"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dane growls, amber eyes scanning the list of names from beneath lowered brows. "What the fuck?"

He's angry, and I don't blame him. When I'd seen the list, I hadn't known what to feel.

Ambrose had handed it to me with a rueful smile, a wash of color touching his cheeks and brow. "Don't be mad, little wolf," he'd said. "I didn't know if I could trust you before. But I do now."

He'd looked so unwell, laying pale against the pillows, the skin around his eyes and lips still slightly blue, that I hadn't the heart to be angry with him. I'd simply taken the list of names, looked it over, absorbed what it told me, and left him with another promise to return that I was only half-aware I made.

"He did say the theft victims were acquainted," I offer now, though I don't sound convinced. We're sitting once more around the little table in Julian's cottage, while Dougal chases the wind through the meadow grass outside.

"Acquainted?" Dane repeats, tossing the note across the table towards Julian. "They're fucking related, Noah."

He's not wrong. The list of names revealed that the nine occultists—and among them, the victims of the recent thefts—were all connected by blood or marriage to a certain Rowan Oakfield—Ambrose's maternal grandfather—or to Aengus Thorne. They were Ambrose's family, in other words—at least on his mother's side.

Julian picks up the sheet of paper and reads aloud from the names and notes Ambrose had listed.

" Rowan Oakfield, father of Lillian Thorne, and grandfather of Ambrose Thorne—deceased.
Mathilda Oakfield, (aka Mattie Macleod) wife of Rowan, sister of Aengus Thorne's first wife, Rosie.
Aengus Thorne, married to Rowan's daughter Lillian (previously married to Mathilda's sister, Rosie Macleod)—deceased.
Jack Thorne, son of Aengus (by first wife, Rosie)—deceased.
Brutus Oakfield; son of Rowan; brother to Lillian.
Penelope Gordon, (nee Oakfield), daughter of Rowan; sister to Lillian
Augustus Thorne,(aka August Turnbridge) brother of Aengus
Aileen Thorne, (aka Aileen Reed), sister of Aengus
Thaddeus Barker, son of Aileen Thorne."

He looks up, amethyst eyes wide.

"Damn. That's a thicket of Oakfields and a tangle of Thornes, alright," he remarks.

Dane casts him a look. "You realize this makes Ambrose a prime suspect, right?" he asks, turning towards me. "He's basically a byproduct of these people's greed, and then suffered years of abuse and neglect at their hands. People have killed for a lot less."

I nod, and then push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose as they slip. I'd told Dane everything Ambrose had told me—well, almost everything—and I had to admit the thought had occurred to me as well.

"He has a pretty good alibi, though; for Barker's painting at least," I say. "He was with me."

"You've heard the term 'accomplice,' right?" Dane asks. "The thief—whoever they may be—might not be working alone. Ambrose could've been there to distract you."

I swallow. If distracting me was Thorne's objective, Dane doesn't know the half of it.

"But then why tell us all this, and give us the names?" Julian asks. "All of these Oakfields and Thornes have obviously done a good job concealing their true identities. If not for Ambrose, we'd probably never have discovered the connection."

"That's another thing," Dane says, rubbing his jaw. "If not for Ambrose."

He'd been surprisingly sanguine about the news of Julian's close call and Ambrose's fortunate ability, and now I was beginning to understand why. I didn't like it, but I understood.

"It's awfully convenient that the one guy with the ability to counteract a deadly poison just happens to be on hand to do so," he remarks now. "We also only have his word that Julian was poisoned at all."

"No—I saw the effect it had on Ambrose," I counter, a little too quickly. "It was definitely real."

Dane is silent for a moment, an unhappy expression twisting his features. When he speaks, his words aren't quite what I expect.

"I have some experience with criminals, Noah," he says, sounding oddly careful. "And you'd be surprised how convincing deceit can be, sometimes, or the lengths some people will go to for the sake of it."

I draw a slow breath, keeping my eyes fixed on the rough surface of the table.

Actually, I know all too well.

"He's already proven he's capable of it, too," Julian adds, drawing my mind back to the present. "Taking advantage of your situation the way he did so he could gather intel on Dane... That's not a good look."

They're not wrong, and it's nothing I haven't already thought and felt, but for some reason I find another defense rising to my lips.

"He didn't know us. You can't blame him for being careful, and even suspicious."

"Careful and suspicious aren't the same things as devious and manipulative, Noah," Dane counters. "I'm just glad you're getting out of there. I don't like that guy. There's something... dark... about him. The less you have to do with him, the better."

"Actually... I'm staying," I say, and rush on before he can object. "If he is a suspect, what better way to keep an eye on him? Besides, who knows what else he isn't telling us."

"Noah—"

"Dane, I can do this. I'm obviously no good to you in the field, but this I can handle."

Maybe.

I'd left out the part about the morning's near-assault, and about Ambrose's professed interest in me. Whether real or feigned, it was an element that complicated things, and I had a feeling Dane wouldn't like it.

He's unhappy enough as it is.

"Noah, what happened at Barker's wasn't your fault. You have nothing to prove to me," he says. "I won't tell you what to do, but I'll tell you what I think, and what I think is that Ambrose Thorne is bad news. You don't have to live with a guy to keep tabs on him."

"No, but it makes it a hell of a lot easier," I return, keeping my tone light. "Don't worry about me, Dane. I can handle myself."

After that, Dane lets it lie, and turns his attention back to the matter of the thefts.

"There've been four we know of," he says. "Mattie Macleod's mirror, Brutus Oakfield's bust, Penelope Gordon's inkwell, and now Thaddeus Barker's portrait. Of the remaining occultists who are still alive, that leaves Aileen Reed—who's apparently Barker's mother—and August Turnbridge." He sighs and rubs his eyes. "What a fucking mess."

After a moment in which no one speaks, he straightens, pushes back his chair, and stands.

"We need to find out what they're all doing here, in Spring Lakes, of all places. I'm going to speak to them individually, see what they say and if their stories line up. I'd like you to come with me, Julian—see what you can pick up psychically. As for you, Noah," he says, shrugging on his jacket and then turning to meet my eyes. "See what you can find out about dragons—and not just from Ambrose, either. I don't want that guy just feeding us the info he wants us to know. And watch yourself—dragon or not, Ambrose Thorne is a snake in my book."

~ ☾ ~

I pick up the things I need to make shepherd's pie, and then take Dougal to the pet store to buy him a treat. I've never had a dog before, but I gather that this is the sort of thing one does, and despite his exuberance, he's well-enough behaved that I allow him to come inside the store with me.

He chooses a tennis ball from a bin, and I choose a bag of dog food from the shelves. Ambrose had been feeding him from the stock he kept at the clinic, and now that it seems we're keeping him, he'll need his own supply.

I pause at that thought, dog-food bag in hand, and replay it in my head.

No, I correct myself, we were not keeping him. Ambrose was keeping him. I had nothing to do with it. In fact, I should put the dog food back, take the ball away from Dougal, and leave the pet store, never to return.

I'd never had a dog, and I still don't.

I'd just hit one with my car, and now lived with the man who'd adopted it.

Totally normal.

Sighing, I carry the bag to the register and pay, thinking as I do that I'm going to have to find a job of some sort, and soon. The detective business gave Dane and Julian enough work to support themselves, but from what I'd seen it didn't leave them much to spare. Splitting their profits three ways—even unequally—wasn't sustainable.

I'm still occupied with this thought when, as I'm carrying the dog food to my car, I notice the 'Help Wanted' sign in the window of the shop next door.

Spring Lakes is a weird place, and seems to attract an equally weird set of people. Julian's psychic abilities, for example, don't even make him stand out all that much. So the fact that there's an occult bookstore wedged in the corner between a pet shop and a Chinese restaurant isn't that unusual. It's probably only one of several occult bookstores in a six-block radius. I hadn't noticed it before because the side facing the street is at an angle, and is just wide enough for a single window and a door.

The window is blacked out and the sign above it says only "Occult Books." The Help Wanted sign is handwritten with what looks like black marker on a piece of plain copy paper, and nothing indicates whether the shop is currently open or closed, or what its hours of operation might be.

This could be an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, I think. Dane wanted me to find out about dragons, and what better way to do so than by working in a store that sells books about things like dragons? That's assuming it's the real deal, of course, and not just a regular bookstore that sells packets of trick playing cards and a few titles on Tarot and astrology.

Shutting Dougal in the car with the windows down, I walk over for a closer look.

The door is unlocked, and I push it open to a jingle of bells, and then stand for a moment, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dim lighting. When they do, I'm met with a scene of almost perfect chaos.

As expected, there are bookcases, and there are books. Beyond that, I don't know what to think.

The cases are set in a crazy arrangement that resembles a labyrinth, and at my height I can only just see over the tops. On the shelves, books are stacked in piles, or lean crookedly at odd angles. Some have the spine facing the wrong way, and I don't see a category label anywhere.

The titles, on the other hand—those that I can make out and that are in a language I can read—impress me, though. Whatever else this place is, it's the real shit, at least.

I weave my way along the labyrinth's path, and soon lose myself in my growing fascination. I could live here, and never get bored. At last I round a corner and find myself in a slightly more open space, where a broad low desk sits with an old-fashioned cash-register on top. It looks like an antique, with ivory and gold-inlaid keys. Beside it is an open book, handwritten, and filled with elegant characters. Whoever inked them did so with skill—writing in neat, even lines—and I lean over for a closer look, admiring the style and script. Sanskrit, maybe, I think.

"May I help you?"

For a werewolf, I sure do jump out of my skin a lot.

This time I startle so badly I almost knock my own glasses off, and then look around wildly for the source of the voice. It's owner laughs, and at last I locate the source.

A woman stands behind the counter. She's tall and thin, with straight dark hair and medium-brown skin. She looks about my age, maybe a little younger, with high cheekbones, a slightly curved nose, and a pretty, bow-shaped mouth.

"Hello," she says.

"H-Hi," I stammer. "I'm s-sorry I didn't s-see you there."

I would pay a lot for a good first impression, if it were possible to buy such a thing.

The girl—woman—giggles.

"It's okay. I'm easy to miss. I blend with the shadows, and I like it that way."

As if to demonstrate, she takes a step back, and all but vanishes except for the glint in her large dark eyes.

Stepping back into the light, such as it is, she brushes her hair back from her shoulders and smiles at me.

"I'm Shanti, by the way, and this is my store."

"N-N-Noah. I'm N-Noah." And if there was a pit to the depths of Oblivion nearby, I'd hurl myself into it right now.

She smiles, and it's a surprisingly kind expression. "Lovely to meet you, Noah. So, what can I help you find today?"

"Actually... I s-saw—" I force myself to stop, take a breath, straighten my posture, and go on in a steadier tone. "I saw the sign on the door, and thought I'd inquire about your advertisement. I'm in the market for a job, and I believe I'm well qualified to work here."

I expect her to tell me that the application is online, or to hand me a form or something, but instead, she smiles broadly, revealing even white teeth.

"Well then, Noah," she says, "you're just the one I've been waiting for."