Page 66 of The SnowFang Storm

“I know it could. Steel-trap silent. Wolves don’t talk about territory worries. If you do, it’s in whispers and to the fewest number of wolves possible.”

Sterling’s hand rubbed my back in a small, thoughtful circle. “That doesn’t explain Apharia. Perhaps Demetrius spotted this in the course of his work, and is trying to avert a problem he sees for his own pack, without touching off a greater political crisis, or is trying to prevent FrostFur from some prestige advantage that will make them Elder again, when he’d rather have GranitePaw or a different pack elevated.”

I squirmed off his lap and headed for the board, trying to figure out what position the pieces had been in.

Sterling made a noise.

“What?” I asked.

“Just looking to see if rook has any other meanings.”

“You can’t put too much into my… vision. But I think it’s also a word for crow or raven.”

“It has another archaic meaning. As a verb, it means to cheat or swindle. As a noun, it means a swindler.”

“But you meant the chess piece. I saw the chess piece.”

“We see the chess piece. What if everyone else sees the swindler?”

I slid back down onto his lap. “You mean the old saying that there are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. We see the rook, they see the swindler, and the truth is the raven’s view.”

Sterling came to a decision. “We have to eliminate some possibilities. Can you use your family ties to find out what we’re dealing with?”

Sadly, my powers had limits, and we’d just run into them. “No.”

He slid his hand along my thigh absently. “You are very good at wriggling us into tight spaces.”

I tried to stand up. He held me firm. I growled, “Stop that. You’re not going to cuddle me into anything.”

“I’m not trying to,” he said, grip not easing.

“You don’t understand. Family relationships don’t survive outside of that pack. My grandparents made my mother call them by their names once she became a SilverPaw. There are no family ties.”

“Aren’t there? FrostFur, AmberHowl, SilverPaw, GranitePaw, SnowFang, you, me, my mother. They all have one thing in common: significant contact with your father.”

My brain became a turkey wrapped in tinfoil and shoved into a microwave. Sparks everywhere and eventually something was going to catch on fire.

Coffee, liquor, both. Something was needed. I slid off his lap. He didn’t fight to keep hold.

Cye cubed chicken at one counter while I went to make myself a cup of coffee or something.

“I smell stress.” Jun slunk into the kitchen. “Whats on fire now? We just decorated, but I know it’s not the candles.”

Sterling set his laptop on the island and spun it around to face me. Then he put the picture of the spring at SilverPaw next to it.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up. I’d forgotten about it in my coat pocket.

At the very bottom of the photo was a tiny orange timestamp from the crummy digital camera my mother had had. It was dated a few days after her diagnosis. On the back, the faint gray watermark text confirmed she’d immediately gone to print it at a little drugstore kiosk.

Sterling said, “That picture was in the box for a reason, but you’re the only one who can say why.”

In my dream of the Mother She-Wolf the safe deposit box had been nailed to the wall, and thousands of this picture arranged around it like the petals of a flower, and my mother’s seal stamped all over everything. I closed my eyes and regretted it: the whimpering of the puppies crawled in my ears like biting insects.

“Here.” Cye presented me with a hot cup of cocoa with marshmallows. “Burian always says this helps him think.”

“Because brains eat glucose,” Jun said. He gently took the picture from me and examined it, then passed it to Cye, who shrugged and shook his head.

Sterling waited.

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