Page 54 of Fang Fatale

Weir.

The name lands wrong.

I dig through two centuries of reluctant acquaintances until the memory surfaces.

"Deadwood Weir's boy?"

There are rules among predators.

If someone claims blood, you acknowledge it.

Even while quietly calculating how much of theirs you could spill before anyone objected.

He lifts his glass in a mock salute.

"Deadwood retired."

"Boat?"

"Canadian coast."

"You know how it is."

"I do."

I don't.

We sit in silence for a while.

Two men pretending to enjoy the same drink while carefully measuring the distance between them.

Finally...

"Tell me about the girl in the woods."

No preamble.

No small talk.

If this were a movie, this is where the violins would quietly start threatening everyone.

"Which woods?"

Vlad snorts.

There's only one the woods in Blackthorn Bay.

"Don't be cute," Mason says.

"I wasn't born with the subtlety gene."

Fair enough.

"What do you want with her?"

He shrugs.

"Nothing."