"I'm so bored," Julian groans. "Why did I insist on doing this, again? Don't tell Dane I said that," he adds, slumping in his chair.

As far as we're concerned, he's right: the night is turning out to be a very lackluster affair.

I'd at least found something to read—though it was only a rather stuffy translation of Herodotus, with most of the interesting bits scrubbed out. I'd just reached the part about the fox-sized ants when Julian began to complain.

We're sitting in a pair of armchairs directly below the painting, with a small table set between us. From this position, we can see the entire room, and no one can reach the painting without climbing over us.

The library itself is shaped like a long rectangle, with doors at both ends. One set opens into the main hall—a huge space, two stories high, with the house's entrance on one side and the grand staircase on the other, leading up to an open balcony and the second floor. On the other side, the doors lead to a hallway and various interior rooms. We've been keeping both sets shut, in an effort to discourage guests from walking through (which isn't working) and also to make it obvious when someone enters.

As for the party itself, it's been in 'full swing' for three hours already, with no sign of an end in sight. While the primary purpose of Barker's gala was ostensibly the silent charity auction he was hosting out in the main hall, as far as many of his guests were concerned, 'swing' seemed to be the operative word. At least, that's what I'd gathered from the mix and match of increasingly drunk couples I'd seen stumbling through the room on their way to and from more secluded areas of the house.

No wonder Barker had been so handsy with Julian right from the go; it was that kind of party, it seemed.

Julian moans again, sinking lower in his seat. Unlike myself, he'd found nothing of interest among Barker's showy shelves, and had been entertaining himself by watching videos on his phone. Unfortunately, after two hours his battery was running low, and he'd had to turn it off to save power.

"Why don't you go see what there is to eat?" I suggest. "I'm sure it's not all caviar and foie gras."

I'd glimpsed an enormous buffet-style banquet out in the main hall, piled high with plates of expensive, if not particularly appetising, foods.

He makes a face but gets to his feet. "I guess it's worth a try. You'll be okay alone?"

Never better, I thought, but smiled. "Of course. You're the one going into danger, if Barker's out there."

He gives an exaggerated shudder. "You want me to get you a plate, too?"

"No, thanks. I'll check it out later if you bring back anything good."

"Gotcha." Julian winks and then leaves me alone, shutting the door behind him as he goes.

Rather than return to reading, I close my eyes, rest my head against the back of my chair and let the book fall open on my lap. I can't relax if I think anyone might be watching me—even a close friend—so I take the opportunity now to try to unwind some of the thoughts tangled in my brain.

Before I can even begin, I hear a soft scratching sound and sit up, worried I might not be alone after all.

The room is empty, but the sound comes again—a faint, odd scraping noise—and I tilt my head, trying to pinpoint the direction of its source.

I listen, but hear nothing more. Mice, maybe; though Barker's house is hardly old enough to have mice—whatever he liked to pretend.

Leaning back against my chair, I pick up my book and find my place. I've barely read half a sentence when I hear it again—a soft, shuffling slide.

Not mice, I conclude—unless, like Herodotus' ants, they're unusually large.

Setting the book aside, I stand and begin to slowly walk the length of the room, listening for further sounds and hoping to establish the source. It's probably just a pair of guests—or several—in an adjoining room, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

I can almost hear something, but it's so faint—just at the edge of detection—that I can't be sure, and I blow out a breath of frustration.

If I had my wolf's ears, I'd have no trouble at all.

With this thought, I glance at either door.

The house is quiet, the guests all occupied (in one way or another) and no one has entered since Julian left. What's the point of having super-normal abilities if I didn't use them, anyway?

Deciding to risk it, I close my eyes, concentrate, and Shift just my ears.

Instantly, sounds are sharper, louder, clearer, and gloriously three-dimensional. Not that there's much to hear.

There's music coming from the main hall—along with the usual mix of chatter and laughter—and other sounds from nearby rooms. One of these I think I recognize as what I'd been hearing—a sort of rhythmic bump and scrape, with an occasional creak, as of a large piece of furniture being unfortunately abused.

Realizing the probable cause, I grimace and prepare to Shift back, having discovered it was possible to be both safe and sorry.

Before I do, though, another sound catches my attention—this one from the opposite side of the room. There, a large tapestry hangs on the wall—medieval, by the look of it—framed by large drapes that could be drawn to protect the priceless fabric from light or dust.

At least Barker had the sense to care about preservation.

The noise is very soft—a slight whisper and a quiet, almost undetectable drumming. I move closer, slowly, ears swiveling as I pinpoint the area of its source. I stop in front of the drapes and stare. I swear it's right in front of me, but there's nothing to see. I tilt my head from side to side, listening, thinking maybe it's pipes in the wall, but it's not a mechanical sound. It's softer, quiet—like a slow heartbeat.

I realize, with a cold thrill, that a heartbeat is exactly what it is. There's only one person I know who can stand right in front of someone without being seen, though I don't know why'd he be doing so now.

"Julian?" I whisper, wide-eyed as I stretch out my hand. "What are you doing?"

With a soft laugh, a figure materializes from the shadows beside the drapes and my own heart nearly stops.

Instead of Julian, Ambrose Thorne looks down at me, sharp teeth showing in a smile.

"Well, isn't that a neat trick?" he says, lifting his brows as he studies my ears.

I'm frozen with shock and can't un-Shift, though there's no point anyway, now.

"Do you have the tail, too?" he asks, moving closer to peer over my shoulder at my back.

I nearly trip in my haste to back away from him, and he catches me by the upper arms, grinning with amusement at my fright.

"Relax, little wolf. I'm not one to fear. Not for you, at least."

"D-D-Doctor Thorne!" I gasp, but stop as his hands tighten painfully on my arms and he goes stiff and alert, amusement vanishing as he stares past me over my shoulder.

Then, to my further shock, he spins me around, shoves me against the drapes, and covers my ears with his hands.

"I told you," he whispers, "to call me Ambrose."

Then he kisses me.

At the same instant, the doors at the end of the room fly open, and a group of guests traipse in, laughing loudly.

"Whoopsie!" I hear a woman trill, "Looks like this room's taken, boys! Let's try upstairs."

As the group weaves their drunken way across the room, making for the other door and offering a chorus of catcalls and wolf-whistles as they pass, Thorne keeps his body crowded against mine, shielding me from sight. In the meantime, he's putting a lot of effort into giving them a believable show.

I'd made the mistake of opening my mouth when he first took me by surprise, and he'd taken full advantage, his tongue making a slow, thorough, and intimately sensual acquaintance with mine. There's a scent and a deep heat coming off him, subtle and intoxicating, and it's messing with my ability to think. His mouth tastes like absinthe, like sugar and sin, and without even knowing what I'm doing, I start to kiss him back, liking the way it almost burns.

With a soft chuckle he backs away, catching my bottom lip—and with it, my breath—between his teeth as he does. "The revelers are gone, now," he says. "Have been a half minute or so, I think." Smirking, he lifts his hands from the sides of my head and rubs his fingers over my now-human ears. "All better, I see."

As whatever effect he'd had on me starts to fade, my alarm returns in full force. Slipping to the side, I back away, putting some distance between us.

"What the hell are you?" I ask, watching him warily. He may have seen my wolf-ears, but he hadn't even been surprised, and he's the one who'd been invisible. "Are you Fae, like Julian?"

"Ah, so that's what pretty-boy is—I'd thought as much." He grins. "No, I'm not Fae, though I see why you'd think as much. I'm—"

He stops and turns, and Julian himself enters, balancing a plate piled high with fancy finger foods and carrying a drink in each hand. He glances between us and then nods towards Thorne with a frown.

"Doctor. Have you been enjoying the party?" he asks with an edge to his tone.

Thorne smirks. "Indeed I have," he says. "I expected a dull evening, but instead it's been quite...entertaining."

Julian's frown deepens and his eyes flick over to me, taking in my rumpled and probably shell-shocked appearance. "Noah? Are you—

"Sh!" Thorne holds up a hand, going alert and stiff, just as he had before the party-guests had almost walked in on my ears, and points towards the wall at my back.

Then I hear it, too, the same soft, sliding scrape I'd heard before—not quite the same as the unfortunate furniture, after all—and definitely coming from directly behind—or perhaps inside—the wall. Together, the three of us move closer, and then the sound stops. I hold my breath, waiting, but it doesn't return.

"What—"

With a startling loudness and rapidity, the sound skitters upwards and off to the left, making all of us jump.

"Rats?" Julian asks, as the sound quickly fades.

"Rats the size of a man?" Thorne returns. "Let us hope not. Although...perhaps that would be preferable. Noah—with me," he says, and beckons for me to follow him as he strides swiftly from the room.

"Ah..." I look at Julian, unsure.

"Go!" he urges. "I'll stay and guard the painting."

I hesitate a moment longer, then follow Thorne—Ambrose—at a run.

He's already halfway across the great hall, on his way up the stairs. Weaving my way through loose groups of drunk guests, I chase after him. He takes the stairs two or three at a time, but waits for me at the top.

"Down this hall, I think. Come on."

He sets off at a slower pace, walking softly and speaking under his breath.

"I wasn't spying on you," he says. "Not just for fun, anyway. Nor am I here for Barker's debauchery—such as it is. I've my own interest in this thief, for my own reasons, and I was curious how you and your fae friend would fair. No one's managed to stop a theft yet. I thought that with your...special skills...you might have better luck."

He pauses, holding perfectly still, staring into the darkness at the end of the hall.

I halt at his side, my brain still struggling to make sense of what's happening, and feeling a little out of breath.

"Thorne, I mean Ambrose, what—"

He spins and claps a hand over my mouth, setting a finger to his own lips.

"Quiet," he mouths.

I stare up into the dark, ember-lit depths of his red-brown eyes and nod.

He lets me go abruptly and continues, moving without a sound. I follow, equally noiseless, and about halfway down the hall he turns and casts me a vaguely approving look.

He halts between two doors. "These two rooms should be directly above the library," he says in a whisper, "one on either side of the wall. You take that one." He gestures to the door on the right and readies himself at the other.

I obey, a little breathless and still not fully recovered from my earlier shock, but ready to do my best.

Ambrose meets my eyes and then, after a rather pregnant beat, nods.

As one, we each throw open our doors. From his side, I hear several high-pitched screams, a muttered apology in Scottish-accented tones, and the sound of the door falling shut again. On my side, there's nothing but an empty room.

Well, it's empty of people, at least. As far as other things, it overflows with dusty crates and old boxes, what appear to be framed paintings wrapped in paper piled against the walls, and furniture covered in those creepy white sheets.

"Barker's a magpie," Ambrose says at my back, making me jump—his specialty, it seems. "Or a packrat, more accurately. Anything?"

"N-No," I say, though it comes out a rasp, and clear my throat. "No. Nothing."

"Hmm. Nothing as far as I can see, either. What about..."

He turns and, to my alarm, shuts and locks the door at his back. Straightening, he looks at me with a curious—but thankfully non-threatening—expression.

"What about if you listen?" he asks.

"L-Listen?"

He nods.

I swallow, not liking the idea of Shifting beneath his gaze, but he has a point. I'd thought the library was empty, too.

Turning away, I close my eyes, Shift my ears, and listen. I give it a few minutes, but almost instantly I'm sure the room is empty.

"Nothing," I say, turning back to find Ambrose watching me with eyes that shine with humor.

"You know, that is even more adorable the second time," he says.

Flushing with embarrassment, I Shift back.

"What are you," I demand. "And how did you know that Julian and I are..."

"More than you seem?" he suggests, showing a hint of teeth. "I will explain—but first, let us rejoin Mr. Hart. As you've noticed, I've a gift for seeing past surfaces, and I do believe there is more at play here than meets the eye—or the ear, for that matter."

"Fine," I say. "Let's go then."

He unlocks the door and holds it open for me, but before I step through I take one last sweep of the room.

As I do, my eyes land on something small on the floor near the far wall. From this distance, it looks like a pebble.

For some reason, I'm rather sure it's not.

I walk over and squat beside it for a closer look.

It's a tooth—a human molar—and recently lost by the looks of it. A thin smear of blackish blood covers the root, and the surface is yellowed and worn.

As I lean closer, an awful odor of decay reaches me, and I scramble to my feet and back away, fighting down the urge to retch.

"Urgh—how did we miss that?" I ask, and turn to Thorne.

For once, there's not a trace of humor on his face, and when he raises his eyes to mine the fire in their depths appears extinguished; their color, bleak.

Without answering me, he turns and strides out the door and down the hall, heading for the stairs. I jog to catch up, and by the time we reach the library, I've sufficiently recovered from my various shocks, surprises, and embarrassments to be almost angry.

Who does Ambrose Thorne think he is, anyway? And what, for that matter? If he doesn't have a very satisfying explanation, he's going to be very sorry.

I maybe no threat, but I'm sure Dane could wipe the satisfied smirk right off Thorne's handsome face.

I've just begun to indulge in this fantasy, when we reach the library and Ambrose stops dead in the open door, causing me to collide with his back.

Annoyed, I push past him, but as soon as I do, my happily vengeful fantasies flee my mind, replaced by immediate and abject terror.

The room is empty—except for Julian, that is.

He lies face-down on the floor, a shattered glass near his hand, its spilled contents seeping slowly into the probably priceless rug beneath him.

On the wall, having left only the ghost of a lighter patch where it once hung, the painting is gone.

As I rush to Julian's side, I realize that my new life in Spring Lakes will be a short one.

Because Dane is going to kill me.