What felt like hours later, but was probably only slightly past midnight, Christophe finally arrived at the resort, half-lame from his desperate race through the forest. He crouched down in the underbrush at the edge of the parking lot, which held far more cars than when he and Anton had arrived earlier. Loud voices, music, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter wafted from the main deck.

He’d shaken much of the pollen off his fur during his run, so his sense of smell was returning. There. Not Anton, but Trent, his scent tinged with distress. Christophe’s hackles rose. Trent needs me. How can I help him though, trapped as I am, and with Anton in trouble?

But if he was to help his brother, he’d need assistance of his own. Trent was the only person other than Anton who knew he was here. Therefore, he had to find a way to communicate with Trent, even if it set their relationship back when Trent found out about Christophe’s supernatural disability.

Two women crunched across the gravel toward his hiding place. Afraid to move lest they spot him and became terrified, he remained as motionless as possible. One of them was tall, the moon that had finally emerged from the clouds backlighting her curly hair. He recognized her scent from Stumptown Spirits. Julie. Riley’s friend.

He recognized the other woman too, the server from the bar. Heather. Judging by their scents, the two would be engaging in sexual congress with one another soon. But hopefully not in the parking lot.

“The resort has poker chips. Couldn’t we use those?” Heather first smoothed her hair, then tossed her ponytail, causing her to veer closer to Julie until their arms brushed. Neither woman moved away.

“Hell no. This is a themed party, and when I produce something, I produce the shit out of it. Generic stuff won’t do. I’ve got Logan-and-Riley branded supplies for everything. But we need to hurry. The strip poker game is scheduled immediately after the Jell-O shots, before pin the dick on the porn star.”

Heather giggled. “Where did you get a life-sized full-frontal cutout of Logan?”

Julie nudged her. “Don’t question my superpowers. Just be glad I use them for evil, not good.”

“Did you see his face when he realized the picture didn’t have a dick?”

“Are you kidding? I had Zack film it in close-up. It’s going in the wedding video. I’m thinking we’ll have an entire YouTube channel devoted to the footage from the party. What do you think?”

“I think we better hurry up or Logan will have burned the cutout in the fire pit.”

“Good point. Grab those beer mats. I’ll get the feather boas and the tiaras.”

The two women rummaged around in the back of a van, juggling several boxes. Christophe noticed with interest that they were reaching across each other for their targets rather than simply switching places for efficiency.

“I think that’s everything.” Heather pushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead as a roar rose from the lodge deck. “Oh no. Do you think they’ve started the drag queen race without us?”

“They can’t. We’ve got the stilettos. Grab that box?”

They fumbled around, Julie trying to close the rear door with her elbow.

“Hold on, Julie. Your vest is caught on the latch.” Heather propped her box against the van with one hip and fussed with something. “There.” She patted Julie’s fleece vest back into place, then seemed to realize that her hand was resting on the other woman’s hip. “Oh. Um. Sorry.” She clutched her box again.

“Not me. If my hands weren’t full, I’d—” She kissed Heather softly on the lips, causing Heather to lose her grip on the box. It tipped, scattering a few small, flat objects on the gravel, but the two women didn’t notice.

Another roar rose from the deck, and they broke apart. Heather sighed. “Wish we didn’t have to—”

“Me too.” Julie’s smile glinted in the moonlight. “But later, okay?”

Heather nodded, and the two turned, strolling back toward the lodge shoulder to shoulder.

Once they were safely out of range, Christophe crept forward, investigating what they’d left behind. If he was to convince Trent of his identity, he needed to do something so out of character for a wild wolf that Trent would understand what he was trying to say. He nudged one of the squares of cardboard with his paw. It was a beer mat from Stumptown Spirits, the same kind that he and Trent had played their game with on the night they met.

He trapped it between his paws until he could pick it up in his teeth.

This would do. It must. Anton’s life might depend on it.

Once the people on the path had passed by harmlessly, Trent built himself a fortress on the patio with a pair of Adirondack chairs and a wrought iron table. He jammed his duffel between the chairs and sat on it, his back to the wall, his backpack in his lap, and the garment bag draped over the chair arms like a half tent. His cell phone lay on the table, plugged into the outside outlet. The resort’s guests must insist on staying connected while they commune with goddamn fucking nature. At least there was free wi-fi, although with this tree coverage, Trent had no idea how they managed it. Maybe they pinged the signal off the bats that swooped under the trees.

The battery indicator had finally inched into amber, although it had seemed to take for-fucking-ever.

Why do you care how long it takes? It’s not like you have anywhere to go or any way to get there.

The party up at the lodge was getting even more raucous, with no sign of winding down. He could go up there. See if he could snag a minute or two alone with Logan. Maybe float enough of a loan to return to Portland.

And then what? Camp out in Stumptown Spirits until he’s back from his honeymoon?

As he thought about it, maybe it wasn’t such a stupid idea after all. Joseph Geddes was in charge. If anyone knew what Trent was going through, it would be him.

We’re in the same boat now. No family. No money. No future.

Except Joseph had one up on Trent. He had a job. A place to live. A future as a business owner, once Logan made good on his plan to sign over the bar.

Wait. Logan lived above the bar. He’d said so. Maybe Trent could crash there while Logan and Riley were off God-knows-where, basking in the wedding afterglow. Except—shit—he’d said it was being gutted while they were on their honeymoon, hadn’t he? If he wanted to find out for sure, he’d have to dare the path and the lodge.

But interrupt Logan’s prewedding party? Face the undoubtedly drunken guests, half of whom were probably from Haunted to the Max, which meant they’d seen Trent at his sniveling, basket-case worst?

No, thank you.

He’d figure something else out. He wasn’t sure how, but—

The underbrush at the edge of the patio rustled, and Trent dropped his phone in his lap. Was that a big rustle or a little rustle? Why does there have to be a rustle at all? He tugged at the chairs, trying to angle them so they formed more of a barricade, but the things weighed a fucking ton. He hunched down to make himself as small a target as he could, pulling his hoodie up around his neck.

You’re gonna feel damn stupid if it’s a bunny rabbit or a squirrel.

Unfortunately, the less alarming things probably weren’t active at night. Raccoons, now those bastards were vicious. And opossums? Just weird.

The rustle came again, getting closer.

He clutched his backpack and held it in front of him like a shield. Like that’ll help if it’s a bear or a mountain lion or a chupacabra or some shit. He couldn’t believe that he’d used to court thrills like this on purpose. That he’d staked out empty graveyards and lonely crossroads, actually wanting a creepy-ass creature to appear.

Yeah, learned your lesson about that one, didn’t you?

He stared at the bushes.

Something. Stared. Back.

Why couldn’t it have been a bunny rabbit, damn it? But no, this thing was big, judging by the placement of the golden eyes glinting in the patio light.

Shit-shit-shit. The thing didn’t move. Just kept staring at him. Trying to decide if I’d be better with sriracha or guacamole? Maybe a little ranch dressing?

He pressed his back against the wall until the logs nearly became one with his spine.

The thing came closer.

“Oh God.” He clenched his eyes shut. This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d hoped for another way out.

The rustling started again, then stopped, followed by a soft flap and the scrabbling of claws on stone. Claws. It has claws. They scrabble! If they could scrabble on stone, what would they do to his skin?

He braced himself, hands over his head, but nothing happened and nothing happened and nothing happened, except an owl hooted nearby.

Finally he peeked out from under his hood.

Wolf. There is a fucking wolf on the patio. And it was definitely a wolf. He remembered Logan mocking him that night in their dorm room when he’d told him about the legend trippers in France who’d seen a wolf—and that it must have been a werewolf because there were no wolves in France.

“ . . . it was somebody’s German shepherd.”

No way could you mistake this for anything but a wolf. For one thing, its head was huge. Its fur was gray and brown brindle on its face and back, but shaded to cream on its chest and paws—which were nearly as big as Trent’s feet.

It was lying on its belly on the patio, those ginormous paws stretched in front of it like it was giving thanks to the god of easy prey. There was something flat and brown between them, something about the size of a maple leaf. Where could it have found a maple tree? The whole damn forest is full of evergreens. Trent squinted, trying to make the thing out. Squarish. Rounded corners. Too regular for a leaf. Holy fucking shit.

A beer mat.

What kind of wolf carried a beer mat? A party animal, har har har. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Even faced with death-by-fang-and-claw, he couldn’t shake his assitude.

He peered at the beer mat more closely and made out the logo on one side. Stumptown Spirits.

“How . . . ?”

The wolf held his gaze for another maybe ten seconds—which was a hella long time to get stared down by an animal the size of a MINI Cooper—then it nudged the mat with its nose, first tilting it one way, so the logo was visible. Another stare-down. Then, in what seemed a calculated move—could wolves calculate?—it nudged it the other way and shifted its paws so the mat fell logo-side down.

What the fuck?

The wolf raised its head, holding Trent’s gaze again, and this time Trent looked at its eyes. Dark amber, like Woodford’s Reserve, last seen in a glass at Stumptown Spirits, when he and Christophe had flirted with the beer mats.

He gulped and pushed his hood back. God, this was in-fucking-sane, but then, wasn’t he the guy who’d spent seven years in ghostly limbo? Weird shit was totally in his wheelhouse, whether he wanted it to be or not. “C-C-Christophe?”