Something was definitely wrong with Ciaran.

He was in the worst mood Asra had seen from him in weeks. His scowl seemed to be a permanent feature of his face, and even the most politely worded questions were answered with a nasty attitude.

It must be a result of the stress of yesterday’s events. Facing down the barrel of a gun had become routine in Asra’s life, but it was still something very new for him—not to mention significantly more fatal. Asra’s fur bristled at the image of Ciaran, bound and defenseless, Vincent’s gun pressed against his head.

He may not know it, but Vincent had secured his place on Asra’s list of people whose throats she would gladly tear out.

It was late morning now, dew still clinging to the needles and branches of the pine trees surrounding them. The sunlight was bright, but not yet hot enough to chase away the chill of the night before. Birdsong flowed in the crisp air, and squirrels chittered down at them from their safe perches high in the branches.

As peaceful as their surroundings may be, it did nothing to assuage the unease Asra felt over Ciaran. She knew it would be beneficial for him to talk about what happened yesterday, but she had no idea how to approach the subject. Talking about feelings was not exactly her strong suit.

She had a hunch he was dealing with the trauma in a far less healthy way. Not too long after they set off, he started to sway and stumble. He had a difficult time maintaining balance even when just standing, and he had a look on his face that showed he was constantly holding back vomit.

Asra didn’t smell any alcohol on him, but she couldn’t help but think of her mysteriously dwindling hound’s woe supply. It was far lower than it should have been for the number of times she used it over the last few weeks, and Ciaran certainly was committed to keeping his canteen pressed to his lips as often as possible. She tried to come up with a tactful way to broach the subject.

“You sure are drinking a lot today.”

“It’s just water.” His words were quick and defensive.

Asra narrowed her eyes at him. “I never said it wasn’t.”

“It’s hot out. I’m allowed to drink water when I’m hot!”

“I never said you couldn’t!” It wasn’t even hot out, the damn sneaky liar. She took a deep breath to keep her temper in check, then tried again. “Are you feeling all right? You seem … really off today.”

“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well last night.” His speech was thick, somewhat slurred.

“Were you having nightmares?”

He nodded, or at least she thought he did. It was difficult to tell with the way his head drooped.

“Do you … ” Asra swallowed. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Asra frowned. Ciaran not wanting to talk was definitely not a good sign. With the amount of energy he devoted to running his mouth, Asra wouldn’t be shocked if it was somehow linked to his pulse.

Ciaran stumbled again, and Asra lifted her front leg out in front of him to keep him from spilling on the ground. He steadied himself, then shoved Asra’s paw out of his way. She stifled a growl.

Asra contemplated for a moment, then heaved a sigh, hoping that no one back home would ever find out about her next question. “Do you want a ride? You know, on my back?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Well it’s just that you’re really slowing us down, and we need to get moving.” She didn’t bother hiding the annoyance in her voice this time. The drunkard was costing them precious time, and he didn’t even have the decency to be honest with her about it.

Ciaran stumbled on without another word. Asra groaned, reminding herself that he was dealing with some significant trauma, and reminding herself that she also was not the best at regulating her own emotions.

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Trying to keep Ciaran’s snail pace with her giant gazehound legs was mind-numbingly tedious, so she changed back into her skin. At least on two legs it would feel like they were making more progress than they were.

She took her time dressing—it wasn't like Ciaran was going anywhere—and as she pulled her shirt over her head, her eyes landed on the silver-lined pouch that held her half of the communication lodestone. Her heart sank at the thought of her smashed mirror.

Sophie and Liam would know how to handle this situation, though she had no idea how she’d broach the subject with them even if her mirror were in working condition. She’d done her best to make sure they had no idea who she was traveling with in their brief conversation at Margot’s campsite. They worried about her too much as it was.

There was a loud thud, and when she looked up Ciaran was sprawled out on the ground. Bane sniffed at him, whining and pacing around his human.

“All right, that’s enough of this shit,” Asra said as she stomped over to him. “I’m not stupid. I know you’ve been drinking.”

She shooed Bane out of the way and flipped Ciaran onto his back. His hair was damp, and a bead of sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. He pushed her away with trembling hands and struggled onto his hands and knees just in time to vomit all over the ground in front of him.

Asra scoffed and snatched the water bottle he’d dropped. She twisted off the top and took a deep sniff of the contents, expecting to smell nothing, proving her theory of hound’s woe covering the scent of liquor.

Instead, she smelled water. Perplexed, she took a small sip.

It was water.

She ran through her interactions with him over the last several weeks. She thought of his mood swings. Looking back on it now, she could directly correlate his foul tempers with how long it had been since he’d drank last. She thought of the moonshine disguised as water in his personal suite in New Port. She thought of his frequent memory lapses, apparently commonplace enough that even Vincent had commented on it: I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve forgotten something yet again.

Asra’s eyes widened, and her heart plummeted into her stomach.

Ciaran wasn’t drunk. He was going through withdrawals.

She leapt to her feet and grabbed him from under his arms, just in time to prevent him from falling face-first into the stomach bile beneath him. She reached her hand around his chest to check his pulse. His heart was racing far faster than it should be for his sluggish movement. He reeked of sweat. Bane whimpered again.

“Fuck, why would you decide to do this right now?”

Ciaran forced himself to stand on jelly-like legs and tried to push her out of the way.

“Quit screaming at me,” he said, pressing the heels of his palms into his closed eyes as he wobbled. “I told you I’m fine.”

“No the hell you’re not!” Asra ran her hands through her hair. “Damn it, Ciaran, this is serious!” Alcohol withdrawal could be lethal. The idiot probably hadn’t even realized that.

She gripped fistfuls of her hair, pacing a short distance. She ran through what little knowledge she had of healing for withdrawals. She hadn’t had a healing lesson in thirteen years, and she’d only eavesdropped on one university class about addiction and withdrawal. She took a deep breath.

“When was the last time you drank?” she said. When he didn’t respond, Asra gripped him by the shoulders and repeated the question.

“Yesterday,” he mumbled. “Vincent.”

Asra pursed her lips. She vaguely remembered the steel flask he’d swiped off the table into her bag. Of course Vincent would have known about Ciaran’s drinking problem.

She sat Ciaran down in the grass and checked the sun’s location in the sky. It was still before noon, but not by much. That would put his last drink at sometime in the last ten to fifteen hours. His symptoms were only going to get worse from here, and she had no idea how to handle it. She needed to find help.

But where could she possibly take him? She tore through her bag for their map, and when she unfurled it she noticed the marker Margot had left.

The fox city.

It was only a couple hours’ walk from here. Asra could possibly make it in forty-five minutes in her fur. She bit her lip. The foxes were known to be reclusive and distrustful. Going there might be a death sentence, but she couldn’t think of a better solution. Ciaran needed help fast. The sooner he got help, the less chance he had of progressing into the stages of withdrawal that could kill him. She quickly undressed and tightened her bag around her, then changed back into her fur.

She laid down with her back right next to Ciaran and said, “You need to climb on. Don’t argue with me.”

Ciaran had opened his mouth to protest again. He promptly closed it.

He clambered onto her back, clumsily hauling himself in between the two pouches of her bag and gripping the straps over her back. Asra rolled her shoulders and stretched each of her legs.

“You need to hold on tight. And give me a warning if you’re gonna barf.”