The Hotham Beta's office was the spitting image of a Christmas story-time special. Bookshelves propped up the ceiling and two fancy leather armchairs were angled towards a roaring fireplace that made the air feel sticky. The heat was almost oppressive, smothering the gooseflesh that had broken along my arms, making the skin around my swollen lips feel hot and tight. I fought the urge to lick them as I moved into the room, knowing my saliva would only dry them out more.

Lawrence was taking a call behind the desk, looking especially pale against the extravagantly dark wood. His tangerine hair was shorn at the sides but left long at the top, and he swept it back in a decidedly outback fashioned that complimented the brown flannel he wore open over a plain white tee. The sleeves rode up to his elbows as he lifted a finger with an apologetic expression, though his eyes sparkled at the sight of me.

The volume was too low to make out the other side of the conversation. I scanned the unusually organised contents of his desk to pass the time, noting the stained glass lampshade and the pop-vinyl figurines sunning themselves beneath it. Taken out of the box, of course; Lawrence had never cared about devaluing or bubble-wrapping his belongings. Instead he tended towards the opposite; like the moustache drawn on Wonder-Woman's face, making her look like a sleazy circus ring-leader.

"For the record, I think it's a bad idea, but I'll see what I can do," Lawrence said into the phone. "Yes, yes, I'll let you know how it goes. Anyways, I really do need to..."

I arched an eyebrow. Colden lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"Uh huh." A short pause, followed by an exasperated sigh. "Look, can I call you back? I've got visitors. Yes, they're more important than you."

Another pause. I noticed Lawrence's plate of smashed avocado had gone cold, the egg yolk congealed in the rivets of the plate.

"Piper bloody Cross, that's who," he said, dropping my name like it was a grenade.

Lawrence ended the call and set the phone down, straightening his shirt as he rose from his chair. I half expected him to reach over the desk and shake my hand, and was about to ask jokingly if this was a job interview when his eyes flicked over to Colden in a wordless question.

Irked by the thought of needing his permission, I yanked my hand free of Colden's and marched around the desk, throwing my arms around Lawrence's shoulders and burying my face in his chest. If he was surprised by my sudden change of heart, it was only expressed through a good-natured chuckle as he picked me up and swung me around like a child. I felt tears spring in my eyes as I realised how much I'd grown; how good it felt to allow myself to trust him. Lawrence had proven his character beyond all others at the battle of Ridgeview, and was solely responsible for saving Colden's life.

"It's been a while, crocodile," Lawrence said with an echo of his old cheer, setting me down on my feet. "You look..."

"Tired?" I asked, glancing sidelong at Colden. The Hotham Alpha's smile was strained. "You look older. Is that a grey hair on your chin?"

Lawrence pulled back, rubbing at his new beard with a rueful expression. "Perks of the job, I'm afraid. You know what it's like running after Colden."

"I do," I said, smiling fondly over our shared history. Lawrence didn't just look older; he looked good, like he'd grown into his height and become a man in our time apart. It was also the longest I'd ever seen him hold a straight face.

"You know, I was going to say you look more relaxed than usual. Are you thawing on me, ice princess?"

I stiffened at the prospect. He might as well have asked me if I was losing my edge. Colden spared me from replying by moving to the fireplace, plonking down in the fanciest armchair angled towards the fire.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked, his voice tightening with impatience.

"My cousin," Lawrence said, sighing as he eased into the other chair. There were only two, and Colden seemed about to argue that I should take the second one, but I touched his arm and shook my head. This was Lawrence's room; their routine from the last five months. I was content to be a ghost hovering at the edge of their conversation, nothing more.

The Hotham Alpha begrudgingly relaxed back into his chair. "Anything to report?"

I sank to my knees by the fire, enjoying the hot prickle of the flames crackling at my back. I tried not to feel affronted when Lawrence hesitated, glancing at me again.

"You can speak openly in front of her," Colden said magnanimously.

His eyebrows flew up. "Did you tell her about...?"

"Not yet," Colden said, a little too quickly. "But there's plenty of time for that. She's not leaving any time soon."

I narrowed my eyes, wishing for a knife to saw through the secrets stretching between them. Perhaps I wasn't so content on the sidelines after all; it was grating to be spoken about as if I wasn't in the room.

"Well in that case, yes; I do have some interesting news," Lawrence said. "The task force had a brush with the Mad Witch, and she fled to the Incantum. They've since locked the place down, but half of Lady Nightshade's task force is stuck in there."

"Including Waters?" Colden asked.

Lawrence nodded curtly, his eyes darting towards me. He was right to assume that I would understand the significance of that question. "Yes. Ivy, Jerome and Ruben are also there."

The Hotham Alpha grunted, keeping his thoughts to himself. I wondered if anyone had told Lila Stone that her betrothed was missing in action; if anyone even knew that she was technically the City Beta's next of kin.

"It's as I suspected, then," Colden said at last. "We are alone in this fight."

The door swung open, admitting the smell of fried eggs, salty bacon and a pot of freshly brewed tea. How Lila balanced the tray so expertly was beyond me; not a single drop spilled over the rims of hand-moulded clay as she set the tray down on Lawrence's desk.

"Tulips for Lawrence," she said, handing him a handleless cup with flower bulbs etched into the sides. "The night sky for Colden. And for our esteemed guest, Monstera Deliciosa."

I accepted the tea bowl graciously, if not gratefully. "What is it?"

"Chamomile, lavender and a hint of nettle. Sweetened with sugar, of course."

That explained the film of sediment on the bottom. "Much appreciated," I said, even though I would have preferred it without.

The tea was fragrant and sweet on my tongue. I meant to take a single sip, but soon I was knocking the whole thing back, relishing the warmth that slid down my throat. When was the last time I'd actually drunk water? It was too easy to lose track of meals without a routine to structure my day.

"More?" she asked, lingering by the hearth.

"Please," I said.

Her smile was pipe-cleaner pliant, forced into shape. "Here," she said, pouring another cup straight from the pot.

It was more bitter this time, having steeped for longer. I took a smaller sip and set it down on the mantle, feeling my eyelids grow heavy as I accepted a plate of eggs on toast. By the time Lila shut the door behind her I'd already wolfed it all down, torn between clutching my queasy stomach and licking the crumbs off my plate.

"Where were we?" I asked, surprised by how husky my voice had become. My thoughts were going foggy, finally hitting a wall after all the time I'd spent awake. "Something about... about a..."

The fight went out of my body and I slumped against the warm tiles, basking in the heat of the fireplace like a cat. Colden reached down to smooth the hair back from my face, his thumb brushing over my swollen lips. Sleep came on hard and fast as his kiss, and to my relief, it was utterly devoid of dreams.

My saliva felt like glue when I woke to dying embers in the hearth and a blazing sun in the windows. The boys were long gone from their chairs. They'd left me where I was, though someone had taken the time to drape a blanket over my shoulders; a futile gesture for a werewolf, whose body always ran at the optimal temperature, but a sweet one nonetheless. I wondered who I should attribute it to.

I groaned as I stretched, pulling my muscles through every stiff kink. Only when I felt capable of striking like an adder did I head for the door, turning the wooden handle.

It stuck. Somebody had locked it from the outside.

Colden was taking his safety speech to heart.

It would have been easy to kick down the door, but the slithering spy in me saw the opportunity for what it was. When the corners of the roof were proven free of cameras, I slunk behind the mahogany desk, opening drawers and testing for false bottoms, rifling through errant papers. It was just like Lawrence's bedroom back at Ridgeview; neat at first glance, with all the odds and ends stuffed under the bed or into the closet.

"Where's this enemy of yours?" I muttered, flipping through a mole-skin notebook until it landed open on a map, curling where glue soaked through the paper.

It took a moment for me to realise the little x's marked guard stations. Most of them were concentrated around the main lodge, but it seemed there were a couple of buildings further downhill that also warranted protection. One was labelled the recreation centre, likely home to an indoor basketball court. The bath house was fairly obvious in its purpose, but the furthest — the boat shed — had six men on watch at all times. As far as I could tell, though, there wasn't a single waterway in a five kilometre radius. The lodge relied entirely on the rainwater tanks huddled by its side, too remote for reservoir piping.

Putting away the book, I lifted the edge of the stained-glass lamp, frowning at the eye of concentric circles underneath. A knot in the wood, once upon a time. Now it pressed in with a smooth, satisfying click, followed by a hollow thunk underneath the desk.

A secret compartment.

Squatting down, I reached towards the back and recoiled, a hiss petering out on my teeth. Iridescent waves danced across the damascus silver-steel blade, daring me to brush it again. To feel the grip of the leather wrap on my palm, the bite of the violet crystals studding the guard, arranged in the shape of a crown.

It was Isaac King's blade; the one that almost ended my life before I turned the tip on its maker. It was lost in the chaos that followed, or so I'd thought; while it wasn't unusual that Lawrence should have it in his possession, it was unusual that he felt it worth hiding.

I should have left it there. A golden rule of rummaging through people's things was to make sure everything ended up back where I'd found it, right down to individual motes of dust.

Instead I wrapped the blade in velvet and tucked it in the waistband of my jeans, where it settled against the small of my back. Pressing the compartment closed, I told myself I would be gone long before the theft was discovered. That there were more pressing mysteries at hand than an old friend's nostalgia.

Like the boat shed in the middle of the mountains, with no water in sight.

Shaking off the last vestiges of grogginess, I wound open Lawrence's window and pulled off the flyscreen.