Rumours of healings and demons aside, Miss Finn's life was rather simple.

She worked at a laundromat into the afternoon, visited the motor garage across the street, and attended her altar for confession in the evening. It was the garage that turned out to be the most eventful, since the repair shop doubled as a communal gathering point: serving terrible coffee in return for Beltan's latest gossip.

The job became so predictable, Ivan felt comfortable handing off the day shift to the pups. Thomas took the close guard and Curt, who was scrawny enough to pass as a this-sider, stayed out of sight to gather intel from the shadows. Ivan, for his part, took the night shift and caught up on his paperwork, which was relentless even on leave.

Several days in, he was revising the infirmary's budget when his two wolves returned. They bared their throats in greeting.

"You're back early," Ivan said, taking them in from over his spectacles.

"Only a quarter of an hour or so," Thomas said, shrugging out of his vest.

Thomas' eye caught on the sealed envelope on the kitchen table. "Beta," he said, impressed. "You are the only wolf I know who dares let a missive from Kate sit unread. I'd bet Alpha himself sweats to see her handwriting. Though I see she sent you your files." He tossed his vest over a chair and gestured to the black folder under the letter.

"She did," Ivan said, leaning back in his rickety chair. His files on William had arrived that morning with Kate's letter; he just hadn't the time nor the stomach to read them yet.

"Miss Finn was asking about them," Thomas said.

Ivan paused in the folding of his spectacles. "The files? How did she know about them?"

"Well, I didn't say anything." Thomas shrugged, sauntering over to the fridge. "Curt?"

Curt dignified the question with a look of disdain. He turned to Ivan. "She mentioned something about catching a messenger boy last night and serving him tea."

Of course she did. How that woman continued to surprise him was a miracle in and of itself.

Thomas swung open the fridge and sniffed for food. "She invited us to dinner, though." He opened a glass jar, smelt the contents and coughed. "Hell. What did Mrs Whimble eat?"

"The souls of her cats," Curt said, coaxing one of Mrs Whimble's many cats off the stovetop so he could start the kettle.

"Cats have no souls, you sympathizer," Thomas growled and slammed the fridge closed. "Here's to hoping Miss Finn can cook as well as she's rumoured to shoot."

Ivan set his spectacles on the table. "Unfortunately, that is a dinner invitation we will have to decline."

"What?" Curt said, sloshing water from the kettle onto the counter.

Thomas blinked at Curt's sudden show of emotion, but gestured to the smaller wolf. "I, uh, second the pup's outcry."

Curt's pink skin pinkened further.

"No dinner with the potential," Ivan said, determined. "If I can smell Miss Finn on you from here, you need a break from the exposure."

"I don't know why you're so worried about us getting too attached to her," Thomas complained, rummaging in the cabinets for something not labelled Fishy Feline Friends. He settled on a tin of sardines; while still fishy, they weren't exclusively feline. "That woman makes my skin crawl."

"Oh?" Ivan said. "I didn't think you believed in demons."

"I don't." Thomas pulled out the chair across from Ivan and sat his mass down with a creak. "But everything they say about that woman chills my blood. Dreaming every baby's birth and death before it happens is creepy enough, but that she darkens the doorstep of every family just after they've lost a child—stillborn, sickness, you name it, and without them telling her, mind—that's just not right."

Ivan shook his head, amused. "And yet you still want to go to her flat for dinner."

Thomas was distastefully opening the sardine can with a claw, but paused to give Ivan a patient look. "Food is food, Beta. I'm not picky."

"Just too picky for fish." Curt leaned against the stove and crossed his arms. "If you are ready, Beta. I have something to report."

"Go ahead then, Curt."

Curt checked the kettle and cleared his throat. His voice fell into the cadence scouts were trained to use when reporting from memory. "At the barber's; three doors down from the garage. Run by Matthew Longhunt. Smells of cigars, sewage and shaving cream."

"I know it," Ivan said. Most of scout training was teaching them to report back only the essentials. "Summarise."

"Right." Curt cleared his throat. "Two men were gossiping while a third got his beard trimmed. Apparently, the Miss–the Lady, they said–has some kind of healing powers, and they believe in this magic as much as some believe in the good Mother. Every full moon there are what they call miracles. The man whose beard was being done said his wife's brother's mother-in-law saw the Lady's magic herself. Miss Finn walks the streets and people bring out their babies for her blessing. Their sick for her touch. She wears a beautiful, white dress and her hair is in curls to her feet."

"I don't like cults." Thomas turned to Ivan. "But how come he gets everything interesting while I'm stuck holding cars for mechanics?"

Curt sneered, righting two cat-shaped tea cups from the drying rack. "Because I'm not mooning over Miss Jess, that's how. If you paid any attention-"

"Sure, sure," Thomas said. "You're just bitter because you're losing the bet."

Thomas had lost his wallet the first day on the tram and Curt had bet him a fiver Miss Jess was the thief. Only neither had worked up the guts to ask her yet.

"Curt, focus on the report, please."

"I apologise, Beta." Curt returned to the story without a scout's cadence, Thomas' jealousy pulling him deeper into the telling of it. "The barber doesn't like the Lady, though. Apparently, the price for her blessing is steep. Strange things happen around her; accidents, chance mistakes, even deaths. Some nights, when there is no moon at all, she screams herself awake so loud the barber hears it from his cot in the back. And," he dropped his voice. "More people die those nights she screams than any others of the year."

Curt paused for suspense and the kettle spittled into the silence. The scout's thin lips almost smiled, smug. "End of report, Beta."

The brawler whistled low between his teeth. "Beta, I know you have a history with this William fella. But I say let the beast have the ungrateful woman. That whole thing about the Devil's bride might not be far off. Hair and dress and all."

Ivan gave Thomas a warning look. "Careful what you say about the Miss, pup. It is our Pack's duty to make sure she's alright."

Thomas made a face, swishing the oil around in his tin of sardines to seem offhand. "The rest of the Pack doesn't see it that way."

His words made Curt fumble with the sugar jar.

Ivan raised his brow.

Thomas looked up, and then away again. "Sorry, Beta."

"No. It's alright. White Pine..." Ivan tried to explain, but licked his words back off his lips. He gave himself a moment to sort and fold his emotions back into place. As an influencer, he had to be careful what he said.

Ivan adjusted the edges of his paperwork, aligning all the corners to match. "White Pine's done a poor job of keeping our contracts in the past," he said finally. "That is not what our Pack is meant to be. We promised Miss Finn she'd live a life free of our wolves. So, for the sake of the Pack, we'll see to it that she does."

Thomas worked his jaw for a moment. "But William isn't our wolf anymore."

In straightening his papers, the back of Ivan's fingers brushed the big black folder on the table and drew his attention. He hated how thick it was, full of news articles and autopsy reports and photographs. At the bottom of that file, somewhere, was the transcript of William's trial and the rushed notes of Lianne Finn's horrendous case.

"We promised her safety because of William. So letting the beast take her now..." Ivan looked away from the file. Thinking about it made him burn, all the blood in that file scalding through his veins like acid. "We will stick to what we said."

"You mean you will stick to what we said," Thomas pressed, indignant. Not on his own behalf for once, but on Ivan's: angry his beta was cheated of Pack support.

The sentiment surprised Ivan. Perhaps he had slipped his wolves that blood-boiling acid despite himself.

Thomas' big hand fisted on the table. "White Pine doesn't give a damn about the forgotten wrongs of this-side."

Ivan removed his hand from the file and gently used his influence to curve the emotions of the room back towards a sense of calm.

When Thomas' fist uncurled, Ivan gave him a half-smile. "I am White Pine and I am here. Curt is White Pine, and he is here. You, too, will be Pack one day. So White Pine does give a damn."

Curt offered Ivan tea and Ivan took the cup gratefully, watching the steam curl between the porcelain cat's ears.

"You know," Ivan said, his tone lighter, "if we give a damn, it won't quite do to turn down the woman's dinner invitation."

Thomas stood, spitting his sardine back in the sink. "Really, Beta?"

Curt had paused, tea-cup cat halfway to his mouth. "Why, Beta?"

While Ivan didn't show it, his blood still burned and that acid still lapped at the back of his throat. He couldn't tell if it was hate, determination, or fear. Perhaps they were all the same thing.

He sipped his tea. It was somehow both sour and watery at the same time. "Maybe there is more to making things right this-side than killing beasts," he said, cryptic because he didn't quite understand the difference between revenge and restoration himself.

He stood and gathered both folder and letter under his arm. "Ask her what hour she suggests. We will be there."

Thomas whooped and Curt went as far as to smile. With the spirits of his wolves restored, Ivan shooed four cats from Mrs Whimble's bedroom and shut the door for some privacy.

Mrs Whimble had a desk, but no desk chair, so Ivan pulled the lumpy bed away from the wall to sit.

Kate's letter was opened first, the white wax crumbling on the black of the folder. There were various papers and clippings inside, with a brief missive from Kate folded in the front:

Beta—
Here are the files. I have taken the liberty of including the pertinent news articles from the Queen's Welcome Gala for Cutting River.

William was in attendance. He was jovial and kind, as well as a favourite of the queen's. I saw nothing of the beast. And his pack mate, while young, seemed content and well-mannered. There was no reason for me to be unsettled.

Alpha hates these events and the media is watching him for a reaction. I would request your return, but understand your presence might make these negotiations a bit awkward. If you still think he will show the beast and venture to that side of the river, I support your decision.

Kate

Delta of the Pack of White Pine

The first neatly cut news-clipping was an article; Kate, ever efficient, had underscored the bits she thought important:

A great, happy family was not what we were expecting. With their reputation, we were braced for chauvinism, back-water politics and maybe even brutality. But their women were gentle flowers, their men courteous and handsome. Their fashion, exquisite; their manners and dance, unparalleled.

In the words of Her Young Majesty, the Queen: "The Pack of Cutting River has brought a breath of fresh air into the City of Beltan. It will be our honour and most sincere pleasure to host them through next week."

The second clipping was a photograph of Ivan's Alpha, drink in hand. Tatiana, the Pack's Luna, had probably opted out of attendance due to her pregnancy. Alpha looked civil, if a little bored. Ivan was generally there to broker the social niceties.

Under the italics of the caption was a section Kate had circled twice:

"Despite the rumours, Cutting River only leaves an impression of charm and elegance. In fact, we do wonder if the Pack of White Pine might have been up-classed. Is it time the Royal Wolves forfeit their title to a pack of more modern family-styles?"

Ivan growled and crinkled the paper. Family and elegance, modern and style—it was all smoke and mirrors hiding fangs and claws.

Ivan forced himself to take a deep breath and spread the picture back out in its place.

This was exactly why Alpha agreed Ivan could take leave. He might not understand Ivan's obsession with William, but he knew his beta had no tolerance for this self-glorifying charade of, what was it?, 'charm and elegance.'

Ivan knew Will better than he knew himself most days. And William, while charming and elegant, was also the type of bastard that would rape and take and kill.

And Lianne would be next. He knew it.

Carefully, as if any sudden movements would break his grip on his temper, Ivan slid out the last scrap of paper from the envelope. It was a note from Alpha, in that spiked, hurried hand Ivan knew so well.

You might want to cut your leave short, it read. Will is no threat. And I want time with Tat before the pup comes.

Ivan sighed and looked for a pen in the drawer of Mrs Whimble's desk. The ink was old and the pen wrote with blots and scratches, but Ivan didn't have the patience to find another set.

To Alpha, he wrote:

I will give it a few more days.

Then, to Kate:

He will come.

___

In the words of my sister, who read this over for me:

"Is that a foreshadowing darkening my reading glasses?"

But of course, my love. We are just getting started. (mwhahaha)