Chapter Twenty-three 2 page

?Where am I? And who are you?? she asked, forcing herself to focus. Her head was stuffed with the scents of lilac and lavender from the newly washed bed linen. Her sense of smell was overpowering. She struggled to sit up, refusing to fall back to sleep with so much left unanswered. ?Where are my clothes? My bag? All of my things??

?Gas leaked into your suitcase. Everything was ruined. Lie still.? Hands held her in place against the pillows, and her last remnants of strength dissipated. Isabelle noticed the most important questions had been ignored. Where was she and who was this woman who seemed so determined to care? ?You need to take your medicine, then rest.?

?Can?t,? she mumbled, disappointed that she was, in fact, falling back to sleep. ?Need to know? things.? She couldn?t stay awake any longer. Her eyelids flickered as she fought sleep. She focused on her benefactor, on her face, on her eyes. Black irises looked back at her. They shimmered with a dozen points of lamplight, like a starlit sky. Isabelle felt safe under that stare. And tired, so very tired. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

?Who are you?? she said.

?Isabelle. Isabelle.? A deep, urgent voice called her back. She struggled to respond. ?Isabelle. You need to take all of this. Try to drink a little more.? The glass returned to her lips.

?Who are you?? she asked, more determined, between sips of the bitter liquid. This was their trade-off. She would drink if the other would answer.

?I?m Ren.?

?Ren,? she whispered. The name sounded right. She savored it on her tongue. ?Ren. Ren who??

?Ren will do for now. Drink more.?

?Ren,? she said, and swallowed more medicine. She did know this woman?this Ren. A memory flitted by, shadowed and unsettling. It hovered on the edge of her consciousness, as ominous as a graveyard bird, its beady-eyed stare daring her to remember. All around her white sheets and eiderdown billowed up in warm, scented waves to drown her. The bird rose on its wing and disappeared, taking its cold warning with it. She knew she was sinking into a drugged sleep, that the bitter drink was taking her away to blissful nothingness. One last question surfaced before she slipped under its spell. ?Who are you, Ren??

?I?m your world, Isabelle.? It was barely a whisper and she wondered at it, assuming she?d misheard. She let it go and slid away into sleep. The soft whisper followed her down, through tickling fronds of weed and beds of rippled sand, where it hooked her: its sharp barbs embedded in her dreams and reeled in her last thoughts. Ren.

She was buried alive in ice. Clear, crystalline sheets of it covered her, a glazed lid to her coffin. This was an empty, lonely world. A place that existed inside her, far too close to her heart. Mighty forests stretched for miles. She could smell the sharp scent of pine sap and hear tree roots rumble in the frozen earth around her. She couldn?t move, yet through the solid layer of ice above her she could see the sky, a featureless and arctic white dome. Against the endless space her black graveyard bird swooped in lazy circles with the lassitude of a vulture awaiting the feast. It gave a sudden shriek and fell out of the sky onto her, claws hooked, black beak clacking at her icy coffin. The lid cracked and the bird broke through. It ripped at her immobile face, bloodying her cheeks, tearing at the pink of her lips, then it pecked out her frozen eyes?Isabelle jerked upright in sweat-stained shock. She scrabbled at her face expecting to find empty, torn eye sockets. She could see! Her face and eyes were unharmed. It was just another nightmare.

She blinked several times to make sure. It had all seemed so real?the sharp wind and the bird?s shrill clamor all around her.

The bedroom was dark and filled with eerie shadows, but at least it was solid and real. She trembled all over; her feet and hands were stone cold. Her teeth chattered even though her brow was beaded with perspiration and her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

?Here, drink this.? A supporting arm held her shoulders and water trickled into her mouth. No oily aftertaste this time, just pure, cool water. She gulped it down.

?You?re shivering like a leaf,? Ren murmured and laid her back on the pillows. There was a rustle and then a cool draft as the bedclothes rose a little. Isabelle sighed as Ren slid in behind her and spooned around her. The heat that radiated off her was intense. Heavy-headed and sluggish, Isabelle melted back into the warm body and fell back to sleep.

It was pitch black when she opened her eyes again. She was blissfully warm, pushed up against a satin wall of muscle and heated skin. A forearm rested on her waist. Ren?s other arm had slid in under Isabelle?s neck and reached across her front to cup her injured shoulder. Ren?s thighs were drawn up underneath hers. They were both naked.

Isabelle stiffened. She lay and listened to Ren?s breathing. She was sleeping deeply. Her warm breath hummed against Isabelle?s scalp. Her face was buried in Isabelle?s hair, breathing her in, whispering her out. Lungful after lungful. Isabelle twitched. The sweat, blood, and tears of God knows how long were pungent on her body. She was embarrassed by her stale odor and by the intimate spooning, and yet she felt comforted by it, too. She took a deep breath, and at first faintly, then with certainty picked up another odor, a new smell, piquant and peppery. It was Ren?s scent. Isabelle?s mouth watered and her flesh tingled.

Afraid to move in case she woke her, Isabelle lay still and tried to orient herself with the darkened objects in the room. There was a straight-backed chair and a bedside table and lamp. To the left stood the blocky outline of a chest of drawers. She breathed in the comforting scent of Ren?s nakedness.

How did she get here, and why was Ren nursing her with such care? Isabelle?s thoughts were still a jumbled mass of jagged images, torn-up photographs of monsters and frozen wastes, of forests and blood. They all jostled in her head until it hurt. And with the images came whispers and warnings, half-formed thoughts and ideas that slithered away like snakes before she could grasp them. These were her memories, her life?all frustratingly out of reach. They danced around the edges of her mind and teased her inability to chase them all the way home.

If she could relax, perhaps they might creep closer? Her eyes grew heavy as the warmth of Ren?s body lured her back into a healing sleep. The arms around her tightened and lips brushed her matted hair where it stuck to her sweat-soaked skin. Ren was surfacing from sleep; she murmured something indistinct against Isabelle?s nape.

?Why are you doing this?? Isabelle asked quietly. ?Are you my friend??

Ren lay still for a moment, then moved her mouth away from Isabelle?s neck to whisper, ?Something like that.?

The words breathed past Isabelle?s ear, making her entire body erupt in goose bumps.

?Why are we naked?? Isabelle asked. Her voice trembled with an embarrassment impossible to conceal.

?I can heat you better skin to skin.? Ren awkwardly pulled away. Isabelle felt the chill. Ren was a furnace, and she hadn?t realized it until she?d lost contact with her.

?I didn?t mean to?? Ren trailed off; her voice was brusque and unsure.

?It?s okay,? Isabelle mumbled. ?I?ve got hang-ups.? This little nugget stuck in her chest. She had inadvertently unearthed a bitter truth about herself. She had hang-ups. Well, so what? For the moment, she felt safe and warm, and she hurt less than before. Every time she awoke she felt stronger, more centered, more in control, and that had to be good.

Ren lay awake and watched her patient for a long time. She breathed in tandem with her, monitoring Isabelle?s sleep pattern, and watched as she slipped further into a dreamless sleep. Only then did she relax against her, allowing their skin to again touch. She lay and drank in Isabelle?s raw scent, sour and unwashed, but it thrilled her. It filled her head with all manner of images. It was a complex scent. Recent fear and old pain pulsed out of Isabelle, making Ren?s chest ache with confusion. Her scent held stories and had a heart of honey underlaid with the solidity of oak moss, as ancient as the forest that surrounded them. Ren closed her eyes and held the scent, allowing it to burst upon her face like sunlight. Isabelle?s tinkling laughter floated toward her through the trees. Lazy bees droned as Ren slipped through fir and alder, compelled to chase her and seek out the laughter.

She found her by a brook that gurgled over river stones and fallen branches. The silver waters cut through the rich, black earth. Isabelle stood by the riverbank, her camera focused on a fat toad.

Ren stood motionless and watched as Isabelle took her photos. She raised her head and sucked in the sweet forest air. It was laden with honey and oak moss?Isabelle?s scent. A low growl rumbled in her chest. Ren knew these smells; they belonged to her forest, her home. And Isabelle belonged there, too.

?Take her.? The urgent whisper came from right behind. She shook her head and scowled at the intrusion.

?Take her now. She?s yours in every way. Even the forest knows it,? the whisper continued.

Isabelle looked across; she raised her camera and laughed.

?Smile, you guys.?

The camera flash in her memory made Ren blink. The moment was gone. All that was left was this injured woman in her arms, and her scent that told more than Scheherazade. For Ren, the belonging was doubtless and absolute. This woman was hers. They were life bonds. Now and for always. The taking, however, lacked honor. It made her want to snarl and bite and claw entire trees apart in anger. But right here and now, in this bed, all she needed to do was wrap herself around her mate and keep her safe.

The pull was strong. She settled in, and pushed her face into the nape of Isabelle?s neck, and closed her eyes. Her ears twitched, straining for anything untoward, but all was as it should be. The wind blew down the mountainside and rattled the shingles and shutters. The old cabin complained as it always did on windy nights. The night sky was empty of forest calls. Satisfied all was well and they were secure, Ren finally allowed herself to sleep.

?Listen up, mutt. This is your mission, and you?d better bite ass at it or you?ll be nothing but a tail sticking out of my next burger bun. Get it??

Hope backpedaled up the hall. Jolie?s words snagged her attention from the full laundry basket in her arms. She peeped into the living room wondering what was going on.

Jolie sat stooped on the couch nose to nose with Tadpole. The little dog bristled with self-importance and excitement. He wasn?t allowed on the furniture, but several times lately Hope had caught him on the couch, and here was clear evidence why. Jolie had sat him beside her for this important pack confab, and he loved it. He?d obviously received a big werewolf promotion somewhere along the way.

Hope frowned. What on earth was Jolie up to? By rights, she should be getting ready for her business trip. Both Jolie and Andre had been summoned to accompany Leone for the first meeting with the Lykous. The Greek werewolf clan had invited representatives from the ancient werewolf family of Garoul to visit their pack home in Zagoria, high in the mountains of northern Greece. Yet here was Jolie, spending her last few hours in deep conversation with Tadpole?

?Okay, it?s like this,? Jolie drilled him. ?I?m the Alpha and you?re the dog. When I?m away, your job is to protect Hope. You?re my right paw, and between us we have to keep our den mother safe. She?s the cornerstone of the pack, see?? Tadpole?s tail thumped on the cushions. ?Because if we don?t have a den mother I?m gonna end up eating you. Understand??

Tadpole didn?t seem to understand. His tail thumped faster and more happily despite the dire warning. Jolie shook her head and straightened in her seat with a grunt of disgust.

?Stupid mutt.?

?Den mother? Since when am I a den mother?? Hope stepped into the room and Jolie jumped guiltily.

?And you. Down. Now.? Hope pointed at Tadpole. He skittered under the couch in a blink, leaving Jolie to take the flak. She glared at his disappearing hindquarters.

?Well, you are. Sort of,? she said, defending her description. ?We?re a pack, Hope. A family unit, and he has to protect you when I?m not around. It?s his pack job.?

?He was already doing that before you came on the scene.?

Jolie snorted rudely.

?He did so,? Hope said. ?So tell me, what does a den mother do, seeing as how I?ve apparently got the job without even applying for it.? She sat on the couch in Tadpole?s vacated spot.

?Oh. Mostly the laundry.? Jolie eyed the overflowing basket at Hope?s feet.

?The laundry??

?Yeah, and the cooking. And gardening.?

?I see. All the things you hate. How convenient. And what does the mighty Alpha bring to the pack??

?The mighty Alpha brings home the meat.?

?I can do that from the grocery run. You?re beginning to sound mighty redundant, mighty Alpha.?

?The mighty Alpha does all the mighty lovin?.? Jolie slowly spilled Hope over onto her back.

?Oh??

?Right word, wrong delivery.? Jolie growled and began to nibble Hope?s neck, lingering on her pulse point.

?Oooh,? Hope moaned, then grabbed Jolie by the ears and pulled her back up off her. ?No you don?t. We have to get you packed.?

She pushed them both into an upright position. ?Seriously, I?ve never heard of a den mother. Marie isn?t one. She?s the Garoul Alpha.?

?A den mother is more for the younger cubs. Like at the Little Dip summer camp when the young ones come to learn their wolven skills.?

?Before they hit puberty and change??

?Before and after they change. It?s an ongoing education. In the wild a den mother would also look after the orphans. Or any feral cubs adopted by the pack. That sort of thing.?

?You sound very vague about it.?

Jolie shrugged. ?I was brought up in a strong, well-organized pack. I had Aunt Marie as my Alpha and Dad as our trainer. I suppose in some ways he took over the role of den mother. After all, he?s the one who taught us all how to lick our paws and clean behind our ears.?

?I?d like to see you tell Claude he?s a den mother. You?d be licking more than your paws,? Hope said.

?Of course he?s not called a den mother. But his role is more or less the same. He counsels the young ones.?

?So the Garouls have all the pack components, but not necessarily assigned as gendered roles??

?Yeah. We?re a matriarchal clan, but after we have our Alpha in place, then the other ranks go to who?s best suited for them. We do everything a wild pack does, only better,? Jolie said with pride. ?That?s why other packs envy and respect us. We?re the best.?

?Well.? Hope lifted the laundry basket. ?As den mother of a mini Garoul pack, I think you should lick your paws and get ironing. You?ll need these shirts for your Lykous meet and greet,? she said as she unceremoniously dumped the basket on Jolie?s lap.

Chapter Four

Isabelle awoke refreshed, with only the dullest of aches in her shoulder. The room was bathed in murky gray light, making her unsure if it was dawn or dusk. She was in bed alone.

She blushed furiously remembering the heat of Ren?s bare body pressed against her. Who was Ren? Who was this woman who cradled her through nightmares and injury? Isabelle struggled to recall the shadowed features; all she could remember were midnight eyes that burned right through her. No amount of effort could bring Ren into clear focus.

Isabelle?s head was heavy. Her sleep had been deep and drug-induced, laced with more bad dreams. But she had also slept through her earlier pain. How long had she been out for? How many hours, days? She flicked at the curtain and peered outside at the snow. Trees loomed in the descending shadow. The winter light had a gloomy quality, quiet and mournful.

Isabelle lay back and stared at the wood plank ceiling and made a quick assessment. She had no idea where she was. She had no idea who her host was, apart from the fact she called herself Ren. Her shoulder throbbed in its tight bandages but was less painful than before. The rest of her ached all over, and she had a thumping headache, but again, she felt better than she had earlier. All her belongings were apparently destroyed. Did that include her documents? She?d need those, especially her passport. She knew she had to cross the border into America? assuming she was still in Canada. Was she? Isabelle frowned. The longer she thought about it, the more complicated and insurmountable everything became. So what else did she know? Oh, yes, her bladder was full and she smelled rank.

She looked around the room and didn?t recognize anything. She had no idea where she was. She concentrated, trying to pick out reality from tattered nightmare. Nothing concrete came to mind, nothing at all. She was Isabelle, and she?d maybe hit some deer and crashed her car. That was all she could remember at this point. Deer and blood and glass shattered all around her? and pure, unimaginable fear. Yes. Lots and lots of fear. It still lay coiled in her belly, tight and cold? right next to her full bladder.

She eased upright and propped herself against the headboard. The ache in her shoulder intensified with each movement but was bearable. She was in a small bedroom with plain wooden walls and simple furniture. The Spartan contents left her unsettled. There were no clues to where she was, no insight to who lived here. No books, clothes, or knickknacks whatsoever. Isabelle decided she liked clues. She liked to use her mind to work things out, to situate herself in the world. This room gave nothing away. The room was as minimalist as a convent cell.

She threw off the bed covers and cautiously rose to her feet. She was naked, but a blue cotton dressing gown hung behind the door. She wrapped herself in it and went exploring for the bathroom.

Barefoot, on shaky legs, she padded down a long, shadowy corridor lined with closed doors, except for one at the end. It lay ajar and she could see the lure of white porcelain bathroom fittings. She made straight for it.

So she was in a log cabin. How had she got here? She had no answers. She couldn?t even recall her own name in full; her surname was still a mystery. Then again, she knew she was called Isabelle only because Ren used that name. Ren. Her rescuer? Her nurse? Who was she and why did she seem so strangely familiar? Was this cabin Ren?s home? It was all crazy. She had to know something about herself. How else to prove she existed?

She tried not to panic and to stay objective. She?d been in a car crash and now she was here, somewhere, being looked after. Being well looked after, if the neat, clean bandage on her shoulder was anything to go by. She needed to use her wits, to think, to solve this puzzle, and concentrate on the immediate things?like the bathroom mirror.

Her bruised and battered face looked back in shock. She had a shiner of a black eye, almost cartoonish in appearance with its slit of bright blue iris shining through the puffy discoloration. Her nose had a small bump from an older injury.

So, she had blue eyes?well, black-and-blue eyes now?and a bumpy nose. Her hair was glued to her head, and there was a blood-encrusted cut running about three inches along her hairline. There was another older scar, thin and white, intersecting the corner of her mouth.

She was not looking at the face of a friend. This was a face she did not appreciate, or even like? perhaps had never liked? Dark rings circled her good eye; the other was a puffy mess. She was underweight, her face pale and peaky. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her nose too pinched despite its earlier break, and her mouth a tight, tired line. Dirty-blond hair hung in strings around scrawny shoulders. It was a bad haircut, much too long for her thin features. She had a lackluster, plain face with a dry, sallow complexion underneath all the bruising. Isabelle shivered. She was chilled, although her cheeks held two bright spots of color, round and red, like clown paint.

?Well, hello, Isabelle. Pleased to meet you, I think,? she said to her reflection, then turned away abruptly. ?Jesus, you?re one ugly bitch.?

No. No, that?s negative thinking. I need to see something good. Something affirming. The thought came out of nowhere, but it was so strong it stopped her in her tracks. She turned back to the mirror and forced a smile. Deep inside she knew it was important to look for the good in her. As if she had spent too long hearing only the bad. The scar on the corner of her mouth creased into a lopsided grin that she sort of liked.

?And I have great teeth!? she proclaimed. Affirmation concluded and job done, another personality trait kicked in. Isabelle discovered she loved snooping.

Hungry for information, she explored everything around her. In contrast to the bedroom, the bathroom was bright and cheerful, with a wealth of personal items for examination. A faintly remembered scent lingered in the air, spicy and enticing. Homemade shampoos, soaps, and bath salts littered every ledge, but the alluring smell did not come from them. She snooped in the bathroom cabinet, rifling through razors, nail files, oils, creams. A linen hamper overflowed with fluffy, damp towels. Someone loved an indulgent bath time.

Glossy-leaved plants in brightly painted pots lined the windowsill. A few cacti even managed to bloom in hot pinks and oranges. Isabelle picked up a small pot, hand-painted in a cheerful, childish daub. Little brown foxes, or maybe wolves, chased bright yellow chickens round and round the rim.

A stack of clean white towels lured her to the bathtub, and she checked the shower faucet for hot water. It ran full and scalding and she almost cried with relief. She shed her robe and stepped in, enraptured with the simple act of washing away the grime of God knew how long. Not caring her bandage would get wet, she let the hot water race over her. It took several shampoos before she was satisfied her hair was finally clean.

The bandage on her shoulder was soaked and she peeled it away, curious to see her wound. A row of stitches curved in a wide crescent across her shoulder. The blood-scabbed knots wavered irregularly across her skin like a sordid smile.

I?ve never had stitches before, not even for my lip, and that bled and bled. Curious how the oddest facts popped into her head while the important stuff eluded her. She could vividly remember a blood-soaked dishcloth wrapped around a bag of frozen peas pressed to her split lip. She remembered her fingers tingling from the frozen packaging and adrenaline pumping through her. And nearby, just out of her line of vision, someone was saying, ?I didn?t mean it, I didn?t mean it,? over and over again. ?Sorry, sorry.? She could recall his voice so clearly. She paused over this flashback. Who had hit her?

These were recalled emotions rather than actual fully fledged events, she reminded herself. It could be dangerous to accept such things at face value. She could inadvertently rewrite her own past to suit this blank of a present. She had facial wounds that were old; that did not mean she was a beaten wife, did it? She had to be careful.

The stitches felt alien to her tender flesh, and they nipped her skin in a burning itch. Some of the puncture marks did not need stitches at all and were healing quickly. Others went deeper into the muscle, causing her discomfort and stiffness. It looked like a painful injury, and Isabelle was glad she had slept through most of her recovery. She guessed she?d been heavily medicated, remembering the ill-tasting liquid she?d gulped down. What had caused the puncture wounds in the first place? Broken glass? Rent metal? Her dreams were littered with it.

A rosy rash peppered her chest and belly. Was she reacting to something? The rash looked harmless and did not irritate her. She rubbed at it briskly with the towel. Another thing to ponder. She needed to find Ren and discover what the hell had happened to her.

An unopened toothbrush packet lay by the sink. She hoped it was a guest one for her use, but was too shy to assume. She squeezed toothpaste onto a finger and scrubbed her teeth, and spat the bad taste out of her mouth. She finger-combed the damp tangles of hair and dispassionately examined her reflection again, looking past the obvious bruising for other signs of well-being, or not, as the case might be. The rash on her chest now decorated her throat. A glum sigh escaped her. She looked in her eyes and tried to peer deep within herself. Who the hell was she? She looked like someone who didn?t care about herself. She looked ill and unhappy on a world-weary level that went so much deeper than the trouble she was in now. And she knew trouble. She could feel in her bones that she knew it well.

She gave her reflection a weary smile, really nothing more than a grim twitch of her lips and turned away. If she stood on tiptoe she could peep out the high, narrow window to see the view from this side of the cabin. She cracked the window open an inch. Outside, cedar trees swept down a steep incline, their heavy branches buried under a layer of thick, powdery snow. The crisp white ground and snow-laden trees glowed eerily under a rising moon, as atmospheric as a scene from her dreams.

It was dusk. Overhead, a cloudless, star-bright night was unfolding. The air smelled pure and frost sharp, and she wanted to be out in it, running and rolling in the snow, to lie in it and laugh up through the treetops to the stars beyond. She felt a delightful giddiness she associated with childhood, the high energy of not having a care in the world.

Isabelle pulled the window shut. She had drawn all the clues she could from this room and from the mirror before her. It was time to find her benefactress and thank her. It was time to ask all the questions she needed answers for.

She left the bathroom and returned down the hallway. A murmur of voices drew her to a closed door. A woman and a man were talking in the room beyond. She recognized the woman?s voice. It was as mellow and dark as ruby wine, and had soothed her through numerous nightmares. One hand was on the door handle, the other raised to rap, when she realized the voices were hard edged with anger. Though she could barely distinguish the words, there was no doubt this was an argument. She hesitated to knock, unsure what to do.

?Burn it?? The abrupt cessation of Ren?s sentence should have warned her. Too late she realized what it meant. The door flung open and Ren towered over her, her eyes narrowed to glittering slits. Isabelle stepped back, startled. This was her savior? This woman who pulsed with menace? For an instant they stood stiffly, then Ren?s anger melted, the tightness in her face relaxed into gentler angles. Isabelle flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and relief. She?d have died if that anger had been aimed at her.

?Ren?? The name felt like a pure beam of light. But the person attached to it came as a surprise. Seeing her now face-to-face, Isabelle did not know this woman at all. Before, she had only been a lamplit shadow, a distant face distorted by fever and delirium. Now she finally stood before her outlined by the light, clear to her eye, and she was beautiful?but in a cruel, arrogant way, like the aquiline profile of emperors on ancient coins. Or the cold, impassive beauty of goddesses carved out of hard, unblemished marble.

?I thought I heard something.? Ren?s voice softened. No trace of her earlier anger remained. ?You?re awake.? She sounded surprised and pleased. She stood back to allow Isabelle to enter the living room.

?Yes. I took a shower. I hope you don?t mind,? Isabelle murmured, still shy and overwhelmed.

?Not at all. Come on and sit by the fire.?

Isabelle looked around her with interest. The living room was small and comfortable. Old, rust-spotted watercolors decorated the walls. A mahogany bureau sat by the far wall, conspicuous in that it was the only costly piece of furniture in the room. Beside it a tall, narrow bookcase stood in a corner stuffed to overflowing. Several more books were wedged under it, replacing a missing leg. Isabelle frowned in quiet disapproval; books should be better looked after than that.

Drawn up before the blazing fireplace sat a battered old couch, an open book and glass of wine perched on the armrest. It was a shabby and threadbare piece of furniture, but colorful throws and fat, bright cushions made her want to sink into it. The simple, homespun comfort of the room poured out warmth and drew her like a magnet. It was the perfect space to while away the long, dark winter nights. She took a step forward, then hesitated.

?How are you feeling? I?m not sure you?re strong enough to be up and moving around just yet.? Uncertainty undercut Ren?s casual words. It was clear she was concerned and a little nonplussed at Isabelle being so well so soon.

?I?m feeling a lot better, thank you,? Isabelle answered, aware of the young man who stood by the hearth. She drew her robe tighter around her thin body. He had just thrown a log into the fireplace and now straightened up to watch her enter. Isabelle watched the fire, fascinated. Thick wads of paper bloomed into flame sparking the log bark. He was burning a book. Behind her, Ren suppressed an angry hiss, and Isabelle bit her tongue to stop from tutting out loud. It was sacrilege to burn a book, she thought. No good could come of it. The burst of flame highlighted his thin, sharp face and pale gray eyes. He watched her coolly, with no sign of welcome.

Date: 2016-06-12; view: 56