The scent of Asil's violent emotions washed over him, impossible to sort out anything specific from the storm except that pain and horror were both in the forefront.

"It is her, then," Asil whispered. "I had hoped that she would die and be gone forever. Even when I heard what the rogue looked like, I hoped it was someone else."

That was why Charles didn't believe in coincidences. "You know the witch?"

The Moor looked at his black-gloved hands, then buried them in the snow. He closed his eyes and shuddered. When he opened them, they sparkled with gold highlights. "It's her. She stole it, and she can no more hide from me if I look, than I can hide from her here."

Charles took a deep breath and counseled himself to patience. "What did she steal-and who is she?"

"You know," Asil said. "She's the one who killed my Sarai." He took his snow-covered hands and scrubbed them on his forehead. Then he added the unbearable part. "She stole my mate bond when she did."

Charles knew-as did anyone who had heard the stories of the Moor-that Asil and his wife's mate bond had brought with it an unusual gift, empathy.

He didn't do anything dumb, like ask Asil if he was certain-though he'd never in his life heard of such a thing. And to be tied to a witch, a black witch, with empathy was possibly the worst thing he'd ever heard of. No wonder Asil had asked his father to kill him.

"This witch looks to be barely out of her teens. Sarai died two centuries ago."

Asil bowed his head and murmured, "I swear to you, I did not expect her to find me. Your father's safeguards held for all this time-if they hadn't, I'd have forced him to kill me the very first day I came to Aspen Creek." He swallowed. "I should not have allowed him to make me one of the pack, though. If she reached through the pack bonds, the only access she could possibly have is through me, though our mate bond."

Chilled, Charles stared at the Moor and wondered if he could possibly be as mad as he'd always claimed. Because if he wasn't, this witch was even more of a problem than Charles thought.

Crystalline wolf eyes gazed up at him, looking out of Asil's dark face while snow coated both of them. "Tell me about the wolf who looked like my Sarai." Desperation and despair colored the old wolf's voice.

"I never met your mate," Charles's voice softened. "But the wolf with the witch is large, even for a werewolf. She's colored like a German shepherd, fawn with black points and back. There's some white on her left front foot, I think."

"First two toes," Asil spat, coming to his feet in a rage that was undeniably real, for all that it had come upon him instantaneously. "How dare she use Sarai's form for her illusions?"

Charles folded his arms. He was going to have to sit down soon, the pain was making him light-headed. "It's not an illusion, Asil. Not unless an illusion can pass on lycanthropy. The rogue we found here is her first victim. She attacked him, and he drove her off-then Changed at the next new moon."

Asil stilled. "What?"

Charles nodded. "There's something strange about that wolf. She's only solid sometimes. Anna hurt her, and she fled, but as soon as she was out of sight, her tracks and blood just stopped."

Asil's breath caught.

"You know something?"

"They were all dead," he whispered.

"Who?"

"All the witches who knew...but then we all underestimated Mariposa."

"Mariposa? As in butterfly?"

Asil's eyes were black in the night. "I am not a witch."

Which seemed like an odd answer to his question. Charles considered him. "But you've been alive a long, long time," Charles suggested. "And Sarai was an herbalist, a healer, wasn't she? You know some things about witchcraft. You know what this wolf is."

"Mariposa is the witch. We raised her, Sarai and I," said Asil starkly. "She came from a family of witches that we knew-my mate was an herbalist. She knew most of the witches in that part of Spain, kept them supplied with what they needed. One day a tinker came to our door with Mari; she was eight or nine years old. From what we gleaned later, Mariposa's mother had only just enough power to protect her youngest daughter from the attack of another clan of witches. Her parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, and all were dead-and her mother, too. The tinker found the little girl wandering by the burnt remnants of her house and thought my wife would take her in, as he knew that my wife had done considerable trade with that family."

He sighed and turned away, looking out over the narrow, dark valley below them. "That was a bad time for all of us in Europe. The Inquisition had taken a terrible toll just a couple of centuries before-and when it was over, the witches started fighting for power. Only Napoleon kept them from exterminating each other entirely."

"I know the story," Charles told him. The only Western European witch bloodline to survive the power struggle was the Torvalis line, which was interbred with the Gypsies. Witches still were born here and there into mundane families, but seldom had a tenth of the power of the old families. The Eastern European and Oriental witches had never established the kind of dynasties the Western European witches had.

"They guarded their spells from each other," Asil told him. "So each family tended to specialize. Mariposa's family was one of the greatest of the witch families." He hesitated. "But she was only a child, and this was their greatest spell. I can hardly believe they entrusted her with it."

"What was it?"

"Her family was said to have guardians on their grounds, great beasts who patrolled and killed for them- but never needed food or drink. It was rumored that they made them from living creatures-they had a menagerie." He sighed. "Such powerful spells, as you well know, are never made without blood and death."

"You think your butterfly used such a spell on your mate?"

Asil shrugged. "I don't know anything. All I can do is speculate." He sucked in a breath. "She told me, before we sent her to another witch for teaching, she told me that the only place she really felt safe was with Sarai and me."

He paused, then said bleakly, "I was in Romania when it happened. I dreamed Sarai was being tortured and consumed. Her heart had ceased beating, her lungs could not draw in air, but she lived and burned with pain and power. I dreamed Mariposa consumed my love until she was no more. It took her a long time to die, but not as long as my journey from Romania back to Spain. When I crossed our threshold, Sarai had been dead for a while."