Mistress of the Stone (32 page)

Cwen circled her cautiously, but Luísa stayed put, her sword and shield down. It wasn’t time to strike. Not yet.

Tomas whispered gruffly to her. “Get your guard up, Luísa. Don’t stand there like a limp puppet.”

More mumbles from the crew. One even reckoned their mistress had gone mad, asking aloud why she wasn’t defending herself.

Not yet, she thought. Not yet. Cwen had to get closer, much closer. The she-wolf was a big woman, nearly a full head taller, with the stabbing reach of any man. If her reflexes were as fast as Tomas guessed, then Luísa needed to get her as close as possible before making a strike.

Luísa would only get one chance. She wanted it to count.

Cwen was nearly within range and Luísa tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. She raised her arm ever so slightly then froze, stunned when she caught a glimpse of Paqua’s ghost hovering just behind Cwen.

What in blazes?

Cwen couldn’t have known why her opponent stopped in mid stride, but she used it to her advantage. With one great leap she pounced on Luísa, her short sword stabbing savagely with the full force of her weight behind it.

Whore bitch!
She had no intention of winning this battle by points. Cwen meant to kill her.

Luísa deflected the first blow with the small shield strapped to her forearm. It shattered from the thrust of the blade, forcing her to roll on the ground in an effort to evade the next attack.

She spat out the dirt she had swallowed from the tumble and wiped her mouth. Blood. The she-wolf had won first blood.

Despite the wolfsbane, Cwen showed signs of changing. Sweat rained down her face and her hair grew incrementally. She licked her lips when Luísa wiped the blood from her mouth, arousing the beast in her. Nails stretched into claws and her eyes burned like fire.

Bloody hell!

Luísa shot up, edging back slowly. From the corner of her eye she noticed Jovis advancing on them.

“Cwen!” he shouted as if she were deaf.

The she-wolf didn’t acknowledge him, focusing solely on Luísa.

“How much wolfsbane was she given?” Jovis demanded from one of the women in the sidelines.

“A full pipe, as you ordered,” she answered quickly.

Another woman ran to the edge of the pit and yelled at her friend. “Damn you, Cwen. Don’t do it! They’ll take him away from you if you change now.”

Cwen snapped her head and growled.

There was no denying that only the wolf ruled now. Slowly, her flesh yielded to fur.

Luísa gripped her sword with all her strength, bracing herself for the full brunt of the coming attack. With her teeth, she ripped off the lacing that kept what was left of the shattered shield.

“Come on, Cwen! What are you waiting for?” Luísa baited her with a wave.

“Cwen. You’ll obey me.” Jovis’s voice grumbled, but there was fear in it too. A pack member had openly defied his orders. He had lost control and his honor.

Cwen looked at him with a loathing that said it all. Jovis was a weak leader. She had proven that when she challenged Luísa for the right to mate with a rogue werewolf.

Jovis should have killed her then and there to protect his dominion; instead he allowed her to choose, and now everyone would see Xander as the rightful pack leader.

Her mouth turned into a muzzle, and her lips curled in a cruel sneer. Cwen tossed aside her sword and shield, then lunged for Luísa.

The she-wolf seemed to freeze in midair when a shot rang out.

Cwen dropped straight down, panting hard. Her hands clutched at her belly, trying to keep her life’s blood from escaping.

Everyone turned at once to the man holding the musket. Luc Saint-Sauveur.

Luísa stared into the cold eyes of the killer. A sick dread told her he’d been in control all along.

No one moved when the shot rang out, and it was well that they hadn’t. The village was surrounded by werehyenas. They’d been trapped into a coup.

Luísa scrambled to Cwen, who had now returned to human form. All the color had drained from her face, and her eyes pinched shut, as if the sun hurt them too much. The wound was grave, the blood a blackish red. Luísa pressed down on the wound, but Cwen pushed her away.

“’Tis over,” she wheezed in a blood-gurgling voice. “Now Jovis must fight Saint-Sauveur for leadership of the pack. A pity. I wanted it to be Xander.” Cwen coughed up blood, but still she smiled. “No matter. The pack will be strong again—at your expense.” The she-wolf sputtered a croaking laugh before gasping her last.

Luísa stood up and faced her new opponent, the man who attempted to make her his. Her crew gathered around her as the werehyenas closed in. All of her men had their swords and pistols out. Her mouth went dry before giving a final order.

“Lay down your arms.”

She looked to either side of her, but not one of them moved a muscle.

“Tomas!”

“No, Captain. If we surrender now, the bastard wins. We’d rather fight and die than see that happen,” Tomas replied tersely.

Luísa walked over to her quartermaster and put her hand on his cutlass. “I’d rather you live, my friend.” She turned to the rest of her crew, all of them ready to die for her. No captain ever had a more loyal crew. Yet she felt unworthy. “These are my orders. Lay down your arms.”

Amid the crushing silence, a sword was cast down, and then another and another until the ground lay littered with weapons.

The crew obeyed.

Saint-Sauveur waved a hand and the werehyenas backed off. He approached Luísa and bowed his head in greeting. “It took a while to get you back,
ma petite
, but here you are, right where I need you.”

“Izabel is gone,
Capitán
, and I have no power. Your quest was in vain.”

“You’re wrong,
ma chere
. You are Izabel’s scion. And now you will retrieve the moonstone from the Sorceress’s crypt.” He rubbed a finger across her cheek. “In return, your crew and your father will go free. A good trade.
Oui
?”

Jovis marched toward them, a look of disgust on his face. “Enough, Luc. I’m the pack leader here. Take your filthy beasts and get out of my territory.”

Saint-Sauveur moved in a blur, flashing into partial wolf state and pinning Jovis flat on his back.

Jovis changed too, but it wasn’t enough. Saint-Sauveur, younger, stronger, plunged thick fangs into Jovis’s throat. He held him there for a few long moments until the older werewolf relaxed his body and offered his neck in humiliating submission.

Saint-Sauveur jumped off him and slapped him across the face. “Go,” he ordered. “I claim this pack.” He looked up at the anxious faces of the other male werewolves. “Does anyone else challenge my right?”

Silence.

Saint-Sauveur returned to Luísa with a leering grin. “Then I claim you as my mate,
ma chere
. Together, we will give the were-tribes free will and dominion of our flesh and fur.”

He pulled her toward him. “Time to meet your destiny.”

Luísa met him with a knife in her hand. She stuck it at his throat, more for threat than deed. They’d never get off the island if she killed Saint-Sauveur now, but she had to prove she wasn’t afraid of him or his minions. The painted runes on the knife glowed hot.
Was this the magic Paqua warned her about?
“I’ll see my father first, Frenchman.”

Saint-Sauveur sneered at her. He snatched her at the wrist and squeezed, forcing her to drop the knife. Then he grabbed her arm and twisted it, pressing her body against his body, a thick erection between his loins. “If you ever draw a knife on me again, you’ll watch every single man in your crew drawn and quartered.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You have my word,
ma chere
.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Daltry watched from a treetop as Saint-Sauveur dragged Luísa away. Every fiber in his being wanted to protect her, but he would’ve only thrown his life away if he attacked now.

Jovis had been disgraced and cast out of the pack. He might make a possible ally though he didn’t think the old wolf would be of much use. Saint-Sauveur seized leadership according to the laws of the pack. And Jovis submitted rather than risk injury. By pack law, the French werewolf was leader. Bloody French. Wolf or skin, they were still a pain in the arse.

Luísa remained safe at least. Saint-Sauveur wouldn’t let her come to any harm. He needed her alive—at least for now.

Daltry climbed down when the last of the werehyenas scurried back into the jungle. He made his way to the village via a little used monkey trail. Tempers ran hot and there was no gain in inciting further retribution.

Stupid. Stupid.
He grumbled to himself. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t intervened between the two women in the first place. Cwen wouldn’t have challenged Luísa and the mad redhead would still be alive now.

Several pack members prepared Cwen’s body for burial. But like everyone else who died here, her spirit remained trapped on the mortal plane.

Daltry felt a cold tickle against his left ear.

“Fine time for you to come back,” Cwen said with a scold.

“I had my reasons.”

“Bah! Reasons. Go back to the sea, Xander. The pack thinks you a coward for staying away.”

“And if
you
had stayed away, you wouldn’t be dead right now,” Daltry shot back.

Cwen’s ghostly form swirled around him, frosting his face with a chill wind.

“I had faith in you. I knew you could usurp Jovis and make the pack strong again. Now the pack must obey Saint-Sauveur. You continue to disappoint me, Xander.”

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?”