As Penelope vanishes back inside the house a new thought occurs to me.

"What about Julian?" I ask, turning to Dane.

"What about him?" he grunts, a wary look entering his eyes.

"I mean, what about having him 'read' the body, or whatever? Maybe he could tell us what Brutus saw—identify the thief, even."

He shifts his weight and crosses his arms.

"We have a lead already," he argues. "Besides, you know how hard on him that is."

I do, but given the circumstances, and the fact I very much want to be wrong about Shanti's involvement, it seems reasonable to ask.

"He's done it before," I return. "Why shouldn't he do it now?"

Before he knew he was Fae, Julian used to consult for the police as a 'psychic,' using his ability to pick up impressions through touch, occasionally helping them solve difficult cases. I knew he avoided dead bodies when he could, as the impressions he got were seldom pleasant and often took a heavy emotional toll, but I feel like this is the sort of thing he'd make an exception for.

Dane shifts again and runs his hands over his hair. "Look... I'd just rather not involve him in this, okay?"

He won't quite meet my eyes, and I realize what he really means is he doesn't want to give Julian the choice, because he knows his mate will choose to help if he can.

"Dane..."

"Noah..."

He gives me a warning glare, but I hold my ground.

With an annoyed huff, he gives in. "Fine. I'll take something for him to look at later. It's not like he needs the whole corpse, anyway."

He returns to the body and crouches beside it where Ambrose still stands, looking down at Brutus' face with a fixed, intense expression.

"So, what's this guy got on him that he's attached to?" he asks. When Ambrose doesn't answer, Dane glances up at him with a frown. "Thorne!"

Uncharacteristically, Ambrose startles. "Ah—forgive me. I didn't hear aught you said just now. Did you ask me something?"

Dane narrows his eyes. "Yeah. I asked what Brutus has that I can take for Julian to read later."

"Read?"

"With his psychic thing." Dane waves a hand. "Clairsentience, or whatever."

"Ah, I see. Erm...his watch, perhaps. He was quite vain about such things."

Dane lifts the dead man's arm to inspect the shiny gold timepiece on his thick wrist. "Too new," he says. "Julian needs something with more energy attached."

He fixes on a tarnished old ring on Brutus' little finger, which looks like it may have once borne a crest or seal of some kind, long since worn smooth.

"This should do. Looks like he hasn't taken it off in years," he says.

Ambrose frowns but says nothing, and I cringe as I hear the finger snap as Dane wrests the ring free of the hand.

Standing, he slips the ring in his pocket and steps back.

"Alright, Thorne. The rest is yours."

Ambrose hesitates and looks between me and Freya. "Are you sure you'd rather not wait inside?"

Freya shakes her head. "I ain't squeamish. Just tell me if I need to stand upwind or something. I don't want to get roast man smell on my jacket. It's imported leather," she adds.

"Freya!" I hiss. She always was the sort to laugh at funerals, but it seems like we ought to at least show Brutus a shred of respect.

"What?" she asks. "I'm serious. It was a gift, and I can't afford to replace it if it gets greasy corpse smoke all over it."

"Who's giving you imported leather jackets as gifts?" Dane cuts in, a protective note creeping into his tone. "And why?"

"None of your business," she answers, flipping her long, gold-tipped curls over one shoulder before nodding at Ambrose. "Well, get on with it then."

Ambrose nods in return, and crouches beside Brutus, holding his hands a few inches above the body. He takes a deep breath through his long nose and shuts his eyes, a line of concentration appearing between his brows as they draw together.

As his hands begin to glow as though lit from below by a powerful light—bones and veins visible through the flesh—I'm struck by a sudden desire to delay, and not to witness what Ambrose is capable of, after all.

"Should we, er...say something?" I suggest. "A prayer, or a few words?"

Ambrose frowns down at his cousin's corpse, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that might be disgust.

"I've got a few words," he says. "Good riddance, Brutus Oakfield."

Then he sets his hands to the body and turns it to ash. It happens fast, almost like a reaction of some kind, from the inside out, like the edge of paper burning quick, devouring cell by cell in a rapid flare of red. Nothing is left but a fine gray powder, which the gentle air has already picked up and begun to scatter.

Freya steps back, not wanting to get ash on her shoes, but she looks impressed.

There wasn't any smoke, and the only smell I detect is something faint and metallic like ozone, or hot iron, maybe.

~ ☾ ~

We spend the rest of the time until morning in the dining room, gathered around the table, drinking coffee and discussing our next move.

Dane wants to confront Shanti first thing. I want a chance to talk to her first. Freya wavers between Dane's view and mine, and Ambrose says little. He wears a pinched, pensive expression, his thoughts elsewhere, and keeps his arms crossed  with his hands tucked against his sides.

At last, Dane and I reach a compromise. I can talk to Shanti alone, but only with him and Freya outside, waiting to barge in if I don't come out again in the agreed-upon amount of time—ten minutes, and not a second more.

As we prepare to leave, Ambrose hangs back, making no move to join us.

"Aren't you coming?" I ask frowning at him. "Don't you want to know if Shanti is a part of this somehow?"

"Aye, 'course I do, little wolf," he mutters, giving me the shadow of a smile. "But my place is here, for the moment. You go on—I've got something of my own I need to...look into, anyhow. We'll speak when you get back."

The way he says it makes it sound a bit like a 'we-need-to-talk,' and I swallow a sudden lump of anxiety that threatens to lodge in my throat.

"Okay," I nod, and try to smile, but I can tell my effort is as unconvincing as his, and as I walk out the door with Freya and Dane, I fight a strange new feeling growing in my chest.

It's a sort of instinct, I realize, and it's telling me to turn around, go back, walk right into Ambrose's arms and stay there, where each of us are whole and safe, and where I belong. I ignore it, though, and follow Dane and Freya out to Dane's car.

~ ☾ ~

Dane parks before the short diagonal wall that forms the front of Shanti's shop, and for a moment I sit without moving, just staring at the door.

"It makes no sense," I say for what seems like the hundredth time. "She's never asked me anything about Ambrose, or the Oakfields or Thornes. I mean, sure she's a little unorthodox, and I'm pretty sure her business isn't exactly above-board, but all she's ever done is given me a job."

I sigh, and Freya reaches forward from the back seat to squeeze my shoulder.

"She told me people come to her shop to find what they need," I go on. "I needed a purpose, and a place to belong. I found that here."

"Hey—maybe you're wrong," Freya offers. "Maybe whatever smell you picked up was something completely different."

"Yeah...maybe."

As I get out, Dane grabs my arm. "Ten minutes," he reminds me.

I nod, and he lets me go.

Predictably, the door is locked—the shop doesn't open for another hour yet—but I use the key Shanti gave me and open it. She's usually here when I arrive in the mornings and, except for the fact I now suspect her to be a thief and water-dragon-snake thing, there's no reason to expect her not to be here today.

So when I open the door and let a long rectangle of outdoor light slip into the dim interior, what I see takes me by surprise.

In fact, I stand in the doorway, not moving, for so long that after a moment I hear the doors of Dane's car open and shut, and then he and Freya join me.

"Shit," Freya says, peering past me. "This is supposed to be a bookshop, right?"

"Yes." My voice sounds flat and expressionless, as empty as the space into which I gaze.

"And it was, like, jam-packed with books an' shit, right?"

"Last I was here, yeah."

"Huh. I don't suppose Shanti mentioned anything about moving locations, and you just forgot, right?"

I don't answer, and step through into the bare room, scanning the walls and floor—even the ceiling—for any sign of something Shanti might have left. A note, a scrap of paper—any trace at all, really.

There's nothing. Not even a piece of trash.

Defeated, I return outside and sit on the curb with my elbows on my knees. After their own investigation, Freya and Dane join me, Freya dropping to sit at my side.

"I'm sorry, Noah. I know you wanted to be wrong. I wish you'd been wrong, too," she says, resting her hand on my back. "And hey, maybe you're still wrong. Maybe..."

She trails off and sighs.

"Thanks, Frey," I say, giving her a weak smile. "At least we have something to go on now."

Dane grunts. "Speaking of. What's Shanti's surname? We've still gotta track her down if we can."

I twist and blink up at him, a miserable feeling settling in my gut. "I—I don't know," I admit.

I don't know anything about her, I realize. All I know is that she said her name was Shanti, and she was kind to me, and she smelled like peace.

~ ☾ ~

I stay out with Freya and Dane most of the day. After picking up some late drive-through breakfast, we head back to his and Julian's house, fill Julian in on what's happened, and show him the ring.

"I'll read it," he agrees, "but I want some time to prepare. A few hours at least. I think if I'm ready, it won't be too bad. Maybe."

Dane scowls. "You don't have to. We have enough to go on with the thief angle for the moment, and if Brutus was facing away from his killer, I don't see what good it will do anyway."

Julian treats him to a glare that says he's not fooling anyone. "I said I'll do it. All you have is conjecture, a missing bookstore, and a weird smell. Not exactly a rock-solid case. Plus, if the killer and the thief really are different people, then the dangerous one is still out there—maybe even closer than you think," he adds, glancing at me.

"Ambrose isn't a murderer," I argue. "He wouldn't hurt—"

"Maybe not," Dane interrupts. "But he's still got twenty minutes of missing memory, and 'Ainach,' or whoever, was up to something in that time. Whether that was bashing people's heads in or not remains to be seen."

I frown but say nothing.

"Hey—why don't you stay here, just until the full moon," Dane says. "That house is too big and old to properly secure—not in the time we have, anyway—and it's obviously where the shit's gonna go down. I'm sure...your mate...would want you somewhere safe."

"What about Ambrose?" I ask. "Is he invited, too?"

Dane doesn't answer, and I shake my head.

"Thanks for the offer, brother," I say, "but my place is with him."

To my surprise, he doesn't argue, and instead just sets his large hand on my shoulder for a moment before taking a breath.

"Just be careful," he says, "and remember that whatever happens, you have a place here, too."

A short while later he drives me back to the mansion and drops me off.

Dougal bounds across the lawn to greet me, as happy as ever, and stops on the way to shake. To my dismay, a cloud of fine dust rises from his coat, and I have a suspicion that he's been rolling in a certain unfortunate pile of ash.

"Urgh...you stupid dog," I lament, gingerly patting his head, but the dumb innocence in his happy brown eyes makes me smile anyway. "Bathy-time for you, I guess, huh? That'll teach you to roll in dead guy."

I'm still talking to him in this way when I nearly trip on something in the path. I stare at it a moment before I recognize it as my travel pack. Lifting my eyes, I see it's not alone. In boxes and bags, all of my things are laid out neatly in front of the door. Ambrose stands behind them with a grim look on his face.

"Ambrose? What... is this?" I ask, feeling my own smile slip away.

"I'm sorry, Noah. I made a mistake," he says. His voice sounds hollow and empty, and he looks like he's staring into a well of darkness, where things like hope and happiness go to die. "I was wrong."

"About... About what? Why are my... Why are all my things out here?"

There has to be some explanation. A bedbug infestation, or something.

"I was wrong about us," he answers, still sounding like he's explaining what shade of black he'd like to wear to his own funeral. "I was wrong. You're... You're not my mate, and I..."

He meets my eyes with a directness I can't look away from if I wanted to; with a look that dares me to call him a liar.

"And I don't love you, Mr. Hunter. I'm sorry."

Then he turns around, goes inside, and locks the door.