"Well, let us see how tonight goes." In Carala's hazel eyes were tints of amber which seemed to have little to do with her mood, and the clean woodland perfume was thicker than he could ever remember smelling it. There was an openness in her face that made him recall Casimir's anxieties: could he really do what Othma advised? How unwilling would she really be? Not for the first time he recalled waking in the monastery with her at his bedside, stripped bare beneath the blankets. That old longing, almost a physical stirring, the pleasurable ache that had long since fled him, began to rouse deep in his belly.

After a moment, he realized they stood only inches apart, her face tilted up to his, he bent slightly with one hand on her shoulder. Clearing his throat he turned away, stepping to the door, eyes gauging the setting sun. "I judge," he said after a moment, in which Carala had sat down in a chair by the hearth, her legs trembling a little, "that the moons will rise in less than an hour." Ammas turned to face her, his body silhouetted in the door. "Would you prefer I leave you alone?"

"I don't -- " Her voice was thick and she had to clear her throat herself. "I do not have a routine for this, Ammas. The first time, Tacen was with me. The second I was alone in the wilds. Now, here -- " Carala shrugged. "I will do as you advise. But I would rather you not see it, if that is well."

Ammas nodded. "I understand."

"You will not be going far?"

"I'll be right up those stairs. Come here a moment."

Carala rose and came to him again. If Ammas were more aware of her woodland aroma than he had ever been, it was nothing compared to how rich his own scent was to her. She had to restrain herself from licking her lips -- even from touching her nose to his neck and drawing a deep breath. The thought of doing so sent a hot rush through her belly more intense than any thought of Tacen had ever inspired.

Ammas ducked around behind her, murmuring for her to hold up her hair. She did, closing her eyes as she felt his fingers on the nape of her neck. A thrill went through her at the touch. Whether it was because of the wolf's nearness or simply because the touch belonged to Ammas, she had no idea. Her breath came in short little gasps, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

"The charm should stay on you when you change. Try not to rip it off. Your wolf will be far too strong tonight for it to be put into a slumber, but it may be numbed a little. Enough for your true self to stay in control."

"Yes," she breathed softly. Ammas coughed into one hand and stepped away. She turned to face him, and when she did he had to stifle a gasp: her eyes were wholly amber. That amber hue did not diminish at all, and he supposed it would remain until morning. "Is there anything else you want?" she murmured, tilting her head to one side.

"Give me your hand a moment," Ammas said, trying not to look into those wolfish eyes and ignoring the open nature of that question. He did not believe she was completely in control of herself, not this close to moonrise. Languidly Carala extended one wrist, her fingers dangling lightly on the air. Loosely, mindful of the fact her limbs would soon be thicker than they were now, he looped the last of his braided charms around her wrist. A silvery laugh split the air.

"Why, what is this?" she said in a playful tone. "Is this a handfasting for the Graces, Master Cursewright? I cannot imagine what dowry my father might give for a werewolf daughter."

"Tempting," Ammas replied with a tight smile, and she laughed again. "But no. I've bewitched the edge of the forest to throw fear into any who might approach it."

"To limit my hunting," she murmured. Her tone was unfathomable. Ammas wondered if it was disappointment he heard.

"Yes," he said bluntly. "I don't think the curse will affect someone with the wolf's blood, but better we not test that."

"I quite agree," she said in that same inscrutable murmur, stepping back and admiring her wrist. "Would you sit with me until the moon rises, Ammas?"

Who has tamed whom? he thought again. "I think not," he said gently. Turning from her he slid home the bolt in the door, twisting the lock with a key he had found in a bowl atop the hearth. Drawing a deep breath he faced Carala one last time, realizing abruptly he had just sealed himself into this tower with a werewolf -- a werewolf who was smiling at him speculatively and regarding him with wholly inhuman eyes.

"I have my own preparations to make. We will get through this night together, Carala." Brushing one hand across her shoulder he made his way up to the second story, uncomfortably aware that his body was quivering with a physical hunger he'd not felt in twenty years. For the last five years he had lived next door to a thriving brothel full of beautiful women and not once had any of their teasing gestures or flirtatious glances roused him the way Carala's simple invitation for him to sit with her had done.

"It's the wolf's blood, the scent, nothing more than that," he muttered to himself as he pulled the sham witch-finder robes over his head, stripped to his shirt and breeches. From below he could hear Carala pacing. Othma's chiding words about lies he told himself rang in his ear.

Similar thoughts were running through Carala's head. They stewed on the bubbling wakefulness of the she-wolf rousing inside her, but apart from that they were not all that different. The memory of Tacen made her stomach clench with revulsion, the easy way he had tricked her into giving him her virginity raising an indignation that was nearly rage. All he had wanted was to poison her blood. There was nothing of that in Ammas. Here was a man who should have hated her doing everything in his power to cure her; even offer her a place at his side if they could not find the cure. She imagined Munazyr by moonlight, prowling its streets, the cursewright close behind her, the sound of the charms on his hat jingling in her sharp ears.

Would it be so terrible to remain as she was? The heat rushing through her right now, the pleasure twisting through her fingers and toes and steadily spreading up her limbs -- why should she give that up, if there were a man like Ammas willing to accept her?

Tonight she felt no pain at all, not in her mouth nor in her spine. A delicious ache pulsed through her center, from the back of her throat down to her innermost thighs. Hastily she threw off her robe, sweat pouring down her cheeks, her tongue lathing over her lips as she felt her teeth beginning to sharpen. A pang of guilt twisted through her suddenly. Was this happening to Sarai right now? No. No, Ammas was right. There was only gossip. Sarai was safe. She had to be. And if she wasn't, well, she was sure she could convince Ammas to seek the cure for both of them . . . or just Sarai, if it came to that . . .

Panting she sank into the chair by the hearth, tugging off her boots, rolling her stockings down her legs. Her feet seemed larger than usual, thickening. After all this time on the road she was sure her nails were in need of a trim -- no handmaidens in Munazyr or Vilais or in underground ruins full of the dead -- but surely they should not have been so pointed, so gleaming like new ivory --

Suddenly she sprang back to her feet, fingers undoing the laces of her bodice, roughly pushing down her dress, stripping away her undergarments so hastily she could hear them tearing in places. Panting she stood in the center of the room mother-naked, clutching her head in her hands, the thick mane of midnight hair far softer than it should have been after weeks on the road without being seen to with a proper wash. Sweat glistened on her body from crown to toe.

From above she could scent Ammas's aroma, strong and male -- and hungering. Yes. No denying it. And she hungered in return. For a moment she imagined prowling up those stairs just as she was, stripped entirely bare, and what the expression on his face might be like. A laugh rumbled from her throat, low and throaty and entirely different from her usual silvery lilt.

But beyond Ammas was something stronger. Something with a much fiercer pull. Something bright and white and rising high in the nighttime sky.

Carala Deyn cried out in deepest pleasure and sank to her hands and knees, surrendering to the she-wolf inside her.