I stare up at Ambrose, heart thudding in my chest and my mind frozen with shock and alarm. He stares back with a similar expression, though his own holds far less fear and quite a bit more regret.

"Fuck," he says again, covering his mouth with his hand and gazing down at the body.

He sets the bloodied poker down and kneels, pressing his fingers to Brutus' neck to check for a pulse, though it seems obvious he's dead.

While he's thus occupied, I begin to inch away from him, still on my back, and get slowly to my feet. Seeing the movement, he looks up and my throat constricts with an involuntary whine of fright. He stands, brows pinched, and takes a step towards me. I back away, ready to bolt.

He halts. "Noah?"

I can't seem to find my voice.

"Love, you know I didn't do this, right?" he asks, his expression shifting from consternation towards concern.

Finally getting my tongue to move, I answer in a hoarse whisper. "If you d-didn't, then Ainach d-did, which is the s-same thing."

"What? Ainach?" he repeats, sounding genuinely surprised. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You're p-possessed, or s-something. You're w-working with him, or f-for him. It's y-you," I stammer, unable to stop myself. "Y-You're the th-thief, and y-you're a k-killer."

I've continued to retreat, a small step at a time, but I haven't been paying attention to where I'm going, and now my back bumps against the wall of the house. Ambrose watches with a calculating look, as though weighing his options, and then walks towards me as my heart accelerates with fear even as it breaks.

Here I am, thinking I've found my Mate, thinking I found someone who loves me, when all I've found is another mistake. Probably a fatal one, this time.

He stops, close but not touching.

"P-Please," I breathe.

He frowns. "Please what, love?"

"P-Please d-don't hurt me."

He blinks, his expression blanking with surprise before shifting towards pain. He reaches for me and I flinch and shut my eyes, but he only grasps me gently by the upper arms.

"Noah, sweetheart, look at me."

I do.

"What did I tell you about hurting you?"

"Th-that you n-never would."

He nods.

"And about lying?"

"Th-that you d-don't."

He nods again.

"Now, I don't know what you meant just now, about Ainach, or possession, but I do know I didn't kill Brutus."

"B-but you s-said 'not again,'" I counter.

I want to believe him—dangerously, desperately so—but the circumstances are against him.

"I did," he agrees, "and maybe you can help me make sense of it, if you saw me speak and act as someone else, but will you hear me out before you decide your Mate's a murderer?"

His quiet tone and gentle touch are doing a lot to calm me down, and I realize that part of my reaction was simple panic at stumbling on a dead body. It doesn't change the fact that Ambrose was standing over the dead body holding what looked an awful lot like a murder weapon, and had then declared himself to be the ancient dragon who had granted the Thornes and Oakfields their cursed gifts in the first place, and was also—supposedly—Ambrose's father.

Even so, my fear subsides and I meet his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath, and then nod in turn.

"Good." He smiles, and then carefully pulls me into a light hug. "I love you, Noah Hunter," he murmurs. "Don't you ever forget that, okay?"

I swallow, and then return his embrace.

He stands for a few long minutes, just holding me, and eventually I realize he's waiting for me to stop shivering, and to let him go first. I do, and he steps back a pace, though he keeps his hands on my arms.

"Okay?" he asks.

"Not really," I admit, glancing past him to the shape of Brutus' body stretched on the dry grass. "What happened?"

He sighs and releases me. "To be quite honest, I'm not sure," he says.

Turning, he walks back to the body and stands over it again, gazing down at his dead cousin with a frown. After a brief hesitation, I join him.

"I woke about..." He checks his watch. "...thirty minutes ago. I'm used to the early-morning shift at the hospital, so it's a habit, I suppose. I was lying there, trying to fall asleep again, when I heard a noise out in the hallway. I figured it was one of the others—Uncle Gus after another drink, or Penelope creeping about as she does—but then I heard it again and it struck me as familiar, somehow. It sounded a bit like what we'd heard in Thaddeus' house—that odd, slithery scrape."

"Why didn't you wake me?" I ask.

He shrugs. "You were sleeping soundly, and I didn't want to bother you. I thought I'd just take a quick look, and that it probably was Penelope, after all. Only when I came out into the hall, there was no sign of anyone. Just an odd smell. Then I went down and found the front door open, and of course I became concerned. I came outside and saw Brutus lying on the ground. I ran to him, of course, but it was fairly clear it was too late already. I saw the poker lying in the grass and picked it up, and then..."

He trails off and takes a deep breath.

"And then?" I prompt.

"Then," he sighs, "you were there. I don't remember anything else."

I remain silent a moment. "So... you're telling me you have at least a twenty-minute gap in your memory, but you didn't kill the guy I found you standing over, murder weapon in hand?"

"I know it doesn't sound good. That's why I didn't tell you—or anyone—about the other times."

"Other times?" I repeat reluctantly.

"Yes. It's been happening on and off since... Well, since I moved into granda's house, I guess."

"Ambrose..." My voice comes out as a whisper, but I know the hurt and disappointment in it are loud enough.

He turns towards me, features twisted with regret, and takes me by the shoulders again. "Please understand, Noah—please. I didn't keep it from you because I don't trust you, or because I'm trying to hide things, or to trick you, or fool anyone. I didn't tell you because... well, because it frightens me. I know I didn't kill Brutus—or Thaddeus, for that matter—but, as you said, I've got gaps in my memory I can't account for, and all you've got is my word. Now what was it you said about Ainach? What did I say to you?"

In a few words, I tell him.

His face turns an awful shade of pale green, and I worry he might actually need to sit down.

"Ah... so that's it, then," he mutters, as if to himself, releasing me and rubbing his fingers across his brow. "I half wondered, but..."

"What?" I ask.

He paces back to where Brutus lies and looks down at him again, rubbing his hand over his jaw.

"You remember I told you that speaking to a dragon wasn't as hard as making binding deals with one?"

I nod.

"Well, I know that from experience. As a child, even as a young man, I didn't fully understand what I was or how I'd come to be. Once I did, of course I wanted to learn more—to speak to my true father, if I could. I learned the basic rituals, and how to contact him, and eventually I managed it."

He sighs.

"It wasn't some heartwarming reunion, of course—nor did I expect it to be. Ainach isn't remotely human, so neither are his sentiments, or his motivations. Still, he told me what I wanted to know."

"Which was?" I ask through chattering teeth. It's cold out here, and as my fear and shock subside, I'm left shivering.

"I asked why he'd wanted a child with a human woman, of course. What was the point of me? He told me he wanted to walk our world again, to share in mortal life, see through mortal eyes, feel with a mortal heart. The only way he could do that was by sending a piece of himself into this world, to be born in mortal form. He said that he and I were the same—pieces of the same whole—and that I was his doorway to this world. I thought he was speaking metaphorically, but it seems I may have been wrong."

"May have been wrong..." I echo, and bite back an inappropriate snort of hysterical laughter. There is a dead man on the lawn, after all.

"Noah..."

I can tell he wants to reassure me, but also that he knows there's nothing he can say that will make this situation better. Brutus can't be un-murdered, and I can't unhear what Ainach said to me—that it's really him to whom I'm bound, and that the man I know as Ambrose is nothing but an extension of his will: a piece on the board of some larger game I can't begin to comprehend.

"It's not true, you know," he says softly, smoothing his hands up and down the side of my arms. "I am my own man—with my own heart, and my own soul. Maybe Ainach has been controlling me somehow, using me for his own ends—but I remember every moment with you, and all of that was real, and was really me, and only me. I swear it on my life."

I swallow even though my mouth and throat are dry, and look up to meet his eyes. "I want to believe you."

To my surprise, he shakes his head.

"I don't want you to just 'believe me,' or 'trust me,' little wolf. I know that's not enough. I want you to be sure—I want you to know it's true."

He smiles faintly and tilts his head to the side.

"So—this is in your hands, now, my love. I'm in your hands. What shall we do? Call the police? Call your brother? ...Fertilize the roses?" he adds, a bit hopefully. "Whatever you judge best, that's what we'll do."

I stare back at him, my mind momentarily blank. A moment later it's flooded with thoughts, fast and thick as bats escaping a cave at nightfall, some sensible, some ridiculous.

Would Ambrose be arrested?

What would Dane say?

If Ambrose burned the body to ash and we spread it in the garden, would it adversely affect the pH balance of the soil?

"Love?" Ambrose touches my arm, a look of mild concern on his face.

I blink, and suddenly a sense of calm returns.

The police won't understand. As for hiding the evidence, that's also out of the question—because if I truly believe that Ambrose hasn't done this, then there's nothing to hide.

On the other hand, if he's arrested, the real killer will still be out there.

I sigh.

I'm not a detective. I'm not anything. I'm just a Wolf, and a man in love, and I decide to let that guide me.

"Okay," I tell him, meeting his gaze again and seeing his surprise at the strange confidence he must see in mine. "I'll Shift and have a look around. Meanwhile, you should call my brother and wake up your relatives. We'll need to question everyone. If you heard strange noises, maybe one of the others—"

I'm interrupted by a high-pitched shriek, coming from inside. With a startled glance at one another, Ambrose and I rush back into the house, just in time to see Mattie, Penelope, Aileen, and August emerge from their rooms upstairs.

August quickly takes center stage in the drama, stumbling down the stairs with his hand outstretched towards us, his face contorted with a horrible look of soul-deep terror.

"It's gone—!" he gasps. "My Gift! My bottle! It's—"

About halfway down the stairs, he misses a step, pitches forward and, limp as a ragdoll, tumbles the rest of the way to the bottom landing, where he lies still.

I stare at him a moment, and then—from this direction, with the open door at my back—I see something that I'd missed before.

A set of muddy footprints, made by a pair of dainty bare feet, lead in from the open door and up the stairs. Another line of tracks—the same size and shape, though far fainter and drier—lead out again.

I glance at Ambrose.

"Call Dane," I say. "Tell him to get Freya here, too."

He nods, and dashes up the stairs, making for our room and his phone. Meanwhile, I look up at the row of pale faces staring down at me.

"Go back to your rooms and stay there," I order. "Now!"

They startle—even Mattie—and then (a bit to my surprise) they do as I say.

Then I go into the library, shed my nightclothes, fold them neatly, and finally—with a deep breath and a whispered prayer to the (possibly imaginary) god of Wolves, I Shift, and begin the Hunt.