It was a sad group of people reaching the end of the railway line the next afternoon, most of them newly bitten, many of them just kids. Nathan prayed to the pale moon in the pale grey sky that the learned men of Deva university were right, that their chances of going through the change and coming out fine was better than those of the adults. He did not want to have to kill half a dozen children.

And if any of the conductors tried to charge them for tickets, he would not be responsible for his actions.

Lucky for them, the people working on the railway had some decent survival instincts. They took one look at the group and offered to send a message from the next station, then got them a wagon all to themselves. The rocking of the train finally lulled the whimpering baby to sleep, and the sheer novelty of the travel method distracted some of the other kids from their misery, too. Nathan watched them, wondering if there was anything he could do to help, beyond making sure David knew not to put them into the dungeon with the prisoners—not that David wouldn’t have thought of that on his own.

He was waiting for them in Deva, with a special train to Windish ready to go. And a leg for Nathan.

The farmhouse was getting really cramped, but it was at least better than the cells. Even if Pierre’s pack grumbled about it. They stopped when they saw the children, the mother holding the crying baby with the fresh bite mark.

“What happened?” Pierre asked quietly, looking at David, who promptly turned to Nathan.

“I’d love to hear that, too.”

“You really don’t,” Nathan muttered. But there was no point in putting this off.

“I failed, okay?”

He threw his hands up, walked a few steps, even though every movement hurt. Sitting still would have been worse.

“I screwed it up. There was this mad bitch—killed Big Bart and Little Roy, left the bodies for me to find. Killed a bunch of sheep, too, and hacked off the ears of every goat she found in broad daylight. I thought I could draw her out by spreading word about the magistrate coming into town. And it sort of worked, except she slaughtered the whole village first. Humans, animals… Those people are the survivors. All of them”

Silence fell in the room. Malinda glared at him, rocking the baby in one arm and rubbing the mother’s back with the other.

“Maybe that’s a conversation better taken elsewhere?” Monroe asked archly.

Nathan swung around, out the door. He stopped on the path, looking around, until he spotted a narrow bridge. That had to be where Annabelle had bathed George Louis. He picked that direction without waiting to see who had followed him.

“Big Bart and Little Roy are dead?” David prompted after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“And the werewolf?”

“Oh, right. She’s dead, too. Too strong for her own good.” Nathan rubbed the back of his neck and explained everything that had happened. And then the problem, too: “There were three journalists with me when we arrived at the village. They saw it all, the dead, the destroyed houses, the bitten.”

“Mithras!” Pierre cursed. Someone else gasped.

Nathan stopped to look over his shoulder. Annabelle. Monroe had followed, too. The elders exchanged a long look, words unspoken.

“How much is this going to hurt us?” Pierre asked for them.

“I…” David shook his head. “I don’t know. This is—awfully bad timing. Rust’s pack is coming back the day after tomorrow—we’ve been planning that event for weeks now. It should be a huge triumph, the whole Stour valley cleansed… But this is bad. What paper were they from?”

“Something from Deeshire,” Nathan said. “Don’t remember.”

“Grooch will know how to find out,” David said softly. “But it might take a day for the story to be spread, depending on how big the paper is…” He trailed off. “I need to get back to the palace. Get everyone settled here, Nathan, then go home. I’ve got to talk to Greg, and Grooch, and—and I guess George Louis, too.”

“There’s one more thing,” Nathan said. “I know it’s not going to be much, but, uh, I told the press I’d take apprentices. And I think it would be best anyways. With Big Bart and Little Roy gone.”

David blinked at him, then nodded. “Right. Yes, that’s a good idea.” He cuffed Nathan in the arm. “Take care. I’ll see you tonight.”

Nathan looked after him. David didn’t quite run away, but it was a close thing. The elders exchanged another look, then Annabelle huffed and pulled her dress over her head. Before the fabric had hit the ground, she was in her wolf body and jogging after David.

***

Greg looked up from his table. “Mr. Howell?” he asked. “David didn’t mention that he would bring anyone, did he?”

“How do you mean, Sir?”

“There’s a werewolf in the palace,” Greg said.

“Are you sure it’s not just the ones in the dungeon?”

Greg nodded. “Very sure. It’s one of the elders. Not Morgulon or Pierre. But a lot older than me.”

He got up and walked over into the main office, to tell Grooch, too. He’d barely opened his mouth when the door opened, too, and Annabelle trotted in, David right behind her.

“Mr. Grooch, please have a runner sent for His Highness,” David said. “Let him know it’s quite urgent. We have a bit of a situation on our hands.”

“One that involves Annabelle?” Greg asked, confused.

I’m just here to help, Annabelle said.

“I’ll explain when the runner is back,” David said. “Or George Louis gets here, if he’s available.”

They didn’t have to wait long.

“This better be really important,” George Louis grumbled upon entering. “Unless you missed—”

Whatever he had meant to say died in his throat as he spotted Annabelle.

“The hells is she doing here? What’s going on?”

“We’ve had a village murdered last night,” David sighed. “By a werewolf,” he added, and explained the rest of the problem.

“You know, I really want to say ‘I told you so’,” George Louis grumbled when he finished.

“Except that you didn’t,” David snapped back, “and if you had, it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Did I know this was possible? I did, yes. I’ve seen the aftermath of the Clouchester attacks. I’d argue that was worse, if only because it was a small town, not a village.”

Greg blinked at the sudden outburst.

“Annabelle,” David changed the topic abruptly. “Nathan reckons that this attack was only possible because the villagers killed the elder werewolf that lived close by. Is that true? Or is the timing coincidence?”

If the attacker wasn’t true-wild, then yes, an elder could have prevented this.

“We’ll have to get the press to write about that,” David said. “Greg, do you think if you talk to Mr. Higgins, he’ll help again? Talk to his father?”

Greg nodded slowly. “I think he will, yes.”

He wasn’t sure how many more times Mr. Higgins would be willing to intercede with the free press on their behalf, but for this? He hopefully would.

“Good. You’ll need to do that as soon as we’re done here. Any other ideas?” David added, looking from George Louis to Annabelle to Grooch.

George Louis pressed his lips together. Greg wondered if he was going to help at all, given his feelings for werewolves, but then he said: “If you’re going to use the press, have them write about the Stour valley, too.”

Maybe remind people of the Rot queens, Annabelle added. If werewolves are scary, find something even more scary. How’s the war going?

“Not great,” George Louis admitted when Greg translated the question. “Oh, I see what you’re getting at.” He barely glanced at Annabelle. “Counter fear with fear. I agree, it’s more likely to work than portraying your kind as some kind of—saviours from your own evils.

I hope you are aware that even if you can get the one or more papers to play along, not everyone will buy into it? There will still be protests, possibly more attacks. And, of course, there absolutely cannot be any werewolves in the city without a hunter on guard.”

“Geordie,” David started.

“Don’t Geordie me, David. Fine, if you want to take the risk, let him run around unguarded. But people know there’s a Feleke who’s a werewolf.”

“We’re all looking out for him” David sighed, shaking his head.

“And how’s she getting back to Windish?”

David shrugged, looking at Annabelle. “Want to go home with me tonight? Nathan can take you to Windish tomorrow. Or I’ll ask Andrew.” He paused, then added: “If you really want to, I can take you back tonight.”

“Tomorrow is fine,” Greg translated. He glanced at the duke, then back at David. “I’ll get going?”

“Go ahead.” David said. “See if the Higginses will print our version of things. We’ll pass on some of the war casualties to the competing houses. I reckon they’re more likely to run the bad news than the good ones.”

An hour later, Greg found himself at Mr. Higgins’s parental home. It was quite a bit bigger than the Feleke town house, and Greg was glad, so very very glad, that he was here with his teacher. Mr. Higgins senior was one of the richest citizens of Deva, and as owner of one of the largest printing houses in the country, not a good man to make an enemy of.

He did appear to dote on his youngest son, and Greg spent the rest of the afternoon talking to reporters, editors and lectors, dictating stories and working out a strategy in which order they should run them.

At least they would all be true stories, he told himself.

He still didn’t like it. And as the duke had warned—it wasn’t a perfect solution. The story from Deeshire hit Deva with the evening editions. By the time Greg walked home, there was a protest forming in the square in front of the palace. Greg buried his hands in his pockets and pulled his hat deep into his face.

He had a bad feeling about all this, but he got home all right.

***

A few hours later, Greg jerked out of sleep, woken by the noise outside. Something clattered against his window. A stone?

“Werewolves out!” somebody screamed, followed by: “No monsters in our city!”

He should probably be surprised that it had taken this long.

It still made for rather uneasy sleep. Nobody bothered to wake him, so David was long gone to work by the time Greg went down for breakfast, yawning and rather annoyed. They were quiet for now, but from the window of his room, he could still see people milling about in front of the house. Some of them held up crude paper signs, demanding “death to monsters.”

The dining room didn’t have a window to the street, but Greg was still looking over his shoulder when he entered.

“Ignore them,” Imani said. “They won’t dare do more than shout.”

Easy for her to say.

“Is anyone going to do anything about them?” Greg asked.

“Nathan told them he’d shoot anyone still standing in front of the house when he comes back from Windish tonight,” Andrew said. “It did thin the crowd somewhat. David said he’d talk to the head of the city guard, too.”

“Right. But what do we do—long term? Fear of the watch might drive these people away today, but I don’t think—we’ve been leaning on the press yesterday, but is that going to be enough?”

He glanced over his shoulder again, even though that only showed him the big painting of Imani’s ancestral family seat, far, far away. He had used to dream of visiting one day. Today, he couldn’t even picture himself in that sunny, warm land to the south.

“I’m thinking perhaps Nathan had the right idea,” Bram said.

“You’re going to shoot the protestors?” Andrew asked.

“I’m sorry? Oh, not that idea.” A thin smile appeared on their father’s face. “No, I was thinking about his idea to take on an apprentice. Perhaps you’d like to help?”

Greg was a bit relieved that Andrew looked as surprised as he felt at their father’s announcement.

“If you think it’s going to help,” Andrew said slowly, “of course I’ll help. You—don’t think Nathan can do it?”

“I don’t think he should do it,” Bram said. “He’s the best hunter David can currently call upon. If he has to worry about a couple of greenhorns following him around, it’ll only slow him down. If you and I were to take on a small group, five or six perhaps, we can train them up, teach them the basics, before they go out into the wilds with Nathan.”

“Ah, so you don’t want to go out hunting? Only do some teaching?”

Bram swirled his cup of tea. “No, I think we should go after real werewolves, too,” he said slowly. “It would be easier, since there would be two of us. Do you remember how it was when you first started? We took easy warrants, and David stuck with you the whole time. We start like that, and once they’ve proven themselves, they can go with Nathan.”

Andrew and Greg exchanged a look. This sounded nothing like the quiet, somewhat tired old man they had gotten used to over the past few months, the one who wouldn’t even touch his crossbow.

“And you—you are sure you are fine with hunting again?” Andrew asked carefully.

“I may be rusty, but yes, I think I can still hold my own,” Bram replied. “And I’m counting on you to have my back, too.”

“Of course,” Andrew said promptly.

“Oh, so now it’s suddenly fine?” Greg growled.

Bram gave him a blank look. His own anger at the announcement surprised him. It angered him more that Andrew didn’t seem mad at all, just confused.

“Why—why does some random idiot get to go hunting with you, get proper training and experience, when I didn’t?” Greg went on. “Why wasn’t I good enough to go with you, until suddenly there was nobody else to pick up the slack?”

He didn’t even notice the way he was shaking until Thoko reached out to put her hand on his. Morgulon’s presence hung heavy behind him, but this wasn’t some kind of weird issue with the wolf. This was just him. Just the pent-up anger that had never felt appropriate to vent.

It was bubbling up now. Greg tried to take a deep breath, turned his hand underneath Thoko’s so he could grab hers, but the red haze didn’t lift. It was stupid, to get upset over something so little, something so trivial compared to everything else that had happened. Stupid and embarrassing for him to lose his composure over this, years after the fact.

Bram looked at Andrew, then Thoko, then back at Greg. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, staring out of the window. “I—thought that was obvious by now,” he said slowly. “We knew there was no glory or honour in what we did, and we knew there would be no satisfying answers to the questions you’d be sure to ask. We simply hoped that if we played for time, you would follow Andrew straight to university, or possibly find your place at court. We were—embarrassed, nothing more.”

Embarrassment. What a stupid thing to lose his whole life over.

“I am sorry, Greg,” Bram added.

Sorry, huh? Well, he was sorry, too. But Thoko’s hand on his was starting to calm him down. He had told Morgulon that he wouldn’t view his daughters as a mistake. Meeting Thoko was the same, wasn’t it?

But speaking of mistakes.

“So you were embarrassed. And yet you want to go back to that line of work?”

Bram spread his fingers on the table top. “It’s the only thing I really know how to do. And this time, it will be different, I hope. Moreover, it should calm some of the public’s fears.”

“It will also make it look like you were just waiting for an excuse to get back to hunting,” Greg complained, if a little halfheartedly. “Which’ll cast doubt on everything else David had told the people.”

“I would be happy to talk to the press,” Bram said promptly. “And set them straight.”

Right. What was the saying? Actions speak louder than words? Would it really help to have more hunters out there? But on the other hand, the people needed some kind of reassurance that tragedies like this wouldn’t repeat themselves, would they?

What a mess.

Greg ducked his head as if that could make him escape the attention of all the other people in the room. He already felt foolish for the outburst. Foolish and tired. Nobody could change the past. It wasn’t worth getting upset about.

He just wished the future would look easier.