Lane crossed the entrance hall in three long steps, pulled forwards like a fish on the hook by a power greater than she—two hooks, locked in place behind her ribs, right and left of her heart, pulling her up the stairs to where Morgulon had collapsed against the handrail.

Was this what Greg felt like all the time in the presence of the Elders? Or was it the pain and fear that amplified Morgulon’s powers?

She was in a bad state. Two crossbow bolts had burrowed deep into her flesh, one right underneath her collarbone and one lower, just beneath the ribs. Lane helped her down the steps as gently as she could, where the werewolf collapsed again. But apparently, that was all the help Morgulon had wanted. She didn’t say a word, but as soon as her head rested on the bottom step, Lane had the strangest urge to go back outside to the shed and—find the cubs?

It took every ounce of willpower Lane possessed to stop herself from blindly running out the front door again. Morgulon needed help, a doctor, someone to at least staunch the bleeding—

As she stood there, feeling lost, David grabbed her by the arm. He took one look at her face, and didn’t even ask how bad it was. Instead, he turned around to yell for Andrew.

“Get a message to Dr. Barnett as fast as possible,” he ordered. “Kick him out of bed, I don’t care, just get him here.”

“I’ll go,” Nathan said, stepping in before Andrew could say anything. “Bairn is faster than Dolly any day.”

“Right,” David said. He clapped Nathan on the back. “Go.”

Lane hurried out ahead of the Feleke. David seemed to know what to do, so she went to figure out why Morgulon wanted her at the shed and what the cubs had to do with that.

In the dark, shaded even more by the little hut where the gardener kept his tools, she almost stumbled over the babies. If they hadn’t been crying softly, she might have stepped on them.

“Some more warning would’ve been nice, Morgulon,” she muttered to himself, kneeling down and feeling her way forward carefully.

The little ones were cold, barely covered by their blanket. All five of them were holding onto each other, forming one tight bundle of unhappiness.

Sun, she hoped that Morgulon would pull through.

Since she didn’t want to separate them, she did what Morgulon had probably done to get them out here in the first place, and dragged the whole cloth back towards the dressing room. Not that that was necessarily more comfortable for them. Landscaping the grounds clearly hadn’t been high on the Feleke’s list of priorities, so it wasn’t exactly smooth golfing lawns.

She got them back all right. Laurent stood ready to open the back door for them, and helped to get them over the sill without jumbling them around worse. The werewolf’s golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark. It made Lane feel watched.

While they put the babies back into their usual spot, Laurent asked: “How did she get you? Human?”

So at least she hadn’t imagined all that. That was a bit of a relief. “I wish I knew. I didn’t even think it was possible for a werewolf to have that kind of power over a human.”

Laurent considered that. He stroked one of the baby’s heads, and shrugged. “Promise? Debt? No blood relation… Love?”

“She saved my life,” Lane said slowly. “In the mountains. After I had shot her. You’re saying that would—help?”

The werewolf shrugged again. “Maybe? Not a mage. But possible. Conduit. Ask Pierre.”

Lane nodded slowly. She wanted to ask him why he had mentioned love, but didn’t quite dare.

“How is Morgulon?” she asked instead.

Laurent looked over his shoulder, looking grim. “Fading,” he said. “Burning magic fast.” He glanced down on the babies again. “Alive. For now.”

“David sent for the doctor,” Lane said. “Let’s hope…”

She trailed off.

“Hope. Yes.” Laurent continued to stroke the babies’ heads.

She probably should go and check on Morgulon, shouldn’t she? How bad could it be? Morgulon had survived several days with the barb in her shoulder that Lane had shot her with, with no assistance, nobody to even bandage the injury. The doctor should be here soon. He lived in the village, after all, Nathan should have him out of bed in no time at all.

But the worried look on Laurent’s face had her frozen in place. She couldn’t make herself move. Like a child. If she didn’t look, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. If she wasn’t there, the bad men would go away.

“Doctor,” Laurent asked. “Close?”

“He lives here in the village,” Lane replied. “Nathan is a fast rider. They should be here soon, yes.”

“Good.”

There wasn’t really anything more to add, but Lane said, “Yes, good,” anyway, just to fill the silence. When Laurent didn’t reply, she picked up one of the baby boys, just to stop herself from asking about what exactly he had meant when he had brought up the topic of love.

It was stupid, anyways. She certainly was indebted to Morgulon, it probably didn’t need any other emotional connection for the she-wolf to find a—a conduit for the magic. If there was anyone to talk to, it was Morgulon. Who certainly wasn’t in the state to discuss deeper emotions right now.

In the corner of the room, a clock was ticking. Lane tried not to listen, but couldn’t stop herself. The seconds seemed to drag on, but the minutes seemed to pile on top of each other, building way too fast. How long could it take to race into the village? Shouldn’t Nathan be back by now? And what were they doing to Morgulon in the meantime?

Even though she had been waiting for it, Lane nearly dropped the kid she was cradling when the door did fly open and Greg carried Thoko in, followed by Lady Imani who held a bag that already had dark stains on it. Lane put the baby down just in time for the dining room to her other side to open, too, and in came Andrew, carrying Morgulon, followed by Dr. Barnett, who was hopping along mostly on one foot since the other one was barefoot. While Andrew placed Morgulon on the dinner table as gently as possible, the doc kicked the other shoe away as well and banged his own bag onto the table. Two more werewolves silently followed in their wake.

Lane jumped to her feet and took a few steps over, but then stopped in the open doorway between the drawing and the dining room. She hadn’t said a word, and the doctor didn’t look up, yet Barnett still growled: “Either come on through and help, girl, or close the door. I don’t need an audience for this. More of an audience,” he amended, looking over his shoulder at the two werewolves who had taken position to the right and left of the door.

Lane nodded. “Right, I’ll just—”

“Here. Hold onto this arm. Andrew, take the legs.”

The doctor didn’t wait for her to make up her mind. He was already handing Andrew a shawl of some soft fabric, followed by a silver chain, ordering: “Wrap this around the ankles, as if you wanted to tie her feet together. Now this on top. Don’t let it touch the skin. Don’t close it, but do make sure the silver is continuous, I don’t want her to turn when I start cutting. When I tell you to, take the chain away quickly and be ready for her to turn. Both of you. All right.”

He pulled out a candle stump from his pack, realised there was a candelabra full of fresh ones on the table and lit one. Then he pulled out a smaller leather wrapper and folded it open. Lane shuddered at the assortment of blades, needles, and other strange devices inside. Barnett picked a short blade, tested its sharpness, placed it next to the candles. He very briefly but gingerly felt around the bolt heads, before holding the blade into the flame, muttering under his breath.

A prayer, Lane thought, but no—he was counting down to zero, at which point he fanned the blade through the air to cool it.

“All right,” he said again. “Get a good grip, both of you. The less she moves, the less this will hurt.”

He barely waited for Lane and Andrew to get a hold of Morgulon again, just digging the blade into the flesh beneath her collarbone. Morgulon winced but didn’t seem to have the strength to fight them. Her eyes rolled as the doctor cut away. It didn’t seem particularly sophisticated, the way he slashed the flesh, no attempt at minimising the damage he did while getting to the silver. He didn’t even try to stem the well of fresh blood. Instead, he moved right away to the second bolt, cutting it out much the same way, clearly going for speed over everything else.

After barely two minutes he looked at Andrew and ordered: “Now!”

The Feleke promptly pulled the silver chain away. At once, Morgulon started changing shape. All the new cuts the doctor had made vanished as the flesh shifted. It wasn’t a smooth transformation; Morgulon almost pushed herself off the table, and Lane had to lean with her whole weight against her to stop the fall.

“Now the hard part,” the doc muttered. He pulled a tightly folded packet of white linen from his bag, which revealed even more folds of a white, gauzy material.

“I need you to hold her still again,” the doctor ordered. “Morgulon, if you are with us, this would be easier if you turn human. Unless you plan to stay wolf over new moon.

“No? Allright, I have—”

Before he could finish, Morgulon shifted again. She curled up on the table, shivering.

“Oh, good,” Barnett muttered. “I have something against the pain. Here, just let me…”

He dribbled a dark brown tincture into Morgulon’s mouth. “It’ll stop working if you transform again,” he warned. “And I still need to pack and bandage the wounds.”

Morgulon didn’t react at all. Barnett sighed, but got on with the task at hand. “Just hold her still until I’m done.”

He held a pair of tongues over the flame and then used them to stuff the white gauze into the wounds, like a cook might stuff a roast. Lane had to look away until he was done and moved onto wrapping it all in fresh linens.

“Well, let’s hope that’ll do it,” he finally muttered. “If we can’t control the bleeding, I’ll have to burn out the wounds, but that’ll be another injury the werewolf healing won’t work on, so we’ll try this first…”

He trailed off. “Any chance of a cup of tea?” He patted Morgulon’s ankle. “If she’s awake and can keep it down, she should eat, too.”

“I’ll see what can be done,” Andrew said. “All the staff are up anyway.” He paused, halfway to the door, and turned around again. “Actually, let me take her somewhere more comfortable, first.”

He picked Morgulon up as if she weighed nothing at all, and Lane quickly opened the door to the next room, so he could carry her over to rest closer to her children. Greg jumped up when he saw them, and threw one of the blankets the cubs usually played on over the closest couch. The werewolves all gathered around, even Pierre and his pack, watching worriedly as Andrew put her down. The room was cramped. Even though three of the Feleke Four were missing.

Where was David? And Nathan? Lord Feleke wasn’t there, either.

“They went to see if there are any accomplices of these attackers around,” Lady Imani explained. “Thoko and Morgulon killed the seven who came here, it would be helpful if there was somebody left to question.”

“Has there been any word from other postings?” Lane asked. “Was this the only attack, I mean?”

“We haven’t heard anything, no. I did have a telegram sent to the palace and the company to warn them, but haven’t heard anything back.”

“But it reached Deva? And Eoforwic?”

“I’ve been assured that the line is fine. It’s probably just that it’s the middle of the night. If there’s no emergency, people are fast asleep.”

“Let’s hope,” Lane muttered. They had targeted the other three Elders from Oldstone Castle last time. And now Morgulon. The babies.

Imani pursed her lips. “It’s high time that we go back to Deva. It’s ridiculous that the Duke expects David to take care of everything werewolf related on his own, it’s not like he can cut himself in two.”

And David was the wrong one for half of the job in any case, was what Imani didn’t say. Not for politics. It should have been Andrew, if it had to be one of the four, or possibly Greg. Lane was fairly certain that in David’s place, she would have at least been able to avoid that pointless duel with Count deVale. One couldn’t just ignore a man and an accusation like that and hope it would all blow over.

Five frozen hells, Imani would have danced through all that without a scratch, Lane was certain of that.

But neither of them had the clout that David had, the fame. Neither of them was “Hero of Oldstone Castle” and that mattered, as much as it hindered them.

Baron Feleke possibly came close, but he had been so passive the past few months—the past two years since Greg had been bitten—that Lane wasn’t sure about how much influence he might wield at court at this point. And he certainly didn’t have the hero worship of the common soldiers.