Chapter 22: The Cellar Again

The Brindle Tavern stood where the river road bent, a low black building with a broken sign and a gravel yard.

I had been carried out of its back door a week ago, with silver in my veins and my head hanging.

I walked in through the front.

Rhys came behind me with his leg bandaged and a limp he refused to admit.

Costa and Bram came after.

Six wolves from each pack spread out through the taproom.

The few men at the bar put down their glasses.

"The cellar," I said.

The barman didn't argue. He pointed with his chin.

The same narrow steps, the same damp stone walls. I went down them without touching the rail.

The room at the bottom was the same too.

A card table. Four chairs. A lantern on a hook.

Dean sat at the table in his sling, with a canvas satchel open at his elbow, spilling bundles of fund cash.

Across from him sat the broker's man, with a pierced ear and a cold, patient face.

Between them lay a hand of cards, face down.

Dean looked up, and the color left his face.

"Willa."

"Sit still," I said.

He stood up so fast the chair fell over.

"I can pay," he said. "Look, I can pay. I've got all of it. I was going to bring it back."

"Whose money is that?"

"Odette's. The pack's. I don't know."

He swallowed.

"I was going to win it back, twice what I owe. Then I'd go straight to your brother."

"You were gambling the fund's money in the room where you sold me."

"I had to start somewhere."

Behind me on the stairs, I heard Rhys breathe in.

The broker's man did not turn his head.

"Miss," he said, in a pleasant, flat voice. "Mr. Karrick owes my employer two hundred thousand, as of Tuesday."

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