Langeais, Frankia

999

The clang of the grate above had Ulrik Voclain on his feet. His chains rattled and the silver shackles around his wrists and neck shifted, brushing over red and blistered skin. He hissed, steeling himself against the pain. Footsteps descended the steep steps cut into stone—confident and purposeful. He faced the stairs, tilted his nose and sampled the air, his visitor closer than he would have liked when he finally caught his scent.

Lothair, Comte de Anjou.

Ulrik’s lips curled in a snarl and anger burned a fiery trail from his gut to his throat. He drew himself up to his full height but repressed the growl threatening to form. The man who had taken everything from him, who had thrown him in this dank, godforsaken hole, would not see him cowering. But to unleash his rage would serve neither him nor his pack.

“Ulrik Voclain.”

Lothair stepped into the tight space, a candle held aloft, its meager flame doing little to stave off the darkness. Ulrik smirked. The lack of light did not make him uneasy.

Anger flashed in his comte’s eyes, the air tainted with its sharpness, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Laugh all you like, Ulrik. I may not have your ability to see in the dark, but I am not the one chained to the wall.”

This time, Ulrik could not suppress his growl.

Lothair set the candle on the bottom step and surveyed the small, airless space, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Ulrik rolled his lips, quashing his grin. Even now, chained and bound in silver as he was, Lothair saw him as a threat.

“How do you like my little underground chamber, Ulrik? It is impressive, is it not?” Lothair brushed a hand over the rough stone wall. “Secure, unpleasant and hidden beneath the bowels of my keep. I never imagined I would use it to contain a werewolf.” Lothair’s gaze settled on him. “Ironic, you should be the one to end up secured in here after what your family sacrificed to save you from this very thing.”

Ulrik roared and lunged for Lothair. His chains snapped tight, keeping him well beyond the reach of his comte. He howled, filling the chamber with his anguish and his loss. Nervous shuffles and anxious whispers from the guards above filtered down the stairs, along with the heavy stench of fear so strong he could scent it even in his weakened state.

Amusement flashed across Lothair’s face, but he took a cautious step back. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Always the hothead.” He shook his head. “Calm yourself, Ulrik. We do not want rumors of a beast beneath my keep spreading now, do we?”

He wanted to howl, but the silver of his shackles kept his wolf repressed. He had never felt such loneliness within his own thoughts. Where once the comforting and familiar presence of his wolf had filled his mind, a constant since birth, now only a deep silence remained.

Damn the silver. Damn Archeveque Renaud and his wolfsbane trap.

If there had been any other choice… If he could have saved Gaharet, his alpha, without stepping into that ring of wolfsbane… Had his alpha’s mate’s life not hung in the balance… He breathed through his rage until it settled into a calm acceptance. There had been no other choice. If not him, Gaharet would have stepped into the trap. Ulrik could never have allowed the unholy alliance between Lothair and the scheming archeveque to imprison their alpha. Not while he still breathed. The pack needed Gaharet more than it needed him.

Lothair paced in front of him, close but not close enough. “Archeveque Renaud came to see you.” Lothair’s lips twisted in a sardonic grin. “Did you think I would not know? That my men would not inform me of his visit? Ha! Renaud is a fool if he thinks I would not suspect his game.” Lothair cocked his head. “What did he offer you? Freedom? Vengeance?”

Ulrik glanced away.

“Ahh. Both. Very free with his promises, is our archeveque. And what, pray tell, was the archeveque’s price? No.” Lothair held up his hand, halting words Ulrik had no intention of speaking. “Let me guess. He wanted you to bite me. Turn me into a werewolf, rather than I choose a sacrificial keep guard or some lowly chevalier to turn. The perfect excuse for him to use all his newfound skills at binding werewolves. The church to the rescue of the people of Langeais, saving them from the wicked and now cursed Comte de Anjou. What a coup for Archeveque Renaud.”

Lothair took a step toward him. Ulrik met his stare. “Renaud may see you as an easy target, Ulrik. An open festering wound he could poke a few times and stir into action. I know you are too smart to fall for his promises.”

Ulrik’s nostrils flared, and his hands clenched into fists. Renaud’s offer had tempted him. He could not deny it, not to himself, but he had not given his life freely for his alpha, only to turn on him now. Not again. He stepped back and let the tension ease from his chains, if not his body.

The knowing smugness that settled across Lothair’s face rankled, but Ulrik held it in. For all the rumors of his loose grip on sanity, the comte had an uncanny ability to be one step ahead of any scheme or plot against him.

“I always win, Ulrik. You know that.”

Ulrik gritted his teeth, but he kept his expression neutral.

“And I always get what I want.”

 Ulrik stared down his comte. “Do what you will, but I will not bite you or anyone else. I will not help Renaud”—he spat the name out—“and I will not help you create an army of werewolves.”

Lothair shrugged. “We shall see.”

Ulrik steeled himself. From the moment he had thrown himself into Renaud’s wolfsbane trap, putting himself at the mercy of his comte, it had always been going to come to this. Lothair would use whatever methods necessary to achieve his goal, and that promised Ulrik pain and suffering. “I will die before I give you what you want. You may be the Comte de Anjou, but I will never kneel before you again. I renounce you. I rescind my oath to serve you.”

“You think to taunt me into killing you swiftly?” Lothair hummed his amusement. “In the end, you may wish for death, but I assure you, it will not come anytime soon. You are too valuable a commodity, and you possess knowledge I require.”

Defiance stiffened Ulrik’s spine. “I will tell you nothing.”

Dark eyes turned flinty, a steely determination dancing in their depths. “Oh, you will. Renaud has an informant. One of your own. I”—Lothair pointed at Ulrik’s chest—“have you. The days of drowning your sorrows in wine and women are over. It is time to get your head in the game. Work with me and you may be one of the few members of your pack to survive.”

Ulrik’s breath caught in his throat. Confirmation they had a traitor amongst them. Who? Lance, their oldest and most experienced surviving wolf? He had stood by his alpha and supported Gaharet’s leadership of the pack. The twins, Aubert and Edmond, big and brutish? He had always thought them steadfastly loyal. Aimon? The newest member of their pack turned after the battle of Montsoreau had left him mortally wounded. Could he have designed to infiltrate their pack at the behest of Renaud? It seemed a risky move. If not for Gaharet turning him, Aimon would have died. Or Godfrey? Quiet, scholarly and ever the strategist? He had his own secret. Did he know Ulrik had uncovered his predilections? Did he suspect the others had knowledge of them, too?

“Is Renaud not forthcoming with all you need to know?” Ulrik sneered. “He is not much of an ally for you, is he, if he keeps things from you?” Or was it the traitor to their pack that had been less than forthcoming? Either way, Ulrik would sow whatever seeds of discontent and distrust he could. Lothair was enemy enough. It would only aid them if he could break up his alliance with Renaud. “Why should I tell you anything?”

Lothair grinned. From beneath his tunic, he removed a small gold disc on a gold chain. He dangled it in front of Ulrik, the disc spinning. A howling wolf’s head on one side and a blood-red stone on the other. The binding amulet. The one Gaharet had given to him in exchange for his own. Their hastily planned deception rested on his possession of it.

“Remember this? Renaud tells me it is the alpha’s amulet. That you killing Gaharet, as you claim, makes you the new alpha. Only problem is…” Lothair stepped closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know Gaharet is not dead.”

Ulrik kept his breathing even. Lothair was baiting him.

“You may have duped Renaud with your little ruse. It appears to have also fooled your pack. But not me. Gaharet is not dead, and you are no alpha.” Lothair stepped back and resumed his pacing. “Since only the alpha can turn men into werewolves, your usefulness extends as far as the information you can provide. For everything else, I must hunt Gaharet down.”

Ulrik rasped out a laugh. “You question my claim, yet you believe every word out of that treacherous archeveque’s mouth.”

Lothair paused, an eyebrow raised. “And which piece of information of Renaud’s should I discard?”

Ulrik met Lothair’s stare, letting his comte see the truth of his words. A truth he had never thought to reveal but was now the one thing that could keep his alpha safe. “Any of us could have helped you turn men into werewolves, helped you create your werewolf army. Even the one who betrayed us. All it takes is a bite—our saliva mixed with another’s blood. It need not come from Gaharet.”

Lothair’s lack of surprise at his revelation fanned the sparks of unease in Ulrik’s gut. L’enfer. How had he once thought he could best Lothair? Risked his pack, challenged his alpha—the man he had, in times past, called his friend—determined to have his vengeance against the comte. He would not make that mistake again.

“And the turning itself?” asked Lothair. “What does it entail? How does it affect the one being turned?”

Ulrik glanced about the small room, not taking anything in, his mind racing. He had said enough, and only then, to keep Gaharet safe. He shifted on his feet, wincing as the silver of his manacles touched unblemished skin and raised fresh welts. He would say no more.

“I see.” Lothair grunted and turned to leave. “Then I must hunt and trap Gaharet.”

Ulrik filled his lungs with the stale air of the chamber, exhaling slowly. That he was even considering revealing the secrets of his pack turned his blood cold, but… Though he may not survive this, Ulrik would see that Gaharet lived. He owed him that. He swallowed, his throat dry from his days of confinement as much as from what he was about to reveal. “Wait.”

Lothair turned. Silence hung heavy between them. Lothair gave him a hard stare. “I am waiting.”

Ulrik gritted his teeth, the words clogging his throat. “Pain. The turning is agony,” he said, forcing the words out.

“How much? For how long?”

“Three days. Or more.”

Lothair grunted. “Three days, you say? Bearable.”

Ulrik barked out a laugh. “Bearable?” He fixed his gaze on Lothair. “Let me save you your delusions. Many do not survive. Some go mad.” If he could guarantee Lothair would die during a turning, he would bite the comte himself. “You should ask Aimon about his turning. He was not born like the rest of us.”

Lothair blinked, the only hint of his surprise a flicker of a frown as he made the connection. “The battle of Montsoreau?”

Ulrik inclined his head. “Ask Aimon how he screamed for days on end, strapped to a cot to protect him. To protect us. I can still remember his torment. How he begged us to end it. To end him. Ask him how many months it took to learn how to control his wolf.” Ulrik paused, letting his words sink in. “Aimon was lucky. He had us to shield him, to train him. When he was at his most vulnerable, we were there.” Ulrik allowed himself a vicious grin. “I imagine Renaud is eagerly awaiting an opportunity to catch you at your weakest.”

Lothair stilled. What little air there was in the chamber seemed to be sucked into the silence.

“You think you have it figured out?” Ulrik scoffed. “That you have outsmarted us all. But you know nothing. About us, or what you are asking for.”

Lothair fixed him with an impenetrable stare, the corner of his lip curled in a sardonic half-smile. He tossed the amulet and caught it in his hand. Palm out, he revealed the reverse side, the blood-red stone glinting in the candlelight. “I know this amulet, with its red stone that reeks of blood magic, denotes more than the alpha.”

Ulrik’s heart stalled.

With a flick of his wrist, Lothair tossed the amulet and Ulrik followed its arc across the room until it landed in the dirt at his feet. “I also know if I try to kill or capture another werewolf, if they recite the inscriptions on their amulets, if they disappear…” He jerked his chin at the gold disc on the floor. “I need only be near that one, with its red jewel instead of an inscription, to find them. That it will draw them in like a beacon for lost souls.”

Ulrik tried to keep his emotions under control and his breathing even. How had Lothair known of the true purpose of the amulet? The inscription? The bloodstone? Had the traitor told Renaud? He did not think so, for Renaud would have used that information to good effect. And he had not.

Lothair chuckled. “I always win, Ulrik.” His smile vanished. “Never forget that.” He turned on his heel, grabbed the candle and climbed the stairs.

The grate above screeched open, then clanged shut and the comte’s footsteps receded. Ulrik eyed his surroundings. He must escape this hole in the ground. Staying, holding out as long as he could, was no longer an option. With only seven of them left, not a single female among them, and one of them confirmed as a traitor, things had never been more dire for the pack. Or his alpha. Gaharet had to be warned. But how in God’s name would he get free of this silver?