Christophe floated. His fur, soaked and heavy, dragged at him, but he was caught in the branches of a deadfall across the swollen creek. He blinked at the sky through the tangle of branches. There is something . . . I must do . . . if only—

Anton. Etienne. The betrayal.

Christophe fought free of the clutching branches. The creek, though swift, wasn’t particularly deep at this point, so he could stand. He made his way to the bank and shook himself, spraying water in all directions, startling the crows from the trees, and setting the squirrels chittering at him in protest.

He assessed his condition—his front right paw and left rear leg were still painful. His ribs hurt when he breathed and his head felt as if someone had taken a mallet to it. For a moment, he was tempted to simply lie down here and be done. He’d been too late to prevent Etienne’s massacre, and had no chance of escaping his wolf form when the one who usually abetted his transformation had decided instead to prevent it.

What hope did he have? In his ancestor’s day, wolves had had power, a fair chance in a fight against any man. But now? He was virtually helpless. All the power lay now with the men with the guns, or almost worse, with the authorities who would do near as much damage to him in the name of preservation. To be collared and monitored as if he were no more than the animal he appeared? How could he deal with such humiliation?

He had few illusions about his ability to survive in the wild. A man with the spirit of a wolf might dominate in the boardroom, but a wolf with the spirit of a man had no such advantage in the primal savagery of the forest. He could barely force himself to hunt as it was; it made him feel less than human. If he were forced to remain in this state for long—as long as his ancestor had been—would he even remember how to be a man? Or would the wolf take over completely, turning him into the beast he resembled?

And what of his father? He didn’t know Anton’s plans, but he had no more faith in Etienne Melion’s professional ethics than in his personal morals. Between the two of them, his father’s odds of survival after the merger were as slim as his own.

So ironic that he’d been brought to this state just as he’d found a true partner at last, one who wouldn’t betray him for power or prestige or money. Yet the first Bisclavret’s wife had betrayed him, just as Anton had done. What guarantee had he that Trent wouldn’t tire of him and do the same?

Because if Trent tired of you, condemning you to a supernatural prison would be the last thing he would ever do. Not after enduring a similar fate himself.

Christophe had taken his measure that day in the park, when Trent had confessed his ordeal. If he’d admired the man before, his respect had increased tenfold then, hearing of Trent’s ability to reassimilate after seven years of being other.

Trent knew what he was now. If nothing else, perhaps if he could get to Trent, they could find a way to shield Christophe from the authorities. And do what? Put you in a private zoo? Would he be able to stand being around Trent if he was nothing more than a pet dog?

Better that than the wilderness. Better that than death.

He limped away from the water, and as he took the path through the trees, the wind shifted and he caught it.

Etienne’s scent.

Christophe growled, tempted to howl, but if he did that, he’d reveal himself to his pursuers and his prey. No, he intended to take Etienne unaware, as unaware as the poor sheep had been to their fate.

Etienne would pay for what he had done. One way or another, Christophe would see to it.

He took off into the trees at an awkward, uneven run. Pray God I’m able to stand when I meet him, because I couldn’t live knowing that Etienne Melion killed me.

Getting back to Riley’s room was trickier than getting out of it had been. Judging by the number of people in clothes too fashionable for mountain climbing, or white water rafting, or horseback riding, or whatever the fuck people did out here, wedding zero-hour must be close.

After two near-misses, he legged it up the stairs, calling Riley on the way. “I’m almost there. Open the door for me.”

“Yeah, about that—”

“Hurry. We don’t want anyone to catch on.” Trent cleared the last curve of the hallway. “We don’t want Logan,” the door swung open, “or Jul—” He skidded to a halt. Shit. “Uh . . . hi, Julie.”

She crossed her arms. “Nice to see you too, Mister Pielmeyer.”

Riley grimaced at him from the desk. “Sorry. I forgot she’d have to come back here to get dressed.”

“Yes. Dressed for your wedding, and yet I wonder why you aren’t making a similar effort.”

“Well, see, there’s this thing.” Riley fidgeted with the drawstring of his sweatpants.

“A thing. Really.” Julie’s narrow gaze flicked between Trent, hovering in the open doorway, and Riley. “What, are you two comparing Logan’s dick size or something?”

“Jules!” Riley jumped up. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then I suggest you get your ass back to your room and put on your tux before Logan decides you’ve gotten a better offer from his old fuck buddy.”

“Hey.” Trent stepped inside and let the door close behind him. “A little out of line, don’t you think?”

“No. What I think is that Riley’s getting married in less than half an hour and he looks like he just rolled out of bed.”

“I don’t. I’ve been up for ages. Showered. Used that stupid hair product.”

“Then you’ve gotten sidetracked by some folklore shit. Your front hair’s doing that thing where it sticks up and sideways.

Riley clapped his hand on his head. “My— What?”

“It’s a total tell, Rile. You clutch it while you make notes.” She’d been edging toward the desk as she spoke, and on the word “notes” she lunged and grabbed the legal pad off the desk. “Aha! You have been making notes. Seriously, Rile? I know folklore is your passion, but it’s your wedding day and . . .”

Her eyes grew rounder as she read. Riley shared an oh fuck glance with Trent.

“You have got to be shitting me. A werewolf?”

“I know it sounds crazy.” Trent unloaded his backpack and duffel onto the floor and tossed the garment bag on the bed.

“Are you kidding? This is amazing! Forget the Witch’s Castle reunion episode. An honest-to-God werewolf? The ratings will be off the charts!”

“Jules, you can’t—”

“It’s a damn good thing Zack’s already here with the camera. We can take the van. Where is he?”

Trent stalked over to Julie and blocked her path. “You can’t exploit Christophe like that. We need to help him. He’s either about to get blamed for a sheep-killing and offed by a bunch of pissed-off ranchers, or else he’s gonna murder his own brother and another guy.”

Julie stared him down. “How are you going to get to him?”

Trent blinked first. “I thought—” Except he hadn’t thought. The cave Anton had told Etienne about was over ten miles away. They’d never get there on foot, and once they were there, then what? They still had no way of turning Christophe back.

Wait. François. “Christophe has a driver. He’s the one that brought me here. I’ll bet he could check out Christophe’s condo. Bring him some clothes.”

“Where is this alleged condo and this alleged driver?”

“The Pearl.”

“It takes a minimum of ninety minutes to get here from Portland. You think you have that much time?”

Riley shoved his glasses up his nose with his knuckle. “That’s assuming there are any clothes there that haven’t already been laundered.”

“Hell.” Trent smacked the wall. “I just remembered. Anton said he’d sent everything to the cleaners before he left town.”

“Damn it,” Riley muttered.

Julie smirked at them. “If you guys want to get there, you’ll have to do it my way. We’ll film it as a legend trip.”

“Jules, you can’t expose Christophe like that. It’ll ruin his life.”

“If he kills someone, or gets killed himself, do you think that won’t put a slight crimp in it? Come on, Rile. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

“Except Logan. He’ll never go for it. Don’t you think he might notice if half the wedding party is missing, including the other groom?”

Julie waved a hand. “So he gets married a couple of hours later. He can deal.”

“We can’t delay the ceremony.” Riley clutched his bangs, sending them even more cock-eyed. “We only have the chapel from one till two.”

“So pay the officiant extra and have the ceremony at the reception.” Julie picked up a clipboard from the bedside table. “Send the guests in there first. I’ve always thought weddings would be way better if the guests were allowed to get sloshed before the ceremony. Especially those excruciatingly long Eastern Orthodox ones like my cousins had. Lord.” She pulled a pen out of her vest pocket and scribbled a note. “I’ll call Heather once we’re in the van. She’ll take care of everything and calm Logan down.”

“Guys.” Trent was fairly bouncing on his toes by now, the hurry hurry klaxon in his brain nearly deafening. “We don’t have time for goddamn wedding planning. Can we please just fucking go?”

Julie eyed him. “We can only pull this off if we’re unobtrusive about absconding with one of the grooms. Hate to point it out, but you’re not exactly dressed in wedding attire.”

“Dude. We’re heading into the woods. Hiking. Muddy trails.” He flecked a pine needle off his sweatshirt. “Tree boogers. You really want to wear your good clothes?”

“If we expect to sell it, yes. As it is, it’ll look suspicious when we all pile into the van.” She strode back to the door. “I’m getting your tux, Rile.”

Riley frowned at her. “You wouldn’t let me put the damn thing on for fear I’d wrinkle it and ruin the shot from the back. Now you want me to wear it on a wilderness hike?”

She paused with her hand on the doorknob and widened her eyes at him. “Hello? Werewolf? You do the fricking math.” She zipped out the door.

Trent studied Riley, huddled in the desk chair. “Hey. I’m sorry for fucking up your wedding day.”

“If you think I’m leaving Christophe twisting in the wind, you’re delusional.”

“Dude. If I told anyone else what I told you? Delusional is the least they’d think me.”

“Anyway, if the wedding went perfectly, we’d be tempting fate, especially since Logan and I never manage to do anything the easy way.” Riley’s smile was wistful. “Maybe this is our best shot at appeasing fate from the get-go.”

“You could always stay here. You and Logan could go through with the ceremony. I mean, there’s not a lot you can do that you haven’t already done.”

“You think Julie will let me stay behind if she’s got her eye on a ratings bonanza? That’ll trump wedding planning any day, and she wants me on-camera. She wants Logan too, but if we tell him about this, I don’t think he’ll react well.”

“Understatement.”

Riley nodded at Trent’s garment bag. “So better do what she says. Put on your suit.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Trent unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the jacket and one of the shirts.

Riley whistled. “Nice.”

“I know, right? First time I’ll have it on, and I’m about to subject it to cruel and unusual tree punishment.” He pulled out the narrow trousers. Okay. Commando ain’t gonna fly in these. What were the odds he had clean underwear?

He unzipped the duffel, with the usual explosion of clothes.

Riley chuckled. “That’s like a giant milkweed pod.”

“More like an IED.” He pawed through the tangle, scattering his mangy T-shirts and holey jeans across Julie’s floor. She has no one to blame but herself.

Jeans, shorts, T-shirt, T-shirt, T-shirt, socks—ewww, sweats, undershirt—

I don’t wear undershirts.

He fell back on his ass, the wisp of white jersey clutched in his hand. The first night. I ripped this off him and threw it in the corner.

“Riley?” His voice trembled as much as his hand. “I think we’ve got it.” He held up the undershirt. “Wolf’s clothing.”