Sashes of white and gold festooned the great halls of Kolraga. Sunflowers, taller than men, stood in elaborate displays like blossoming trees. Sprays of summer flowers decorated tables laden with food. The Alphas sat at a head table, where an enormous set of moose antlers served as centrepiece, fruits dripping from the broad tines.

Oryen recalled, with an ache of nostalgia, the simple but delicious spread Aryeta had set for them. He wanted this to go well, but a huge and hungry part of his heart wished that only Lazro waited for him, not the hungry eyes of every Alpha in Mardero.

Beau's threats loomed larger than before. Oryen felt thick as a plank for having wondered if Beau's grudge had softened, if removing the tattoo had been a sign of sympathy. Bonding over the shared guilt of hurting one another.

Clearly, that was about as accurate as an arrow shot by a drunk in a hurricane.

Before Oryen made progress into the hall, Aryeta found him. She had a basket of flowers in hand and a crown of them on her head.

"There you are!" She gave him the up and down. "Looking very fresh."

Oryen couldn't help a smile. "So are you. What are those?"

"Dogwood flowers! Put one under your pillow at the end of the night, and you'll dream of your soulmate. Here." She took one from the basket and secured it in the tight curls of Oryen's hair.

"Do I look pretty?"

"Very. I shouldn't hold you up, though. Go see your big bro. And save a dance for me!"

He went, hurried along by a few slaps on the shoulder from her.

At the head table, Lazro stood, a gold sash across his chest. His smile flashed at the sight of Oryen. Next to him was Reyz, smiling just as brightly and waving him over. If it were not for them both, Oryen might have turned and left, because the expressions of the others had a sobering effect. Like someone chopping sausages while you tried to watch porn.

He recognized Kalysto first, her blonde hair plaited with teal ribbons and tied around her head like a crown. On the left side of the table sat a severe, older woman with eyeliner sharp enough to slit throats. To her right, a man with a face like the cartography of a map—all lines and wrinkles from every expression he'd ever made, of which frowns made up a good percentage.

Lazro reached Oryen and clasped him in a tight hug. "Happy Sun's End."

Reyz clapped him on the back too. "Glad you could make it. You wouldn't want to miss the food. Lazro really pulled out all the stops."

Lazro smiled and said, "I can't take any of the credit. Zarkerya did all the organising for the event."

Zarkerya, the severe woman, smiled. It gave her mouth a pursed V shape. "It was nothing."

"You've met most of us, actually, but let me introduce you to these two," Lazro said. "Well, you've just met Zarkerya. She's the lovely Alpha of Qaelish and takes care of events like this one."

"Yes, always the life of the party," said Kalysto, voice dripping with its usual sepulchral poison. Zarkerya seemed neither surprised nor bothered.

Lazro moved on through the introductions. "This is Tavell, Zarkerya's husband and Alpha of the Qaelish. He's been very keen to meet you."

So this was the man Beau wanted him to butter up. Tavell stood and extended his hand, which Oryen shook. Despite his age, Tavell's grip was iron. "Very pleased to finally meet our leader's dear brother." He had the air of a man meeting his daughter's boyfriend for the first time. Oryen could imagine him loading shotgun shells and asking, 'What are your intentions regarding my Elizabeth?'

Oryen said, "I've heard a lot about you. Well, more about your whiskey collection, actually."

Said in tones of scepticism, "You like whiskey?"

Oryen did not. "Love it."

Tavell's face creased into its first smile. "Sit with me. I've brought out a bottle of Cricklefang aged seventy years. I call it the nectar of the gods."

Lazro beamed. "I knew you two would get along. Sit, dig in. It's not a party unless you're stuffing your face."

Oryen sat between Tavell and Zarkerya, the former more congenial now the topic had turned to something that interested him, the latter quietly critical. Tavell pulled the cap off a whiskey bottle and poured a finger of dark amber liquid into his glass.

"Let me tell you about this brew," he said. "It's like nothing else. Aged in oak barrels with honey notes. Brewed by Renvathi. Everything from the temperature of the ageing cellars to the exact distillation methods were all heavily guarded secrets, but between you and me, I don't know they had a uniform method. Each brew's a bit different. And of course, the price went straight up the moment the Renvathi all disappeared."

"After who disappeared?" Oryen said, holding the glass under his nose. The scent made his eyes water, which he suppressed with excessive blinking.

"The Renvathi. Lazro hasn't given you the history lesson yet? Big pack, very influential, kept the peace between werewolves and humans. Until the cat got out of the bag, of course, and everyone found out werewolves are real. But their pack's an old one. Been around a long time, then disappeared, which is why the whiskey's rarer than gold dust now."

He handed a glass to Oryen and held up his own, clinking them together. Oryen threw it back. Fire scorched a path down his throat and pooled in his belly. This sensation was pleasant compared to the taste.

"Mmm!" Oryen said with difficulty.

"I see you're a man of impeccable taste." Tavell chuckled.

"So, any clue about how these Renvathi disappeared?" Oryen asked. He had no idea whether this could lead into a conversation about the prisoners, but keeping Tavell talking couldn't hurt.

"Oh, plenty. Some think they're underground, in hiding, plotting a rebellion or the take down of quarantine. Wishful thinking, if you ask me."

"What do you think?"

He swirled his drink around in his mouth before answering. "Between you and me, and I'd rather you not repeat this because some wouldn't take kindly to the insinuation, but I believe they were broken up the way all packs were. Fens."

Oryen took another sip of whiskey to avoid having to say anything to that.

Tavell went on. "Such a large pack, most werewolves wouldn't believe it possible, but my pack was not so small when we were raided. Renvathi would be difficult to hide, pack that size."

The story's familiarity had started to raise the hair on the back of Oryen's neck. "I love a good mystery." The words sounded strained to his own ears, but Tavell didn't notice. "Any clues? Where they were last?"

"Last known location was the town of Rideau."

The whiskey's burn turned acidic in Oryen's stomach. Rideau. The Graveyard Pack. The Renvathi, this supposed pack of legend, was Beau's pack. The family Beau searched for. And here sat Oryen, sipping whiskey from their cellar with a man who had no idea Oryen was chatting him up to find out if he knew anything about their location. If he'd ever imprisoned one of them. His head spun, the answers to some mysteries only raising more. If the entire pack had been submitted to this sector of quarantine, how had they remained hidden? How come they were a pack of legend?

Where had they gone?

"Sounds like an episode of Ghost Hunters," Oryen said.

Tavell considered him, still swirling the whiskey in his mouth. Oryen got the sense he was being placed on a scale. Weighed. Measured.

Tavell's face cracked into a smile. "You know, I feared what sort of man you'd be, but perhaps I was too quick to judge. Oh, but how rude of me! I've introduced you to my whiskey before my lovely daughter."

Oryen looked up. Jezarri walked toward the head table. She wore a navy dress, her sash tied around her waist—green, for her Qaelish allegiance. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and flashed Oryen a quick smile.

"Jezarri, darling, I'd like you to meet Oryen. Lazro's brother." He put particular emphasis on this last statement.

"We've already met, Dad," she said. "We're in the Kappas together, remember?"

Tavell's brows slammed down hard over his eyes. "Yes, a foolish place for our daughter to be."

Zarkerya piped up with a prim 'hm' of agreement.

Tavell said, "Perhaps you could speak sense into her, Oryen."

"Oh no. I just got here. Whatever sense I've got is only good for sticking in a pipe and smoking."

If anything, this seemed to endear him to Tavell even more. "No, indeed. It's only right that you earn your place. But our Jezarri, after her abduction by Kahleir, we only want her safe. You understand."

Tavell's words sunk in slowly. Oryen remembered meeting Jezarri when he'd first arrived in quarantine. She'd been pursued by tag collectors.

He hadn't known that she'd also been escaping Kahleir though.

Tavell leaned in. "If she won't see sense, perhaps you can convince her. Or at least protect her out there."

Jezarri's cheeks reddened with angry embarrassment, but she didn't speak out against her father. Oryen found himself caught between Tavell's approval and defending her from the blatantly misogynistic assertion about her abilities.

Oryen said delicately, "I can do one better and set your mind at ease. Jezarri's a menace. She can run circles around us."

This seemed both the right and wrong thing to say. Tavell's moustache bristled, but he subsided. Jezarri's expression swirled between a mix of pride in his assessment and...flirtatious eyelash fluttering. Oryen couldn't mistake the perfume on her. It was not the artificial sort. Pheromones. On some instinctive level, he registered that she was attracted to him.

You're not just barking up the wrong tree, you're lost in the wrong forest, he thought.

"Thanks, Oryen," she said, so quietly he barely heard. "I should leave you to eat, but I hope to see you on the dance floor, Oryen."

Not quietly enough. Kalysto had heard, which she made apparent by muttering, "I'm gonna puke," into her wine glass.

Jezarri walked away to her own table, looking coyly over her shoulder at Oryen. Tavell noticed. He looked between them. Once again, Oryen imagined him loading shotgun shells.

Thankfully, Lazro clinked his glass, awaited silence for a speech, so Tavell could not comment. The assembled werewolves quieted, all eyes turning on the top table. Over the sea of faces, Oryen recognized Serove, cheeks ruddy from drink.

"Everyone, I promise I won't take up too much of your time," Lazro said. "I'm not dumb enough to stand between a pack of hungry wolves and their dinner. Or their wine." Appreciative laughter. Oryen wondered how Lazro could so effortlessly command a room's attention and respect while also cracking jokes. "I'm not keen on speeches, but today marks a very special occasion. Aside from the obvious excuse to eat ourselves into a coma, I'm joined tonight for the first time by a man I thought had been lost to me."

Oryen's heart leapt. He felt the flicker of attention from Lazro to himself. Lazro extended an arm, compelling Oryen to stand. He did, feeling like a rusted tin man in arrested locomotion. Lazro came around the chairs to clasp an arm around his shoulders. Oryen grinned despite his nerves.

"I want you all to meet my little brother, Oryen!"

The hall clapped loudly, and there were a few woops nearby from Reyz.

"I'm not mean enough to force him into a speech, but I'm counting on you all to make him feel like a member of the pack and our family. And to any of the single ladies out there, I'm sure you'll see him on the dance floor."

Oryen's insides dropped. He managed to keep his smile despite the clang of reality hitting him like a lead pipe to the kneecaps. He'd been out for years, but of course, his emergence from the closet had happened after Lazro's disappearance.

He smiled through the applause and gave his brother a crushing hug. He would tell him later. It was no big deal. Just an honest mistake.

Sigmas—which Oryen learned was the rank for farmers, cooks and kitchen staff —appeared bearing fresh platters whenever one emptied. Enough food to match the voracious appetite of a few hundred wolves. Tavell forked strips of venison onto his plate and encouraged Oryen to do the same before it ran out again. Anxiety prevented Oryen from tasting most of it, or perhaps that was only because meals made for such large numbers had little in the way of seasoning. Either way, he'd failed to get enough information about prisoners Tavell might have dealt with, and he could only continue this conversation so long before he appeared rude to the other Alphas.

Tavell peppered him with random facts about how many generations the Qaelish had been around and how far they'd come from humble agricultural roots. There were an increasing number of anecdotes about Jezarri, most to estoll her virtues.

Hints and nudges yielded nothing, so Oryen dispensed with subtlety altogether. "So how difficult is it to keep werewolf prisoners under lock and key?"

"Hm?" said Tavell. His eyes were glued to Lazro a few seats down, who spoke to a pretty woman Oryen didn't know.

"Your job? I can't imagine locking up werewolves is easy."

Distractedly, "Oh, with enough silver and iron, it's no hardship. You know, I thought your brother and my Jezarri would make a dashing pair."

Fortunately, Oryen had a mouthful of mashed yam and could not answer.

"He is a good man and a better leader," Tavell continued. "I think she admires him, and why shouldn't she? Mardero was going to the dogs, if you don't mind the terrible expression, but he's turned it around in so little time."

Oryen chewed very slowly to avoid responding. Was Tavell hedging for Oryen's help as matchmaker?

"But I digress, he does not seem interested in taking a partner." Tavell sighed, doling himself another helping of meat and potatoes. He had not eaten a single solitary vegetable. "But perhaps I had the wrong brother in mind. If you prove to be as strong and dependable as Lazro—"

"This broccoli is so fresh!" Oryen declared, subtle as a cartoon anvil. "I"m a bit new here to be looking at the dating scene, anyway. More interested in hearing about work. Hard-working, that's me. How's the daily grind?"

Tavell frowned. "Boring, I'm afraid. You wouldn't thank me for talking shop."

Oryen hedged onward, "C'mon, I'm sure there's been some interesting characters. Werewolf crime's gotta have the human-kind beat. Anyone famous? Uh, infamous, rather?"

Tavell's brow pinched together in concentration, as though it took quite a lot of focus to remember anything about his job at all. "Hmm, I fail to think of anyone. Thieves and drunks tend not to re-offend, murderers get exiled. Simpler than keeping anyone long. An uncollared ferine or two —"
"A what?"

"Ferine. Vicious werewolves who've lost their minds and can't turn human again. Bit like rabies, but not contagious." Seeing Oryen's alarm, he added, "Rare thing. Not something you need to worry about, I assure you."

That said, Tavell changed the subject once more. Oryen let out a slow breath of frustration. He'd tried, but he doubted Beau would be pleased.