Greg woke to someone hammering against his door. Groaning, he sat up. He was tempted to swear at the servant outside, but he had instructed the man himself last night to wake him early.

  “Thanks, Jimmy,” he mumbled through a yawn, which made the knocking stop.

  No time to waste. He needed to talk to Pierre about healing Professor Martens. And if Pierre didn’t want to help he’d have to ask the Red. Worst case, he might have to ride all the way to Windish and see if he could convince Monroe, Malina, or one of the elders David had dragged back.

  He really hoped Pierre would help. That those weeks with the pack in the mountains still meant something. Even after Pierre’s falling out with the Morgulon.

  When Greg got downstairs, the servants were just finishing setting the breakfast table. Everyone else was up already: Imani was sitting with the cubs in the drawing room. Bram and Andrew had their heads bent over some notes. Thoko had Hewan in her lap, looking up at Greg in surprise when he entered, but it was Nathan who asked, “what are you awake for? Gustave change his mind last night?”

  Greg shook his head. “We ran into Mr. Smith,” he explained. “He’s worried about Prof. Martens. I promised to talk to Pierre first thing today.”

  “Pierre.” Nathan frowned at him, then nodded towards the garden, where the Red was laying in the morning sun. “What about him?”

  The old wolf seemed to be really fascinated with the hedge. He’d stayed out there in the garden every day all day since Morgulon had left. Greg shuddered when he looked at him. He could see the old wolf, but he couldn’t sense him at all. As if he wasn’t there.

  Or human.

  “I’d rather talk to Pierre first,” Greg said. “He was my packleader in the mountains, after all.”

  “Want me to come along?” Nathan asked. “I’m free—unless Lane sends for me with another emergency, that is.”

  Greg grimaced. He didn’t think having his brother there would help. Especially since Nathan was Lane’s go-to hunter when it came to mad werewolves. “Don’t want to spook him.”

  “Suit yourself,” Nathan said.

  “Want me to come?” Thoko asked.

  The offer made Greg hesitate. He had meant to go alone, but it had been her idea in the first place to approach Prof. Martens for help so he could get into university. And Pierre knew her from the first trip to the mountains.

  And maybe he shouldn’t go talk to the old wolf all by himself. Not after Pierre had tried—whatever he had tried to do after the Morgulon had healed the duke.

  “Thank you,” he said. “That might be a good idea.”

  He had never mentioned what Pierre had done—or tried to do—while fighting Morgulon. Thoko looked at him with concern when he explained in the coach to the palace.

  “Why are you asking Pierre for help then?” she asked. “We could go out to Windish, or Fort Brunich. Find someone who won’t try to get into your head.”

  “Well, he’s still at the palace,” Greg pointed out. “Asides…would be nice if it’s him. If he’d still help, I mean.”

  “You’re saying that as if you were the one who attacked him, not the other way around,” Thoko pointed out.

  The coach rocked from an unusually deep pothole, saving Greg an answer as he and Thoko had to hang onto their seats. Greg glanced outside the window, as if looking for more missing cobblestones. He couldn’t tell if it was the remnants of the pull Pierre once had on him, or just his hurt human side. But he wanted it to be Pierre precisely because of that attack.

  “I don’t think Pierre meant to hurt me,” he said softly. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Thoko raised her eyebrows. “At least you hope so.”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you should have taken Nathan after all,” Thoko said, wrapping her arms around herself.

  “If I had taken Nathan, and especially if I had told him why, I’d never get a proper conversation with Pierre,” Greg pointed out.

  As they walked up the stairs to the palace, he wished he hadn’t said anything. He could tell Thoko was tense about the meeting. She had her shoulders pulled back and smiled extra brightly at the guards.

  There were more guards all around the palace, more soldiers in uniform. A show of force to reassure the people of Deva, Greg reckoned. He didn’t think there was much danger of an assassin trying to come after the duke. Not while he had his werewolf-wife and her pack guarding him.

  Not that many people knew about that.

  Greg let himself be led through the palace following the vague pull he still felt towards Pierre. It let them to the throne room, where the duke was holding court. Petitioners lined up down the corridor outside, glaring at Greg and Thoko as they walked past them.

  Was Pierre playing guarddog, too?

  The clerks organising the session frowned at Greg when he craned his neck to see into the throne room. The duke sat on his new seat of power, Annabelle’s two handmaidens stretched out to the right and left of the base. DeVale and Lord Mire stood right next to the duke.

  It was a good picture, Greg thought. The duke’s clothes mostly concealed what signs of his illness remained, deVale looked surprisingly snappy in his uniform, and Lord Mire was a fixture of the palace, someone the citizens waiting to see their future king would be familiar with.

  Pierre was nowhere in sight, though.

  “Excuse me,” Thoko approached one of the clerks before Greg could figure out where he had gone wrong. “We’re not here to see His Highness, we’re looking for the very old werewolf? Pierre?”

  As it turned out, he hadn’t gone wrong. Pierre and Annabelle were in one of the side offices of the throne room. Both of them were in their wolf shape, ears perked towards the throne. Listening in.

  It made Greg wonder if Annabelle could resist Pierre’s influence. Given her age, it seemed unlikely.

  What brings you two here? Pierre asked.

  His thoughts sounded friendly enough. If anything, he was curious.

  Greg pulled a couple of chairs for himself and Thoko, so they wouldn’t tower quite so high over the two werewolves resting on the ground. He hadn't expected to find Pierre in his wolf-shape.

  “I was hoping you’d help me,” he explained, once he had settled down. “Or rather, help someone for me.”

  Hm… Pierre sounded amused. What could the brother of Lord Relentless possibly need my help with?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Greg suppressed an eyeroll at that question. “There’s this professor, his name is Martens,” he went on. “He trained the engineer who risked his life to get the railway lines to Sheaf and Mannin built. Martens promised to train me, too. Help me attend university as a regular student.”

  How very generous of him, Pierre said. I still don’t see what you need me for?

  “Professor Martens is sick beyond a healer’s ability to cure. Mr. Smith—the engineer from the railway—he worries that the professor won’t live until the war is over.”

  And the university won’t accept new students while everyone is preparing for battle, I assume, Annabelle added.

  “I don’t know,” Greg said. “I don’t know if it would matter, if there’s nobody to ensure I don’t get kicked out again right afterwards.”

  You don’t think Duke Relentless can ensure that?, Pierre asked.

  “I don’t even know if he’ll survive,” Greg growled. “Has any human ever survived waking up a Rot-queen?”

  I doubt it has ever been tried, Pierre said. And if it had been tried, I doubt whoever did had the same kind of protection as your brother.

  The old wolf sighed. The tip of his tail swished back and forth over the floor.

  “So are you going to help, or should I go to Windish to ask Monroe?”

  Not going to ask the Red, are you? Pierre’s thought sounded rather smug when he asked that. Smart. He’s not going to help. I can tell you what he’ll say—that we shouldn’t show the humans our powers or they’ll keep asking us to heal all their ailments.

  When Greg didn’t say anything in answer, Pierre added, He has a point there, Greg. I would prefer not to become some healer’s magic storage.

  It sounded like he was willing to be convinced, Greg thought. So he replied: “I don’t see how that would be a bad thing. Sounds better than fighting the Rot all the time. If enough people—enough people with influence—demand werewolves to stay in Deva to support the healers here, that might convince David to keep a few elders here in the city.”

  Pierre’s ears flicked forward at that before he could hide his interest.

  Might even get you paid, Annabelle said thoughtfully. Paid more than a silver a month, I mean, she added. What illness does this professor have?

  “Cancer to the lung.”

  Annabelle shook herself. She turned to look over at the throne room, at Pierre, then back at Greg. I don't know if I can save him, she said. But if you can’t find anyone else, I can at least buy this professor a few more years.

  “Thank you,” Greg said. He hadn’t expected the offer.

  You aren't pointing out how life-changing it would be for you and other werewolves your age if you get accepted into Deva University, Pierre noted.

  “Would you care?” Greg asked back.

  Pierre half rose on his front legs, so that his face was closer to Greg’s. Of course I care. I care very deeply about what happens to you and all the other young werewolves.

  “Right,” Greg muttered. He took a deep breath. He wished it were just Thoko and him, talking to the old wolf, but he needed to know. “Then why did you attack me after Morgulon helped heal the duke?”

  Pierre sat up properly. He draped his tail around his feet, only the tip curling up and down as he looked directly at Greg. I did not intend to hurt you, Pierre said. My quarrel was with Morgulon alone. Quite the contrary, I aimed to protect you—and all of us—from her mistake.

  Annabelle huffed, but didn’t say anything. She just stared at her still-husband on the throne. Greg had no idea what she felt for the man these days.

  It could be your son sitting there, Pierre said, his thoughts gentle. With us both by his side, as his advisors, not just guard dogs.

  Greg shuddered. The prince—that was at least slightly more reasonable than Pierre’s insistence that David should take the throne. “It wouldn't have happened,” he still said. “And if it had happened, then I doubt it would have lasted long.”

  Pierre stretched out again. We’ll never know, he sighed. I underestimated her. And now we can only hope she isn't overestimating her own strength.

  The old wolf looked up at Greg, baring his throat as he stretched his neck. I am sorry that you thought I would hurt you, he added. It was never my intention to threaten, let alone injure you. I was acting hastily. I shouldn't have put that sort of pressure on you, and for that, I apologize.

  Greg bowed his head. He wasn't sure how he felt about Pierre's words, but he didn't think he was going to get a better apology.

  Annabelle’s ears flicked, her body perfectly still otherwise. You should help that professor, she said, before Greg could bring up the issue again. If you really do care about him and the rest of us. She glared at Pierre, forestalling an answer.

  Does the Red even understand the situation, she went on, or does he still think we’ll all go back into the forests when the war is over?

  Her thoughts dripped with disdain. I, for one, have no plan of leaving my son behind. So we should all make sure that word spreads—it's better to be known as miracle healers than monsters.

  Pierre looked at Annabelle thoughtfully. Greg balled his hands into fits, praying silently that Pierre would listen to her.

  Finally, the elder sighed and looked at Greg. I would have done it simply so you would get this opportunity, he claimed. But I see your point, Lady Annabelle. Better to be known for miracles, indeed.

  With creaking joints, he stood. So where do we find this professor? And has the healer been warned?

  “I have the address,” Greg said. “I don’t know about the healer—Mr. Smith promised to warn both him and the professor sometime this morning.”

  We might as well get going then, Pierre said. I’m not as light on my feet as I used to be.

  ***

  Prof. Martens lived in one of the many terraces of Deva. His was a quite nice one, with a bit of a front garden. Mr. Smith opened the door before Greg could ring the bell.

  “It’s such a relief to see you,” the engineer said, smiling at Greg and Thoko. Pierre was visibly surprised when Smith proceeded to offer his hand to shake and said, “Thank you for coming. They’re right upstairs.”

  He led the way to a small bedroom. A tired looking healer sat on a chair next to the bed, which stood underneath the window, so that it overlooked the front yard and the street. It looked to Greg like the bed had been moved there recently, probably to give the professor something to look at—unless he had always had his mirror placed in the darkest corner of the room.

  The professor hadn’t exactly been a vigorous figure when Greg had first met him, but now he was hardly more than a ghost. He was propped up in the bed by pillows, his skin white and thin as paper. His eyes were sunken and his breath wheezed every time he inhaled. His fingers fluttered into the smallest wave, but when he tried to speak, his voice caught. He didn’t even manage a proper cough—his body shook, but all that came out was a gasping rasp.

  The healer sighed and looked up at them. There were deep lines around his mouth, and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked familiar, too. “Which one of you is the werewolf?” he asked, while Prof. Martens seemed to choke on his own breath

  Pierre strolled forward. “We’ve worked together before at the palace,” he said. “I just wasn’t looking like this.”

  He held out a hand.

  The healer gripped them without hesitation. Greg could feel the flutter of magic, then the healer muttered, “Oh, thank god,” and turned to the professor.

  Pierre closed the distance to the bed when the healer pressed both hands to Prof. Martens chest, just in time for the first whiff of Rot to fill the room. Thoko reached for Greg’s hand and leaned into him while the healer worked.

  “I’ll have some tea brought up,” Mr. Smith muttered, when the healer turned back to Pierre for more. He was grinning and there was a spring in his step as he walked out.

  He returned a few minutes later with a housekeeper carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. The healer wiped the sweat off his face and accepted a cup, holding it to Prof. Martens’s lips. The professor was breathing noticeably easier, drinking quite greedily.

  The healer watched, shaking his head. Pouring a cup of his own, he asked Pierre, “You could make a fortune, you know that?”