Chapter 13: Sad Song for a Wolf Feast

"Yes," I said. "That was me."

Caspian stayed where he was, with one hand on the doorframe.

"It was the night you were hurt," I said.

"I was tired and cranky, and I wanted a quiet house. So I said it."

"I went."

"You never once went when I asked before that."

"And I did not make it to my brother's."

"No."

I did not tell him the rest.

I did not tell him that I had stood on the stairs afterward with my arms crossed.

I did not tell him I had listened to his car go down the drive.

He looked down at his own hand.

"Then I do not understand," he said, "why every part of me wants to be wherever you are."

"Neither do I."

My phone buzzed on the dresser before either of us could say anything worse.

It was Felix.

Found him. Old hunting lodge, pack side of the river.

Garrick is throwing a feast tonight to celebrate you coming in at dawn.

I'm the entertainment. Bring a guitar case, not a guitar.

I read it out loud.

"I will go in through the roof," Caspian said.

"You'll go in through the roof and the whole pack will smell you from the road."

"Then what is your plan?"

"My plan is that I carry the guitar case and look like I'm paid by the hour."

By ten o'clock I was walking up the lodge steps behind a fox in a velvet jacket.

I carried a guitar case that held a cheese knife, a coil of rope and my ledger.

Caspian waited at the tree line.

He had promised, through his teeth, to stay put.

I had told his tail it was not to follow me, and the tail had pretended not to hear.

The hall was loud and smelled of smoke.

Forty wolves sat at long tables with their sleeves pushed up.

At the head of the room, in a chair with a carved back, sat Garrick Holt.

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