two pines.

Calden Whitechase

In their rental car -- a small SUV with plenty of bells and whistles -- they follow Steven Alport away from the Hartford airport. As befits a Silver Fang of her renown, the car that Huxley sends for her is luxurious: an unmarked black Cadillac, undoubtedly replete with leather and amenities. Alport drives carefully, staying within five miles of the speed limit, always slowing at yellows to avoid leaving them behind. Calden follows easily, but he remains alert, mindful, and careful.

Her family lives a good distance from Hartford: somewhere along the coast, perhaps, with a view of the ocean, a small dock for sailboats in summer, an extended sprawl of grounds with stables and gardens and trees that turn glorious colors in fall.

Steven Alport does not lead them that way. He leads them, instead, toward downtown Hartford. So far as cities go, Hartford is a small one; under two hundred thousand in city limits proper, just over a million in the metro area. So far as Connecticut goes, it is capital and most populous city at once. Skyscrapers -- shortish ones, but skyscrapers nonetheless -- rise around them as they head into the city. The architecture is rather distinctly New England: a lot of brick, a lot of stone, not too much in the way of steel and glass. Still, along the riverfront there are a few sleekly modern buildings, and it is to one of these that Alport leads them.

The driveway slopes into an underground parking garage. Alport's Cadillac disappears below. Calden, turning into the driveway, hesitates. "Should I follow him down, do you think?"

Avery Whitechase

Sadly, Avery does not enjoy Huxley's generosity. She sits in the SUV, while Calden drives, peeling off her leather gloves and watching the Cadillac ahead of them with a predator's eyes, all but unblinking. However, she does lift her phone to her ear at the beginning of the trip. She has profuse apologies to offer to her family, even while her eyes stare at the car ahead of them. Of course they'll be along as soon as they possibly can. No, don't wait for dinner, or anything else for that matter.

Kinfolk get used to these things early. The parent who doesn't make it back for the birthday party. The spouse who is only at home a few times a week, or month. The sibling who gets left out of family photos or 'shopped in later. When Avery hangs up she's not overtly worried about having caused offense; that concern lives in the back of her mind. She texts her steward back in Denver that she's terribly sorry to bother her on her day off, but could she please arrange for an arrangement of red and white roses with evergreen to be sent to her family here, along with those lovely gold-foil-wrapped pears and some chocolates? Even staring at a Cadillac suspecting foul play or wary of it for her husband's sake, Avery wants to make sure she apologizes properly to her relatives.

Sometimes being what she is forces her to be so ill-mannered. It's quite distressing.

--

They drive. It's an underground garage. Avery's eyes narrow even as Calden hesitates. "Go ahead," she murmurs.

Calden Whitechase

So Calden follows. And their SUV slips underground past the attendant booths -- abandoned at this hour, the gates raised. The Cadillac has parked near the elevators, and Calden follows suit, rolling into a space just across from Alport's.

The young man steps out of the car as they're parking. He waits for them at the elevator, holding the door open. In addition to two parking levels, there are twenty-one labelled floors in the building. Perhaps it is no surprise that he swipes a keycard instead.

Should Avery and Calden walk in, the elevator doors close, and they begin moving upwards to this unmarked floor.

Avery Whitechase

They park. Avery's gloves are folded away in her handbag. She steps out of the car before Calden has a chance to get out and circle around to open her door, though truth be told she often enough waits to be handed out of a vehicle. It isn't something she expects; it is something she enjoys. Something she thinks he enjoys, too: holding open her door, offering her his hand, escorting her. But that is a bit of playacting between them that is inappropriate now.

Avery gets out, the heels of her boots clicking on the concrete. She waits for her husband and walks beside him to the elevator, reaching down to take his hand as they go inside.

Calden Whitechase

It is, indeed, something they both enjoy. They are old-fashioned in a sense, though Avery is by every possible definition a progressive Silver Fang. They enjoy being polite, well-mannered, civilized, cultured. They enjoy the fact that she is a lady, and he is a gentleman, and they both behave by certain unspoken rules.

They are, however, not bound by those rules. And no one's feelings are hurt when she steps out of the car herself. No one's ego is threatened when she acts in her capacity as a Fang, a Philodox, a Fostern of the Garou Nation.

Calden is still wearing his gloves. His hand is felt through the soft leather: a core of strength and tough bones. His grip is firm. The doors shut and the ground lifts, and all three of them stand in silence as the numbers go by. Calden watches: from 1 to 21, and then the light simply goes off. The elevator ascends for what feels like another floor or two, then decelerates to a stop.

The doors open. They are in a small anteroom; a frosted glass wall separates them. There is a door in the wall, and a keycard reader by the door. Alport goes to it, swipes his card again, and then turns to them.

"This is the Sept of the Twin Pines," he says. "I can go no further." His eyes flick to Calden; he seems about to say something, but thinks better of it. "Someone within will take you to Mr. Huxley."

Avery Whitechase

Heat radiates out from Avery. She is no Ahroun, no; but she is a wolf, and her senses are heightened right now, her awareness intense. It makes her heart beat faster, and it makes her skin hot, and it makes her warmth bleed through his leather glove, touch his hand despite the barrier. But she is holding his hand for two reasons: one is to reassure herself of his nearness, his presence, his safety. The other is to reassure herself that he's with her. He's there for her. She's not alone, anymore, ever.

When the lights go off, she glances at Calden momentarily, but says nothing. The elevator stops and they exit, going to the frosted glass. Her eyebrows raise at Mr. Alport when he says this is the Sept, but she nods at him when he says he must depart. He is wise not to suggest her mate leave her; it's the holidays, and she's already emotional. Best to just let it be.

"Thank you for your assistance, Steven," she says to him, and then presses open the door.

Calden Whitechase

The door sweeps open soundlessly. Some barrier magic must protect the interior, for stepping through the doorway immediately makes them aware of sounds that were not there before. There are voices. Footsteps. Suffusing it all, the hum of machinery.

The space within is enormous, open, sleek. They stand on a semicircular balcony, ringed by a glass half-wall. A set of stairs curves elegantly down to the floor below, which is an open, high-ceilinged space lined by amphitheater-like benches. Across this area are two levels of modular offices, upper and lower, with retracting walls that appear to open and close as necessary. They catch glimpses of what might be living areas, dining areas, a security station.

There's enough room here to easily house fifty or a hundred without overcrowding. Yet it feels quite empty, with no more than eight or ten people visible: a handful in those offices, one waiting for a microwave to finish nuking a TV dinner, and three on the benches below, poring over a tablet. One of the three is Andrew Huxley, who looks up and immediately breaks into a grin.

"Avery! Welcome!" He pushes the tablet into the hands of one of his compatriots and dashes up the stairs two at a time. Though somewhat older now -- he had been a mere seventeen years old at the time of their Rite -- Huxley is still recognizably himself: thick, sandy-blond hair and a square jaw, broad shoulders, nice shoes. "Well, you haven't changed a bit. Except for the ring; that's new. I suppose I know who this is then.

"Andrew Huxley. You could say Avery and I grew up together. It wouldn't be precisely true, but the sentiment is about right."

Calden takes the extended hand; there is a brief shake. "Calden," he says. Keeps it short. Huxley doesn't seem to notice, or mind. He turns back to Avery.

"I'll bet you're wondering why you're here. And where 'here' is."

Avery Whitechase

Avery is not holding Calden's hand when they walk through the door. She has reasons for letting go of him now; she doesn't stop to explain them, and this is less because of how terribly busy and distracted she is and more because she assumes he understands, intuits, would have his own reasons for not wanting to be held and led right now.

She cannot help but smile at the interior. Smile, and... ache, a bit, for what has been lost this year. Still: it's so lovely inside. So bright and sleek and she is modern and progressive to be sure, and she thinks it's quite pretty. She smiles, and unbuttons her coat, and then someone calls her name.

Looking, she spots Huxley, and tips her head. It is him; she relaxes a notch. She remains where she is, just a few steps inside the door, not wanting to intrude too far into a strange sept. He sees the ring on her hand, her gloves removed. He sees the man at her side and perhaps it is some scent thing, some sensory awareness: she is mated. This is her mate. She is a Fostern, inching ever closer towards Adren, and he can tell all these things about her. Avery extends her hand.

"I am wondering," she says, slowly. "It is good to see you again, Huxley, but I came to see my relations." There is reproach in her tone, but it is couched softly in an implicit question: a request, though not an entirely humble one, for him to explain himself and his methods.

Calden Whitechase

"Yes, I have been greedy, haven't I, stealing you from your family. I do apologize, Chase -- since we're going by last names here -- though perhaps I don't have the right one anymore, hm? Well, let me cut to it; pun wholly unintended.

"I asked you here because we're building a new Sept, and I thought you might want to have a hand in it. I'm an Adren now, you see, and I've kept myself informed of the deeds and doings of my old acquaintances. If what I hear is true, you're not far from Adrenhood yourself, and you were rather recently the Master of the Challenge at an urban, avant-garde Sept not unlike my own. Unfortunately, that Sept has gone under -- my deepest condolences -- but that does leave you an available agent, and we are quite without a truly capable Philodox here.

"Now, I do realize this is very sudden, so I certainly don't expect an immediate decision. But do consider the proximity of your family, and -- I apologize for my bluntness -- the fact that a certain female who was less than a friend to you never frequents our territory."

Avery Whitechase

It takes a healthy dose of her will not to bristle to discover that Huxley has achieved Adren before she has. Avery feels a flash of it: envy, anger, resentment, all that. She subdues it as elegantly as she would any other petty thing, such as her growing irritation at his methods, his cagey way of bringing her here. Her reaction when he blithely brings up the still-fresh wound of the fallen Cold Crescent is less petty, and Avery takes a measured breath beside Calden. He, like her brother and her father, knows by now what that breath indicates: her frustration. Her, trying to keep herself steady.

Luckily for everyone, Avery is remarkably good at keeping herself steady. She doesn't snap. Or run.

--

She waits for Huxley to finish talking, and tips her head to the side. "Morning's Herald-rhya," she says, because the 'last names' bit rankled her, and because she will be proper, goddamn it all, "if that was what you wanted to ask me, you could have always sent a messenger of some kind."

Even her what the hell, asshole sounds polite. Because of course it does.

Calden Whitechase

Calden has known her long enough now to know what the breath means. And, for that matter, to sense the irritation beneath her politesse.

He doesn't interject into the conversation. He doesn't reach over to hold her hand, rub her shoulder, anything of the sort. He does, however, shift his balance so that he stands a little closer. It is a protective gesture -- unnecessary, perhaps, but well-meant.

--

"Oh, you are absolutely correct, of course," Huxley exclaims at once. "It's only that I heard you would be passing through, and all at once everything seemed to fall in place so perfectly, and -- well, I got carried away in my excitement. I do apologize for inconveniencing you; you must accept.

"But. Well. Since you are here, would you care to see what we're building here? Give me the opportunity to sell the job to you, so to speak?"

Avery Whitechase

In any normal situation, Calden would be the most intimidating person in the room. The tallest. The broadest of shoulder. His testosterone levels would be the most evident. His biceps are the largest. And deep down, secret even from her mate, Avery resents right now that Huxley, this boy nearly a decade her junior, could do any harm to Calden at all when he's such an entitled brat. Look at her husband. Just look at him. He's big and he's strong and he's masculine and wonderful and Huxley needs a sharp slap to knock some sense into him and he is an Adren but he's a boy and her mate is a man and ---

she calms herself. People say and do foolish things all the time with the best of intentions. She may doubt Huxley's intentions, but that's perhaps unfair of her. She may be frustrated, but that could be from meditating all day to make it through the flight and then not being able to go see her kinfolk and have a cup of cocoa as she was expecting.

Avery exhales, and smiles, but Calden can see that it is one of her more forced smiles. That alone is hard for her: she loves to be authentic. Genuine. Honest and true.

"Of course," she says, easily despite herself. "I'm quite curious."

Calden Whitechase

Huxley earns at least this much credit: when she has to force that smile, he does notice -- and noticing, hesitates.

"Oh," he sounds genuinely dismayed, "I have inconvenienced you. Would you rather set up another time? Perhaps in the morning, when we're all fresh."

Avery Whitechase

What.

An.

Idiot.

Avery cannot believe how foolish he is. Little boy; did no one ever teach him the basics of considering someone else before himself? Dragging her away from her family once isn't bad enough, so his fix is to suggest doing it tomorrow, disrupting even more plans?

She shakes her head, still smiling. "Now is fine, -rhya. After all. We're already here."

Calden Whitechase

"Marvelous!" Just like that, Avery's moment of pique seems forgotten. "Well, come on, I can't wait to show you the joint."

--

So far as guided tours go, this one is relatively painless. Huxley starts with the overview, pointing out the gathering area below, which doubles as a challenge ring. From there they descend the gently curving stairs, crossing the open space to the modular areas. Which, upon closer inspection, appear truly modular: sleek walls of steel and glass that slide and rearrange, shades that come up and down for privacy, even floors that rise and fall as need be. The same space can be remodeled and refurnished nearly on the fly, repurposed again and again. It's all very high-tech, and Huxley is visibly proud, remarking several times that no other Sept comes close, not even amongst the Walkers.

In that modular area, he points out the highlights: the dormitories, which are necessary, he explains, for any Sept that wants to attract new talent. That's how he puts it: new talent. There are a couple young Garou in there, plugged into tablets and laptops. They look up, mumble hello, go back to tapping and typing.

Then the offices, many of which stand empty, which will one day house Masters of this-and-that. A cafeteria -- fully gourmet, he explains. We're going to hire a chef. Been looking into prospects amongst the kin. Got a few contenders. -- and a security center, all touchscreens and mainframes, with a thin, severe woman manning the watch. She looks up when they come in; gives them a curt nod.

We're going to get a few new Guardians by early January, Huxley assures them. This place will be airtight.

--

If Avery pays attention, she'll notice the modular offices don't quite add up. There's a central area, a core that is blocked off by those movable walls; hidden away.

Huxley does not remark on this.

--

Avery's tribesman concludes the tour in one of the empty offices -- a large one, with a corner view of the city. Skyscrapers gleam in the darkness. The river reflects the lights of the opposite shore.

"This would be your office," he says. "We'll furnish it however you like. Need more room? Not a problem, just push a button. I hope you see we're not doing business as usual here. This isn't your mother's Sept. We're building something great, something modern and cutting-edge that'll take the Tribe into the future. If you're interested, you just have to let me know. And we'll talk nuts and bolts."

[you should also! roll percep+empathy or percep+primal urge, whichever is higher]

Avery Whitechase

Avery pays attention. She waits til Huxley has turned around and mouths the word joint to her husband with a slight shake of her head; clearly, Ms. Avery Whitechase does not consider 'joint' appropriate nomenclature for a sept, even one not centered on a caern's gathering of power and ley lines and history.

Avery likes history. She likes modern, progressive things and she likes how few people these days so much as raise an eyebrow about the tribal difference between her and her chosen beloved. She values change and evolution and open understanding. But she likes history. She wanted columbine and larkspur at their wedding because of their long association with the state in which she said her vows. She liked the idea that these flowers, and thus the land, were with her and Calden that day, blessing them by mere presence, as flowers do.

It is not, however, the lack of history here that makes her uneasy about Huxley's admittedly exciting, shiny new sept. It is the way he talks about it like he's being interviewed about his new startup, like no one ever really questions him or challenges him. It's the way she notices, after a while, that there is space in this sept unaccounted for. It is the fact that this place is not yet 'airtight' as he promises it will be; but she knows that perhaps she is just still sore, anxious, wary, because of what happened to Cold Crescent. Mostly, it is how focused he is on the trappings, and how little he discusses the purpose of the sept. The focus. The soul of it. He doesn't discuss it at all.

They end in the office he wants her to have. Modular, like the others. Glorious view. And she would be lying if she didn't, for a moment, consider it. But truth be told: she doesn't want to move here. Especially not after meeting Calden, loving him, loving his land and his connection to it, loving his family and his history and everything about him. She would never suggest moving away from his ancestral land. Not for a pretty corner office with a nice view of... Hartford.

not your mother's sept earns Huxley a glance. He knows better; she assumes he isn't thinking. He surely doesn't mean to dismiss her mother's memory, or sacrifice, or Avery's loss, or disrespect the work her mother did for the sept where Avery was fostered or the sept where both of them were named. Surely not. Surely he is only being thoughtless, as he has been repeatedly -- it is only her duty to note it, and give him that one single, telling glance. Do not be so thoughtless.

Avery Whitechase

[Dicebag App: Perception (Insightful) + Empathy:
1, 10, 1, 9, 6, 5, 3
rerolls: 7
=4 suxx]

Calden Whitechase

[There is something...tight about the air in this Sept, and the more time she spends here the more she feels it. Bland, and colorless, and strapped down, locked down. Though everything is bright and shiny and new, it doesn't feel vibrant. It doesn't feel alive, or even on the verge of life. It feels oppressive. It feels stagnant.]

Avery Whitechase

It does not feel right here. Avery looks at Huxley because she doesn't quite have the breath to comment yet. She reaches for Calden's hand, because he is so the opposite of how things feel here. He is warm and virile and of the land, of growing things but more importantly: living creatures. His hands have birthed calves and though he often outsources this part, she knows they have slaughtered. She has watched him strip the carcass of a thing she killed. He always brought her food, early on, like an animal sharing meat with her to lure her in, show off for her, take care of her. He is one of her connections to the earth, and to life, even when a part of her is drawn to sterile silence and separation.

So she reaches for his hand, and laces her fingers through his heavier ones, and she holds him tight for a moment until they can both feel her wedding ring press into flesh, and then she eases back a bit.

"It is all very impressive, rhya," she comments, diplomatically. "But if it's not too forward, may I ask what inspired you?"

Calden Whitechase

It is difficult to say if Calden senses what Avery does. What is certain, however, is that he does not for a moment seem to fear that she will move here. Leave her land, leave her friends, leave her family, leave him -- move here. To Hartford. To be Master of the Challenge in this barren, strange Sept.

Their hands link. He squeezes hers back. It is reassurance, and it is assurance: he is here. He is not going anywhere.

"Progress," Huxley replies at once. "Moving forward in this uncertain time, in our uncertain world. Our tribe is so mired in the past, isn't it? No wonder we're dying out. We cling to our traditions and our trappings, our titles and relics and legends. We reject the new, fear the cities.

"But not you. And not I. We're a different breed, Reverence of Dawn. First this Sept, then this city, and one day the whole of the Tribe. We could start a revolution."

Avery Whitechase

At this point, Avery's skin is crawling. It is a little cooler than usual, the fire going inward, coiling around her heart, sending bolts up her spine to inflame her mind. She is heightened now, aware, and her eyes gleam.

Huxley may interpret that as interest, as fervency, but Huxley would only be half correct.

"Oh?" she says, raising her dark eyebrows a touch. "What sort of revolution did you have in mind?"

Calden Whitechase

"Well, I can't very well spill all my secrets at once, Avery. Not to play coy, but I need to know you're on board for the long haul first."

Avery Whitechase

She laughs.

Calden can tell how false it is only because he knows her. He knows how warm her laughter is, where the corners of her eyes crinkle. This is not that laughter; this is the polite laughter, and not even the sort where she's genuinely charmed by someone. He has rarely ever heard her laugh like this.

"Oh, Huxley," she says, and puts out her hand, pushing playfully against the Adren's arm. Which is also weird behavior for her. It seems to fit how he's acting, though; how he expects her to act. As if there's some kind of script in his head that he's following, that he thinks everyone else is following.

She grows more serious. "You know I'll have more questions than we can discuss in a brief tour," she cautions him. "You can hardly expect that I would uproot my kin and homes to work at your side unless I truly believe I can help you realize your vision. And for that, I would need to know what that vision is.

"But," Avery adds, "perhaps we can chat about it a little later. Really get into the nitty gritty of what I could do to help. Dinner tomorrow? I really must get to my kinfolk and stop dragging my poor mate around."

Calden Whitechase

That playful -- dare we say nearly flirtatious -- push of the hand makes Calden's eyes slide sideways. Just for a beat. Then he recovers, goes back to being a neutral presence: present, but hardly committed one way or the other.

Huxley doesn't seem to notice Calden at all. He grins as she laughs, laughs as she touches him. The smile widens as she proposes dinner.

"Perfect! I'll have a car pick you up. What's the address?"

Avery Whitechase

Avery does not notice. Or doesn't seem like she notices. She gives Huxley the address without missing a beat and confirms a time with him; she hides her resentment well. Her frustration. At least until they leave.

Her hand still holds Calden. She doesn't want to let go.

Calden Whitechase

Huxley inputs the address into his phone and immediately texts it to ... someone. An assistant. Maybe that hapless young man that picked them up at the airport.

"I'll send the car by at ... seven p.m.? Tapas perhaps? You're welcome to bring your plus-one, of course. Or leave him home and have a little fun. Ha! Okay." He ushers them back the way they came, arms out, hands hovering a few inches behind their backs. "I trust you'll know the way out: up those stairs and out the doors. My assistant will be waiting to take you back to your car.

"Thank you for coming, Avery. It was such a pleasure." He extends his hand, shakes hers, shakes Calden's. "Wonderful to have met you as well. Goodnight."

With that, Huxley leaves them, turning to go back into those modular offices. They stand at the edge of the amphitheatre area, the staircase back to that entryway balcony just ahead.

Avery Whitechase

The address that Huxley puts into his phone is the address of the hotel where she and Calden are staying. Avery watches him and thinks of the car arriving, just like the one at the airport. She suppresses a shiver, and though she knows exactly why, it has nothing to do with the car. Or the driver.

Huxley refers to Calden as her 'plus one'. Avery, due in no part to the ugly sensation she feels here, nor her growing dislike of what Huxley has become, calmly interjects:

"Mate."

and lets Huxley continue. Even though what he continues with is the idea of leaving Calden behind, as though in her first 6 months of marriage she may have already grown tired of him, or finds him a bore, a drag, a duty. Avery reminds herself that many, particularly among her tribe, do find their mates to be such. They still arrange marriages these days, though far less than they did once. For all she knows, Huxley is mated, and dismayed about it.

They see themselves out. An assistant hovers, and leads them away, and eventually they are back in the car. Calden is behind the wheel. He can feel her rage with him, spiky and hot-cold, almost tangible. The interior of the car is cool, but will warm soon. She doesn't want to talk until they've left the building and are on their way to the hotel to check in before being on their way to her family.

As the building recedes behind her, Avery... exhales. Then she takes a deep breath, as though some weight has just been lifted off her chest. She struggles for that breath a little, straightening up as though she isn't sure she can fill her lungs otherwise. Exhales it again, more heavily. Breathes again, and again, until she feels calmer.

"Didn't you just... feel as though you couldn't breathe in there?" Avery says, too lightly, unable to quite as smoothly and effortlessly segue into discussing her anxiety with her husband as she normally is. As though her comfort -- even her comfort found in him and him alone -- has been halted from its natural flow and evolution.

Calden Whitechase

Hands on the wheel, Calden nonetheless glances at his wife. His brow furrows; he thinks back.

"Tell you the truth, I didn't notice. I thought it all looked a little too sleek and gleaming to be a Sept, especially one headed by a Silver Fang, but I wasn't ... stifled." He looks at her again. "I could feel you getting tenser and tenser the longer we stayed there, though. Want to tell me about it?"

Avery Whitechase

His wife. His mate. The first time he saw her, she was in hispo, slaughtering and devouring half an elk. The first time she saw him, he was calm about it, steady, not cocky. She really liked him. Right away -- his calm, his audiobooks, his comfort with a skinning knife, his hospitality, his physicality -- she liked him. It took her far too long, in retrospect, to let him in. To let herself rely on him. To find herself, against all odds and in spite of herself, able to be around him when she cannot stand to be around anyone at all.

Avery adores Calden. The worship and fondness he has for her is, she thinks, so much more readily displayed, so much more open, so much more generous. He might say the same of her, but we are only discussing Avery's perspective here: he is better than she deserves, and she can sometimes not even bear to look at him without being overwhelmed with gratitude. He sees her. He sees her, and all her flaws and foibles and strangeness, and he does not mind. He strokes her like a precious thing. He pleases her. He gives her room to move and room to move away from him, and he stays so near to her. So dear to her.

In the car, she has the privilege of looking more at him than he can look at her. He has to drive, and it's growing dark. She can turn in her seat, head tipped against the rest, watching him, admiring his profile, his strong jaw, his brilliant eyes. She can adore him, even -- and perhaps especially -- when she is troubled. Which she is, right now.

Avery takes a short breath, at his question. She is silent a moment. "I... cannot speak out of turn, to others. I have no proof. But to you, I can say that I believe that Huxley and the Sept he is building are unduly influenced by the Weaver. You will not hold it against me if I falter, and if I am wrong. But I cannot call elders to examine him without more than a gut feeling, or I risk... any and all credibility that I have among our people. But that gut feeling is a starvation, darling. It is an emptiness, held up by struts of cold steel."

She closes her eyes a moment, then opens them. "My god, I need something to eat. Why do we travel without a cooler of your dry-aged best? We're fools."

Calden Whitechase

He liked her too. Immediately and viscerally and unquestioningly: liked her happy little dance under the moon, liked that she wanted him to have the kill so that none would be wasted, liked her H2O in the dirt, liked her banter at the dinner table and in the cellar. It wasn't the first time he hosted an itinerant wolf passing through his ranch, and maybe not even the first time he's shared his home, hearth and bed with a wolf. But certainly it was the first time he was just so ... entirely captivated and enchanted. She was something else altogether, right from the start.

And now she's his wife. His mate. And she's sitting in the seat of their rented car, which feels familiar because often now she's in the passenger seat while he drives or vice versa. She speaks her mind, and her mind is full of caution and worry. He reaches across the armrest to take her hand.

Of course it makes him laugh, what she says. "There might be laws against unaccounted interstate trafficking of raw meat products," he says. "But next time I'll pack us some roast beef sandwiches."

A few beats go by. Then: "What will you need to do? What proof would be enough?"

Avery Whitechase

She sighs. "That sounds lovely."

Which tells him how hungry she is: Avery is not particularly fond of sandwiches, in general. But right now she sounds positively wistful for a roast beef sandwich. Something about being in that sept has left her like this, hollowed out and cold, longing for warmth and meat and comfort.

She shakes her head, though. "I am not sure. It is not the same as accusing someone of being tainted by the Wyrm. There are those who consider that influence from the Weaver is a lesser crime; there are those who deem it even worse, as though one leads inexorably to the other. I am deeply wary, my darling; he reacted a bit too strongly to the suggestion of flirtation between he and I. But again... it is a gut feeling."

Avery is quiet a moment. She stares out the window. The moon will be full on Christmas; she already feels that she will have to hunt that night, find something, kill it, fill herself with Gaia's power in the crisp, cold darkness.

"I need to know more. See how things came to be this way."

Calden Whitechase

He's faintly amused by her longing for sandwiches. Sandwiches! It's not that she loathes them -- not quite -- but he's long since discovered that she'd rather eat almost anything else. "We could stop for dinner," he suggests, "if you don't mind making your relatives wait a little longer."

The conversation turns back toward serious matters. She thinks aloud and he listens; he thinks, too. "Huxley's manner was odd," he agrees after a moment. "I can't put my finger on it. He was just so excitable. And so certain of ... well, everything."

While she looks out the window, he steals glances at her. He reaches across, driven by some primordial instinct: she feels farther away when she is turned away like that, the moonlight on her face. She feels less his sundrenched, warm, loving wife; more the dire-wolf on the plains, a savage and remote daughter of the moon. He takes his hand to hold her in some way.

"I love you," he says, for no other reason than to say it. "I love you utterly."

Avery Whitechase

This is true: she would prefer plenty of other meals before a sandwich. It's just that Calden mentioned roast beef sandwiches, and now she wants them. Her preference is, in fact, usually for the sort of meal that he fed her the first time they met, and a few subsequent times after: meat, with perhaps a side of something green, and a rich red wine. Or scotch.

"Oh, I couldn't," she says tenderly, when it comes to making her relatives wait. "I already feel terrible," and just like that: her hunger abates a while, ready to bow to the rigors of good grace and manners. Avery's care for her kin will always outweigh her hungers, whatever they are.

Excitable and certain. Avery nods at Calden's assessment. "The certainty is what made me wary. The almost willful blindness. And there was... something odd about the layout of the sept. I may have been seeing things. But I think there were parts unseen, and that Huxley does not want me to see."

She closes her eyes. She rests her brow on the cold glass. She has said enough for now, and retreats into silence, which by now Calden recognizes as easily as knowing genuine laughter from false. Sometimes Avery needs to put things away: wrap them in a silk cloth and lay them in a drawer, and shut that drawer, and come to them again later. This is one of those.

But she stirs, when he touches her hand. She opens her eyes, those long lovely lashes lifting, and turns her face to look at him, not knowing how he sees her. In summer, the girl with the flower in her hair, warm as sunlight, resting her head on him and admitting to him that she wanted to be his, his, and he hers. In winter, snow-white and bright-eyed, the redness of hunted blood all the more shocking against her pristine fur. Her hand tucks under his, her thumb wrapping around his as though to hold him there. To let him know, also: it is all right, and she welcomes the touch right now, despite her unnerved state.

What he says makes her smile, fondly and with some measure of tender amusement.

"I adore you as well, darling," she murmurs. "I'm so glad you agreed to visit the relatives with me for our first Christmas. You're terribly generous."

Calden Whitechase

He laughs. "Well, hell, I've been with my side of the family for the last thirty-six Christmases. It's a nice change of pace.

"Not much farther now," he adds. "GPS says five minutes."

Avery Whitechase

"And they're all boys," she says, with a tone that isn't quite dismissive, but does nonverbally ask how he can stand all those boys, just... men men men being stinky and manly all over the place.

"Good," she adds, squeezing his hand. "They will probably still be having dinner."

Calden Whitechase

"Yes," he agrees, amused. "Shocking, isn't it, that I'm not a grunting caveman picking bugs out of my back hair."

That squeeze of the hand is returned. Then his hand lets hers go, returns to the steering wheel to guide the wide left turn. Sure Avery recognizes this road, these trees, this path to her relatives' home.