When I call Dane the following day and tell him of my near miss, he asks almost the same questions Ambrose did: what did I see, and am I sure the driver meant to hit me.

The first answer is the same—being, 'not much'—but the second has changed.

With the fear and excitement long faded, I'm far less certain than I was.

"I don't know," I say, scuffing at the dry lawn with my foot.

I'm outside, and under the bright sun my tale of creepy feelings and vehicular assassins seems even less plausible. Maybe Ambrose is right, and it was just your everyday, average asshole in a hurry.

"It was dark, and I was wearing dark clothes. Maybe they didn't even see me."

"Maybe," Dane agrees, "but I know you, Noah. You're level-headed, and you don't make shit up. If you think someone was stalking you, and that someone tried to run you down, I believe it. But it's possible the two are unrelated."

"What do you mean?" I shift my phone from one hand to the other and kick Dougal's tennis ball away. He pounces on it and brings it back, dropping it at my feet.

"Well, the way you tell it, it sounds like two separate things: someone followed you by the lake, and someone else tried to hit you with their car. One or both could be related to the case. One or both could also be... something else.

"Like what?"

He hesitates a beat and goes on with a careful tone. "Look, I don't want to press you on shit you don't want to talk about, Noah, but I have to ask. Is there any reason someone might have followed you here? Any reason someone might want you dead?"

I kick Dougal's ball away again and—again—he brings it back. He really isn't supposed to run yet, with his injuries still healing, but he's one of those dogs who will drop dead of exhaustion before he has enough of chasing a ball. It's cute, but annoying.

"Noah?" Dane prompts when the silence gets too long.

Of course I'd thought of Thom. He'd basically told me to die, after all. At the time I'd thought it was just an expression of his loathing for me—or of himself for having fucked me—but now I'm not sure. Maybe he really expected me to take his advice and kill myself, and because I hadn't, now he meant to finish the job.

I couldn't imagine why, though. He'd gotten everything he wanted. He'd won. Moreover, he wasn't a violent man. I wasn't so naive as to think he wasn't capable of murder—given the right set of circumstances, nearly everyone is—but I didn't think it was something he'd do except as a matter of utmost last resort.

More importantly, if I admitted that Thom might want me dead, then Dane would want to know why, and I'd have to tell him... something. I didn't want to lie, but I wasn't ready for him to know the truth.

"No," I say at last. "There's no one."

Dane makes a noncommittal noise, obviously unconvinced, but he doesn't press. "Alright. But if you think of anything, tell me. And call me right away if something like this happens again. I wish you'd called last night—I would've come over and... sniffed around, if you know what I mean."

He must be out in public somewhere, or else he'd be more direct.

"Where are you?" I ask. "Are you, er... working the case?"

He huffs a breath. "Not exactly. I just needed to get out of the house a bit. Julian's... I don't know. He's been a bit odd lately... I can't quite explain it."

"Is he alright?" I ask, worried the poison might've had some lingering effect after all.

"I dunno," Dane grunts. "He's all... shiny and fuck. Must be a fae thing. I dunno," he says again, and sighs.

"Er... right." I'm not sure what else to say, and a silence falls.

"Listen," Dane says after a pause, all business once more, "I've been thinking about Thaddeus Barker—how he disappeared during his party and no one seems to have a clue where he's gone. I'm thinking... maybe he never left."

"But... the police searched his house, right?"

"Yeah—I searched it too. But you said you heard something in the wall, right? We weren't able to find any sort of hidden doors or passageways, but I'd like to look again, and I'd like to bring Thorne this time—for observation."

"What? Why?"

"Because I think there's shit he's not telling us," he growls.

"I'm sure there is," I retort, feeling suddenly defensive and thinking of what Ambrose had told me about Jack, "but that doesn't mean it has anything to do with the case, or is any of our business."

I hear Dane take a breath, and can almost see him scratching his head or his jaw as he chooses his words.

"You're right," he says, "but I can't afford to make assumptions either way. Look, I'd like to have you come along as well—you're better suited for, uh, exploring small spaces—but I'll understand if you want to step away on this one."

"Step away?" I repeat.

"Yeah. You know... if you don't think you can be objective; if there are... feelings involved."

"F-Feelings?" I splutter. "What kind of feelings?"

Of course I know what he means, and it doesn't help that I look up and see Ambrose walking towards me from around the side of the house. He's wearing a white v-neck tee with blue denims, and his long hair gleams dark red in the sun. He waves and smiles, seeing I'm on the phone, and as he bends to greet Dougal and ruffles his ears, my heart does a weird tripping thing in my chest. Ever since the night before, when he'd stood so close and my senses had been filled with him, I'd been struggling to think of anything else.

Turning my back on him now, I hiss into my phone. "I don't have feelings, Dane. I'm fine. Just tell us—tell me—when to be there."

He pauses, and I get the sense he's weighing whether to take me at my word or take me off the case, but at last he says only, "Tomorrow afternoon—four o'clock."

"Fine. I'll see you then."

"Good. In the meantime, Wolf or not, stay out of the fucking woods, and don't go out after dark on your own."

"Fine," I repeat. "I won't."

I hear him sigh again. "Good. At least I know you listen better than Julian does," he says.

~ ☾ ~

The rest of that day and the next pass without further incident. Ambrose is surprisingly enthusiastic about returning to Barker's house, his only complaint being that we haven't done so sooner.

"I'll be very surprised if we find Thaddeus living in some secret room, though," he tells me as we drive over there to meet Dane. "He has an almost pathological need for attention. I doubt he'd be able to stay out of the spotlight so long, even if his life depended on it."

"Maybe the news coverage has been enough," I suggest.

Thaddeus' disappearance has gotten a lot of attention over the past few weeks, stoked and sustained by gossip and salacious details of his hedonistic lifestyle 'leaked' to the press by his numerous acquaintances, including past and present lovers. These last seem to come in every size, shape, color, sex, and gender, and I have to admit that—if nothing else—Thaddeus spreads himself around equitably.

"Maybe," Ambrose concedes, "but in my experience he needs to be in the thick of things, the one directing where the spotlight shines."

"How old was Thaddeus when he took part in the ritual?" I ask, as the architectural abomination of his house comes into view.

"Oh... thirty-two, I think."

"How's he managed to be so... er... 'active' for all this time? Wouldn't someone notice a guy who doesn't age?"

"Mm," Ambrose intones, and nods. "So they would—and they have, from time to time. Thaddeus generally fakes his own death in one way or another, has some plastic surgery done, and then re-emerges with a new name and a new face, but the same old game."

"Could that be what he's done now? Vanished from his own party, Bilbo Baggins style?"

"Possibly," Ambrose allows. "He has no real regard for anyone but himself, and I wouldn't put it past him to take advantage of the situation, except for the portrait. Unless..."

I follow his train of thought and restrain a gasp. "Unless Thaddeus himself is the thief. You think maybe he's done all of this, just to disappear?"

Ambrose remains silent while he pulls up and parks beside Dane's vehicle. He cuts the engine and then we sit a moment before he speaks.

"It's a curious thought, I admit," he says, "and it fits with Thaddeus' style. But I think if he were behind it, he'd put himself last, you know? The big finale, the last curtain call. More than that... I never got the sense he has anything against the family. In fact, of all of them, he may be the most enamored of his gift—able to glut himself in his vices without a care or a thought for his body, soul, or reputation. No," he concludes, shaking his head, "whoever's doing this hates the Oakfields and Thornes with a deep passion—hates them specifically for what they are, and for what they did, all those years ago."

"I don't suppose there's any use asking who might fit that description?" I ask.

He turns to look at me, a surprisingly somber look on his face. "There's only two I can think of, who hate them so. One is dead, and the other..." he quirks a brow and gives me a crooked smile, "well, the other is me."

With that he opens his door and steps out. I follow, mulling this over.

Dane peels himself away from his car, where he's been leaning with his arms crossed, and walks towards us, offering Ambrose a grim-faced handshake. Ambrose accepts it with his usual smug humor. He's neither as broad nor as tall as my brother, but I have no doubt he's at least a match as far as strength of will is concerned. Dane might have him beat when it comes to brawn, but I'm pretty sure there's no contest in the brains department.

"Detective Hunter," Ambrose says, letting the burr of his accent roll his tongue a little more than usual. "A pleasure, as ever."

"I'm sure," Dane answers, dropping his hand.

Dane is intense and pure-hearted, but these qualities also make it difficult for him to hide his true feelings. To compensate, he tends to wear what I can only describe as his 'cop-face.' It's not a particularly friendly expression. From the slightly sardonic curl at the corner of Ambrose's mouth, I can only guess what he might be thinking of it now.

"Brother," Dane says, nodding at me. "Thank you for coming."

"Of... course..."

I trail off as the passenger-side door of Dane vehicle opens and Julian steps out.

Dane wasn't lying, but shiny is an understatement.

Julian is radiant. He is moonlight and amethysts, diamonds and velvet, shadows on snow; he is roses and silk. He's—

"Well now," Ambrose drawls. "And what, pray tell, do we have here?"