Etta made her way to where the others gathered. There was blood on her mouth and the breeze carried the smell of sex on her, arousing all the other males in the pack. They parted and let her advance to the front so that she could stand by Malachai’s side.
She stroked his arm, arousing him visibly. Tomas had been foreplay. But she intended Malachai to be the main course.
The men talked, gesturing to the bound captives as they bargained a flesh price. Daltry knew he wasn’t part of the deal. Malachai would see to that.
Dooley lingered near the rear, loosely guarded by the heart-eater they had seen earlier, an ugly beast of a man as wide as he was tall.
The boy’s eyes popped like opened oysters when he caught sight of his mates. He stumbled toward them, but his guard thumped him across the head. He returned to submission, but it wasn’t long before his corpulent guard lost interest in him once more. The chance for buying slaves was far more interesting—and profitable.
A haze of glittery spiritual essence enveloped Dooley. He looked stunned and more than a little frightened. But he was a brave lad and a noble one. He’d not let his friends down. His eyes darted to his mates, clear understanding restoring his confidence. With practiced ease, he stole a knife out of the boot sheath of the heart-eater.
Daltry’s attention returned to Etta, hoping the others in the pack would notice his intentions. He was an outcast, but he was still an alpha male, with all the traits a woman would want passed down to her children.
As he hoped, he caught Etta’s notice. She swallowed visibly, smoothing the thin linen toga many of the women liked to wear.
Etta was young, but every inch the alpha in the making. With Cwen out of the way, it launched her to the forefront of importance within the pack.
He hoped her youth and brashness would work in his favor.
Daltry licked his lips, a subtle hint of sexual interest. He bristled, making himself look bigger. One of the younger males caught his signals and cursed him.
“Keep your attentions to yourself, outcast. Our women are not for you to ogle.”
Daltry snarled at him, allowing a little of the wolf to seep out. His hair began to lengthen and his canine teeth grew longer. “Silence, you vain pup. You don’t have the bollocks to decide for an alpha.”
The boy lunged at him, but Malachai stopped him. “He’s goading you, Hagrid. Can’t you see that?”
Etta drew closer, intrigued by the attention.
Daltry grew out one sharpened claw and slashed the ties around his ankles, then pushed himself to his feet. He cast a glance at the men around Etta before turning to the prideful girl. “Will you content yourself with boys, Etta? Saint-Sauveur is the only other alpha fit for you, and he’s taken the witch’s scion. You can wait until he wearies of her, or you can have me. I can sire sons for you that will keep this pack strong.”
Malachai looked insulted, but he approached Daltry with solemn duty. “Etta will not consider you, Xander.”
Etta growled at him and pushed past the two men who stood at either side of her. “I won’t have you making decisions for me, Malachai. Maybe I do want Xander.”
Daltry stood straighter. With one surge of strength, he snapped the rope at his wrists. The pack crowded around him, but it wasn’t time to make his move yet.
He took a quick look at Dooley. There was courage in those eyes—and loyalty. He was as ready as he’d ever be.
Daltry drew closer to Etta and murmured to her. “Choose me, Etta. I can please you like no other, and fill your womb with strong sons.”
She swayed toward him, the scent of acceptance on her skin. “Xander,” she whispered. Her hands feathered the thatch of fur on his chest. Her breasts heaved, and her scent spoke of sex. He had drawn her into heat, and now every male wolf in the village grew excited as well.
A bright flash caught Daltry’s eye. That was his signal. Already Dooley eased away from the brute that guarded him.
Daltry grabbed Etta by the back of the neck and pulled her toward him. His mouth opened, revealing a full set of sharp teeth as he transformed into a partial wolf state.
Etta sighed. She submitted willingly, throwing her head back and baring her neck.
Daltry buried his mouth in her throat, a primal love bite that declared his intentions.
Malachai charged Daltry and grabbed him in a bear hug that knocked him backward. He squeezed in angry reprisal. “What are you up to?” he said under his breath.
“I need your help, Mal. Trust me.”
They pushed off each other and glared at one another. The mob crowded together to see what these two titans would do next.
“You’re not part of this pack,” Malachai grunted.
“Then maybe Etta has to go outside the pack if she’s to bear any young worthy of future breeding.”
“Careful with your boasts, Xander.” Malachai’s gaze darted all around him. “We’ve already lost one alpha. I won’t lose another. Not to the likes of you.”
“Take him down, Malachai.” Hagrid yelled from the sidelines, rousing the other young males into rut. “He ought to be taught a lesson.”
Malachai turned his back on Daltry and pushed his hands down to calm the mob. “There’s been enough fighting here.”
“Spoken like a true coward,” Daltry crowed.
Malachai’s shoulders squared, and he turned toward Daltry. “Who are you calling a coward, rogue?”
“Did I say, coward? No, Mal. You’re no coward. You’re a groveling foot licker, hoping to find a place between Saint-Sauveur’s knees.”
As if on cue, Malachai launched into an attack, turning into wolf form in midair. He pounced on Daltry, forcing him to change immediately.
Was Mal playing for an audience?
He hoped so.
Either way, Daltry would need to keep him fighting for as long as he could. Dooley needed all the time he coul
d provide.
Daltry threw Malachai against a pole building set away from the captured men of the Coral, his teeth bared and his muzzle covered in blood. He peered over Malachai’s shoulder and saw Dooley feverishly cutting the ropes off his mates.
Good lad. He needed to give him more time and that required a bigger distraction. Daltry backed away from Malachai, leading him further away from the prisoners and toward the French.
“Is that all you’ve got, Mal? Silas is more sport.”
Malachai surged at him like a tornado, the whites of his eyes glowing with brilliant fury. He landed on top of Daltry, and they rolled on the dirt. Fur and spit flew in every direction, and they built up such a dust storm that every man, woman and child craned their necks to get a better look.
The French placed bets while the wolves howled with agitation. He spit out the dirt in his mouth then blew out a breath. From his knees he staggered to his feet. By the time he stood up the crew of the Coral was gone.
Daltry pretended to spring at Malachai’s attack, but as soon as his opponent charged, he let his guard down.
Malachai decked him, knocking the breath out of him and sending Daltry back to his knees.
Daltry braced himself on one set of knuckles, then raised his free hand. “Enough. I’ve had enough.” His breaths grated out of him in heavy gasps.
Malachai tottered back, nodding in assent. He stumbled toward Etta. “Mine,” he said pulling her toward him.
Daltry nodded, still on his knees. “Yours. I submit.”
The bloodlust of combat pushed every wolf into a feeding frenzy of emotion. Even though battle had concluded, the males threatened each other and the females flaunted their desires openly. Whatever wolf wasn’t fighting, was now off nursing his other appetites with any willing partner.
Etta tried to draw Malachai into her hut, but he hesitated, looking back at Daltry. “Go on, pet. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Etta clung to him. “No more, luv, please. You’ve won me, fair and right.”
Malachai shook free of her. “Go, I said. I’ll be right with you to shag thee well.”
Mistress of the Stone Page 24
