The breadth of d’Ambray’s back wasn’t the problem.
She spared a few moments for his people. Two men rode directly behind him, one tall and black, with glasses perching on his nose, and the other athletic and white, with short brown hair and an attractive, smart face. The rider behind them was just a boy, blond and tan. Why bring a boy?
Wolves coming to her door.
The riders reached the gates. D’Ambray raised his head and looked up.
His eyes were a deep dark blue, and they stared through her. She held his stare.
Most women would find him handsome. He had a strong face, overwhelmingly masculine without a hint of the brutish thickness she’d expected. His jaw was square and strong, the lines of his face defined but not sharp or fragile, and his eyes under a sweep of thick black eyebrows were too shrewd and too cold for comfort. His eyes evaluated her with icy calculation.
She was about to share the power over her people with this man. Alarm squirmed through her. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea.
D’Ambray passed through the gate and out of her view.
“I shouldn’t do this,” Elara whispered to herself.
“Do you want me to send them off?” Dugas asked quietly.
If she said yes, he would.
She had to get a grip. She had to teach d’Ambray who she was. The White Warlock. Unclean. Cursed. An abomination. They would come to this meeting table as equals, and if they chose an alliance, she had to make sure they left as equals.
The magic escaped the world without so much as a whisper, stealing her power. That was fine. She didn’t need magic to make Hugh d’Ambray understand where they stood.
“Let’s wait to throw him out until he balks at our terms.”
“Do you want them in the great hall?” the druid asked.
“No.” She narrowed her eyes. “Put them in the green room. Next to the kitchens.”
The air smelled like fresh bread, just out of the oven, with a crisp golden crust. Hugh’s mouth watered, while his stomach begged. Clever girl.
He once starved a woman to the brink of death, trying to break her. Poetic justice, he reflected.
“The castle is in good shape,” Stoyan said softly behind him.
The castle was in excellent shape. It was built with pale grayish-brown stone. The forty-foot-high curtain wall and the massive barbican, the gatehouse protecting the entrance, were both solid, as were the two bastion towers at the corners and the two flanking towers. The bailey, the open space inside the walls, was clean and well maintained. He didn’t see a well, but they must have one. The inner structure consisted of a constellation of buildings hugging the main keep, a hundred-foot-tall square tower. He caught a glimpse of the stables and the motor pool, attached to the east wall. The electric lamps suggested they had a working generator.
The place was massive. It needed a moat. Something he would have to remedy.
A large molosser dog trotted in through the open door, wagging its shaggy white tail. He’d seen three so far as they rode up and walked through the bailey, each dog over a hundred and twenty pounds. They reminded him of Karakachan hounds he’d come across in the Balkans. The dog wandered over to him and Hugh patted its shaggy head. Karakachans were wolf killers. If Lamar was right about the size of their livestock herds, the dogs made sense. The castle and the town attached to the shore of the lake were wrapped in dense forest. There would be wolves there.
The inside of the castle was as well taken care of as the outside. The room where he now sat at a big rustic table was simple, the stone walls without any decoration, but it was clean, his chair was comfortable, and the temperature inside was at least ten degrees cooler. Nice thick walls.
All Hugh had to do now was convince the owner of the castle to let him share it. He’d gotten a glimpse of her as he rode in. Her hair was completely white. Not pale blond or bleached platinum, white. Her hazel eyes were sharp, and she looked at him like she saw a wolf at her door. He wasn’t a wolf. He was something much worse, but he needed her defendable castle and her delicious bread.
Hugh had tried to pin down her age, but the white hair threw him off. Her face looked young, but he’d barely seen anything beyond a glimpse.
Hugh leaned back. She was making him wait. That was fine. He could be patient.
Behind him someone’s stomach growled.
He’d felt something in the forest, on the way here. Something that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He’d tangled with powers across three continents, and whatever had been in the woods had tripped all of his alarms. Then it had moved toward the castle and he’d nudged Bucky into a canter, trying to follow it.
His gaze stopped on a large hand-painted map above the side door, showing Berry Hill in the center, by the edge of the Silver River Lake, with the castle on the neighboring hill. On the right and slightly above, to the northeast, lay Aberdine, another small post-Shift settlement, next to a ley point. Higher still, past the woods, directly north, spread Sanderville. Above it in the distance on the far left was Lexington.
Hugh looked at Aberdine. Post-Shift, magic streamed through the world in currents, ley lines, offering a fast way of travel and shipping. Walking into the current would get your legs cut off, so you had to put some barrier between the magic and yourself, a car, a wooden pallet, anything would do. Once in, the ley line would drag its rider off until it reached a ley point, where the magic blinked, interrupted, and the current would jettison its riders out into the real world. There was only one road connecting the castle and that ley point and it ran through Aberdine. They would have to play nice with that settlement.
The heavy wooden door opened, and she walked in, followed by a one-eyed older man in a white robe, a black woman in her late forties in a pantsuit, and a petite blonde.
Hugh tilted his head and took in his future bride.
Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. A loose green dress fell almost to the floor, hiding most of her. Nice full breasts. Long legs. Pretty features, big eyes, small mouth, eyebrows darker than her hair, pale brown – probably drawn in or dyed. Tan skin, almost golden. Interesting face. Not exactly beautiful, but feminine and pretty.
A cold expression stamped her face, a hint of arrogance, some pride, and a lot of confidence. There was something regal about her. Queen of the castle.
She would be a massive pain in the ass.
Just get through it.
Hugh rose to his feet. She held out her hand.
“Elara Harper.” Her voice matched her, cold and precise.
He grasped her fingers in his and shook her hand. “Hugh d’Ambray.”
“Nice to meet you.” She sat in the chair opposite him.
Her advisors arranged themselves behind her.
“You already know Dugas,” she said.
He didn’t, but Lamar told him the druid was his counterpart, “a voice of reason.” Someone had sliced up the older man’s face. Hugh met his gaze. Dugas held his stare and smiled. A tough nut to crack.
“This is Savannah LeBlanc.”
The black woman nodded to him. Expensive clothes, professional, well put together, her dark natural hair pulled back from her face and twisted into an elegant bun. She looked like a lawyer. Hugh met her gaze. A witch, a powerful one. He couldn’t feel her magic with tech up, but he’d interacted with enough of them to recognize the bearing. Bad news.
“She is the head witch of our covens,” Elara continued.
Covens. Plural. Interesting.
“This is Johanna Kerry.”
The blond smiled at him. She had to be in her twenties, but to him she looked too young, almost a teenager. Barely five feet tall, slender, glasses. Petite smart blonds were Stoyan’s kryptonite.
Her hand flew up to her forehead, thumb pressed against her palm in a kind of a salute. “Hello.”
She was deaf or mute. Possibly both. His knowledge of American Sign Language was rusty. ASL had its own rules and grammar, but he remembered the basics.
He raised his hands and signed. “Lovely day.”