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about the crown or the initiation. I think he was being honest. But he admitted he’s been concerned about Patrick.”
    “I’m putting you on speakerphone,” I warned. “What do you mean, he’s concerned about Patrick?”
    “I’m not entirely sure. I’m also not sure how clearly he sees things.”
    “Because of the illness?”
    “Yeah. He doesn’t have the strength he used to. I’m not sure he’s got the memory, either. He knows he’s fading, and he’s worried how Patrick will handle it.”
    “If we’re right and he took the crown, he’s not handling it well,” Jeff said. “We need to figure out where he’ll go next.”
    “Richard said he was coming home.”
    “Which one?” I asked, thinking of our conversation. “He’s got two—family place in Wausau, and a cabin near Sheboygan.”
    “You’re closer to Sheboygan,” Gabriel said. “You go there. I’ll send Damien to Wausau.”
    Damien Garza was one of Gabriel’s go-to Pack members, a quiet man with a penchant for solving messy Pack problems.
    I looked at Jeff, who nodded.
    “We’re on our way.”
    Patrick hadn’t given me his address, but I had Jeff for that. In addition to his gaming skills, he was a master of the Web. He could find a needle in a binary haystack and did, in this case, offering up Patrick’s address and prepping the GPS.
    Jeff and I didn’t speak a word about the kiss, and didn’t say much of anything for the drive north. But the tension in the air was unmistakable. I knew we were going to have to talk about it sooner or later, but not right now. Business first.
    The cabin was part of a woodsy neighborhood beside the lake, a cluster of houses and cabins probably used by Chicagoans to escape the city in the summer. But this was winter and the lake was frozen; most of the houses looked empty, the snow still in drifts around their doors.
    Patrick York’s house, a log cabin A-frame, was easy to spot—the drive was shoveled, and smoke rose from the chimney.
    We parked a hundred feet down the road, got out of the car, and looked at each other.
    “If he’s got the crown, he’ll want to keep it. We should be prepared for a fight.”
    Jeff nodded. “You bring a weapon?”
    “I am the weapon.”
    He gave me a cutting look.
    “Blades,” I said. “Just in case, I have my blades.” I had two daggers, engraved and gorgeous, tucked inside my boots. “You?”
    “Same.” He zipped up his leather jacket, nodded, and we trekked back to the cabin in the woods. As we walked, snow began to fall, large and beautiful flakes that quickly covered the ground in a fluffy white quilt.
    We reached the end of the driveway and paused at the mailbox.
    “I don’t see a backdoor,” Jeff said. “Either he’s going through a window, or he’s coming with us.”
    I nodded and turned to walk toward the door, but Jeff grabbed my hand before I could move. A bolt of lust and magic speared through me, followed immediately by a wave of regret.
    “Be careful,” he whispered, releasing my hand and falling into step beside me.
    Patrick York opened the door in a T-shirt and jeans, a white kitchen towel in hand. The smell of breakfast—bacon, eggs, cheese—wafted through the room.
    It took my brain a moment to catch up. What kind of thief started cooking after stealing a crown?
    Patrick beamed at me, surprise in his eyes that faded to suspicion when he caught sight of Jeff.
    “Fallon. What are you doing here?”
    “Patrick, this is Jeff Christopher. He’s a member of the NAC and a friend of the family’s. Can we come in? We need to talk. It’s Pack business.”
    He looked confused, and rubbed his hands on his towel before moving aside to let us in. “Sure.”
    We stepped inside, and Jeff closed the door behind us. The interior of the cabin was pretty, the hewn-wood walls exposed, the furniture made of logs and covered in plaid fabrics. Fishing equipment hung on the walls beside antique posters advertising vacations on the Great