The next two weeks seem to fly past.

August Turnbridge and Aileen Reed each verified, with grudging reluctance, that what Ambrose had told us was true—they were once Augustus and Aileen Thorne, brother and sister of Aengus, and possessors of unique, strange, and costly gifts.

August's passion was spirits—specifically Scotch whisky—and his gift was the ability to unfailingly produce the best of the best. His gift-relic was an old bottle—empty, but with a once-priceless label—which he kept at his distillery in a safe.

Aileen was an artist, and her gift was to paint landscapes with the realism of a photograph—a skill that had since lost some of its value, as photography had progressed, but which was still impressive nonetheless. Her relic was a paintbrush, which she kept in her studio, in a jar of other paintbrushes on a shelf.

Like all the occultists, the two had also been gifted with excessive long life and youth, and both appeared still to be the ages they were when they had made their Faustian bargains—August a robust thirty-eight and Aileen a well-preserved fifty.

Those who had already been victims of the thefts also came out as their true selves. Mathilda Oakfield and her children, Penelope and Brutus, had been reluctant at first to admit their connection, but at last—having discovered that there was no longer any point in concealing it—they had corroborated Ambrose's account as well.

As yet, none of them had suffered any ill-effect of having lost their gift-relics, except that they now lived in a state of constant dread.

Only Thaddeus Barker remained unaccounted for, having never turned up again after the night of his party. The last anyone had seen of him, according to what the witnesses had told the police, he'd gone into a bedroom with one of his guests, and later she had emerged alone. There'd been no sign of him since.

Neither had there been any word from the thief.

Before each of the previous thefts, the victims had received some sign that they were next, and of when the thief would strike—as Thaddeus had with the cat-paw stamp on the invitation. Until either Aileen or August was given such a warning, there was little for us to do but watch, wait, and learn what we could.

In the meantime, I continue to adjust to my new life and, after that first rocky start, it's going rather well.

Ambrose kept his word—and his distance—after that last conversation. He greets me, morning and evening, on his way to and from the clinic, and sometimes sits and watches me as I work in the garden or prepare a meal. I learn that what compliments he gives are honest, because he offers criticism just as honestly, and that while his wit is often cutting and his judgment harsh, it's always fair.

He's good company, and little by little I grow comfortable with his presence, and no longer stutter when I speak to him or feel the blood rush to my face every time I meet his eyes.

As for my new job, Shanti spoke the truth about her shop, and I find it quite easy to work there. For one thing, there are very few customers.

When they do wander in, looking a little lost and bewildered, I greet them and then leave them to browse. Eventually, they'll end up standing in front of one shelf or another, and I'll ask them what they're looking for. They'll tell me, but their eyes will be fixed on something else—often on an unrelated topic. Then I'll mention that books on such-and-such are on sale today, or sometimes pull the item off the shelf myself and mention, casually, that another customer had been looking for it earlier.

I don't know how it works, or why, or if it's just the way of things, but almost without fail, once I draw attention to the item, the customer buys it, and goes away happy—or at least satisfied.

I always thought there was some kind of magic in browsing bookshelves; as Shanti had said, it always seemed like, one way or another, whether you knew it or not, the right book—the book you needed—has a way of finding you.

Of course, the books in Shanti's shop were nothing so mundane as what the local library had to offer.

There were books on all sorts of unusual topics, everything from demonology and witchcraft to herbal remedies. I'd even seen one book specifically dedicated to the topic of werewolves and how to identify them. I'd skimmed through it, found it alarmingly accurate, and then buried it beneath a pile of dusty volumes on divine mathematics, which seemed not to have been disturbed for at least a decade.

When there were no customers, I tidied the shelves. It seemed I never made much progress in this endeavor, but I slowly came to understand the loose theory of order that underlay the apparent chaos—enough to guide customers in the general direction of what they were looking for, at least.

Of Shanti herself, I saw very little. On the first morning, she'd taught me how to operate the cash registers, and how to make a record of each sale in the book that lay open beside it, using the old-fashion pen and inkwell. She'd given me my own book, full of creamy, blank pages, and told me I was to record a description of the item purchased, the name of the customer, and the price they had paid for it.

This last part was one of the more mysterious aspects of Shanti's shop, for nothing was labeled with a price.

"The customer will know," she'd said when I'd asked how I'd know what to charge. I didn't understand it, but it seemed that she was right.

There was no way to take a card—there was not even a phone—but no one complained, and they paid with cash, and sometimes with other things. Once, an older man bought a book on love magic and paid for it with a printed photo of his wife. When I showed it to Shanti, concerned I would be docked pay, she'd merely nodded. 'It is his favorite picture of her,' she'd said. 'A fair price.'

As for my pay, at the end of the week, Shanti hands me an envelope of cash, containing the precise amount I'm owed based on the wage I'd named.

It does not seem at all aboveboard, but I don't care.

I love it. It's quiet and safe, and I feel like I belong, with the books and all the untapped knowledge they contain. I've yet to find a single volume on dragons, but I think that if I need to find one, I will.

Best of all, the work keeps my mind solidly fixed on the present, and between that and the case, I manage to go whole days without thinking of the past. Unfortunately, this makes it all the more jarring when it sneaks up on me, as it does one morning towards the end of my first week of work.

Shanti is in the shop for once, looking over the week's ledger of sales, and praises me for my good work, though it seems I've done very little. Before she leaves, she tells me a shipment of new stock has arrived and asks me to open it and put it out on the shelves. As she speaks, a man enters, wheeling a hand-truck loaded with a stack of boxes.

It's vaguely comical to watch his hat—which is all that is visible above the shelves—bobbing along as he weaves his way back and forth through the labyrinth of books until he makes it to the desk, where he deposits his load.

"Is there some sort of inventory list?" I ask Shanti, eyeing the boxes.

"There is no need. I know what is here and what is not," she says.

Shanti is as strange as her shop, and I'm fairly certain she's more than she seems.

Once she's left, I find a box-cutter and set to opening the boxes. It's as I slice through the tape securing the top box that the memory strikes me—Thom's final cruelty, which had come on the day I'd decided to leave for Spring Lakes.

~ ☾ ~

I couldn't afford another night in the hotel, and I didn't know where else to go. My 'friends' were Thom's friends—people he'd introduced me to. My nearest family was a few states away, and the thought of going home to my parents was humiliating; they were kind and caring people— for Wolves—but they'd want to know what had happened, and then they'd be disappointed.

Wolves weren't supposed to be prey, and I had been devoured.

Dane was the only one I felt might understand. Not that he had ever been weak, or played for a fool, but he understood what it was to hurt, and when to let things be. Despite being as different from me as day from night, of all my family I felt he understood me best. I'd go to him, I decided, and then I'd go from there.

Before I left, there was one last thing I had to do. I shared a small office on campus with a few other part-time lecturers, and I'd been informed my things would be thrown out if I didn't come and fetch them by the end of the week.

It wasn't much—a few books and papers, a coffee mug—things I could do without, but despite what Thom might think, I wasn't trash, and neither were my things, and neither they nor I deserved to be treated as such.

So I went and, keeping my head up but careful not to make eye-contact with any of my former colleagues, or to listen to their whispers as I passed, I retrieved the little box of my belongings.

Later, in my car, I'd picked through it, and that was when I'd found the envelope.

It wasn't addressed, but I recognized it anyway. Thom preferred a particular brand of stationery. I stared at it for a long time, wondering. I wasn't so naive as to think it contained anything like an apology, or a request to reconcile. A justification, maybe, or an explanation, I thought. I considered simply tossing the card in the trash, unopened.

I wish I had.

Instead, curious despite myself, I tore open the envelope and pulled out the card it contained.

On the front, written in Thom's blocky, forceful hand, were only four words.

Do yourself a favor

On the inside, taped to the blank paper, was a single, bare razor blade.

I stared at it for a moment, as understanding slowly dawned, and then I got out of my car and threw up in the bushes at the edge of the parking lot.

The cruelty of it made me sick.

I couldn't say I'd really been in love with Thom, but I had cared for him. I'd given him all I had to offer and all that he'd asked. I'd given him my body, though I hadn't suspected how little he'd wanted it. I'd given, and he had taken... everything.

And now this.

~ ☾ ~

It doesn't hurt, really. It just makes me feel cold and a little ill, to remember it, and to know that a person I'd lived with—a person I'd thought had loved me—could have wished me such harm.

At least I have plenty of things to occupy my mind in the present, and the past only intrudes now and then, when I let my guard down.

In the following week, Dougal finally gets his cast and cone off, and he's so happy it makes me laugh like I haven't in a long time.

I guess dogs aren't so bad, after all, I reflect, as I watch him roll and run, and basically become an embodiment of pure joy. He's filled out with a good diet, and his coat is shiny and clean now. I find I enjoy taking him for walks in the evenings, along the path that encircles the small lake on the opposite side of the street from the house. It's only about a mile loop, but it's scenic, and around nightfall we usually have it almost to ourselves.

It's on the way back from one of these walks, just after dusk, when I first get the feeling of being watched.

Like an instinct or a sixth sense, it begins as a prickle at the back of my neck and a growing awareness of every tiny sound—the frogs at the shore of the lake, the crickets in the brambles, the last of the evening birds singing themselves to sleep in the trees—and increases with every step into a mounting dread.

Something's watching me—something close.

Dougal is oblivious, though, and if it was something unnatural I'd expect him to sense it, too.

Then again, Ambrose is a dragon and I'm a werewolf, and Dougal doesn't give a shit either way.

The light is low, but there are still a few people out—a few runners, a few fellow dog-walkers, and a homeless man lying on a bench—so I can't risk shifting my ears.

Still, the sense of present danger grows, until I feel a flutter of panic in my chest and my mouth goes dry.

"C'mon Dougal," I whisper, tugging at his leash. "Let's get out of here."

Fortunately, we're almost back at the house as it is, and have only to ascend the last stretch of wooded trail and cross the road, and we'll be home.

I keep my pace steady, forcing myself to walk slow, but it feels like something's right behind me, though I look twice and see nothing there. Finally, we reach the road and I see the sprawling ramble of the house beyond. Dane still thinks it's creepy, but to me it already looks like home.

Checking that the road is clear, we start across. It's wide—two lanes for cars and one for bikes on either side—and we've just reached the middle when an engine roars to life. A few spaces down, headlights flare, blinding me, and then I hear the screech of tires and barely realize what's happening in time.

"Dougal!" I yell, and break into a blind sprint, dashing for the safety of the other side of the street. I feel the wind as the car rushes past, missing me by less than a foot, and then leap and tumble to the sidewalk and the verge of grass. Sitting up, I watch as the tail-lights swerve and then the car vanishes around the bend with another screech of tires, and is gone.

Dougal dances around me, thinking we've had a splendid game, while my heart does a dance of its own behind my ribs, threatening to beat its way out of my chest.

After a few shaky breaths, I get up and limp the last few feet to the gate, and then along the path to the house, where I let myself in with my key. I feel a sense of deep relief as I shut the door, and slide to the floor to sit with its solid surface at my back, studying the bloody rips on the knees of my jeans where I'd landed on the hard cement.

Dougal takes off, still trailing his leash, and skids around the corner on his quest to find his favorite person in the world.

"Noah?" Ambrose calls from the kitchen. He has the night off, and is taking a turn at making dinner. "Why'd you not let Dougal off his lead? He could get tangled in the furniture and—"

He rounds the corner, leash in hand, and stops short, his eyes going to my bloodied hands and knees.

"I'm okay," I assure him quickly, though my voice shakes a little.

"What happened?" he asks, hanging up the leash and coming to stand over me.

"I'm not completely sure," I say, taking his offered hand and letting him pull me up, "but I think someone tried to kill me just now."