Chapter Fourteen

It isn't until the boy laughs that I realize I'm yet again dreaming vividly.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" he laughs, joyously springing from rock to rock like a mountain goat. The majestic red and orange sheer cliffs are no match for his monkeylike agility. His legs and arms seem almost too large for his body, like gangly additions to his limbs. When his two bare feet smack the sandy bottom of the canyon, he rises without difficulty or strain, still smiling broadly.

Unease shivers over me. The boy's cinnamon hair and his coppery eyes are all too familiar – he's a spitting image of Hugo, except… it's also not. Too tall, too lean, too smiley. The twinkling excitement in his eyes is a boyish quality that Hugo simply doesn't have.

The focus of his attention is pale against the bright canyon background. Slender limbs and aerodynamic feathers bat uselessly at the air. An angel struggles to right itself, her albino hair sifting through the red dust. One of her wings is splashed with wet, glistening crimson, bent at a cruel angle. Desperately, she kicks out at him, hissing in defense.

"Whoa there," the boy soothes, hopping closer. His eyes dart about playfully. "I won't hurt you. Probably couldn't hurt you if I tried. Mentally or physically. There's no way that I'd be able to overpower an angel. Set a trap for an angel, maybe. But fight one?" He whistles in awe. "Wait, am I babbling?"

"Scram!" the she-angel hisses, huddling in a pathetic warrior crouch. I can't tell if she's naturally this pale, or if it's from the blood loss of her massive wing-wound. Her amethyst purple eyes are suspicious, alarmingly bright against the rest of her – in fact, the she-angel's appearance reminds me slightly of Josiah and his vibrant eyes against his light color arrangement.

"I can't fight an angel, but I'm sure as hell not afraid of one." The boy strides closer, folding his hands behind his back as he studies her wings. "Hmm. That doesn't look good. You know, this is a very dangerous part of the canyon. Lots of meanies lurking about."

"Then why are you here?" the she-angel growls, continuing to swivel as he stalks in large circles around her.

The boy's eyes twinkle a bit brighter. "Because danger and I, we've got this thing where we try to outlive each other. It's the most fun in the world, I'll teach you how to play the game some time. But right now, you don't look so great. How bad is your wing?"

"I can still snap a neck," the she-angel threatens, her intact feathers bristling. Alarm, fearful and uncertain, dominates her proud features.

"It looks snapped." The boy nods to himself, inching closer. "Right through the bone. Yikes. You know, there's a healer in the village. If you want, I can take you to him."

The she-angel's taut posture softens slightly, her pale eyebrows furrowing in misunderstanding. "Village? You are not from a city?"

With a merry laugh, the boy tosses his head up. His cheery chortles hold the kind of affable joy that almost makes me want to laugh along with him. When his laughter does quiet down, the boy is still wiping his eyes, grinning broadly.

"Do I look like I'm from a city?" He gestures at his threadbare clothing with an amused wave of the hand. "Well? Do I look like one of those butt-kissing snobs? No, rural and proud. We don't need technology to do everything for us around here, and it makes us better people. Better people to everyone, might I add. Look, I have a farm, down the way a bit. Me and my family."

"Oh." The she-angel blinks. She narrows her dark purple eyes suspiciously, shrewdly studying his figure. "What are you doing so far out here?"

"I told you." He smirks cockily, striding up to the she-angel with a gangly lope. "Attracting trouble." His shadow falls over her, lean and twisted. Extending one hand to her, the boy questions, "So, angel, what's your name? We've got to tell the doctor something, after all."

Cautiously, the she-angel takes his hand. Her slender fingers slip into his knobby and calloused working hands. Distrust still shines in her eyes, but she allows his farmer-boy muscles to heft her from the ground, leaning against his rock strength. As the boy positions her arm over his neck so he can lift most of her weight, the she-angel answers.

"Janiel." She shifts her weight, laying it against the boy's ready position. "My name is Janiel. What do they call you?"

"Janiel?" The boy laughs, taking the first hobbling step forward. Red dust mushrooms in the air around his stride, staining the she-angel's white garbs with ruddy smears. "Janiel is a long name. You mind if I call you Jane? Or Feathers?"

"Do not call me Jane."

"Sure thing, Feathers." Head swiveling, the boy faces her with an abrogating smirk. "My name's Ivan. But don't call me that, it's no fun. Call me, I dunno, Dusty or something. My friends call me Dusty. My little brother doesn't, though."

The she-angel casts one puzzling glance in his direction. "What does your brother call you, then… Dusty?"

Ivan grins broadly. "Scruffy. My little brother calls me Scruffy."

With a strangled gasp, I awaken, snapping upright. My obnoxious breathing fills the air like the crackling of plastic, impossible to ignore. From against the wall, the wolf's head rises slightly, ears tilting towards my direction and eyes saturated with curiosity. And, in that moment, terrible grief rips through me.

I stare at Hugo's poised sleeping form – he's curled in the fetal position against Scruffy's side, ever muscle tense. Not a blanket shields him from the cold, not a pillow cushions his head. But he seems strangely at home, at peace, against his wolf's side.

It's as if I can see the scared little boy longing for his big, scruffy brother and naming his pet wolf after that fallen family member.

Yes. Hugo must've named his wolf after his brother.

That must be what happened.

And the fact that Scruffy's mate is a wolf named Jane must be a pure coincidence.

Sweat breaks out on my forehead. With quivering limbs, I rise from the blankets, shrugging off their oily folds. Paige stirs as I rise, curling in on herself more, but luckily, her breath does not quicken into a pace of coherency. It's not until I have a higher vantage point on the sleeping travelers that I realize one of our number is missing from the ranks, and that a light shines way in the distance, a single droplet of orange paint on a black canvas, down the long corridor.

Glancing once down at Raffe's peaceful slumbering face, I break into a slow jog, trying to measure my steps and keep them as silent as possible. But sneakers against stone have never been known to create the softest noise. Wincing with each stride, I draw nearer and nearer to the light, drawing the attention of the man who lifts the torch.

I can catch Bryon's bronze eyes gleam from quite a distance, like an animal's feral reflectiveness. He lifts the torch higher to cast more light over the ground I tread upon as I approach, watching me in silence until I arrive, puffing, standing by his side.

"What are you doing up?" Bryon murmurs, the malleable concern shaping his expression without a trace of reluctance or selfishness. He claps one hand on my upper forearm, as if to steady me should I fall. "Did I wake you? If I did, well, sorry. I thought everyone was out cold."

"They are," I reassure him, smiling frailly. "I just… remember how I said I've been having weird dreams? I just want to escape them."

Bryon's eyes widen. His concerns seem to have only been whetted by my excuse. "Are they bothering you? I'm sure we could brew something up to help you sleep. It wouldn't take but a moment."

"No." Curtly, I shake my head. "No, I'm up now. I'll hate myself in the morning, but I'm up. And you know what? So are you. What are you doing, Bryon?"

"Viewing the art down this chamber." Bryon pivots towards the wall, revealing that it is in fact not stone, but instead a massive mural, depicting an angel about fifteen feet tall. "It would be extremely rude of me to do so in front of Raphael. He can be obnoxious and impolite, but I sure as heck won't."

"Why?" I half-cock my head towards him. "And what am I looking at?"

Bryon's voice is abruptly quiet. "You're looking at the interpretation of the Seven Deadly Sins." The light flickers sinisterly over his face. "And Raphael is depicted as one of them. It would not be right."

"Oh." I, too, lower my volume, and study the brawny angel. Amber and orange flames lick around him, his frame engulfed by the fire, glinting off his armor. "Which sin is this?"

Bryon takes a step forward, pressing the palm of his hand to the old, crinkling paint. "Pride. Sin of Michael."

An angel's pride is a sin. How deliciously ironic.

"And the next?" Striding to the edge of Bryon's torchlight, I gaze up into the eyes of the angel. This one is more coiled in his nest of blue and purple flames, his eyes narrower and his sneer curled over his lips. Bryon follows me with a slower gait, ancient wisdom gleaming in his eyes.

"Sloth. Sin of Haniel."

"Haniel?" I glance up at him in confusion. "Who's that?"

"Actually, Thea took him out earlier in the sequence of this building war with her attack of New York. He is no longer a problem. His sin is that he saw Gabriel take power, but did nothing to stop it – he was comfortable, and so he would stay that way. Onto the next one?"

I nod numbly. But as the torchlight illuminates the grey and silver flames coddling with the angel smirking cleverly from the paint on the next mural, I find that an explanation is not necessary.

"Uriel," I whisper. "What sin is he known for?"

"Envy. Uriel was not driven by ambition to bid for the place as angelic Messenger. He was always envious of those that had something better than him – do you remember when I told you that some angels were mistreated because they were intelligent when Gabriel seized control? He was caught in that flood, and it made him bitter and jealous."

"Oh." Awkwardness plagues me; it's much simpler to imagine that Uriel had always been bad instead of picturing him as a bullied outcast finally getting the respect he deserves.

"I'm not saying his pitiful past reconciles his other wrongs," Bryon adds after a moment of silence. "There are many ways you can deal with loneliness, and he chose the worst path. But with even the most wretched creature, there is a motive for everything. You must remember that. Come now, let's not dwell on him any longer."

"Alright." Considering this, I gaze up into the golden eyes of the next angel. White flames tipped in metallic gold coil around him, the smug superiority on his face downright irritating, even if it is solely a painting.

Bryon sighs, shaking his head slowly. "Greed. Sin of Gabriel."

"Gabriel?" I tilt my head towards Bryon. "Why him?"

Bryon shrugs, still walking, gradually leaving the angel behind. "His thirst for power was great, and, in the end, his greed was his undoing. There is not much to be said in his case."

"Good." I release a short puff of air. Gesturing towards the oily black fire with red centers and the sly angel with black feathers, I await Bryon's response.

"Lust." Bryon's expression blackens. "Sin of Jerahmeel, the first Watcher, the one who will never rise from that Pit. He did not take a wife out of love or affection. He simply wanted to enjoy the pleasures he believed that would arise from a female's submission. His bones will forever lay on the bottom of Hell, cracking form the weight of the demons and monstrosities he bears. It's what he deserves, after putting Ogden through living hell."

I glance sideways at Bryon, surprise fueling my tone of voice. "This Jerahmeel guy, this is Ogden's father?"

Bryon's lips quirk. "I told you Ogden wasn't to be meddled with. He was there for most of the ancient history that's taught in schools. But let us not waste time – there are two more to go."

"Right." I tap the green paint of the flames in question. "Who's this guy, what did he do?"

"Gluttony. Sin of Selaphiel." Bryon's brow furrows. "Actually, I don't know the particulars of his sin. I do know that, during a siege on the angels, he hoarded his food supplies so he would be plenty cozy while his companions starved. A pretty selfish thing to do."

"Hmm." I'm about to ask about the next one, but my eyes clap upon the figure, and I know. My stomach reels at the brutality of the painting, the wild gleam in Wrath's eyes.

Wrath of God.

He had so arrogantly titled himself it when we had first met. But this picture of him brings about a new meaning to the name.

Crimson flames the exact color of freshly spilled blood lap at his caramel figure. There is primal ugliness in his posture alongside the angelic beauty. Snowy wings sharply contrast the copper paint heading every tongue of flame. He bears his feathers with fury, his hands closed around Pooky Bear's hilt, muscles prepared for any threat. The cruelty in each stroke of the brush almost does not unite with the angel I know.

And yet, in some way, deep in my stomach, it does.

"Raffe," I whisper around the building lump in my throat, reaching out to brush the painting with the tips of my fingers. Even if I were to jump and to strain, my hand would not reach beyond his shin. Seeing his portrait here, amongst the other angels in a chamber that'd been carved from the earth centuries before, I can't help but truly think about Raffe, and all he has done.

"Wrath." Bryon sighs wearily, his eyes roaming over the mural. "Such a strange title for him, 'Wrath of God.' The only wrath he ever experiences is his own bitterness, and yet he blames his authorities, sticking to his rules and codes of how the world works and how he must behave to aid the flailing conscience he has left. Now, his decisions are his to make. I wonder if he wants to even keep such a title."

"He said he's done terrible things," I whisper softly, spanning half the gap separating the painting and I with one tentative hand. "Just how terrible, Bryon? What got him this sort of painting?" I study the savage anger lining the painted face.

It is a long time before Bryon answers. "Raphael lives in a harsh and belligerent world, where blades are hidden in the cushions of every couch. What he always seems to forget is that just because the world is cruel doesn't mean he has to be." Bryon glances sideways at me, an emotion I can't quite comprehend shining in his eyes. "Promise me, Penryn, that you'll never forget, alright?"

Startled by the sudden request, I meet his gaze with reprehensible speed. "I'll try my best not to."

The answer doesn't seem quite satisfactory to Bryon, but he takes it. Staring up at the massive Raffe once more, he releases a ratiocinating sigh. "I know much more than anyone about Raphael's sins and his demons, but, in the same respect, I feel like I know his soul, his being, very well. I know him well enough to tell you that he doesn't want you to know his past. I respect him as an adversary enough to refuse to impart with any knowledge you don't already have in check."

"You two fought often, then?" I question quietly, staring up at the giant Raffe, lost in distant thought.

"Very often," Bryon recalls, dry smile pulling at his lips. "I would always meet the brunt of the storm, distracting him and drawing him away from any Nephilim lairs he may stumble upon."

"You did that as a dragon, right?" I check, glancing once in his direction for confirmation.

"Yes." Bryon smirks to himself. "He was nimble compared to me, but I still managed to escape every time."

"You're big, then?"

"Oh, yes, very big." Bryon's smile broadens. "Even back in those days."

"How big?" I inquire curiously, eyes darting up and down his muscled body.

Bryon chuckles, a melodious sound like the ringing of bells. "Very big. Large enough to make women weep and children run. I'd show you if I could, but…"

"Raffe." I nod. "Right. Okay. Maybe some other time."

"Oh, yes," snarls a new voice, "God forbid Raffe step in and ruin everything." He melts from the shadows, arms folded tautly across his chest, fists balled, and lips pulled back into something grim that looks almost like a dog's growl. The shadows play with his angered expression, laughing and dancing as he stalks up to Bryon with pissed strides. Upon his approach, Bryon stiffly straightens, lifting his chin and tilting his head slightly.

As Raffe draws near, I realize just how inappropriate the last topic of our conversation could've sounded like to one not "in the know". The color drains from my face.

"Raffe," I whisper, rigid as a board. "What are you –"

"Investigating the distant voices and absence of two happy campers," he answers before I can finish the question. Still, his furious gaze does not waver from Bryon's. "You haven't been very quiet. Tell me, what exactly are you two doing in the middle of the night that requires long walks in the dark?"

"He's just showing me some of the artwork! Pretty paintings!" I protest, stepping forward, attempting to wedge my body between the two fuming giants. Their testosterone has led them to a point far beyond my reach, though, and I can feel the dissonance in the room exciting.

Bryon's even yet pissed gaze is considerably threatening. "Penryn's been having rough dreams. I suppose you wouldn't have noticed, but she needed to get her mind off of them. We were having a fine time in the middle of the night."

"She seems to be just fine." Raffe's jaw clenches. "Well enough to interrogate."

"Yes, well, it's amazing what a bit of loving, tender care can do for a person." Bryon bristles, and it's clear that he's not backing down. "As if you'd know anything about that."

"Enough!" I bellow out, stamping a foot in frustration. My instincts go wild – a mouse is not supposed to interrupt a vicious battle between predators, and I know that. Evidently, both Raffe and Bryon know that as well. Raffe straightens his spine, pulling back into a regal state of rage. His malevolent glare focuses on me, brilliant eyes narrowing with the magnificent brutality of a predator. Bryon's thin-lipped grimness doesn't change in the slightest, his umbrage visible in his bronze gaze.

From somewhere down the hall, Hugo's sleepy voice calls, "Oh, for fuck's sake, stop having midnight conversations!"

Lowering my voice into a deep, susurrus whisper, "Raffe. Talk. You and I. Now."

Bryon chuckles. "I fear you may have awakened the sleeping giant, my friend." He pats Raffe on the shoulder, but there's no friendliness in the gesture – he might as well have pounded Raffe. Temper flaring once more, I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Bryon, be rude again, and I will not blame Raffe if he rips you open. In fact, he'll have all rights."

Bryon smirks at me. He seems amused by the concept of Raffe ripping him open more than anything. With a cheeky roll of his eyes, he sighs and starts back towards the camp, flame bobbing with each stride. "Right. I'll leave you two to it." He turns back slightly to wave, meeting my gaze with intensely complex emotions hidden in his eyes, the movement sending ripples of golden light over his brown cloak. "Good luck."

I watch him leave for as long as possible, almost certain that, if Raffe should get out of hand, I can count on him being on my side in a moment's notice. Despite his childlike dispute, my respect for my uncle remains.

With dragging reluctance, I turn back to face Raffe's fuming emotions. He is plunged in darkness – there is not even a watery gleam for me to discern where his eyes are. It seems vision is on his side this round. Squinting at the darkness, I peer in the direction of the low, rumbling growl thundering deep in Raffe's chest.

"Would you," he booms in a clenched tone, "like to explain to me what was going on? What was so big of his that I couldn't see?"

My eyes fly towards the general direction of the floor. "Can't tell you. Sorry."

"Oh?" Ice seals over his tone, sharpening it into a crystalline blade. "Why? Because he won't allow you to?"

"No," I lie. "Because, when I do tell you, it's got to be the right moment. And now's not that time."

"What the hell could you possibly have to tell me that has to… to… wait for some sort of stage cue?" Raffe hisses in frustration. "Do you even realize how much this troubles me? How on edge I am?"

"I've noticed your edginess," I confess, glaring at him fierily. "But I've just been accrediting it to the fact that you don't trust anyone, Han Solo."

"It's because of them." Raffe's voice drops into lower tones, as if he doesn't want any sensitive ears catching the splintered fragments of his speech. "Penryn, I know you're at peace here, but there is something about this situation that doesn't seem quite right. I do not trust any of them. Their claims at generosity are too much of a miracle. And I do not like staying here." I can almost feel Raffe glance in the direction of the dimmed embers, the way he rubs at the back of his neck palpable in the air. "I do not like it at all."

My heart is strained. All my being wishes to help console Raffe's nervousness and soothe his soul, but the acute points of logic and love in Bryon's side of the challenge tip the scales. Evading the subject of choosing, I ask, "Why? What's bothering you, specifically?" Awkwardly, I fumble in the darkness until I find the arm sculpted with sinew and muscle lying in its embrace. I hold what I believe is his forearm and attempt to direct my gaze where his eyes may or may not be. "We can try to fix it."

Raffe sighs. His anger seems to seep from him, every word lowering in strain until he only speaks with anxiety. "There are many things which are to discuss. The way Hugo claimed he carried no angel swords on him, but I saw them before, carried them on my back as we fled the cherubs. They whispered to me, but none of it made any sense – they spoke in gibberish. Bryon – he is too young to lead, his face unhardened as a leader's shouldn't be, but he preaches like an old man in a chapel. His ominous plans are really causing sleepless nights. He's just made it pretty clear he despises me with fervent passion. I'm not sure I want to go wherever he's leading me to get my wings stitched back on."

"Alright." I massage my thumb over his smooth skin in soothing circles. "So, if we were to separate from Bryon and Hugo the moment we left this temple or whatnot, what's your plan?"

Tactical logic enters Raffe's voice. "For my wings? I'd go to the she-aerie. There's one, a bit far from here, but we should be able to make it. I'd get one of the surgeons there to –"

"You're going to get another she-angel to do your wings?" Disbelief colors my tone, raising my volume slightly. "That did not work out for you so well last time. And isn't that Ariel archangel pissed at you?"

"True." Reluctantly, Raffe sighs. "I don't see how I could go about it any other way, though. In order to earn the Messenger status, I'd have to win the votes of the she-angels as well. They might be able to vote on that, if not, when I get my wings back, I'll make sure they can. If I sweet-talk Ariel into a feminist agreement, I'm almost positive we can work something out."

"It's not a bad plan." I tilt my head to one side, still searching for his eyes. "But what about Paige?"

Raffe falls silent.

"And what about our lack of supplies?"

Still, he says nothing.

Struggling to keep my tone professional, I sigh levelly. "I don't really know about this, Raffe. Maybe we should at least hear out what Bryon has to offer."

"So we have to improvise a bit, isn't that what we've done so far?" Raffe coaxes. "We've wasted too much time with them. This cavern lasts forever. I'm not sure if my men have forever."

"And I'm not sure that I want to drag my sister back into an angel stronghold," I argue back, stationing my defensives.

"There are many kind… and… fluffy angels at the she-aerie. They are not half the warriors that the males are, much more –"

"You know," I hum, irritated by the sexist note in his conversation, "I can see why they like rebelling so much. A female is always better than an angel, no matter what the species."

His immense surprise is slightly amusing. "You know about the she angel's rebellion?"

I nod knowledgeably, squaring my shoulders importantly. "Bryon told me. It was what, we were, y'know, talking about before you came here." I scratch at my neck.

"Hmm." Raffe doesn't sound convinced. "My point is, Penryn, that this is a dog-eat-dog world. It doesn't make a speck of sense for them to just drop everything and assist us because your sister has puppy dog eyes. They've got to have ulterior motives."

"Yeah, probably." I smirk. "Hugo's probably going to want a few secrets in return for his services, and Bryon a few stories. Maybe some metal parts for Ogden, and a big chew toy for Scruffy."

"Penryn, please be serious."

"I am completely serious." I harden myself against any of Raffe's pleas, turning my heart to stone and will to iron. "I'm not going to go along with you on this plan of yours, not quite yet. I'm going to follow Bryon and see what he can offer me before I make an official decision, at least judging the strategy in his approach of the problem. I want to see all the cards before picking a hand. If Lucius is really the only way to go about this" – I swallow, eyes downcast – "then I'll go smart-mouth that demon. And if going to the she-aerie is the only way to get your wings back" – once more, my eyes grope through the darkness for his gaze – "then I'll follow through with whatever we have to do. That's my logic. Okay?"

"Penryn…" Desperation claws at his tone. True emotion shines through. "Can't we just leave them behind? Get back to the road, you, your sister, and I?"

My heart clenches. Slowly, I draw away, releasing his hand. "I'm sorry, Raffe, but I've got to think about family first. And Bryon's got a way to help my sister. He may have a way to help you out, too, that doesn't jeopardize your wings and lead us on another adventure."

Raffe's silence stretches beyond my comfort zone. Grabbing at my own forearm as a poor substitute for his, eyes roaming the darkness awkwardly. For all I know, he could've crept off into the darkness to think, leaving me alone by the paintings.

Tentatively, reaching one hand out cautiously into the darkness, I whisper his name. The abyss of shadows whispers back, until Raffe banishes it with the thrum of his voice.

"I'm still here," he murmurs quietly, his position not having moved an inch from where it was last. "I think you're making a mistake, a mistake that will burn both our asses, but I'm still here."

Those three words bring surprising amounts of comfort to me in the dark confines of the Temple. My shoulders unclench. Sighing softly, I smile at my feet. "Good. I don't like fighting."

"Can't say I'm fond of butting heads with your bullish tenacity," Raffe grunts. "You're like a big bulldog, you know that?"

"I am not!" I cry defensively, unsure of where to direct my daggered glare.

"Of course you are. You even breathe like one." Raffe's crackly imitation of wet, slobbery panting is far from what a dog really sounds like. It echoes petulantly off the stone, filling the chamber. "See? That's what you sound like."

I sniff disdainfully in his general direction, turning on heel and heading back towards the campfire. "I can't believe you think I sound like a dog," I call over my shoulder.

Raffe's voice is directly next to me, keeping pace with each footstep of mine. "Look, you even walk by my side, like a little puppy."

"You are so following me right now," I accuse, glaring from where his voice had originated from. "Don't even try to deny it, kitty-cat."

"Kitty-cat?" Raffe thunders from the dark.

"Yeah." I smirk smugly. "Really finicky, adored by the internet, fascinated with common objects like laser pointers, and cranky when woken up from sleep."

"You think I am fascinated with laser pointers?" Raffe chuckles tightly from the back of his throat. It's as if I can feel him bristling from the insult by my side.

"What's the problem, tiger?" I cast a snide glance his direction. "Cat got your tongue?"

"You are so not funny right now, it's hilarious." Raffe's voice is more a growl than a mew, but it's humorous all the same. "The fact that you think you're funny is even more amusing. Wipe that smirk off your face, you really are just a drooling mutt tossing a ball to itself."

"It's not my fault that you're a stick in the mud." Smiling broader, I start to swing my feet with each stride, putting my hands in my pockets. "Lighten up, tiger. Have some fun." I hesitate, choosing my next words clumsily, without an inkling of finesse. "Here's the part where I'd poke you in the ribs or something. But I actually don't know where you are."

At this, the ghost of a laugh leaves Raffe's lips, the melodious chord prickling my skin with unexpected pleasure. "Good thing, too. You're a hard poker."

"Stop flirting and shut up!" Hugo bellows.

Yipping once with excitement at his master's voice, Scruffy pounces on Hugo's slumbering form, the wolf's squirming attempts to wiggle beneath Hugo's blankets illuminated by the fire's dying shadow.

Well. That was that.

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