Salem's Fury (Vengeance Trilogy Book 2) Read Free

tongue.
    “Tried to warn them both, I did.” Bishop sighs. “He is a wild thing. A wolf with no pack.”
    “He has a pack,” I say quickly.
    Bishop grins. “Aye. But ye don’t think to tame him like yer sister. Only run free at his side, ye mad she-wolf.”
    He chuckles anew then fights off another fit.
    “I’d run with ye both, if I could, lass. Me spirit’s willin’, though me bones say no. But if I could…” His voice quiets, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “If I could, I’d see me one last battle ere the banshee shrieks me name and sings me the final song.”
    I place my hand upon his arm. “I shall take comfort that it be awhile before she comes for you.”
    Bishop grunts. “Who can say when she comes for us all? As for me, I think me time comes soon.” He pats my hand. “Less’n ye find one of the wee bastards to wish her away that is.”
    I laugh at that. Then settle in beside him, the pair of us relating old memories and happy times. His tiring sooner than I hope saddens me, and so we sit in silence a long while, listening to the logs crackle.
    Several times I look sideways at him and think time a cruel trickster, all while giving thanks it lends me more to spend with him. Tears sting my eyes at the thought of how many nights I sat upon Bishop’s lap, listening to tales of his homeland and the mysterious creatures residing there.
    But today it is his mention of the Mathers that stirs my mind, willing me recall the life before.
    I fight such memories off, reminding myself to focus on my time with Bishop while I can. When his head nods, I rise and gather up the bearskin hide upon his bed. I place it over him. Then I stroke his hair back, kiss his brow, and take my leave.
    The sun warms my face as I step off the porch.
    Across the yard, George has opened the cabin holding his goods. He and some braves stand inside, exchanging pelts for rifles, clothes, and pot ware. Others gather beside a wagon laden with similar goods, trading with a burly stranger.
    The bearskin coat the stranger wears fits him well. Some might mistake such girth for laziness and think him slow. His easy squat to survey the pelts our braves lay at his feet tells me otherwise.
    My grin fades when he looks up, his deep-set eyes squinting in study of me, even as he ambles over.
    I meet his stare, thinking on Father’s teachings that I must never look away.
    “You are a fierce one,” the trader says to me in the French tongue. “Unlike my wife.”
    “Where is your wife?”
    “She keeps to the kitchen, like a proper wife should.” He smiles at me, his teeth black and rotted. He motions to his wagon. “Won’t you come see what goods I bring to trade?”
    “I need no goods,” I say.
    “Ah, but every young lady requires something. A pretty dress, perhaps, or a bit of ribbon for your hair. Come.” He moves to place his arm around me. “Let me show you—”
    I pull my long knife from its sheath, stick the blade to his groin, and feel him hesitate.
    “I have no need of your goods, Frenchman.” I say to him. “Nor will you find me meek like your wife.”
    “Aye,” he says, wincing. “You are a savage squaw.”
    “No. My father taught me the ways of the shadow. And like a shadow, you may never touch me.” I lean closer to him, whisper. “Test me again and I take what little stones your mother gave you.”
    He groans when I pull the dagger away, falling to his knees, clutching the small wound I left him.
    Braves crow at the sight of the French trader upon my stepping away. Kneeling, I wipe the point of my blade on the grass to clean it, then sheathe the dagger again in my belt and start toward George and Hannah’s cabin.
    A woman stands upon their porch. Near thick-bodied as the Frenchman, I put her age near fifty and five by the grey in her elsewise russet hair. Her cheeks hang heavy off her jowls, and she frowns at me. Then she disappears inside the cabin, leaving me wonder if I must make ready for a different