Wolves, I have learned, know how to party.

After Flora Shifts, the celebration continues long into the night. Those who are able, and who choose to do so, Shift and join her and Freya on a 'run,' which seems to be a sort of ritualized mock hunt. The rest of us, including Martin, continue with the feasting and festivities, passing the night between good food and good company.

There's good music as well, and when Martin's youngest sister unpacks a cello, his brother's fiery mate joins her with a violin. Then the two women, Chloe and Grace, produce a drum and a little flute, and soon lively folk tunes of various origins enrich the night.

When, recognizing a particularly stirring Celtic ballad, I'm unable to resist my temptation to sing along, Ambrose invites me to join the ensemble. After only a slight hesitation, I accept, and all activity ceases for several minutes as everyone stops what they're doing to listen. Even the other musicians briefly stop playing.

Only the best human singers can come close to rivaling a Voice of the Sea, and even without intentionally using it, there's dormant magic in the sound. Fortunately, people are quite good at getting used to things, and after a few moments, the festivities resume, and the musicians pick up their instruments again. Ambrose alone continues to watch me with a keenly knowing look.

"That's some set of pipes you've got," he says when the song concludes. "You're a regular siren, I'd say."

I can't help laughing at that, and at his pointed tone.

"Quite a regular one, indeed," I say, and wink at him.

He scowls, and turns away as his mate approaches, muttering something about not trusting people who wink too much. Noah, who had forgone the Shift in favor of keeping Martin company, finds this intensely amusing for some reason, and chokes on his drink. His unfortunate, humor-induced coughing fit reminds me of his brother, and as Ambrose pats him unhelpfully on the back, I wander off in search of Martin.

I find him seated on one of several hay-bales arranged around a large bonfire, the younger twins asleep in his arms. Martin himself appears to be dozing, chin resting on his chest and eyes closed. He stirs when I sit beside him, though, and blinks at me blearily.

"What time is it?" he murmurs.

"Time for bed, by the looks of it. Here — let me help."

I lift a sleepy Nico in my arms while Martin gathers Rio and follows me to the large, enclosed tent. Within, we find a number of waiting beds — a mix of cots, futons, and air-mattresses. As we set the twins down on the large futon Martin had picked out for the kids to share, they rouse themselves and begin to protest.

"Noooo!" Rio whines. "I wanna stay up til morning!"

"Miguel gets to," Nico enjoins. "S'not fair!"

"Miguel is older," Martin says. "When you're older, you can stay up, too."

"But I'm not tired yet," the pair exclaim in unison, in matching, very tired-sounding voices.

"What if I sing you a lullaby?" I ask. "Would that help?"

"Lullabies are for babies," Nico huffs, arms crossed and eyes red with the threat of tears.

"Really? Where I come from, lullabies are for everyone." I shoot Martin a teasing smile. "Tell you what — I'll sing you one my mother used to sing. If it doesn't make you even a little sleepy, you can stay up as late as you like. What do you say?"

Eagerly, the twins nod, accepting my challenge. Martin opens his mouth to protest — no doubt having experience with his own children's stubbornness — but I start to sing before he speaks.

It's not a long or a complicated song, but it can be repeated ad infinitum (though even the most determined merchildren rarely make it through more than three rounds) and the melody shifts like sand, ever changing. The Mer language has no written version, but spelled phonetically, it would sound something like so:

Ohoyasi taya,
koro-koro sai-a,
mahili, mahili,
lashamili vaya.

Translated, it comes out to roughly: The sea is calm, far beneath the rolling waves; my little one, my little one, close your eyes and dream.

I've barely completed one variation on the melody before the twins are fast asleep.

I turn to Martin with a ready smile, but he, too, has succumbed, slumped beside the bed with his head resting on his folded arms.

"Ah, just as well," I murmur, and drape a blanket over his shoulders, and leave him to his dreams.

〜〜〜

As more of the guests return home or retire to the communal tent, the night grows quiet. The great fire burns to smoldering ashes, and the talk and laughter die down along with it, until only the crickets sing, and only Ambrose, Miguel, and I remain awake, awaiting the Wolves' return.

They return with the dawn, and retreat to various secluded places to Shift and don their human clothes. Flora greets me and her brother, looking very tired and a little dirty, but also with a new shine to her eyes, as if she's seen and experienced new and wondrous things — or, indeed, as if she's been through a significant right-of-passage and emerged triumphant upon the other side. She merely smiles at me and gives her twin brother a quick, light hug, before retreating to the tent to sleep.

"Shall we?" I ask Miguel, indicating that he, too, ought to retire.

He shrugs and follows his sister, wordlessly and with a downcast look. I watch as he pushes aside the door-flap and disappears inside the walled pavilion, and I feel a twinge of sympathy for the boy. And, as I stand a while longer in the quiet remains of the night, the gray gradually giving way to the pale, watercolor wash of first light, it occurs to me I might do something to make him smile. First, though, I've a secret to reveal.

〜〜〜

By midmorning, most people are up and about, and even the grouchiest and most taciturn (Martin's eldest brother, for instance) are mollified by a simple breakfast of savory scones with butter and hot coffee or tea. The clearing away and taking down of things concludes shortly after, and then the last of the guests disperse.

I stand at a slight distance, having already taken my leave, as Martin escorts Flora through a final round of thank-yous and goodbyes.

He's just finished giving his father a lingering hug, his shoulders shaking a little, and turns towards me with a smile, when a small, dark bird with a strangely uneven, bat-like flight streaks across the space between us. I turn to track it with my eyes, but it's already lost among the brush. It could have been anything — any smallish bird with pointed wings and a white patch at its tail — but it had looked remarkably like a storm petrel, which would be a very strange bird to see in this region, much less so far from the sea.

If I were not the son of a sea-witch, and if storm petrels were not among my mother's favorite birds, I would have dismissed the sighting as a trick of the eye or the mind; but as I am such a one, as and such birds are my mother's favorite messengers, I cannot dismiss it out of hand.

Rather, I must consider what it may portend.

Unfortunately, what it portends is not good. The petrel, especially a lone one so far from home, signals trouble: something brewing on the horizon.

A coming storm.

My eyes are drawn back to Martin, who watches me with a curious expression, gazing across the distance between us like a lost sailor who has spotted land, and I frown.

Whatever the amulet might say, and despite the short time I have known him, I have come to hold him — and his family — rather dear. Meanwhile, despite the fierce strength of his Pack and his extended circle of acquaintances, those who share the strength of the sea are not ones to trifle with.

Until I know if I'm imagining things or not, I may need to rethink my strategy.

For his sake, and for my own.