When I emerge from the library in Wolf form, I'm relieved to see that the others have obeyed me and returned to their rooms.

Ambrose kneels beside his uncle at the bottom of the stairs, his phone to his ear, presumably talking to Dane. August moans and stirs, having apparently survived his tumble, and blinks with confusion and alarm as he spots my approach.

Ambrose turns to see what he's looking at, and as his brows lift I realize he hasn't seen my full Wolf-form yet.

Compared to Freya or Dane—or any of our siblings, really—I'm not the most impressive animal. My fur is dark gray, my eyes are light amber, and I'm about the size of a German Shepherd; which, for a werewolf, is somewhat small.

Still, a wolf is a wolf, and not something most people see every day, and the look on Ambrose's face is gratifyingly impressed.

He takes the phone away from his ear for a moment to speak to me.

"Be careful, love—and don't go far. Your brother's on his way."

I give a sharp yip in reply and turn a few quick circles, chasing my tail. It was a sort of ritual my siblings and I had when beginning a hunt, and was meant to clear the senses before picking up a trail, but now it probably just makes Ambrose wonder if I've had my rabies shots.

Suitably disoriented, I shake myself and snort, then set my nose to the ground and take the scent of the muddy prints.

Ambrose was right. They carry a strange smell—not unpleasant, and not entirely unfamiliar, but which I can't quite name or identify. It's a mix of things, all very faint, and too jumbled to sort through at the moment. It's also already beginning to fade, and if I want to follow it, there's no time to lose.

Turning, I bolt for the door, following the prints out along the path through the yard, straight to the small gate, which I find swinging wide, across the street, and into the forested parkland on the other side.

I halt at the head of the trail that leads to the lake. 

The area is dense with brush and with twists and turns that make it prime ambush territory. On top of that, the scent is so fresh and plain, so almost comically obvious—a trail of literal muddy footprints—I hardly need to be a wolf to follow them, and it's setting off alarm bells in the back of my mind.

It's almost like the thief wants to be followed.

On the other hand, this is my chance to prove myself to Dane, and to prove that Ambrose isn't lying at the same time.

Dane had once told me that most murders weren't complicated, and that most victims know their killers: a friend or a lover, a family-member, a husband or a wife; which is depressing, but which also means that if Dane saw a guy standing over his dead cousin with a bloody fire-poker in hand, 'I don't know what happened, but it wasn't me,' would not hold much water as an alibi. 

If I can catch a glimpse—or better yet, find some material evidence—of whoever made these footprints, it will go a long way towards proving that Ambrose's story is the truth.

On the other other hand, it's the middle of the night, the woods are dark and eerily still, and I'm completely on my own.

I like to think I'm as fierce as any wolf in a fight, but when it comes to cold-blooded nerve, I admit I'm the sort that jumps at shadows. Or owls. Or people who leap out at me from behind things just to hear me scream.

It's actually a small miracle that Freya and I are as close as we are now, given how much she used to enjoy tormenting me.

Giving myself another shake, I put my nose to the ground again and set off along the trail; because even worse than the thought of letting this chance slip by is the thought of Freya finding me here, too afraid to go into the 'dark scary woods' by myself.

My hard nails click on the pavement, so I leave the path and run in the soft, damp leaves instead. Skirting the edge, I keep my mind on the hunt, letting my instincts guide me. The night is still but full of vitality, and I sense the wild residents of the trees and brush and shoreline, and the nearby meadows and fields, as they go about the quiet business of their lives. Their presence and simple stories flick and flash across my mind as I catch their scents or a hint of sound, but most of my attention is on the trail.

The scent of my quarry is strange, its tones mixed. It's earthy and dark, cool as green water shadowed by ancient trees, dry as dust and stone and sunlight, warm as rich spices and soothing as cold milk.

I'm so absorbed with it, and with trying to make sense of it, that I barely notice when it leaves the path until I splash right into the shallows at the edge of the lake.

I halt, standing in a few inches of water, and stare out at the black surface of the lake, little ripples spreading out from where I've disturbed its stillness. These quickly subside, and then all is smooth as glass again. I backtrack, pick up the trail and check again, but there's no mistake. It leads straight into the water, and vanishes. Thick willow brush overhangs the banks on either side, and if someone wanted to get around them, they'd have to swim. I don't get the feeling that whoever made the tracks entered the water just to wash their feet or dilute their scent, though.

No—the tracks lead purposefully, straight and confident, right to the water's edge. Right into the heart of the lake.

With a shiver and a low whine, I retreat to dry land. Whoever made the tracks has gone where I can't follow, and there's nothing to do but return to Ambrose and wait for Dane.

I'm about to do just that when I catch sight of something floating on the water's surface a few feet from the shore. It looks almost like a leaf, but even with my wolf-sight I can tell that the colors are wrong. It's greenish-blue, and pearlescent.

A scale.

I know I won't be able to retrieve it as a wolf, and so—reluctantly—I Shift.

Shivering and hugging myself against the cold night air that washes over my bare skin, I splash into the shallows, wincing as my feet slip and hurt on the sharp slimy rocks beneath. 

With the water at mid-calf, I reach my quarry, and pick it carefully from the surface where it floats like a little boat. Then I turn and make my way back towards shore.

As I do, I feel, with intense and sudden certainty, that I'm being watched—and watched by something quite close, and quite dangerous—by a predator, ready to take me as its prey.

Spinning, heart tripping with alarm, I stare at the lake, but the surface is as black and glassy as before, undisturbed by even a ripple or a splash. Somehow, the stillness makes it worse, and I keep my eyes on it, retreating slowly, a step at a time, afraid to turn my back.

Finally gaining the paved trail, I turn and walk swiftly back towards the house, one hand covering myself, and the other clutching my precious piece of evidence, and all the way certain that something watches me, and fighting the urge to break into a panicked run.

~ ☾ ~

Ambrose waits for me at the edge of the road, and my relief at the sight of him is so great my knees almost give. His eyes widen as he takes in my unclothed state, but he makes no comment as I walk straight into his arms. He pulls off his tartan dressing robe and wraps it around me, leaving himself dressed only in the boxers and undershirt in which he sleeps. The robe carries the warmth of his body and his familiar, spiced scent, and does a lot to calm my frayed nerves.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks, feeling me shiver.

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Just cold and... a little spooked. Do you know what this is?"

I hold out the scale and he takes it, squinting at it in the dim light of the streetlamp beneath which we stand.

"Looks like...a scale of some kind. A fish or, a reptile. Though it'd have to be something pretty big..."

He trails off and lifts his eyes to meet mine.

"Where did you find it?"

I tell him as we cross the street and walk back through the yard, his arm around my waist, keeping me close. The lumpy outline of Brutus' body still lies where I'd seen it last, and I try not to look at his upturned face as we pass.

Ambrose continues to study the scale as I speak, turning it over and over in his other hand.

"I didn't really want to try carrying it in my mouth—whatever it is—so I had to Shift back to pick it up," I explain. "Fortunately it wasn't far from shore."

"Fortunately..." He laughs, then swears, pressing his hand to his lips with the scale held tight in his fist. "Almost as if you were meant to find it, in other words," he murmurs.

"You know what it is?" I ask.

His hold tightens on my side a fraction and then he releases me as we reach the front door.

"Well, not by sight, no," he says, "but given the circumstances and all... Do you remember how Mattie described it—the first dragon Aengus managed to summon?"

"As a...a great serpent," I say. "A..."

"Water-dragon king. A naga lord, most likely."

"But the footprints..." I protest. They were small, and human—a woman's I'd thought.

"Nagas are shapeshifters," he says distractedly, watching as a battered SUV rounds the corner at unsafe speeds and screeches to a halt, one tire jumping the curb as its driver parks in front of our still-open gate. "They can appear as humans, as serpents, or as a mingling of both."

The vehicle's front doors open as he speaks, and Dane and Freya emerge, jogging towards us across the lawn. Freya stops at the body, bending for a closer look, while Dane marches straight up to me.

His eyes are lit with a wolfish gleam, and for a moment I'm insensibly afraid he's going to hit me again, and flinch as he extends his hand. Instead, he only grasps my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze.

"What happened?" he asks.

I glance at Ambrose. We haven't had time to discuss what we would tell Dane—the truth, a partial truth... a lie—but Ambrose speaks with quiet confidence, and tells him exactly what he had told me, and what had happened after.

Freya joins us as he speaks, and when he finishes they share a look.

"Is your ex-boss gonna be down with this?" Freya asks Dane. "Or do I need to start diggin' a hole?"

Dane's chest expands as his lungs fill with air, and he lets his breath go with a deep sigh, running his hands over his hair. "No, no need for a hole. Thorne here can take care of the body, well enough."

"What!?" I exclaim, a bit shrilly. "What do you mean, 'take care of the body?"

Dane gives me a stern, patient look. "Noah, when I took this case I thought it was about petty thefts. I thought it was a bunch of rich folk getting their trinkets stole by someone with a bug up their ass—'easy work; pays well,' in other words. Instead, it's turned into this shit-show. Murders, poison—fucking dragons—and more goddamn players on the stage than I can keep track of."

He sighs again. "Look, we live in two worlds, right? The world where you're a scholar, and I'm a private-detective-slash-ex-cop, and Ambrose is a..."

"Veterinarian," he supplies, a wry smile twisting his lips.

"Whatever. Point is, we live in another world, too. The one with werewolves, and dragons, and... and Fae," he adds softly. "The one normal folk have no part in, and moreover have to be protected from. I thought this case was part of that first world, then both. Now it's plain it belongs only in ours. Laura Coleridge understands a lot, but as Chief of Police she's bound more to that world than to ours. This is our mess, and we'll deal with it our way."

I'm not sure what to say.

On the one hand, I'm relieved. It seems like Dane is at least willing to take Ambrose at his word, which means he's willing to give him—and by extension, me—a chance.

On the other hand, destroying the evidence of a violent crime—a murder, for gods' sake—is not something I ever thought I'd do. Much less have my big brother help me with.

Dane sees something of my thoughts in my face, and squeezes my shoulder again.

"Hey," he says. "Solving a murder is as much about the victim's loved-ones as it is about the victim or the person who committed the crime. Now from what I've gathered, Brutus Oakfield's 'loved ones' don't give a shit what really happened to him, as long as it doesn't happen to them, too. You, on the other hand, are caught up in this now, brother, and your loved ones care very much what happens to you. And..."

The corners of his full lips dip in a frown as he glances at Ambrose, and if I didn't know better, I'd almost think the wash of color darkening his cheeks stemmed from embarrassment.

"And... we care about those you love, as well. Because..."

He swallows and—finally—meets Ambrose's eyes.

"Because you're the smart one, Noah; so if you trust him, then that's good enough for me," he says, extending his hand to my Mate. "And... well, I guess that makes him Pack."