“None taken,” I said, adjusting my grip on the basket. “It’s temporary. Once they smell the treats, they’ll forget about everything else.”
Kharak’dur had never failed with the dire wolves. These dogs weren’t quite as savage as the beasts in the steppe. But they’d been through hardship, known hunger, pain, and loss. I refused to believe the flat cakes wouldn’t work on them.
Before I could retrieve my secret weapon from the basket, a sharp laugh froze me in my tracks. “There you are, Barnaby. And… companion. You must be Brok, right?”
I turned, only to find myself facing a massive fox. Yes, an actual fox, standing on two legs, three feet away from us.
Wearing a black cocktail dress that somehow worked despite the bushy tail, he was eyeing us with visible amusement. “What an unexpected surprise.”
It was, of course, Reynard. I’d never met him before, but he was unmistakable. He’d also worn many disguises throughout his past. Never one of a female, but maybe he was taking a more modern approach.
Barnaby’s eyes went wide, and his ears went rigid. Much like those of the German Shepherd still watching us. “Reynard? What are you doing here?”
Reynard’s eyes flashed with displeasure. “It’s Vixen today, Osterhase,” he said, gliding toward us. “Remember it.”
Vixen. Was that the name of his current alias? He was really embracing it, wasn’t he?
I watched Barnaby’s shoulders hunch even further. He was about to bolt. If he ran now, we’d lose our last chance at boosting his Joy Coefficient. The flat cakes would be useless by tomorrow.
Reynard leaned in to examine our baskets, his snout wrinkling in exaggerated disgust. One manicured claw poked at the flat cakes like he was prodding something dead. “Are these supposed to be cookies? They looklike someone sat on them. Repeatedly. And what is that smell?”
Barnaby’s breathing hitched. His paw trembled on the basket handle.
I stepped forward, drawing Reynard’s attention away from Barnaby before he could spiral completely. “Dogs don’t care about how a treat looks. They only care about the taste.”
“How rustic.” Reynard’s tail swished behind him, slow and deliberate. A predator toying with prey. “I’m sure the judges will be very impressed by your commitment to authenticity. Nothing says ‘joy’ quite like aggressively ugly baked goods.”
A few nearby guests had noticed the exchange, their conversations pausing. I could feel their attention like weight on my shoulders.
Barnaby needed a win. Needed proof that this wasn’t a complete disaster. Needed something to hold onto before Reynard destroyed what little confidence he had left.
I pulled out one of the flat cakes. The scent of Kharak’dur wafted across the lawn, carried on the evening breeze.
The German Shepherd’s nose twitched. Its ears perked up. The uncertainty in its posture vanished, replaced by sudden, laser-focused interest.
Then it lunged.
I barely had time to toss the cake before the dog crashed into my legs with the force of a small battering ram. A terrier yipped and joined the chase. A Great Dane’s tail started wagging so hard its entire back end swayed.
Within seconds, I was surrounded. Dogs pressed against my legs, jumped at my hands, whined and barked and competed for position like I was made of meat. The German Shepherd managed to snag a piece, and its eyes went half-closed with pleasure.
Just like the dire wolves in the Iron Steppe.Ha. I told you so, Barnaby.
The effect rippled outward. More dogs arrived, drawn by the commotion and the scent. A beagle. Two corgis. Something small and fluffy that looked like someone had glued cotton balls to a rat. They swarmed the basket, and I had to hold it above my head to keep them from tearing it apart entirely.
This was working. Better than working. This was exactly what Grix had said we needed.
“Give them more,” I quickly told Barnaby. We had to take advantage of this opportunity. “Maximum exposure. That’s the whole point.”
Barnaby fumbled with his basket but managed to extract a treat and toss it into the pack. The dogs descended on it like it contained the secret to immortality. Barnaby watched them in awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was going on around him. “Brok,” hewhispered. “This thing is magical. With a cookie like this, I’d never have to worry about being chased again. I don’t need to do cardio at all to escape the Rottweiler!”
It was probably true. If Barnaby ever ran into a canine obstacle on one of his trips, using the Kharak’dur would certainly cause a big distraction. But that wasn’t the point of today’s trip. It was also a mistake to say it out loud.
“Oh dear gods,” Reynard muttered under his breath. “This is worse than I thought. You’re a magical rabbit. You shouldn’t need cardio at all. Is this really what I’m competing with?”
“You’re competing with the Osterhase,” I shot back. “Remember it.”
Reynard twitched in irritation. For all his words, he didn’t seem very thrilled with the dogs’ excitement over the flat cakes. His smile had vanished. He didn’t seem quite so eager to mock us now.
