Finally, the meal was finished. Sigmas cleared up and removed tables to make room for the dance floor. As they did, Lazro caught Oryen by the elbow and pulled him aside.

"Sorry about Tavell. He is very single-minded. It's a rite of passage by now to get stuck listening to him."

"Eh, it's no trouble," Oryen said.

Lazro lowered his voice. "I've tested him. You can go an hour without saying anything, and he'll go on like that the whole time. Did he try to set you up with Jezarri?"

"Sort of," Oryen said. "But it sounded like I wasn't the first target."

Lazro rolled his eyes. "He couldn't take a hint. He seems to like you though."

Oryen let out a breath. "Well, that's a relief. Still have to win over Kaly and Zarkerya."

Lazro waved a hand in the air. "Zarerya, sure. Kaly doesn't like anyone though. Don't take it personally."

"Not even you?"

Lazro laughed. "It's just her way. I'd be prickly too, if I lost as many people as she has. Agh, I shouldn't bring down the mood with talk like that. Go, enjoy yourself! Dance, be merry, all that. I'll find you later."

"Before you go!" Oryen stole himself for what he'd wanted to say. No matter how many times he did this, it never got easier, but particularly when it was someone who mattered. He spat the words out like they tasted too bitter to withhold. "About your little speech, the dancing bit, IshouldhavetoldyouearlierI'mgay."

Lazro's smile barely faltered, but it left his eyes for a second. "Sorry?"

"I'm gay," Oryen repeated. "I'm sorry. I should have told y—"

Lazro slapped a hand down around Oryen's shoulders and shook him. "What are you apologising for? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. It's not a problem. Just tell anyone who asks that I'm an idiot."

That caustic, held breath turned light and buoyant. "Doesn't bother you?"

"Jeeze. Of course not. You're my brother. Dance with whoever you want."

Relief burst like bright fireworks in Oryen's chest. "Thanks."

Lazro gave him another squeezing, one-armed hug. "Don't mention it."

Then a group of officious looking individuals piped up for his attention, and he was whisked away again. Oryen drifted into the crowd, relief still afloat inside him, but a thread of irony twisted it too. Realistically, he'd known his brother was no bigot. Still, it was a difficult thing to say out loud.

Yet, easier than admitting he'd been a Fen.

Every secret was a closet to hide in, and it bothered Oryen he wasn't any freer of life's dark, locked spaces than he'd been as a young teen.

The room was by now a rhythmic sea of dancing bodies. Music pushed and pulled the crowd like the moon affecting the ebb and flow of tides. Some kind of aggressive waltz took place, everyone squaring off with partners. Oryen didn't recognize the style and watched closely, wondering if he could easily join without mucking up. He looked for Reyz or Aryeta. Instead, his eyes fell on Beau.

He leaned against a pillar, weight on one foot so his hips canted to one side. He looked to his left, the long lines of his neck stretching. Beside him, a man with a mane of tawny hair spoke to him with undivided interest. Beau's head was turned to face him, but his body was pointed at Oryen. The golden-headed man laughed. Beau turned, his eyes meeting Oryen's across the sea of people.

Oryen felt the bizarre urge to butt in. Beau was hardly a comedian. What had he said to make that man laugh and look at Beau like he was a flower to pluck petals from whilst asking, 'he loves me, he loves me not?'

Beau said something, possibly goodbye, and crossed the floor.

"You aren't joining in."

"The dance?" Oryen's instincts prickled. "I don't know it."

"It's about war. You should be good at that." Beau put a hand to Oryen's throat. "But I'll teach you."

He advanced. Oryen backed onto the dance floor. Stiffly, he allowed Beau to place his hands where they were meant to go. One on his hip, the other along the sloping curve from neck to shoulder, thumb at the hollow of his throat. Oryen could feel his pulse through that thumb. It was obnoxiously steady.

They held each other an arm's length apart. Beau instructed him through the motions. The footwork was simple. They chased each other a few steps back, spun on the spot, a few steps back again. Then reversed. Oryen understood what Beau meant by war. They were soldiers, the dance floor a battlefield. Each one-man army advanced upon his foe, surrendering ground, then taking it back again in a chase. A game of cat and mouse. The next verse, they switched arms so Beau's left thumb sat just below Oryen's adam's apple, stoppering his breath. Their gazes were steadfast, never looking away from their foe lest he go for the kill.

"Tavell," Beau said. "You asked him about the prisoners." The deep baritone of his voice matched the cello's reverberant notes.

"He said there wasn't anyone interesting there. Thieves and drunks, and they let those out. They exile anyone worse."

"Then he's lying."

"He just seemed disinterested."

Beau said, "I don't trust your intuition as much as my own. He's lying. What else did he say?"

Oryen sighed. "He mentioned fer—ferine?"

Beau's eyes were the colour of coffee. They glinted gold now. "What else?"

"Nothing about prisoners. It was just like you said. He went on for ages about whiskey and Jezarri. He's keen on matching her with my brother."

Beau's brows rose. "Your brother's opinion?"

"Not interested."

Beau's gaze didn't budge, but his attention seemed to rove inward. Taking a chance, Oryen pushed back in the dance. Beau gave only two steps, his expression gone steely.

"Then you should ask her to dance," Beau said.

"What?"

It was Oryen's turn to lose focus. Beau took advantage. His hand was suddenly tight around Oryen's trachea. Not enough to make it difficult to talk, but uncomfortable.

He was on the defensive. "She's not my type."

"Mm, I know," Beau said. "But I wasn't asking. She might be more open about prisoners than her father."

"You want me to dig the information out of her instead."

"When the song changes," Beau persisted, "ask her to dance, and if you can't get the information from her now, ask her to dinner."

Oryen stared into Beau's implacable expression for a moment and wondered what devil he'd made a deal with to achieve a face like that and a heart so cruel. An unfamiliar feeling slithered and squeezed inside him.

The music changed keys. In Oryen's moment of weakness, Beau pushed past the barrier their arms made. His hand was iron on Oryen's neck, holding him so he couldn't retreat. His thumb was the tip of a knife pointed into the soft, vulnerable hollow under Oryen's chin. His mouth was a counterpoint to that touch, hovering just over Oryen's jugular. Eye contact broken, Oryen dully registered the other dancers falling into similar poses of triumph and surrender. A play of dominance and submission. Violent and disarming. Beau's closeness made him tense.

Breath fanned against Oryen's neck and made his skin break out in goosebumps. "It's very important," Beau said, "that you don't tell anyone I'm after this information. Do you understand?"

Oryen recalled what Tavell had said about the Renvathi. Vanished all at once from the very place Oryen had raided. It had to be Beau's pack.. He'd never mentioned it, so Oryen could safely assume it was because he didn't want it known. The pack seemed to have influence bordering on fame in the eyes of other werewolves. He imagined dropping the name 'Renvathi,' between them like a trophy to see Beau's reaction. Just for the gratification of throwing Beau off his game. But instinct told Oryen to hold those cards close until he knew more. Beau wielded secrets against him, perhaps he could do the same.

He said, "You're a real fun sponge, you know?"

"I asked a question."

"Yes. I understand."

The other couples broke apart, but Beau lingered just long enough that the threat of his teeth seemed real. When he did release him, his touch left an impression like the ghost of bruises on Oryen's throat.