Chapter Eleven

Seven thatched-roof bungalows sat in a tidy row along the shallow, narrow creek. They showed no signs of life except for the last one on the left, which had a single candle flickering in the window.

A beacon of light, Mace thought.

Hope.

That's where he would take her.

"Stay here," he yelled over his shoulder to the remainder of his pack, catching a glimpse of most of his followers. Only Kaige was missing. The realization was a punch to his gut. He'd lost his best friend to save the life of his mate.

Kaige, the damn fool, wasn't as loyal as Mace had hoped.

To hell with it. He shook off the disappointment and nodded to the steadfast group and then to Saul. Now he knew who he could trust. "Thank you for staying. Guard these homes. I'll call you if I need you."

Determination fueling him, he leapt over the creek and didn't bother to knock as he pushed through the door. The sturdy slab of wood swung open and hit the wall. A middle-aged woman with silver and black streaks of long, wiry hair stood just beyond with her hands clasped in front of her and a meek smile on her face.

As if she'd been waiting for them.

"Set her in there." The woman gestured toward an open bedroom door, her white linen gown swooshing with her movement, reminding Mace of an angel.

Please, if there was a god, any god, then let her be an angel.

Without a word, he strode into the bedroom and set Nayla's lifeless body on the mattress, careful not to jostle her wound.

The witch made her way to the other side of the bed with a small tin pot cradled in her hands. Steam billowed from the top.

"What is that?" Mace asked.

"Something to soothe her pain. A remedy of sorts."

He was tempted to ask how she knew to prepare her medicine beforehand but decided not to press his luck. The witches he'd known in the past were quite secretive of their powers.

With smooth hands that appeared younger than her age, she scooped a handful of white fatty mush from the pot and placed it on Nayla's neck.

"My mother's recipe," the woman said with a wink.

Who gave a damn, as long as it worked? Mace pushed any doubt from his mind and sat next to Nayla. He leaned toward the witch so she'd see the seriousness on his face. "Can you help her? As you can see she's lost a lot of blood."

She shrugged and maneuvered the mush to cover the gouge, avoiding eye contact. "I might be able to help. What sort of person would I be if I didn't attempt to save my Queen?"

"A dead person. A fucking corpse." Mace swallowed the anger rising in his throat. Her nonchalance was grinding his last nerve. Leave it to a witch to minimize a dire situation.

"Threats will get you nowhere, Mace."

"How do you know my name?"

"The Queen's WereSlave?" She arched a salt and pepper brow. "Who in Paqualette doesn't know who you are? I think it's sweet that you've fallen in love with your master. A big mean ol' Were like yourself." She cocked her head. "By the way, my name is Lorzener, though my girls call me Lorze. You, honey, can call me whatever you want."

"I'm not here to play games, woman," he spat out. "If you have the means to save her life you better damn well do everything in your power."

Her irritating smile didn't fade. "And what will I get in return?"

Of course.

"Anything. Name it." There was no time for bartering.

Lorzener's deep blue gaze swept over his body. She seemed undaunted that he was covered head to toe with blood. Fenton's blood. The bastard deserved to die a hundred painful deaths for what he'd done to Nayla.

Mace reveled in the memory, pleased he'd been the one to extract Fenton's evil soul from this earth. To shred the bitter flesh from his bones. To crush the last breath of air from his lungs.

Lorzener's eyes widened and locked in when her gaze reached his dick, forcing him back to the here and now. The grim reality. No matter what he'd done to Fenton, Nayla was still in danger.

"What?" he growled at the witch.

"You're impressive. It's no wonder she picked you." She met his stare and twisted her grin. "I suspect the two of you are quite a sight in the throes of passion. A beauty and her beast."

"There's no time for your jokes, witch. What the hell do you want?"

"I can make her a Were, an immortal just like you. Can you imagine that? A Were for our Queen?" She laughed. "Paqualette would never be the same with all those puppies running around."

"No! That's not an option." Not when he'd lost his Elizabeth the same way. What were the odds of Nayla surviving the plague, especially when she was half-dead to begin with?

"Why not?" Her smile finally weakened. "If she doesn't die today, she'll die ten, twenty, thirty years from now. That's a blink of an eye for an immortal, is it not?"

"It is." He couldn't argue. "But inflicting the plague is too risky. There has to be another way. Look at her," he said, but couldn't stomach doing the same. How could he watch her perish before his very eyes? "You must save her."

"You realize I wouldn't have let you in my home if I didn't want to help." The smile returned. "Queen Nayla is by far my favorite of the Queens who have ruled this country. She can see past the nonsense and make fair decisions."

Why was she talking so much? "And? Get on with it, woman."

"And if I save her life, I ask that she remains here in Paqualette."

"That's it? That's what you want in return?"

She shrugged. "An invitation to the castle every so often would greatly improve my coven's reputation. As it is, we're feared or hated by most of the townsfolk. It's no fun worrying if mutiny is afoot. One night we'll go to sleep and the next thing we know, our heads will be on the slab. Can you imagine fearing for your life every second of the day?" She bunched her brows together and laughed. "Never mind. I suppose you can relate."

Mace shook his head in disbelief. "So you'd like a dinner invitation?"

"To the balls as well. My girls don't get out very often. They'd enjoy mingling with some of the finer men of Paqualette."

"Very well. I'm sure Nayla wouldn't have a problem with that."

"Or you? You'll be King, won't you? There'll be co-sovereignty, will there not? I can't imagine an alpha Were agreeing to anything less."

"Yes, of course." Whatever it takes. If he needed to be king of this god-forsaken country for Nayla, then he would. He just wanted her to live. He wanted to see her face its natural color and hear her laugh. Or simply breathe, goddamn it.

"Wonderful."

"Then you'll help her?" Yes. Hope filled his lungs.

She twisted her thin lips into a smile and waved her hand toward Nayla. "Ta da! There you go, King Mace. I've already done all I can."

"What the hell does that mean?" He looked down at his mate and was surprised to see the blob of medicine had disintegrated and the cut on her neck was completely healed. But her face was still pale and her lips still blue.

He peered at the witch, who was walking out the door. "What happened? She's not recovered yet."

"It will take some time," she said lightly and leaned against the door frame, "although I used the accelerated version of the plague so she should be completely transformed by morning. You won't have to wait weeks until you know if she'll make it."

Mace stilled. He couldn't believe his ears. "The plague? You infected her? After I told you not to?"

"How else did you think I would save her? She was on her last breath when you brought her to me."

He growled under his breath as every muscle in his body tensed. "Damn you, you wench. I told you infecting her wasn't an option."

She rolled her eyes. "Too late. It was either the Were plague or an injection of Vampire blood and I heard Weres have an aversion to the fanged species." Her shrill laugh echoed in his ears. "Wouldn't want to make your relationship any more complicated, dear. Now, take care of her. You both have a long night in front of you."

He stepped toward her, ready to wring her thin neck but he clenched his hands instead. He might still need the wicked witch. "Do you understand what you've done? If she survives she'll never forgive me for allowing this to happen. If she dies, you'll pay for her death. Either way, you're doomed."

"Mace, honey, you really should work on your manners if you're going to be the King. Tomorrow, when you're feeling less dismal, I expect at least a thank-you." She released an annoyingly cheery sigh. "My girls will be here in a moment to clean you two up. The Queen's going to want you to comfort her through the pain of transforming. And you'll want to battle that pain with the pleasure only you can give her."

"Pleasure?" Was she insane? Yes, of course she was.

"You know. Sex. A little moaning and groaning will help her tremendously." She winked and closed the door behind her, leaving the room with only the light of the moon shining through the window.

Mace looked down at his fragile mate covered in blood. If she got through the transformation without dying then he'd have her for eternity. A beat of optimism slipped through his thoughts followed by the cut of reality. If she lived to be a Were, she'd hate him. She'd become her worst nightmare.

He'd allowed this to happen. Never trust a goddamn witch. He knew better. Their good deeds never came free. There was always a price to pay, always a fucking hidden fee. He only hoped he wouldn't have to give up Nayla. One way or the other.

The door sprang open again and four chattering young witches glided in. They laughed and went on with their idiotic conversation as if there weren't a dying woman spread out on the bed before them.

"I can't believe we'll be invited to the balls," one of them said. She appeared to be in her early twenties, pretty, blonde and incredibly annoying. Her voice screeched as she spoke.

"I know!" A second one, a redhead, sat on the mattress beside Nayla, holding a pan of steaming water. "I'm going to have to sew a new dress. That green fabric we just bought will be perfect."

They were talking about going to a goddamn ball? His mate could die any moment and they were discussing ball attire. "Leave the water," he barked out, attempting to scare them away. "I'll clean her. Just get the hell out of here."

The third witch, a raven-haired beauty with enormous brown eyes curved her lips into a condescending smile. "'Fraid not. We have our orders from Lorze."

"I don't give a damn about Lorze or your orders."

"You don't want us to get in trouble, do you?" She batted her thick eyelashes at him and Mace thought if he were any other man he'd be down on his knees. Instead, he wanted to rage. He wanted them gone.

But he held his tongue and watched as patiently as possible as the witches ran damp cloths over Nayla's limp body. She didn't stir. Her chest barely rose with her breaths. But at least the extreme pain hadn't begun. Not like it had with Elizabeth.

Mace remembered trying to ease some of Elizabeth's agony, but his own suffering had taken its toll. He'd been too weak. By the time he'd fully transformed into the immortal Were, she had passed. Her reaction to the plague had killed her. The torturous process had taken her from him, to live eternity on his own.

Oh hell. He couldn't watch the same tragedy happen to Nayla. He wouldn't simply stand around to witness her so fragile and helpless. Whether he liked it or not, the witch had been right. He'd need to help his mate through this the only way he knew how.

He had no choice but to clean himself. No way was he letting these hags near him. Before one of them approached, he grabbed a spare cloth from the pan and rubbed it over his face. The cloth covered with blood.

"Let me help you," the brown-eyed witch said.

"Don't touch me."

"Dream on, stud. I've no interest in getting my jollies from bathing a Were. Please. I wouldn't stoop to your level."

"My level?" A witch was saying he was beneath her? "Ha. Don't let your knack for witchcraft get to your head. A Were is a powerful being. We'd withstand any of your silly tricks."

"Really?" She arched her brow slyly. "Silly tricks, you say?"

"Of course. I've known witches who've tried to use their craft on me." He shook his head and scrubbed the soiled cloth over his chest. "Never works. Sorry to squash your theory, but my level is beyond your vision."

"Interesting." She snapped her fingers. "The witches you've met must've been humoring you. Take a look at yourself, Were. All clean."

Mace glanced down at his body. Not a trace of blood or dirt remained on his skin or on the cloth in his hands. And...he brought his forearm up to his nose and sniffed--he smelled of piney soap. Huh. The witch hadn't touched him or said a single word of a spell. She'd simply snapped her fingers. He'd never seen anything like it.

Maybe he'd underestimated the Paqualette coven. His hopes rose. Could it be Nayla would get through this?

He sat on the mattress next to her as the witches glided back out of the room, taking their incessant chatter with them. Good. They were gone and he was alone with his mate. His Were mate.

God, he hoped she'd forgive him for allowing the transformation to happen. He gritted his jaw and swept his fingers down the curve of her breast. She wouldn't have a choice. He wouldn't give her up. Not now. Not ever. Whether she fought him or not, she'd be his for eternity.

He just needed to get her through the night. With that thought, he brought his mouth down to her soft nipple and licked the rosy-scented flesh until it budded under his touch. She stirred and her breath hissed.

"Mace." Her voice was a rasping whisper. "It hurts. My body hurts."

"I know, love. I'll make you feel better."