Asher Thorley’s room is a glorified custodial closet. Lysander’s doing—he’d been feeling petty the night the soldier arrived. He’s not too proud to admit it. The narrow space boasts a cinder block floor and a single egress window, a mop in one corner. Boyce sits just outside, whittling some sort of indefinable creature out of wood. A bear, maybe. Or a wolf. He tosses it down as Lysander rounds the corner, flicking shut his knife and rising to his feet.
“Take a break,” says Lysander. “Go find something to eat.”
He waits for Boyce to be out of sight before he shoves inside, not bothering to knock. The door falls shut and he finds himself at the end of a shotgun. Watery daylight spills in through the egress, haloing Asher Thorley in a dusky white. Lysander keeps to the shadowed fringes, his hood up and his hands in his pockets, the light burning through him like an unholy fire.
“Hawthorn?” he asks, eyeing the gun.
“Oak,” says Asher.
“Superstitious?”
“Practical. White oak splinters on contact.”
“Ouch.”
A beat passes. Asher lowers the gun. “You look like dog shit.”
“Ifeellike dog shit. But I’m here with good news.”
“Oh yeah?”
“We’re upgrading your accommodations. Presidential wing. Third floor. There’s a great view of the mountain.”
“You want me to keep an eye on Shea,” guesses Asher, setting the gun against the wall.
“I want you to do a better job winning her over.”
“It’s been one day. I’m working on it.”
Lysander bites back a retort. “She came to see me in my room last night. Sullivan saw, and he attacked her within the hour. My lieutenant is under the impression the two things are connected.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think you’ve got an arsenal of white oak bullets and a hundred notches in your belt. We can both agree you’re no Casanova, but I’d still feel safer if you were closer.”
“I’ll bet you would.” Asher’s smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “I’m glad you brought up Conall Sullivan, actually. I asked Shea what attacked him. She said she didn’t see it. You want to hear my theory?”
“It was very dark, and she was disoriented?”
“I think she’s protecting the attacker.”
Somewhere in his head, Lysander hears the snap of bone. Sullivan’s scream.
“That’s an interesting theory.”
“It is, isn’t it?” The way Asher studies him makes Lysander want to ask if he grew up hunting. He tracks each tic like he’s searching him for weak spots. The light falls between them in a chalky barrier. It makes Lysander’s blood bubble up, hot and sick in his veins. He grinds his teeth until they ache.
“The question is,” says Asher, “whywould she do that?”
“Couldn’t tell you.” Lysander tempers the urge to swipe his hood lower.
“I’ve been doing this for a little over a year now,” says Asher. “I’ve never seen something kill like that before. In basic, they teach you that wolves go in as a pack, usually targeting the flank. My first week out, I saw a bear bite clean through someone’s femur. Your kind goes for the throat. I’ve never heard of anything ripping out the victim’s heart.”
Lysander stares at him and says nothing. He stares back.
“We brought a girl in last night,” says Lysander, when the pain becomes unbearable.
“I know,” says Asher. “Poppy Zahar. Don’t change the subject.”
