"Fucking shit," Dane swears, kneeling to examine the ash. "How the fuck did we miss this? Fuck."

He sifts through the pile of fine gray and white dust and picks out a larger fragment of bone.

"Is it him?" I ask, chewing a nail.

"Yeah, it's him," Dane answers. "Who the fuck else would it be?"

He runs his hands over his hair, leaving disturbing streaks of ash in his locs.

I stare down at the little pile with a sick feeling at the back of my throat. It hardly seems big enough to be the remains of a whole man.

"Doesn't it take a pretty hot fire to burn a body like this?" Julian asks, giving voice to my own thoughts. He's standing back from the rest of us, one hand over his mouth and one pressed to the base of his ribs, and I'm glad to see I'm not the only one feeling ill. "Like...a lot hotter than a little fireplace could handle?"

"Yeah, it does," Dane confirms. "Not to mention burning flesh at any lower temperature stinks like hell. The whole house would'a reeked with it. To cremate a body like this, you'd need..."

"Dragonfire," Ambrose says.

"What?" Dane turns and squints up at him from where he still kneels by the little hearth.

"Dragonfire would be hot enough," Ambrose goes on, "though I don't know that there are many dragons on the loose—other than myself, that is."

"You can breathe fire?" Julian asks, his jewel-bright eyes widening with interest.

Ambrose's lips quirk in a lopsided smile. "No, my fair fae, I don't breathe fire. I burn with it. Shall I demonstrate?"

He looks around the room. This one has a Greco-Roman theme, with a low bed, hanging silks, marble statuary, and a number of rather risque paintings of nymphs and satyrs on the walls.

On a pedestal beside the bed is a bowl of grapes, untouched since the night of the party and shriveled with rot by now. Ambrose goes to it and picks out a few, holding them in his palm for us to see.

"Not every dragon has fire," he explains. "Some have venom, some turn things to stone. Some are creatures of air, others of water. Ainach, though, was—or rather, is—a fire-drake. As his...offspring...I carry something of that in myself."

Undoing the button on his cuff with his other hand, Ambrose rolls up his sleeve, exposing the pale skin of his forearm. I watch as the lines of his veins and arteries begin to incandesce, glowing like hot wires within his flesh. The palm of his hand flares white, and then the grapes ignite with a colorless flame. An instant later, all that remains of them is a light dusting of fine ash.

Ambrose blows it from his palm with a puff of breath and then brushes off his hands.

I stare at him, mouth slightly agape and a weird pain pinching my chest.

Every time I think I'm getting to know him, Ambrose throws me off balance. It's irrational, but it feels unfair and personal, like I'm a kid with a mean older brother who's nice one moment and then trips me in the mud for a laugh the next.

Confused by how hurt I feel, I find it difficult to focus on what the others are saying, and Dane's voice sounds muffled and distant in my ears.

"Jesus fuck, Thorne," he swears. "You didn't think we ought to know you could do that until now?"

Ambrose sniffs and shrugs. "Honestly, no. Is it your habit, Detective, to reveal every skill and ability of your own every time you make a new acquaintance? I'd wager not. Besides, this was a case of thefts—of missing objects and of an unusually clever thief—not of murder and of bodies burned to ash. Now that it is, I've made a point to show and tell. What more do you want?"

"I want you to be straight with us, and to stop holding things back. Just in case it isn't obvious, Thorne, I'll say it: I don't trust you. You're too close to this, and you keep putting yourself front and center as Suspect Number One. First Rowan Oakfield conveniently dies and leaves you his fortune. Then the thefts start, and not only are you connected to every one of the victims, but you've got motive, means, and opportunity as well. And now this. What the hell am I supposed to think?"

"I won't presume to tell you what to think, Mr. Hunter," Ambrose returns, arms crossed over his chest and a thin line between his dark brows, "but I must ask how it is that you would know any of this at all if not for the fact that I, myself, have told it to you? Has anything that I've said been proven false? Find me out in a lie if you can—I dare it."

"Lies of omission are still lies," Dane answers in a growl.

He'd stood when Ambrose gave his demonstration with the grapes, and now, at his full height, he seems to fill the room. Everything about him speaks to his power and strength—from his broad shoulders and chest to his sharply angled brows and his long hair—and he looks warlike and daunting.

Ambrose is his opposite, hiding his power behind suave sophistication and a knowing smirk. They're different animals, I realize, quite literally, and I think can tell which I prefer.

You know it when you've come upon a wolf—it hides nothing, shows you exactly what danger and what threat you face.

With a dragon though, you might at first see only its eyes, and by the time you figure out what it is you're dealing with, it's too late.

"But why?" Julian asks, breaking the tension that had grown between the two other men as they turn towards the sound of his voice. "I mean, why was he killed, when none of the other victims have been?"

"If you want my opinion," Ambrose says, with a glance at Dane, "I'd say he figured it out. The night of the party, he must've caught sight of the thief, or maybe stumbled on a clue somehow. One way or another, he discovered who she was, and confronted her here. The result of that confrontation, I believe, speaks for itself." He nodded towards the pile of ash.

"'She?' Dane repeats. "What makes you think the theif's a woman now?"

"Have you ever actually solved a mystery, Detective?" Ambrose smirks. "You said yourself that Thaddeus was last seen entering a room with a female guest. My guess is it was this room, and the 'guest' was our thief. Noah and I came up here immediately before, or perhaps even while, the painting was stolen, and I saw—in this very room—what I thought was a couple in the throes of passion. I understand now it was passion of a different sort—a struggle to the death."

"What exactly did you see?" Dane snaps.

"Not much. The room was dark except for what light came in by the open door. On the bed, I saw a woman's bare back above a man's clothed legs. She screamed, I interpreted what I saw, and then I shut the door again. That's all."

"What about the tooth, then?" Dane asks, jerking his head in the direction of the adjacent room. "What's that about?"

Ambrose shrugs. "I'm afraid you will have to do some of the work, Detective. I don't have every answer, after all."

Dane scowls and the corner of his lip twitches with a nascent snarl.

"On the way here," I cut in, and then stop to clear my throat, not liking how soft my voice sounds. I try again. "On the way here, Ambrose, you said that there were two people you could think of who hated the Oakfields and Thornes enough to do all this. You said you were one of them, and the other was dead. Who was the other?"

He turns to look at me, and his even brows draw together a little closer over his dark, fire-lit eyes. From his expression I get the sense that whatever he sees on my face and hears in my voice, he doesn't like it.

"Rosie Macleod," he says. "Jack's mother, and Aengus' first wife. She died before I was born, but no one had more cause to hate the Thornes and Oakfields than she."

"Why?" Julian asks. He's moved to sit on the edge of the bed, still looking a little ill with his arms hugged tightly across himself.

Ambrose casts a look his way and his frown deepens a shade.

"It's not my tale to tell," he says. "Besides, you'd be hearing it third-hand from me. Mattie Macleod's the one you want to ask about that. Mattie being Rosie's sister, and Rowan Oakfield's wife."

"Fine," Dane says, "but I want...I'd like...you to come along and verify what parts of her story you can."

"I thought you didn't trust me, Detective?" Ambrose returns, brows lifting.

Dane shrugs. "Yeah, well—'the devil you know.' Listen, you three should leave. I'll call this in to Coleridge. She'll have to send someone over to officially 'discover' it, and it'll be easier if I'm the only one here.

Julian stands. "Good. I think I've had enough of this place anyway."

He wanders out into the hall, and Dane watches him go with an odd expression on his face—half of tenderness, half of tortured longing. Dane's a physical guy, often expressing himself better with actions than with words, and it must be hard on him not to be able to touch Julian at all.

Ambrose turns to me, the fire in his eyes burned low and the ghost of a lost smile at the corners of his mouth. "Noah, I'd like a private word with your brother, if you don't mind. Here—" He digs out his car keys and drops them in my hand. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be along in a minute or so. We can drop Julian off on our way home."

I glance at Dane, and he gives me an almost imperceptible nod.

"Fine," I say, and take the keys before following Julian back along the hall, downstairs, and outside, hoping that the cool night air will help to cool my temper. It feels like Dane and Ambrose are, by mutual (if antagonistic) recognition, on one level, and I'm on another—a kid asked to step outside and let the grown-ups talk.

I catch up with Julian and walk with him to Ambrose's big, shiny Bentley. It's ridiculous really—probably the only one of its kind in a thousand miles, at least. Kind of like Ambrose himself, I suppose.

I get in the passenger seat and Julian climbs in the back. Neither of us say much, and about five minutes later, Ambrose rejoins us.

"What did you talk about?" I ask, as Ambrose gets in and starts the car.

He glances over at me. "Well, you, of course, little wolf."  He looks serious but I detect a tease in his voice.

"Fine. Don't tell me," I say, and settle back in my seat to look out the window.

The ride to Julian and Dane's cottage passes in near silence, and when we pull up, Julian gets out with a sigh. "Thanks for the ride," he says to Ambrose. "Sorry about your, er..."

"Cousin," Ambrose supplies. "And don't be. Thaddeus might've looked like a man in his prime, but he was over one-hundred-and-thirty years old. By rights, he ought to have been dust long ago. Besides that, he was a cheat and a cad. The world's better off without him in it."

"Yeeaah..." Julian drawls. "I'm not gonna tell Dane you said that."

Ambrose shrugs. "Tell him if you wish. It's my honest opinion and, as I've tried to make clear, I'm an honest man. A man can be honest and keep secrets at the same time."

Julian nods and gives him a smile that makes the stars look dim. "I hope so," he says, "or we're all guilty frauds."

He waves goodbye and starts to walk towards his small house, then stops and stares up and the sky, standing motionless for a long time. Ambrose waits patiently, engine idling, and I'm glad he seems to share my desire to make sure Julian gets safely inside. Finally, I roll my window down and call out to him.

"Julian? You okay?"

He startles, as if he'd forgotten we were still there, and then he laughs—that strange enchanting sound like silver bells among the stars. "Sorry! I was just listening!" he calls. Then he waves once more and goes inside.

"Listening?" I repeat under my breath. "Listening to what?"

Ambrose doesn't answer, and silence falls again.

We're almost home when he speaks, startling me out of my own thoughts, as it seemed I'd startled Julian out of his.

"The fae boy, Julian," he says. "How much does he know of Fae custom?"

"I don't know," I answer warily. "Not much, I think. He spent some time in Faerie, but he says he doesn't remember it much."

"Hm," is all Ambrose says.

"We're going tomorrow—he and I—to try to contact them," I say, though I don't know why I'm telling him. "There's a...a 'place of power' nearby, that the Fae used to cross realms once before. We're hoping they'll know what's going on with him."

"Hm," he says again.

"What?" I demand, suddenly angry. "What do you know? If you know something, then t-tell me!"

We've reached the house, but instead of pulling around to the garage, he comes to a stop on the side of the street and turns to look at me.

"I don't know anything, little wolf," he says. "Leastways, I know only enough to wonder. I hope the Fae have the answers he needs. As for..."

He pauses and sighs, studying my face and making me wonder what he sees in it.

"As for the dragonfire, would you believe that it simply didn't occur to me to tell you? It's not something I think about or use very often. Being able to burn things to ash with my touch is not as useful a skill as you might think—it's more of a liability, in fact."

He smiles, maybe at some memory, and then his gaze locks on mine, coming back to the present once more.

"Anyroad, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, little wolf."

"I've asked you not to call me that," I snap, enunciating my words with care. My emotions are unsettled, my stammer almost tingling at the edges of my tongue, and I'm determined not to let it out—not in front of Ambrose Thorne, anyway. "I call you 'Ambrose,' don't I, as you asked?"

"So you have," he replies, with disarming gentleness, "and so you do. The difference is, I call you that because I find you rather dear. You called me 'Dr. Thorne' because you didn't like me very much."

My eyes go wide in surprise. "That's n-not true," I object, "I d-didn't not like you."

I wince and bite my own tongue, as much to stop my stammer as at my double negative.

"No?" he asks softly, one brow lifting just a little. "And how about now? You seemed rather disappointed in me, earlier."

I swallow. He's leaned a little closer, his eyes angled at my mouth, and I can tell he'd like to kiss me right now. Despite everything, I'd like to kiss him, too.

"As Dane said—lies of omission are still l-lies," I retort, though I don't sound convinced.

"Perhaps that's a matter of opinion," he murmurs, eyes lifting to mine once more. "As I told you once before, Noah, only one untruth has passed between us since the moment we met."

"What was it?" I ask with a challenge in my tone. "Tell me. Then I'll tell you what I think of you."

He studies me a moment, and I wonder if he's going to refuse. Then he sits back against his seat with a sigh and closes his eyes.

"Your wallet," he says. "You didn't forget it in the clinic that night, or drop it by accident. I took it off you after I saw your name on the form and realized who you were; so I'd have an excuse to see you again, to get close to your brother and find out what he knew. Jack taught me that—sleight of hand, you know."

I can tell he's expecting this to come as a great blow, but it's actually a relief. I knew he'd tried to get close to me for information already, and that he'd stolen my wallet to do so doesn't change anything. I'd been fearing something much worse.

Looking over at him, I weigh things in my mind. He keeps me off balance, he's secretive and mysterious, and I sense danger every time he looks at me. He's also strangely sweet in his own way, with his love for animals and his willingness to take the pain of others as his own. He's done nothing but help so far, and while I can't say I trust him yet, I'd like to.

"So," he sighs, "What is it you think of me?"

"I think you're wrong," I say. "That wasn't the only untruth you told."

He looks up at me quickly. "Is it not?"

I shake my head. "You said the next time you kissed me I'd have asked you to."

His brows cinch with confusion. "And I haven't kissed you since," he says.

"And I haven't asked you to," I reply.

Leaning towards him, I take hold of his collar and pull him closer, watching with satisfaction as he blinks with surprise. Then I press my lips to his—just the lightest touch—and whisper against his mouth through a smile.

"I think you're a liar, Ambrose Thorne."