Montana isn't known for its restrictive speed limits, but I break them anyway as I push my old Nav to the limit, passing other cars on the double line and triggering rage in my fellow motorists.

My phone pings with an incoming text, but I keep my eyes on the road. Town is twenty-minutes away, Jake's address probably more. I don't know it, but I'm guessing Freya does. And if not, I trust she can find anything.

Hence the text.

I toss my phone to Kit. "What's she say?"

He struggles to interpret the message. He's learned to read pretty well already, but nerves and the unfamiliar format trip him up.

"Jake st... still at... st... station," he reads. "I will try to keep him dis... dist..."

"Distracted," I supply.

"Distracted. Ad... address is... one-six-four-three Ald... Alder Creek Lane."

"Shit. Where is that?" I used to know this area, but it's grown over the years, and 'Alder Creek Lane' doesn't ring a bell.

Kit continues to stare at the phone, as if this information will reveal itself if he just looks hard enough. I take it back from him and ask the A.I. for directions, then swear again as the map orients itself and I see it's on the other side of town, in an outlying neighborhood—a thirty-minute drive. Jake could get there from the sheriff's station in less than ten.

"Monty!"

Kit's warning narrowly saves me from rear-ending a slow-moving truck, and I thank the gods my behemoth of a car has decent brakes. Setting my phone aside, I grip the wheel with both hands and take a breath. Kit sits wide-eyed and stiff with fear in the passenger seat, but I sense his courage, too. Reaching over, I take his hand. 

"Good thing I got you," I say. "You saved our butts." 

He blushes bronze, but squeezes my hand in return, and doesn't let go.

On the next straight stretch of road, I pass the truck, earning a string of angry honks from the driver, and I remind myself not to be mad at the next person I see driving like a jerk. Who knows: maybe they really do got somewhere important to be.

I drive fast but careful the rest of the way, the silence only broken by the artificial voice on my phone, telling me which roads to take and where to turn.

My heartbeat quickens and my breath whistles in my nose and throat as we approach our destination. Against my will, I recall the last time I raced against the clock like this, and press down on the gas a little more.

I can't live through that again.

"There it is!"

Kit points, and I see it, too: at the end of the street, on the cul-de-sac, a simple two-story house with peeling paint and a half-tiled roof. A large dumpster full of old wood and other junk sits on the faded lawn out front, and half the windows are boarded up.

Jake wasn't lying about the renovations, at least.

Thankfully, there's no sign of his ranger's truck.

I pull up to the curb and kill the engine, then pause and take a breath. Whatever awaits us within, knowing for certain must be better than not knowing at all.

Glancing at Kit, I see his dark eyes shining with barely contained fright, but with a fierce determination, too, and it surprises me. It's a look I've never seen directed at myself before, but which I've seen on the faces of my mated siblings plenty of times.

I look away. He should save that kind of devotion for someone he loves.

"You wanna wait here?" I ask quietly.

He shakes his head. "No. With you."

With no time to argue, I nod.

"Okay. But I need you to do what I tell you. And if I say run, that means run. Got it?"

"Okay."

I take another breath, and then we move.

We get out and walk up the path to the front door. Without being obvious about it, I take in the neighboring lots. The adjacent houses aren't too close, and there's no sign we're being watched, but I don't take that for granted. The last thing we need is some nosy neighbor calling the sheriff on us and alerting Jake.

As expected, the door is locked, but the latch isn't fancy, and there's no evidence of a security system. I break the handle off, and it opens.

Kit and I slip through, and I shut it after us.

Inside the home, it's dark, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The place is gutted—the floors bare, and the walls stripped down to the framing. Bits of plaster litter the floor, and dropcloths cover what looks like a small mountain of furniture, piled in the center of the living room. Wires hang from empty light fixtures, and the kitchen sink sits on the floor, disconnected from its pipes.

"Good excuse to be spending so much time here," I mutter. "This isn't a one-man job, unless it's all he does. Good way to hide unusual noises, too."

I glance at the large gas-powered generator in the corner, and at the array of power tools lined next to it, and get a queasy feeling in my stomach. In the wrong hands, a tool becomes a weapon—or an implement of torture—all too easily.

"Where do we start?" Kit asks, staying close to my side and peering about at the mess.

"Are you okay to Shift? You're a helluva lot smaller than I am, and I think some heightened senses would come in useful here."

"Yes, I'm okay."

He says it with enough earnest conviction that I believe him.

"Good. Why don't you take the yard and I'll search in here. If there's..." I wince, but force myself to go on. "If there's buried evidence, a little fox sniffing around outside is less likely to draw attention than a large man. Or a large wolf, for that matter."

"All right. I can be a darker color, too," he says. "I'll stand out less."

"Good. And maybe just the one tail, if you can manage it."

With a shy smile, he glances around, finds a clean patch of ground, and strips out of his clothes. Then, far more seamlessly than I've ever seen a werewolf Shift, he morphs from man to fox. A small, gray fox, this time. Blinking pretty black eyes at me, he darts back towards the door. I follow and open it a crack for him, and he slips through. I prop it open with a nearby crowbar—just enough he can get back in—and then turn to my own search.

Honestly, if there's anything to find, I don't expect to find it outside. I just want to spare Kit the shock, should I find something unpleasant.

I start upstairs, but this is quick work. There are three bedrooms and a bath. One room is obviously Jake's, though it has the personality of a military dorm room: a bed in the corner, clothes in drawers, basic care items—razor, soap, shampoo, towels—and not much else.

I dig through a duffle bag in his closet, but find nothing more incriminating than a pack of condoms and a winter coat.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, and zip the bag back up, leaving everything as I found it. If we're wrong...

Back on the ground floor, I turn in a slow circle, rubbing the back of my head. The house is laid bare—its bones exposed. There aren't many places to hide anything, but I check anyway.

I find nothing but the temporary residence of a man who doesn't intend to stay long.

The kitchen cupboards are empty, and the trash full of takeout containers. The closet contains only a shop-vac and a broom.

In the living room, the mountainous form hidden beneath the dropcloths reveals only furniture—a sofa set, dining table, sideboard, and chairs.

I let the cloths fall as they were and take a breath of dust-filled air. Everything is still.

Then a little gray shape darts between my feet and a moment later Kit is stumbling towards me, naked and shaking.

"Monty! Come quick! There's a—there's a—there's—!

I grab hold of his shoulders to steady him.

"Kit, take a breath."

Obediently, he inhales sharply through his nose.

'That's it. Now—you found something?"

He nods.

"Where?"

He points towards the back of the house.

"Okay. You think anyone can see us from out there?"

He shakes his head.

"Good. Okay, back door."

Outside, I assess the risk and find it minimal. The house is set further back than its neighbors, and only a stretch of scrubby ground and a privacy fence separates it from the open land beyond. Unless Jake's neighbors are pathologically curious, no one is watching us.

"Okay, what it is?" I ask.

Kit, still naked as a wild fox, though hugging his arms across his chest and shivering, leads me along the side of the house to a spot where a layer of bark chips overs the ground beneath the overhanging roof.

"Here."

I study the ground.

"What is it?"

"Something... beneath," he whispers. "Earth and... blood."

Biting back a surge of fear, I kneel and brush the bark chips aside. Below, I find a layer of loose soil, and then a slab of concrete.

"It's just the foundation," I say, sitting up and brushing dirt from my hands.

He grabs hold of my upper arm. "No—there's something more! I'm sure of it!"

"Okay, okay—I'll keep looking."

I continue to scoop the dirt aside. Then my fingers brush something different. Working frantically, I clear a patch of chips and dirt, and reveal an iron hoop set in a square. It could be the septic tank, but then again...

Waving for Kit to stand back, I grip the iron ring and brace myself. A normal man—even a normal man of my size—might struggle to lift something so heavy on his own. But I'm not a normal man. I'm a Wolf, and an exceptionally strong one. With a few quick, bracing breaths, I raise the block and haul it to the side.

A black square yawns in its place, smelling of dank earth, and a set of steep wooden steps lead into the gloom.

Kit's fingers close tight around mine. I'd like to chase him off—to do the smart thing and tell him to run, and to wait where it's safe—but my heart rebels, and I just can't let him go. So I take a few more steadying breaths, and then we descend, hand in hand into the dark.