Miss Finn circumvented all main roads—perhaps to keep their conspicuously large Thomas from prying eyes. Thomas, for his part, was making very little effort to blend in; his face was twisted in something between disgust and disbelief and he kept a handkerchief pressed firmly to his nose.

Not that Ivan blamed him much for the latter. The streets were so thin and the walls so bloated with age, they trapped their reek of waste in the river's steam, like water misting under a closed watch face. The smells layered on the roof of his mouth until all he could taste were acrid days of drink and bile.

"You know, Miss," Thomas said, angling his shoulders to fit between the buildings. "I wouldn't have said your neighbourhood was... well, posh, before. But this place here puts a lot into perspective."

Miss Finn had stopped at the end of the alley. The light came in that direction, silhouetting her shoulders and high-collared neck amidst the foul-smelling fog.

"I mean," Thomas continued, kicking a mouldy poster to the side. "I'm pretty sure the devil himself wouldn't- oh, hell. Look at that. Is that a corpse?"

"Thomas," Ivan's voice was tired. He saw the line of Miss Finn's shoulders crease with tension. "Be polite."

"It is a corpse," Thomas confirmed. "You both just stepped over a corpse. No second thought about it. I mean, what sort of place—"

Miss Finn turned, her skirts brushing the alley's blistered paint and stirring the fog in a way that had her scent reaching back towards them. Thomas cut himself off; Miss Finn, in this squalor, smelled like a lifeline, like the only air they should be breathing.

"Thomas, love," she began, doubling back in slow strides. The sun filtered through smog as if through coffee paper: blurring her face, but sketching in gold the line of her jaw and curve of her lips. "Let's try to keep your tourism notes a little more private, eh?" she suggested through her teeth.

Thomas swallowed. His handkerchief fluttered with his nod.

"Where's your corpse, then?" She stopped where he had been pointing and considered the body under the fog, curled against the wall with a bottle in hand.

Miss Finn sighed and gave the body a good kick. "Hey, Greg," she called, loud enough to startle Thomas. She kicked the man again, "Greg Nancy. You in there?"

The corpse groaned and swatted at her ankle.

"Not a corpse, then." Miss Finn gave Thomas a smile sweeter than her scent. "Sorry to disappoint, love." The smile became a baring of teeth and she turned back around. Ivan stepped against his wall to let her through.

Thomas gave his beta a look behind her back, seeking solidarity.

Ivan reached up and eased the handkerchief away from the pup's nose. "The Miss is right," he said, and tucked the handkerchief into the wolf's breast pocket. "Real people live here. Like..." Ivan looked down at the body between them. "Like Greg Nancy, here. So watch how you go."

He left Thomas to navigate his feelings about the corpse on his own, and followed Miss Finn out the alley and across the street to the chipped red paint of her altar's door.

While it was small and smelled of mildew and candle wax, the altar was pleasant in comparison to the alley: a little haven in the sewage.

Strips of the morning came through three windows, curving light around solitary kneelers. Two candles flickered like watchmen on either end of the altar. And behind that holy table, a mosaic of a woman and child spread welcoming arms in faded colours. The mosaic moulted in flecks of tile, but Ivan found the look in the woman's eye rather comforting.

A young priest swept the dais, and an old woman sat in a chair to the left. She was so stooped in shawls and blankets that the first thing one noticed about her was her eyes, a blotted white.

Miss Finn kissed the woman's cheek. "Morning, Old Mother."

"Lianne?" The woman perked up and sat a degree straighter. "This early? Why? The dreams plaguing you again?"

"No, no, Mother. Nothing like that." She turned back to the wolves, as if loathe to introduce them. "Allow me to present my... my guests. Ivan, Thomas. This is Old Mother Tamar and our priest, Father Aaron. Aaron, Mother; these wolves will be with me the next two weeks."

Old Mother Tamar's brows rose so high they got lost in her wrinkles. "Wolves, then? It's been a while." She reached a hand down the aisle. "Last time I had a wolf in here, I got a bullet through my finest jar of healing oil."

Miss Finn softened enough to laugh, brushing the old woman's hair from her brow. "I'm armed, Mother. But don't plan on shooting anything this time." She looked over at Ivan and frowned. "Well? Give the Mother your hand."

Ivan stepped forward and slipped his hand into Mother Tamar's long fingers. Her skin was soft and spongy. She smelled of incense and lavender.

"Kneel here for me, son," Old Mother said, tugging on Ivan's hand.

Ivan obeyed. "It's an honour to meet such a formidable woman of the faith."

Her soft fingers found his neck and slowly traced the plane of his cheek, his nose, his lips. "A good face."

"So Jesslyn told all of South Riverway this morning." Miss Finn turned to the altar and dipped her knee in a brief genuflection.

The Mother laughed, the sound crinkled and tearing like old paper. "Not the sort of good I meant." She reached her other hand to pull at Father Aaron's robes. "What you think, son?"

Father Aaron studied Ivan, setting his broom aside. Aaron was young for a priest, and while his bearing was kind, his eyes were sharp and watchful; a shepherd staring down a wolf.

"I don't feel anything off about him," Father Aaron said presently. He leaned in Miss Finn's direction. "You see anything on him?"

Miss Finn gave Ivan another a critical look down. As her lips pursed and the priest waited, that same chill of haunted reverence dripped like water down Ivan's back. They were talking about demons again.

"No," Miss Finn said, averting her gaze. "He looks clean to me."

Old Mother Tamar brushed her hand back over Ivan's eyes, the scent of lavender folding over the smell of soap and age. "You still sound unsettled, Lianne, dear."

Miss Finn shook her head. "He's just a wolf is all. And I hate wolves."

"Hate never gave anyone a moment of peace," Old Mother said, the cadence familiar on her lips like a hymn.

Ivan felt Miss Finn's eyes come back to him. "You'd be surprised."

"Don't lie." Mother Tamar grabbed Miss Finn's hand and tugged it toward Ivan.

She recoiled. "I'm not touching him," she said fiercely.

"What a tone," Mother scolded, but let Miss Finn pull away.

"You know how they get." Miss Finn rubbed her hands as if to rid herself of their almost-contact. "What with my scent." But she seemed too nervous for that to be all.

Ivan had once heard that some potentials crave a wolf's touch as much as a wolf does a mate's. He tried not to think about that too deeply.

"Hm," Old Mother said. She leaned back in her chair slowly. "Why you here, then? Confession?"

"No. Though I'll need it tonight. Dreams'll be...." She shook her head, lowering herself to sit on the dais steps. "I'm here for a contract. I want one in place before work."

"Well, get the paper, Aaron."

Father Aaron went to the small storage room to the right of the altar. While he was gone, a slat in the wall clicked open. Both Thomas and Ivan startled at the sound.

A pair of purple-painted eyes took them in from a hole in the plaster of the brothel. "My," said a voice, female, but deep from smoke and a long night. The kohl-rimmed eyes travelled down Thomas, then Ivan. "Finest piece of meat I've seen this-side in a long while."

"Margaret?" Old Mother's head turned to the wall. "That you?"

"Yes, Mother. Just off my shift."

Father Aaron came back in the room, carrying paper, ink and a pen. "Confession'll have to wait, Mags," he said, spreading his writing materials on the seat of a pew.

With Mother Tamar's attention diverted, Ivan stood and brushed the dust off his trousers. He felt the woman in the wall watching him, those tired eyes waking up with a slow smile.

"I see how it is, Father," the woman said in a playful whine. "Been wondering what's had business so low, I have. Should've guessed you were snatching up the good sort before they could make it to our beds."

Aaron was struggling to unscrew the ink pot. "If you're here for confession," the priest's tone was light, "means business was just fine last night."

Margaret laughed. "Hell's truth, that."

Ivan offered a hand to the priest. "Allow me."

Father Aaron relinquished the ink pot and Ivan had it open with one turn.

"Thanks." The priest set it out carefully by the paper and spread his green and white robes to sit cross-legged before the pew. "I'll come by later, Maggie. Lianne's got to get to work."

"The Lady?" The eyes in the wall searched, "Hell, Lady, what you doing here this early?"

"A contract."

"Oh, how official." Margaret turned away from the opening. "Hey, Mary! Come see this!"

There was the sound of a muffled conversation, then another slat opened in the wall. Now that Ivan looked, there were several slots lining the brothel side of the altar; it was the oddest confessional he had ever seen.

"Hell and all her demons," exclaimed the new woman; younger, with gold-painted eyes on dark skin. "Who's the big one?"

"Aaron's not saying." Margaret informed her.

Ivan executed a respectful bow, if only to give Thomas a point of reference. "Madam," he said. "Allow me to introduce Thomas."

Purple and gold eyes widened at him. "My," said Margaret, a little breathless. "Such a gentleman."

Mary giggled. A third slat opened by the door to two sets of eyes, each in a different shade of pink.

"What's your name, then, hon?" asked Margaret.

"Ivan." Ivan bowed a second time. "At your service."

"Oh!" said one of the pink newcomers. She sounded young, maybe in her teens. "Look at that tattoo— Michael!" She turned back inside. "Michael Hampton! It's a wolf, I swear!"

The fourth and final slat opened, so close to the altar that the pair of blue-eyes with blue-paint had to angle themselves sideways to see. "It is a wolf!" The voice was male this time, a rich sort of tenor.

The blue eyes turned to Father Aaron, who was carefully penning the letters C-O-N-T-R at the top of the page. The letters were slow-going and slanted. Ivan watched the priest nervously lick his lips to finish the second leg of the R.

"Aaron, Father. You know my thing for wolves and yet you've kept them all for yourself!"

"Mike." Father Aaron's tone was flat. "I'm writing here."

"Heavens, then. Make way!" Mary said, with fanfare. "Father Aaron's a'writing. One of us—with a pen in hand!"

"The sort with ink anyway," snorted one of the two girls in the corner.

"Please," Miss Finn scolded. "We have guests."

"That's right," said Margaret sharply. "Have a sense of decency."

The laughter died out.

"Sorry, Lady," Michael said, still amused but with tones of respect in his address.

"Wait a minute—" Margaret said, pressing her forehead to the wall again. "Wolves with the Lady: you's aren't here about that incident all those years ago, are you?"

The mood changed as quick as it had on the tram.

"Foul business, that," one of the pink girls muttered in the far corner and she shut their slat.

"'Cause that didn't sit right with us," Margaret was saying, her deep voice dipping lower. "Nothing makes us more angry than a kid taken like that."

Michael closed his slat too.

Old Mother Tamar seemed oblivious to the tension. "They are here about that, yes."

Mary's gold eyes wandered down Miss Finn. "You alright then, little lady?" she asked.

"Fine," Miss Finn huffed. "Honestly. Give me a little credit."

Margaret was shaking her head. "They're not taking you from us, are they, Lady? You're the closest thing to a grace we've got this-side. My niece is having her baby soon and I's hoping you'd—"

"They aren't here to take me anywhere, dammit." Miss Finn cast the wolves a furtive look. "I'll be here for the birth."

Margaret eased away from her slat. "If you say so, Lady."

Mary narrowed her eyes at the wolves, especially Ivan. How she knew Ivan was the bigger threat than all seven feet of Thomas was surprising; he supposed intuition of those things came fast in her profession. "You deal with demons, then?" she asked, her voice a challenge. "'Cause you being here will make things a hell of a lot worse."

"He doesn't," Miss Finn answered sharply. "But I do. And can handle them on my own. How is the contract, Father?"

"Done!" Father Aaron beamed at the drooping title on the page.

"Good. Now, write this. No touching. No forcing themselves into my space. And no questions I don't want—"

"Hold up, Lady," Aaron laughed. "Writing takes some time."

"I can write it," Thomas volunteered. "It would be faster, anyway."

Ivan cringed as the room quieted for the second time. For all the education the wolves had on their side of the river, they seemed oblivious when it came to managing that privilege.

Thomas shuffled his big feet, realising he'd said something off again.

Father Aaron leaned back and laughed, embarrassed. "I do take a little while, don't I?"

"You are doing just fine, Father," Ivan said gently. "We're grateful for your time."

"I meant no offence," Thomas added, helplessly. He'd hunched his shoulders in that brawler instinct: as if he could squish all his mass small enough to be overlooked.

Father Aaron smiled at the big wolf, scratching behind his ear. "No, no. I should practise in my own time." He stood. "Sit then, and write it so our Miss can get to work."

Thomas looked to Ivan for guidance, and Ivan nodded to the floor.

Thomas worried his lip, but lowered himself in Father Aaron's place. He dipped the pen in ink and cleared his throat. "'No touching', was it, Miss?"

Miss Finn moved to watch over his shoulder. "Yes. Then, no questions I don't want."

"Mmhmm."

The pup did have good penmanship, his hand quick and looping.

"No intruding when you're not wanted. You're here for William and unless he's here in the flesh you're to keep to yourselves." Miss Finn crossed her arms. "And hands off all my people this-side."

"Woah, woah, Lady!" Margaret piped up from her slat. "That's not fair on my end. Add a clause, why don't you? For money," she dictated, "your hands are acceptable."

"Hell, no." Miss Finn leaned back over Thomas' shoulder. "Don't write that."

Margaret laughed, but the low-sound tripped over a cough, and then another. She cleared her throat. "Hell. Need me my brew." Lowering her handkerchief, her purple eyes sought out Ivan. "We'll leave you to it, then. Yes, Mary—you too. Who's gonna make my brew? Ivan, Wolf: it was a pleasure, sir."

Ivan bowed. "Likewise, Madam Margaret."

Thomas, too, bowed his head. "Madam Margaret, Madam Mary, Mister Michael."

Slats closed one by one and the altar shrunk back to its original proportions.

"Anything else to add, Miss?" Thomas asked, the pen impatiently hovering over the paper.

"Yes, in fact," Miss Finn answered with equal impatience. She looked Ivan dead in the eye and crossed her arms, leaning into her hip for added effect. "No matter what you see around me, no matter what you hear: you cannot take me back your-side. I refuse to go anywhere I don't want to go."

Ivan blinked slowly. "Again, Miss. That's an odd request."

"I'm making it all the same."

Thomas hesitated. "Beta?"

Ivan took a moment to study the steel in Miss Finn's eyes. Under it, he found a heart-pounding dread for the next few weeks. That much, Ivan had expected. But he was beginning to wonder if it had less to do with William than he first thought. She seemed to think there was something under all the demons and dreams and miracles Ivan might want from her—and that had her terrified.

Ivan bowed his head. "Whatever makes this easier on you, Miss."

Thomas penned the words and Miss Finn let the breath she'd been holding back out, slowly.

"Done," Thomas said, lifting the paper to blow on the ink.

"Good. Sign it. Give it to your boss and then I'll give it a last look over."

Thomas obeyed.

When she finished her inspection, Miss Finn took the candle from the altar and dribbled the wax under all the signatures. She pressed her thumb in the half-dried smear, leaving a rough indent of her fingerprint.

She poured some more and gestured for Ivan.

Ivan let three of his claws grow long.

Miss Finn's grip on the paper tightened, but she held it steady.

And Ivan pressed the outside of his claws to the wax. It left a rough sketch of a wolf, a moon and a pine grove.

Miss Finn blinked at it. Even Father Aaron leaned closer. "How'd—" she began.

Ivan extended his claws again for her to see. Carved into the black, bone-like material was the seal of White Pine. Miss Finn reached out her finger to touch the etchings, but caught herself and curled her hand back into a fist.

"That's... useful," she said it like she'd only just caught herself shy of a compliment.

"Benefits of rank." Ivan shrugged. "Alpha is four-clawed."

"Must have hurt." Miss Finn looked away, folding the paper in fourths.

"It did," Ivan answered, unable to tell if she said it out of spite or pity.

Miss Finn stuffed the contract in her pocket and rearranged her skirts to hide the paper's edges. It blended in so completely, Ivan no longer wondered where she kept that gun.

"To work now, then," she said, pulling at the paneling in her dress to straighten her posture.

Something about her had settled now that she had a contract; a wall of paper between her and the other side of the river.

"Be kind to the wolves, love," Old Mother Tamar advised as Miss Finn kissed her cheek. "Wolves have always called you, body and soul. This one might be worth listening to. Rid you of your curse once and for all."

A muscle tightened along Miss Finn's jaw. "Yes, well. I'll be back tonight, regardless," she promised. "Father Aaron?"

The priest looked up from the bottle of ink he was trying to close. "Be safe, Lady."

"Always, love." Miss Finn dismissed his concern with a wave and didn't look back.

_____

A line cut from Thomas that was too good to waste.

In alley scene:

T, steps on something foreign: What was hell is that?

Iv: Thomas...

T: No, I'm dead serious-- I mean, he's dead serious-- I mean, it's a corpse! 0.0

Ah, that poor pup.