“Hey, Larry? Can you back the truck up to the bulkhead doors? I need to haul this down into the workshop.”

Larry tipped his ball cap up with one finger. “Thought you was gonna build yourself a pole barn to hold the lumber.”

Ted opened the metal doors that led into the lodge basement. “I was, but I ran a little short, you know? And plans changed.”

“I hear ya. Nothin’s the same but change, am I right?”

Larry ambled to the cab of his truck, climbed aboard, and backed it up to within ten feet of the doors. Ted winced a little as the tires sank into the earth, but it was cold enough—and had been dry enough—that it didn’t look like it would get stuck.

Larry helped cart the load of oak flooring down the half flight of stairs and stack it on the sawhorses Ted had set up next to the wall.

“Thanks, man. Say, how’s my truck doing? It’s been a couple of weeks now.”

Larry took off his cap and wiped his forehead with a red bandana. “Still waiting for the fuel pump. ’S hard to get parts for that model. You oughta upgrade to a new one. I could get you a deal.”

“Nah. No spare cash for that. Besides, I like my old truck.”

Larry shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to wait, then.”

Ted closed the bulkhead doors, gazing across the lake at the cabin. He needed to lay in some more supplies. A guy like Quentin wouldn’t want the simple meals Ted had planned for the next few days. Maybe he could step up the menu, at least pretend to be a decent host. Yeah, he wanted Rusty, but Quentin was a guest too—one with a common goal. No reason why they couldn’t be friends, right? “Say, Larry? Would you give me and my, uh, friend a ride into town?”

Larry scuffed his foot in the weeds, uprooting a clump of grass. “I s’pose. How you planning to get back?”

Hmmm. Good point. “I’ll see if Matt can give us a ride partway.”

Larry shrugged. “No skin off my nose. But you gotta be ready in ten. I’ve got a full afternoon ahead.”

“No problem. I’ll be right back.”

Ted legged it down the path beside the lake. He wasn’t as fast in human form as he was as a bear, but his legs were long enough that he made good time. Time . . . time . . . wasn’t I supposed to do something else? Something that had to be done in time? Ah, shoot. Supernatural Selection. He’d promised to call ’em, and it had gone clean out of his head.

He pulled out his phone as he jogged. It didn’t have much of a charge, but that wasn’t a problem with Dr. Kendrick’s magic app.

“Supernatural Selection. This is Zeke. How may I help you?”

Zeke. He’d given Ted the contract to sign the day he’d gone into the Portland office. Cute guy with curly black hair and glasses. Wonder what he’d look like with a goatee like Quentin’s. “Hey, yeah. This is Ted Farnsworth. I’m supposed to let you know I approve of the escape clause thingie.”

“Oh. Yes. Mr. Farnsworth. One moment please.”

Ted reached the porch and mounted the steps while the sound of rustling papers and a muttered curse came over the line. “Mr. Farnsworth?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you absolutely certain you want to proceed? Mr. Bertrand-Harrington informed you of the consequences, correct?”

Had he? They’d talked about something over lunch, but the details were a little hazy. Something about hair? Not that it mattered. They needed to get this taken care of and get back with the right husbands, whatever it took. “Yep. It’s all good.”

“Very well. The AI is recording, so if you could repeat after me. I, Ted Farnsworth.”

Ted sighed. “I, Ted Farnsworth.” Awkward, idiotic bear shifter.

“Do hereby request.”

“Do hereby request.” That we get on with it already. Q-Bert didn’t say he had to go through this crap.

“The initiation of the escape sequence.”

“The initiation of the”—what now?—“escape sequence.”

“Of the contract between—”

“How much longer does this go on? I’m kinda in a hurry here.”

“Please, Mr. Farnsworth. This is ritual language. The consequences of any errors are quite dire.”

Ted snorted. “As dire as the consequences of putting the wrong fricking names on the contracts in the first place?” The silence on the line was deafening. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Of the contract between.” Zeke’s voice shook, which made Ted feel kinda bad for the guy.

Guess I should give him a break and be more cooperative. “Of the contract between.”

“Quentin Bertrand-Harrington and me.”

“Q-Ber— Quentin Bertrand-Harrington and me.”

As soon as the last words left Ted’s mouth, a sound like an enormous brass gong clanged over the phone and, weirdly, in the air around him, as if it were reverberating off the mountains.

“Thank you, Mr. Farnsworth. The escape sequence has officially begun. Please be sure you complete the required ritual by the deadline, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Well, let’s say that when witches use the word ‘deadline,’ their meaning is rather more literal than you might expect.”

Ted gulped. Maybe he should have paid more attention to Q-Bert after all. “Good to know.”

“If you—”

“Hello?” Ted pulled the phone away from his ear. The screen was black. Not like I didn’t expect it.

When he strode into the cabin, Quentin was standing next to the couch, his face pale and his hand at his throat. “Wh-what was that sound?”

“I just called Supernatural Selection and okayed our escape clause. Guess it came with sound effects.”

“Mother of fire, it nearly scared me out of my pants.”

That’d be something to see. Ted banged his fist into his thigh. Stop that. “Good. You’re ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I got us a ride into town in Larry’s rig. We can do a little shopping, get whatever stuff we need for the escape thing.” He eyed Quentin’s outfit, which avoided being a suit only because his jacket was tweed and his trousers were plain gray. “We can get you some clothes that won’t get trashed when we’re out searching for fleas or doing our dance by the light of the moon.”

“We don’t have to dance.”

“Yeah, yeah. Haircuts. Whatever. But we still need the coins and the silver-bladed knife. And something to keep the fleas in. Shoot. The fleas. I forgot to ask about them.”

“We can call again later, but do you really think we can find all we need in—what’s the name of the nearest town?”

Ted grinned. “Dewton. And you’d be surprised what you can find at Stuff ’n’ Things.”

Quentin stared at him, one eyebrow quirking up. “Seriously?”

“Don’t knock it. It’s an awesome place.”

Quentin glanced around the room, uncertainty written all over his narrow face. “I’m not sure—”

“You think I don’t know a good thing?”

“What? No. I mean, that’s not it. It’s just . . .” Quentin swallowed, color draining from his face. “I may not be ready to face a town full of people.”

Damn. Ted had forgotten that Quentin was dealing with some kind of incubus drug withdrawal. “Q-Bert, I may not know much about you, but I know this: you’re no pushover. Anytime it feels like it’s too much? You give me the high sign. There are plenty of places down there that are private, where you can catch a breather. But Larry’s still waiting for a part for my truck, so this is the best chance we’ve got to collect what we need.”

Quentin rocked back and forth a little bit—probably didn’t even realize he was doing it, but it was pretty obvious he was waffling.

“Tell you what. Bring your phone and charger too. We can stop by the library or the diner and juice it up.”

As Ted had suspected, that did the trick. Quentin dug his charging cord out of his case and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “All right. Let’s go.”

“Don’t you have another coat? That jacket’s not going to keep you warm.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t expect to be venturing out on the frozen tundra, you know.”

Ted barked a laugh. “It’s not that bad, but you do need another coat. Shirl’s bound to have something that’ll do at Stuff ’n’ Things.”

“They carry men’s clothing?”

“They carry everything. Let’s go.”

Ted tried not to rush Quentin as they headed back to the lodge. A couple of times, Ted thought he’d have to haul the guy out of the trees or the lake. Seemed like he couldn’t walk in a straight line. Maybe that was part of his recovery.

Larry was waiting by his rig, staring at his watch, when they stepped into the lodge clearing.

“Hey, Larry. This is my friend Quentin. Quentin, Larry.”

Larry gave Quentin the once-over—not like he was checking him out, but like all of the locals did with strangers. He didn’t offer his hand, just nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

“A pleasure.” Quentin’s voice had a little bit of an edge to it. “I trust we haven’t kept you waiting unduly?”

“Nah.” He climbed into the cab. “All aboard.”

Ted led the way to the other side of the truck. “Sorry, but you’ll have to sit in the middle. My legs are too long.”

“That’s . . . that’s all right.”

“Doesn’t sound like you really think so.”

“You’re doing me a favor. The least I can do is not make you ride down the mountain with your knees up to your ears.” Then he blushed. “I mean—”

“Just get in, Q-Bert,” Ted said, chuckling. “Although you might keep the sex jokes on the down-low for the ride. I’m not sure Larry’s the kind of guy who’d appreciate them.”

Quentin hadn’t realized exactly how far away from everything Ted’s property was. I must have been completely out when the driver brought me up here.

Squeezed onto the narrow jump seat between Larry and Ted, Quentin did his best to become even smaller than he was so he wouldn’t brush against either of them—which was harder than he expected. Although the cab’s bucket seats were wide enough to accommodate someone Ted’s physical size with room to spare, the auras were another matter.

Quentin had forgotten that psychic energy wasn’t just visual, it was tactile too. Every time the truck hit a pothole too fast or cut around a sharp curve, the other men’s auras would brush against him—although there couldn’t be a bigger difference between them.

When the truck skewed right, Ted’s golden energy brushed Quentin’s skin like the welcome warmth from a cozy fire. When it skewed left, causing everyone to lean to the right, Larry’s dark, crabbed aura slithered against him like an eyeless worm.

Quentin began watching the road intently, anticipating the turns. When it looked like a left was coming up, he scooted discreetly (he hoped) toward Ted. He barely registered what Ted and Larry were talking about—something to do with the tourist season, and a new resident who was trying to make a go of a business nobody wanted, and if Ted had noticed anything funny up in the woods, because there were rumors again.

The only funny thing in the woods is the idiot from Boston, who, despite being nearly three hundred years old and a trained advocate with five college degrees, is still stupid enough not to read the first fecking paragraph of a blood contract.

By the time they’d wound down the mountain and taken the last leg into a tiny town with the sea glimmering at its back, Quentin was sitting on the edge of his seat, all but in Ted’s lap.

“You all right there, Q-Bert?”

“What? Oh. Absolutely.”

“Larry, you can drop us at Wanda’s. I’ll check in with you later about what to do with that last lumber order.”

“No problem, Ted.”

The truck slowed and pulled to the side of the road in front of a retro restaurant, a long counter with red-topped stools visible behind its plate glass windows. Ted jumped down. “Thanks, man.”

Quentin scooted across Ted’s still-warm seat. “Yes. Thank you for the lift.”

“Was coming this way anyhow. You sticking around at Ted’s place for a while?”

Quentin glanced over his shoulder at Larry. Did he sound a little too interested in that answer? Apparently not, since he was fiddling with his side mirror.

“No. Just a brief stay. I’m . . . evaluating the place. As an investment.” Quentin winced internally. Don’t give out information that isn’t specifically requested—especially not if it makes you invent the whole thing.

“Good deal. Later.”

Well. That was apparently that. Quentin slid down out of the truck, the ground a long way away.

“Careful.” Ted caught his arm, steadying his landing. “Don’t want to call David on you again.”

“Shhh.” Quentin glanced over his shoulder. The truck door was still open, but Larry didn’t seem to be paying any attention to them.

“You know, Q-Bert,” Ted said as he slammed the door, “nothing says ‘Hey, listen to this sketchy info’ like shushing someone over nothing more than the mention of a name.”

Quentin’s face heated because Ted was perfectly right. “I’m sure he’ll chalk it up to the weird stranger in town.”

“I don’t think he’ll chalk it up to anything. Larry doesn’t really give a shit about anything but fishing and Seahawks football.” He nodded toward the diner. “Need a snack or cup of coffee before we take the grand tour? You still look like you need feeding up.”

Quentin peered through the windows. The diner was three-quarters full, and the clash of colors from all the auras was like a B-grade psychedelic movie from the sixties. He shuddered. “No, thank you. I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Suit yourself. You mind if I get a to-go coffee though? Won’t be a minute.”

“I’ll stay out here, if that’s all right.” Quentin sidled up to the brick wall next to the window, wrapping his arms across his chest.

“You sure? It’ll warm you up.”

“Trust me. I’m sure.”

“Back in a minute.”

Ted disappeared into the diner in a warm puff of steamy air. Quentin scanned the town. It didn’t take long, since there wasn’t much of it. A number of businesses lined the main highway, presumably to take advantage of the coastal traffic, although none of it appeared to be stopping. Most of the activity on the main drag seemed to be funneled from the scattering of houses that climbed the foothills on the east side of the highway. The west side didn’t have room for anything between the businesses and a line of grassy sand dunes that—judging by the dull, rhythmic roar—masked the ocean.

The ocean. He’d spent time at the family’s summer cottage on the Cape, of course, but for some reason, the Pacific smelled wilder and less civilized than the Atlantic. Which was ridiculous. There was only one ocean, connected across the globe, regardless of what label cartographers put on it.

Nevertheless, the salt scent of the waves that crashed on the hidden coastline stirred a longing for something that he hadn’t sought since he’d turned Rory from a vibrant young man to a desiccated near-mummy in his arms.

It wasn’t peace, precisely. It was too wild, too urgent for that.

Freedom. How long had it been since he’d been free? Free of obligations, free of denied desire, free of guilt?

I don’t think I remember. I’m not sure there ever was such a time. Every incubus came into the world with the burden of that hunger threaded into their DNA. The weight of their familial obligation fell on their shoulders as soon as they were aware enough to understand the concept of “consequences.”

His grandmother’s words were practically engraved in his mind. “We have a responsibility to our ancestor, the one who first climbed out of Sheol and set us free. We continually strive to improve our bloodlines, enhance our status, increase our wealth. Above all, we never endanger the covenants under which we’re allowed to remain in the Upper World. Discretion. Restraint. Stewardship. You wouldn’t want to be the ’cubi who sends us all tumbling back to Sheol, would you?”

Of course, in all these eons, plenty of incidents had broken the spirit of those covenants, if not the letter. However, when you had the money and power and influence of his family, those infractions could be covered up, whitewashed, ignored. And as long as humans didn’t discover them, the supe councils looked the other way.

Rich incubus privilege. It was definitely a thing.

The door of the diner opened again and Ted reappeared holding two to-go cups. He handed one to Quentin. “Here. I know you said you didn’t want anything, but it’s chilly and that coat is crap.”

Quentin accepted it, simultaneously touched by Ted’s thoughtfulness and annoyed at the insult to his Tom Ford blazer. The cup was almost too hot against his palms, but he cradled it against his chest anyway. Besides, Ted had a point about the inappropriateness of Quentin’s wardrobe for seaside adventures. “Thank you.”

Ted cast a worried glance through the window. “I was hoping I could catch a ride back up the mountain for us, but my friend isn’t here.”

“Friend?” An unexpected spike of possessive jealousy shot through Quentin’s chest. He tried to tamp it down by taking an injudiciously large sip of his “coffee”—only to succeed in burning his tongue and discovering that it was in fact a chai tea latte.

“Yeah. Matt. He, uh, he’s given me rides into Portland a few times. He’s a good guy. You’ll meet him— No, I forgot. You won’t meet him because you’ll be back in the right place soon. Vampire society dos. What do they call ’em? Swa-rays?”

“They probably call them gatherings, affairs, parties,” Quentin said woodenly. Attending endless rounds of them, regardless of what they were called, seemed less attractive now than ever, even though all the revelers would be dead.

“Well, they could hardly call them dinners, right? Do vampires even eat?” Ted’s eyes rounded. “Will they eat you?”

“Ted. Be quiet.” Quentin glanced wildly around. The sidewalk wasn’t busy, but it wasn’t empty, either. There was a steady stream of customers in and out of the diner and the bakery next door. “The Secrecy Pact—”

“Oh, come on. Who’s gonna believe we’re talking about real vampires? Forks isn’t that far up the coast, so half the people driving through town are probably on their own sparkly vampire tour.” He took off down the sidewalk with his giant stride, forcing Quentin to jog to catch up.

“Alun said you were in trouble with the supe council for pact violations.”

Ted stopped so suddenly that Quentin overshot him and had to turn around and retrace his steps. “He told you that?”

“Yes. When you were in the kitchen with David.”

Ted glanced down at his cup and then away, although his unfocused gaze and furrowed brow made Quentin think he wasn’t all that interested in the sparse dune grasses. “He’s my therapist, damn it. Isn’t shit like that supposed to be confidential?” His voice held unmistakable hurt.

Quentin stepped closer, inside the agitated swirl of Ted’s aura, threads of murky brown invading the gold.

“He’s also law enforcement for the council. I think he was speaking to me in that capacity. He doesn’t want you to get in trouble, Ted.”

“He didn’t tell you about any, well, other stuff?”

Quentin frowned, taking a cautious sip of the nuclear tea. “Other stuff like what?”

“Well, the reason the council is on my ass?”

“Only that there had been some pact infractions before.”

“Just that? Not the . . . the consequences?”

“No.”

Ted gave an exaggerated sigh. “Thank Ursa for that.”

“All right, now you’ve got me curious. Have you done something other than impersonate Sasquatch?” He nudged Ted with an elbow. “Care to share the details?”

“No.” He caught Quentin’s elbow and hustled him along the sidewalk until they were opposite an unlovely, flat-roofed building. “We cross here.”

The sign atop the building screamed Stuff ’n’ Things in five-foot-tall blood-red letters. Below, a smaller, less lurid font read, You need it? We got it.

“I’m not sure whether to be appalled by the lack of specificity of the business name, the grammar infractions, or the universal merchandise claims.”

“She doesn’t want to limit herself with a stricter name. And it’s not false advertising.”

“Really?” Quentin allowed Ted to tow him across the street in a break in traffic. “She has everything in the entire world in a shop that’s only a fifth the size of a Walmart?”

“Not everything. Just what you need.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Ted glanced down at Quentin with annoyance. “Yeah, you don’t believe in much, do you?”

Quentin scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that. You don’t believe in love, or random kindness, or even yourself.”

“I believe in things that make sense. Like natural-fiber clothing, and recycling, and the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. A store that holds everything? It’s not a TARDIS, for pity’s sake.”

Ted paused, his hand on the Stuff ’n’ Things’ door. “You watch Doctor Who?”

“Yes. Everybody has at one time or another.”

“Well, well, well, Q-Bert. You might be human after all.”

“Don’t be insulting,” he muttered, making a valiant attempt to ignore the seductive brush of golden energy as he tossed his empty cup in the trash and marched into the store.