By the afternoon, I've pretty much recovered. I might not heal as fast at some Wolves, and maybe I'm a bit more susceptible to things like the common cold than most, but I'm still a Wolf at the end of the day.
Speaking of days, I learn I've been out of it for most of the last two, and that now only two remain until the full moon.
In the meantime, I can't stop thinking about Ambrose, and about what exactly had triggered his abrupt reversal.
In the space of twenty-four hours, he'd gone from charming me out of my clothes to throwing me out of his life, and I want to understand why; I want to know if this is really what he wants, or if whatever he discovered drove him to do the only thing he could to keep me safe.
I'm just worried that by the time I figure it out—if I ever do—it might be too late either way.
When I raise the topic of keeping a watch on Ambrose's house, though, Dane surprises me.
"We have been. Freya and I are taking it in turns. There's been no sign of...well, anything," he says. "No one's come in or out, and most of the lights stay off at night. It's almost like there's no one home."
We're standing outside, watching Julian and Freya throw Dougal's ball as far out into the meadow as they can, making him hunt for it through the tall grass. The weather has turned, the clouds clearing off, and the afternoon sun is golden and warm and feels good on my back through the borrowed sweater I'm wearing.
"Almost?" I ask.
Dane shifts his weight, leaning against one of the posts supporting the porch's overhanging roof.
"We've seen lights in what I take it are the bedrooms," he says. "It seems like everyone's holed up in their own, probably only coming out at predetermined times for meals and so on."
"I guess that makes sense," I reflect.
Dane shrugs. "It's the best they can do, in the circumstances. The thief and/or murderer has been able to infiltrate even the most secure spaces without detection. Of course, if I were them, I'd put the final gift-relic somewhere beyond reach, at least until after the full moon—a bank vault or something—but I'm guessing Aileen isn't willing to part with it."
"I'm not sure she can," I say. "I mean, once they all realized what was happening, that would've been the thing to do, right? Lock the relics away somewhere more secure. None of them have done that, though. I think that's probably what the thief has been counting on. If she—or he—knows where the owner is, she knows where the relic is, too."
"It's the warnings I don't get," Dane says. "Why alert the victims to exactly when and where each relic would be stolen? It's done no good, but why give them the chance to prevent it from happening at all?"
"Maybe that's the point," I consider. "Maybe the thief is giving the Oakfields and Thornes one last chance to...to give up what's most important to them in order to protect it."
Dane regards me, a slight frown pulling at his mouth. "If that is what Ambrose is doing, then he's the only one out of them all who's managed to pass that test. I think you ought to respect that."
"What do you mean?" I ask, returning his frown with my own.
"I mean it's clear that, for whatever reason, he wants you nowhere near that house. I don't either. Freya and I will keep watch, but I want you here, where it's safe."
"Dane, I—"
"This is still my case," he interrupts, "and it's not over."
"You were hired to protect a painting," I remind him, "and the guy who hired you is dead."
"Yeah, well. If I were in this for the money, I'd be following cheating spouses around with a telephoto lens. I finish what I start."
I look at him, noting the stubborn set of his jaw and the slight hunch in his shoulders, which tell me he's ready to dig in for the fight if I don't let it drop.
"Fine. I'll stay here."
He relaxes, his expression softening.
"Good."
I look away, squinting against the sharp angle of the sun.
After a moment, he adds, "You know it's not that I don't trust you, right? Because I do. I know I haven't done a great job of showing it so far, but I trust you with my life and my heart, Noah. If you hadn't been here to help Julian when you did... Well, I owe you—especially given how I treated you for it. I wanna say again how sorry I am for that; and I'll understand if you don't, but if you decide to stay—once this is all over, I mean—I'd be honored to have you in my Pack."
I can only nod, not trusting myself to speak, and Dane leaves it at that, giving my shoulder a gentle pat before heading back inside.
A minute or so later, Freya gives Dougal's slobbery tennis ball a final toss, and then she and Julian return to the house as well, a sufficiently exhausted Dougal in tow.
Later, we enjoy a light supper of some fresh-caught fish sent over by Julian's bear-shifter ex, which Dane eyes with suspicion, probably wondering if bear-shifters substitute flowers for fish when making overtures of affection. He needn't worry, given that the bear has an incubus permanently attached and Julian's eyes haven't strayed from Dane since the moment he met him, but it's his nature to be possessive of his mate.
I force myself to eat, and talk, and smile—to reassure the others that I'm okay—but it feels like I'm playing a part, or like I'm controlling my body from afar: a disaffected puppeteer pulling strings, making his marionette dance while he sits behind a curtain, slowly drowning his sorrows in the dark.
Finally, the meal comes to an end, and Dane and Freya prepare to depart, Dane as a wolf and Freya in human form, to surveille Ambrose's house overnight.
Once they're gone, Julian introduces me to a funny show about vampires he's been binging, starting over at the beginning for my sake, but after a few episodes, I make my excuses and retreat to the relative solitude of the lumpy futon on the floor of Julian and Dane's office room.
As I stare down at the makeshift bed, I wonder again how I came to this. Barely two months ago, my life had seemed so stable, so promising. Maybe not exciting; maybe not entirely fulfilling, but safe and...close enough to happy that I hadn't noticed or minded the missing parts.
I'd had a clear path—goals, and a future to aim for—a home, and someone to share it with.
Now I had a few square feet of borrowed space, an old car, a box of clothes, a dog, and a broken heart, now broken anew.
I'm not even sure it's worth picking up the pieces this time.
I force myself to shower and brush my teeth, and I'm just about to lie down and try to read on my phone when a notification pops up: an email, sent to the address I only use for personal stuff.
The subject heading is blank, but the address is familiar enough.
It's from Thom.
Knowing it's a bad idea, but curious anyway, I open the email app and stare at the new message for a few minutes, contemplating whether or not to open it.
"Oh, fuck," I sigh. It's not like I have anything else to do.
I tap the message, and it opens to reveal a very brief note.
See the attached image. I have more.
Scanning the layout of the email, I spot the attached document and tap it. My crappy phone barely has enough storage to download it, but eventually it manages the job.
I stare at the screen for a long time, not quite comprehending. Eventually, I focus enough to put words to thought and derive some sort of meaning from what I see.
It's a grainy, low-light photo, taken on a deserted street at night. An orange-toned streetlamp illuminates two figures—one in a long tartan robe, the other completely nude.
The naked one seems just to have emerged from the brush at the side of the road, and walks toward the other, who greets him with open arms.
It's me and Ambrose, the night Brutus died, when I'd returned from tracking the scent of the thief to the lake.
The timing, angle and direction of the shot tell me a number of things.
First, Thom has been watching me for a while now, day and night.
Second, he's almost certainly the driver of the car that tried to run me down.
Third, he was there the night Brutus died, taking photos of Ambrose's house and of the street.
Finally, he might have seen something more—something important.
He might have seen the killer, the thief, or both, and he might have proof.
Quickly, I type out a reply, keeping it simple and open-ended to start.
What do you want?
A moment later my phone rings.
I wait until it's almost gone to voicemail and then answer it.
"Thom."
"Hello, Noah."
I wait.
"You got my message, then?" he asks.
"Obviously."
"Right."
He sounds pleased with himself—the professor holding the class in suspense.
"You have more pictures?" I prompt.
"Oh yes. Lots." He laughs softly. "Not just of you, either. Your brother. Your... sister. You're a bunch of freaks, aren't you? You and all those dogs you keep. What is it—some kind of bestiality cult?"
I breathe a sigh of relief. He hadn't seen anyone Shift, then—just a few naked weirdos and some wolves.
"The night you took that picture—the one you sent me—you got more?"
"Of course. Must've been some strange party you had."
"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to sound frightened and horrified and not interested and hopeful.
I hear a shuffling sound as he shifts the phone from one side to the other, and I wonder where he is right now—if he's outside Ambrose's house, or if he might even be watching Julian's somehow.
"Listen," he says, with the cool confidence of a man who knows he has the upper hand, "meet me. I want to deal. You care about your family, right? You wouldn't want those pictures getting out, for example, would you?"
"No," I breathe, and that's true enough.
"No," he agrees, and then laughs as if amused at his own joke. "You know, I was ready to play the long con with you, Noah—the whole 'illness and sympathy' schtick. Then your brother had to go sticking his nose in my past like some mongrel cur rooting through trash. Fortunately, I have my own 'eyes' looking out for me, and they alerted me that the game was up. So—what will it be? Shall we meet and discuss terms, or should I just post these photos in the relevant feeds?"
"Where? When?" I ask.
"How about... tonight. You know the old railroad bridge, where it crosses the river at the pass?"
"Yes." It was a scenic spot on the west side of town, where the Crystal River cut through some steep granite ridges on its way down from the peaks.
"I'm staying at the lodge nearby. Let's meet at the overlook on the south side. An hour."
I swallow.
It's a stupid, reckless, and textbook dumb thing to do—meeting the blackmailer alone, at night, somewhere remote and far from help.
Still, it might be my one, last chance to do something useful, to pick up some kind of clue—maybe even one that will help solve the case, or help me save Ambrose from himself.
And Thom doesn't know everything.
He doesn't know I have my own reasons for wanting those photos, and, as much as he likes to think he does, he doesn't know me at all.
He doesn't know that the animal he's backed into a corner is a Wolf with nothing to lose.
"Fine," I say. "I'll see you there."
I hang up before he can say anything else, dress in my discarded clothes, grab my wallet and keys, and slip silently out the back door.