Page 12 of Wolves’ Witch

His brother stood in the doorway, an immovable wall.

“Aubert, please. She will need something for the pain.”

Still his brother made no move toward Constance’s shelf of herbs.

“I am doing this. I am turning her. Would you have her suffer?”

Aubert sighed and strode toward Constance’s collection of herbs. Finally.

His twin hunted through the pots, using his nose to sniff out what they needed. He picked up pot after pot.

“Hurry.” Edmond’s canines dropped in preparation for the bite. The woman’s heartbeat was growing weaker, slowing.

Aubert opened the last pot and sniffed, his eyes wild. “It is not here.”

Fear wove a thread through his chest. He would have to turn her without it. Would she survive? Her breathing hitched, stalled, then started again. He had no choice. If he did not turn her now, she would die.

Edmond brought his wolf forward, his jaw elongating and his nose morphing into a snout. Coarse brown fur spouted across his cheeks as he let his wolf out enough to shift his head, nothing more. He leaned over the woman. There was no going back once he—

Remi burst through the door. “I got it.” He held up a wineskin. “I got what you asked for.”

Aubert gaped at the boy, then snatched the wineskin from Remi. Thank the Fates, Remi and Gaharet had come through for them. Though he would have some explaining to do to Aubert when this was done.

Edmond tilted the woman’s head to the side and struck. She screamed, but she did not fight him, rather held on, his teeth buried in her neck, his saliva mixing with her blood. It was not how he had imagined marking a woman. With no preamble, no soft words, but she would be alive. He hoped.

He released her, and his canines retracted. With a shake of his head, the last vestiges of his beast retreated. Aubert unstoppered the wineskin and dropped to his knees beside the cot.

“Three mouthfuls, three times a day,” said Remi. “Constance added a few more herbs, too. Something about the woman needing her strength.”

There were no assurances she would survive the turning. Her body was weak. Werewolf blood would heal her, but it would be a painful process, more so for her because of whatever ailed her. She would need all the help they could give her.

Gripping the back of her head, Aubert raised her up, held the wineskin to her lips, and trickled the concoction into her parted mouth.

She gulped it down, dark eyes meeting his, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Thank you.”

They eased her back on the cot. As her face softened in repose, the lines of pain around her eyes melted away, and the wound at her throat closed. The steady rise and fall of her chest and the now rhythmic beat of her heart, stronger with each passing moment, gave him hope. Edmond sank into the chair by her bedside. It was done. Either she would become a werewolf and heal, or she would die. All they could do was wait.