Free The Archer (The Blood Realm Series Book 3) by Jennifer Blackstream

writhing as the transformation continued despite the wolf's crushing jaws.
    The wolf hung on, its jaw as unforgiving as a hunter’s steel trap. The wizard’s spell flickered, the change momentarily halting, trapping him mid-shift. Mac had used the wolf’s attack well, taking the time to close the distance between Casan and himself. He swung his hand toward the wizard’s face, remembered he had no claws, and grabbed hold of his beard instead. The wolf released the bloody limb, yielding the prey  over to Mac who twisted the grey strands, securing his hold as he punched the wizard's jaw. The wizard grunted, teeth clacking together as his body rocked back. Only Mac’s hold on his beard kept him upright.
    “You will watch your tongue, old man.” Mac jerked at his beard, keeping the wizard off balance so he couldn’t regain his feet. “I recognize you. More than one of your human victims have come to me with outrageous reports of an old man by the river who somehow turned into a mighty stag while they waded across with their valuables. You stole what your victims dropped in their fright, but some of them didn’t run away. Some of them drowned in their fear. Tell me, did you follow the river downstream to pick the corpses clean of their gold, or do you content yourself with what you can scoop from the water?”
    Casan’s body settled back into his human form, though his skin still rippled with the aftereffects of the spell. His grey eyes narrowed despite his fumbling to try and get his feet under him, and fury twisted his face into something less than human. “I take what I please as is my right. It is survival of the fittest in the forest—I would think you of all people would understand that.”
    Mac snarled and punched the wizard in the face again. This time he released his beard, letting the old man sprawl on the floor in a tangle of limbs and the plentiful folds of his expensive robe. Three longs strides carried Mac to the fireplace and he snatched a ceramic jar from the mantle. The lid rattled as he removed it and set it back on the mantle, all the while keeping his eyes locked on the wizard lying dazed on the floor. The bitter scent of salt tickled his nose, almost made him sneeze as some of the fine powder wafted into the air. He scooped some into his hand and began making a circle around the fallen magic wielder.
    The caramel and white wolf licked its bloody lips, its pale silver eyes following every twitch of the fallen wizard’s body. As the last of the salt circle was completed, it turned from the prisoner and trotted across the room to the corner. A crossbow hung on the wall, easily within the wolf’s reach when it rose to its hind quarters. It plucked the weapon from the hook with its jaws and carried it back to Mac.
    The wizard blinked, one wrinkled hand rising to cradle his jaw as he sat up. It took him a moment to notice the salt circle, to register the crossbow in Mac’s hands as he loaded it. Hatred sparked in his eyes. “What do you want?”
    The adrenaline racing through Mac’s system lent him a strength and vitality he hadn’t felt since his time in a wolf’s skin. He towered over his captive, relishing the authority, the control. “I want order .”
    The wizard barked out a laugh as he rubbed his chin. “Is that all? Why not ask for the sun and moon to change places while you’re at it?”
    The wizard’s derision slid off Mac like blood off a finely crafted blade. He bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “The curse you so carelessly remarked upon has weighed on my family for nine generations. For nine generations we have watched as two of our number were chosen every seven years, trapped in the bodies of wolves to live as beasts until the magic chose the next two. We retain the ability to speak—a cruel twist since to speak in that form would mean our death if any human overheard. Nine generations we have born this curse, and do you know why?”
    “You pointed your crossbow at the