Greg did his best to channel Gustave at his most huffy as he entered the casino, striding through the door, down a short entry hall, and into the stuffy room beyond. Nathan would have loved the place: As he walked in, the first thing Greg spotted were two men at the bar, loudly egging on a third one who was drinking something straight from a bottle, face turning redder with every gulp he took. The rest of the room was filled with large tables, around which the patrons were seated. Greg saw card games and dice and there was one creaking roulette table, too.

All in all, it wasn’t a large casino. Nor did it look particularly upscale, but it was frequented by a surprisingly illustrious clientele. Was that Marquess Pettau? Why yes, it was!

Well, well, well, what would the lord’s wife say if she saw the pretty brunette youth at his side? And there was Picot, at a table with another man Greg was familiar with, even if the name escaped him for the moment. An older lord, wearing his uniform even here. David might know who it was. Finally, there was Lord Carter, and Count deVries. And over there, was that Bishop Larssen? Gambling was a rather interesting pastime for a holy man.

Only the messenger was nowhere in sight.

Greg took a deep breath to calm his nerves, retreating back into the small anteroom. He hadn’t expected to run into quite so many suspects all at once. Or were they all in this together? It wouldn’t surprise him. Carter? DeVale’s friend, who also had contacts to the hunter Desantis, who had been part of the attempt on Morgulon’s life. DeVries who had been named by deVale as another instigator of the duel, similarly Pettau, whose daughter had been involved in dragging David over to the fight, too. Larsson was a bishop of Mithras, for all that he had made a big show at Breachpoint.

He even seemed cloaked in a soft shadow—a sort of magical aura that Greg hadn’t noticed at Breachpoint a few months ago. Maybe it hadn’t been there. Or maybe his own sense of magic had sharpened since.

And Picot was, well, Picot.

Could he risk walking in there? There was no way Picot wouldn’t recognize him. But if he just backed out the way he had come, would the doormen even let him go? Perhaps it was better to just walk forward and pretend?

It seemed unlikely they had come to the casino armed with silver, and there was enough of a moon in the sky for him to turn wolf, if necessary. That made Larssen potentially the most dangerous of the bunch, right? If the bishop could walk through fire, he could probably conjure it, too? But the room was small, and assuming the priest didn’t want to kill all his co-conspirators, Greg would probably be fine.

He squared his shoulders and raised his chin and stepped forwards, right up to Picot’s table. No point in hiding that he was here.

At the bar, the guy who had just emptied the whole bottle of whatever it had been slipped off his chair and noisily collapsed on the ground. His friends stopped cheering, and Bishop Larssen got out of his chair to check on the man. Everyone else turned to stare, too.

Greg couldn’t have asked for a better moment. He ignored the magic flaring up from Larssen and walked forwards.

“Marquess Picot?”

Greg got the satisfaction of watching the older lord jump in his seat. First there was surprise, then recognition, then a moment of abject terror, and then the marquess had himself under control again.

“Lord Feleke, what a surprise!” he called, beaming at Greg and getting out of his chair to offer his hand. The act was so good, it made Greg wonder if perhaps he had only imagined that fleeting expression of panic.

Or perhaps he shouldn’t fault the older man for it. Perhaps dread was just the natural reaction to turning around and having a werewolf stand behind you.

“Will you join us? Have a seat! What brings you out here tonight? I will admit, I wouldn’t have expected a young man as upstanding as you to visit this place.”

Greg took the chair Picot pulled out for him “Thank you, Marquess Picot.” He ducked his head. “I’m here because of a bet,” he explained. “A very old one, but, well, I was walking through the city… Haven’t been able to do that for a long time, you see? And I came across this place, and I remembered my brother betting I’d never make it inside.”

“You brothers have been here?”

“I—think so. Nathan only really described the sign, but it looked like his kind of place.” He sat very straight, hands folded in front of himself, and smiled, letting his eyes travel through the room, from the unconscious man Larssen was bent over to the worn bar and the grubby tables. “I’ve only ever been to the casino at the palace,” he admitted quietly. “With, uh, with my mother.”

He glanced at Picot, trying to look embarrassed. It wasn’t hard—except for the bet, everything else he had just said was true.

“Nathan Feleke?” the man in uniform asked. “Hah, I think I do remember seeing him here. You might just have come to the right place! What’s the bet about?”

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“I don’t remember, really. Two silvers was our usual wager.” He rubbed his hands. “I’m less interested in the money than just being able to say I got in, you know?”

Picot patted him on the shoulder. “No worries, you’re in good hands. Though, if I may ask, how did you make it past those charming gentlemen at the door? I believed this place was invitation only?”

“I said I was here to gamble, they asked if I had money, I showed them gold,” Greg shrugged.

Bishop Larssen returned to the table, grumbling about idiots and the demon drink and rubbing blood from his hands into a handkerchief. He had halfway sat down by the time he took note of Greg.

“Who’s this?” he asked. “No wait, you’re one of the Feleke boys, aren’t you? Which one?”

Greg clenched his hands to fists, but looked the bishop in the face. “The werewolf,” he said.

The bishop raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s unexpected.” He looked at Picot. “And you know him?”

“Of course I do.”

“That’s even more unexpected,” Larssen said dryly. “You play cards? Hasards?”

Greg looked at the dice already on the table. He reckoned the officer was the current shooter. He could do a round or two? It might even be fun, and perhaps he’d be able to figure out where the spy had run off to.

“I enjoy hasards,” he said. “But, uh, what’s the banco?”

He had used up a lot of his funds just getting in here. It would be nice to perhaps win something back—provided he got lucky. If he didn’t… how much could he afford to lose?

The bishop seemed to read on his face what was going through his mind. “We can pay out the bank,” he suggested, looking from Picot to the officer. “Start over on a few silvers.” He paused to glance at Greg. “Do you even carry silver?”

“Sure.” Greg reached into his pouch, bracing himself. The wolf whined softly in the back of his mind, but the moon was a waning crescent, so it was easy to ignore. He flicked up the coin and made it walk across the back of his hands, like back when he had first set out as a werewolf.

“I thought that’s supposed to hurt.”

“It couldn’t hurt more if I did this with a piece of burning coal, yes,” Greg confirmed. “For you, Bishop, I’m sure the coal would be less painful.”

He clenched his teeth and dropped the silver onto the table, pressing his palm against it as long as he could stand it. When he raised it up, the skin was bright red. The profile of the Roi Solei was vaguely recognizable in the lines in the centre of the circle.

To Greg’s surprise, Larssen promptly grabbed his hand, face grim. “Give me that, boy. You needn’t have hurt yourself to prove a point.”

Greg let him take his hand. He didn’t quite get what the bishop was talking about until the magic flared up. It was a peculiar feeling, somewhere between a tingle and an itch. The old man’s frown deepened.

“Strange,” he muttered. “It’s just a burn, why is this resisting so much? I’m sorry, I don’t want to risk more magic… not so close to that other idiot.”

“Oh,” Greg said, ducking his head and pulling his hand back. “It’s fine. That’s me. Being a werewolf, I mean. Magic doesn’t stick easily. And, well, it is silver.”

Larssen looked even more unhappy but let the point rest.

“You said two silvers was your usual wager?” Picot said instead, looking from the officer to deVries and Carter. “How about it?”

It was probably far less than the fine gentlemen usually played for, but the officer shrugged, and Count deVries nodded, and that was that. Greg played a game with them, focusing more on the room around himself than the game. Between rounds, he excused himself for the outhouse, taking the most long-winded way to the back door. When he sat down to place his next bet, he was reasonably sure that the spy wasn’t present at the casino any longer. He had probably been in and out by the time Greg had made it past the guards.

If either of the nobles around had been in contact with the stranger, they weren’t giving a sign of it. Which meant he was wasting his time. He needed to get home and warn his brothers, now that the spy had gotten away.

Greg did manage to earn at least one of his gold coins back. All in silver, but Larssen was nice enough to exchange it for him even as the others tried to talk him into staying longer. Just after midnight, Greg left the strange little casino again, walking home as fast as he could. As the rain pooled in his shoes, he resented that he couldn’t just turn wolf to jog home. It would take a fraction of the time to get there.

Perhaps he could find the spy that way? Could he return to the office, pick up the scent, follow it to the casino and see where it went from there?

But he first needed to get home, pick up either of his brothers as a minder. Or hell, perhaps deLande could get started on the job.

As long as the rain didn’t wash away the smell. It wasn’t like he was a bloodhound.

***

Everyone was still up when Greg got home. Lane was hanging around, too. Scandalously.

Thoko threw her arms around him, despite his drenched clothes, then complained: “The hells have you been? We’ve been worried the mob got you!”

“There’s been someone searching our office.”

“What?” Nathan asked.

“A spy. There was a man searching our office. I’m pretty sure he’s done it before. He didn’t notice I was there. I tried to follow him but I lost him at a casino by the Artisans’ Quarters. We need to get back to the office so I can pick up the scent as a wolf.”

“You want to go into the city, in the middle of the night, and run around as a wolf for a bit?” Nathan asked. “Did you go drinking without me?”

“He’s right,” David interrupted. “We need to figure out where this spy has been taking the information. Especially if this wasn’t the first time. Maybe we’ll finally learn who was behind all the attacks.”

He ran a hand over his braids. He looked even more exhausted than usual, but he barely hesitated before adding: “I’ll go with you.”

“Me too,” Lane said at once.

“Let’s have the horses prepared,” David said. “I’ll need to get us some guards at the palace, too. Can’t risk walking into an ambush.”

“I’ll get changed,” Greg said.