As though he too heard the wind, the émigré paused, looking slowly up and down the street. The man had been seeking Ghosteater for two days. He had driven slowly through the countryside, stopping and looking. He had walked all the streets of Dorf several times, wearing different human faces.

For much of that time, Ghosteater had stalked the stalker, mystified by his actions, intrigued by his persistence.

It had been hard to go unseen. The man’s sight was sharp.

He crouched now at the moment of decision: should he turn back into the silence and forget the strange things the wind had shown him in this place, or should he bite the matter and wrestle it down until he understood it?

The wind shifted, blowing from the north. Sharp and pungent, it tempted him with a taste of the boreal forest — the quiet of the deep woods, the sensation of late snow beneath his once-paws, the hot blood of a wolverine in his mouth.

The wind had brought him here, and now it wanted him far away.

He didn’t understand it. The wind didn’t lie. It didn’t jest. It had no mind for such things.

Ghosteater shifted his weight, uncertain. He should probably heed its latest advice. In his experience, the wind didn’t speak of danger lightly.

And yet, what he had seen in this place intrigued him: the woman Justine, who smelled like nothing he’d ever encountered; the pup, Beth, who seemed insignificant, and yet walked all the paths; the golden-haired man; and now, a human émigré, walking alone in the first world.

Ghosteater’s curiosity ate at him.

Coming to a decision at last, he slipped forward, showing himself. “Émigré.”

“Elder beast,” the man replied, stopping and bowing. “You honor me with your presence.”

Ghosteater cared nothing for honor. “You seek me.”

“I do. I have come to ask your assistance.”

Ghosteater cocked his head, waiting.

“One of my people, the woman Elizabeth Joy Ryder, has disappeared from my home. I believe she has been taken by a traitor, but my trackers cannot follow him. I know you met Miss Ryder, spoke with her. I ask you to help me find her.”

Ghosteater sat down, tucking his tail over his once-paws. He studied the man for some time.

These human émigrés weren’t like him. They made rules, played games. They spoke words they didn’t mean. They fought with subterfuge and indirection, not tooth and claw.

Until they did fight with tooth and claw. Then they destroyed everything. Repugnant.

The she-pup, though — she had interested him. She who walked all the wind’s paths.

The wolf inhaled, tasting the agitation beneath the émigré’s calm demeanor. He wanted the she-pup back very much. Why?

The wind whispered past him, offering no answers.

“A man was here,” Ghosteater said. “A marrow-worker. Slender, golden hair, your smell.”

The émigré nodded. “The traitor.”