WolfeBlade: de Wolfe Pack Generations by Kathryn Veque (top 20 books to read .TXT) 📗

Jordan could see Troy in the stable, quickly gathering his things. The more she looked at that crazy patch of hair on his head, the more comical the situation became. Suddenly, she burst into laughter.

“Saints preserve us,” she said, turning for the keep. “The man looks like an idiot. And he’s happy about it!”

In spite of herself, Jemma fought off a grin. “My husband has a big arse,” she said. “I’m surprised he dinna suffocate Troy.”

Realizing there was no use in them fretting over something that could have been much worse, they giggled as they headed back to the keep of Castle Questing. Of course, they wouldn’t know until years later just how close Paris and Troy had come to mortal combat. For all they knew, Troy had received his humiliating punishment, but he hardly cared because, in the end, he got what he wanted. He married the fair Helene. Six months later, a fat baby boy was born in Andreas de Wolfe.

Paris was the first one to hold the grandchild who nearly tore apart the Houses of de Wolfe and de Norville.

He prayed the lad had been worth the trouble.

CHAPTER ONE

Year of Our Lord 1291

Hell’s Guardhouse Castle

The borders of Scotland

“You are a prophet, man. I have given you the best food and the finest wine, and now I demand you look into the future and tell us how we are to achieve the wealth and power we desire. Speak, True Thomas!”

The older man, whose name was barked so savagely, winced. He didn’t like shouting even though he was desperately hard of hearing.

Standing in the great hall of a dark and stormy castle on the Scottish border called Hell’s Guardhouse, all he could feel were the cold, steely fingers of fear gripping at him as he faced off against a father and son. Men he had found camaraderie and companionship with lately, men who listened to his prophesies even when the church would not. They called him a sorcerer, a blasphemer.

But not John de Soulis and his son, Nicholas.

They wanted something from him.

The great hall was only a hall in the literal sense but, mostly, it was a dark and cavernous hole. The wooden floor was wet and slick and moss grew on the walls because the roof leaked and the water trickled down the walls, making them green and shiny. In fact, the entire north wall was green with moss and the wooden floor was weak in places because of the rot.

The entire hall smelled of rot.

It smelled like the name – a gateway to hell.

“It is not as simple as you believe,” True Thomas said after a moment, seated at the feasting table that was filthy and splintered. “But I told you that I would do this for you, my friends, so I have come prepared. Tonight is the night. Are you prepared to know your fate?”

Lightning flashed and the storm pounding heavily outside seemed to increase. Standing next to the table, John sighed heavily.

“We have been waiting for almost a month,” he said. “You told us that it must be a full spring moon, with a hint of dew in the air, and the birds will have come to roost in the pine trees to the east. All of this has finally happened and I will wait no more. You have demanded food and shelter for weeks until the conditions are right and, finally, they are right. Do what you said you were going to do. Tell us what we wish to know.”

True Thomas knew he’d been living off of the rich lord for the past month. He didn’t feel bad about living like a king while they paid for everything because the pair were an evil lot. Everyone in the western Lowlands knew it.

Stay away from Hell’s Guardhouse, they’d whispered.

But True Thomas hadn’t listened. A prophet, a soothsayer, or whatever the church wished to call him, he was all of those things and more. He was an outcast, so it was rare to find comfort and companionship.

But he’d found it now.

And he was prepared.

“Is my iron bowl hot?” he asked.

He was pointing to the enormous hearth, which was spitting out more smoke than it was evacuating from the chimney. Nicholas, the son, went to the hearth and bent over a thick, iron bowl that True Thomas had placed on the coals. He touched it, drawing back quickly.

“It is,” he said.

“Fetch it to me.”

Nicholas used the corner of his heavy tunic to pick up the bowl and bring it over to the table, where he sat it in front of the old man.

“And the hen’s egg?” True Thomas asked.

John produced the egg, handing it over. True Thomas held the egg up over the bowl, but before he cracked it, he looked at Nicholas.

“Cut your finger,” he instructed.

The dirty young man frowned. “Do what?”

“I said cut your finger. I need your blood.”

Nicholas sighed sharply, looking at his father, who simply nodded. They’d come this far and John wanted his future divined from the man that all of the border region knew as a prophet. He’d spent a month with the smelly, drunken old man and he refused to wait any longer, so Nicholas cut his finger.

True Thomas cracked the egg, right into the bowl.

It sizzled.

Grabbing the finger dripping with blood, True Thomas let a few drops plop into the egg that was cooking from the hot bowl. Once he had what he needed, he spat upon them. Using a dirty, long nail from his little finger, he stirred it up a bit, watching the patterns emerge.

Nicholas and John crowded closer.

“I see… a horizon,” he muttered after a moment, watching the egg and blood and spit mingle. “I see great change, but not without sacrifice.”

John and Nicholas were trying to see what he was seeing. “What sacrifice?” John demanded.

True Thomas used his nail again, swishing through the mixture. As it settled, he watched the omens emerge.

“There is