He took a breath and closed his eyes, and when he spoke, it was obvious that he was reciting someone else’s words. “A storm rose from the ground, tearing up rocks and hunks of earth, flinging them into the air. We wolves, we flattened ourselves in fear and wonder as the Great Beast fought the demon, not with teeth and claw but with magic meeting magic. The air crackled with it, and lightning rained down as though the end were nigh. Four of us died—three were lightning struck and the other was just dead with no sign of what killed him. And when it was over, the demon having been driven from his host, Jack stepped from the Great Beast as if he were throwing off a winter coat and snapped the monk’s neck.”
Zack shrugged. When he continued, the words were in his own voice. “That’s the end of it. Jack left. Another Alpha took over. The monk was dead. Another monk found his body with the poor child, and the monastery decided God and his angels had struck the man down for his wickedness while wearing the cross. One of the wolves in her pack swore he’d seen Jack before, called him Cornick. My friend knew Bran—and Samuel, too, for that matter. She thought that other wolf was right, but she never managed to find out just who he was.”
“The Great Beast of Northumberland is in the betting book,” I said. I hadn’t been able to get anyone to tell me the story of the Great Beast, even though three people had bet on it. None of those had been Zack.
“Maybe Sherwood should go through the betting book,” Zack suggested.
I grinned at him. “That should be interesting.”
Zack made to shut his door again.
“One more thing,” Adam asked.
Zack waited.
“Is there something I should know about Warren?”
Zack hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing that’s my place to speak of. Not right now.”
“There is something?” I said anxiously.
Zack smiled at me. “He’s smart. If he needs help, he’ll ask for it.”
* * *
—
Adam was quiet on the way home. I didn’t say much, either. It was late, I had a pumpkin-induced headache, and Zack had just given us a lot to think about. But the biggest take-home of the night was the message Marsilia had given us. I wished I was sure what that message really was.
Adam was probably doing the same thing without the headache. I treated myself to a pause in my deliberations so that I could enjoy the play of the dashboard lights on my mate’s face. Werewolves don’t age, but I still thought he looked older than he had a few months ago.
The witches had inflicted some deep internal wounds. The poison had been drawn, but there were still scabs and scars that remained, exacerbating his already infamous temper. He worried about the monster Elizaveta had cursed him with. His cheekbones were sharper, and there were hollows under his eyes.
He caught my look and grinned suddenly. “Like what you see?” he asked.
Adam had anti-vanity. He knew he was gorgeous, and though he was happy to use it as a weapon, it didn’t much affect him otherwise. I suspected it embarrassed him.
Not wanting to tell him that I’d been assessing rather than admiring （primarily assessing, anyway）， I pressed my face against his shoulder. I closed my eyes and inhaled, feeling my headache abate just a little.
“I love you,” I told him. “I know we have a lot on our plate again, but I’d like to take this moment to tell you that I’m glad you and Sherwood don’t have to fight.”
“Maybe,” he cautioned.
“You’ll figure it out,” I said confidently. I was a little surprised that I was able to be so confident. I suspected it was because we had another disaster on our hands for me to worry about.
What had Marsilia meant with that performance? It wasn’t out of character for her, just out of character for her with us. She knew that it wouldn’t impress us the way it would impress someone who didn’t know her. So what had it accomplished that a normal meeting would not have?
She had left us no openings to question her, and I had a lot of questions. How did she know Wulfe was gone? Where was the last place she’d seen him? What was she hiding with her veil and the brimstone? Why had she needed to hide her eyes?
The brimstone was particularly interesting because it meant we couldn’t smell anything but the brimstone: not emotions, not whether she was telling the truth, and not any incriminating scents like blood, either. It was possible that the brimstone could have been part of the magic she’d used to create the smoke effects and not an attempt to mask scents. Possibly she’d used it for both reasons.