The second day, Zevran drove.
He knew the roads better — had known them since he was young, had driven them with his father before the Hold's responsibilities had become his own. He drove the way he drove everything: with the quiet certainty of a man who had decided where he was going.
Fenn Calloway rode in the back.
He had agreed immediately, as I had predicted. He had also, without being asked, brought a small framed photograph — old, the kind of photograph that had been taken before digital formats — and set it on the car seat beside him.
"My father's era," he said, when I noticed it. "Davan Ashveil and the outer territory elders. Taken the year he became Alpha." He looked at it. "Brynn Harrow is in it. She was thirty-two."
I turned to look.
Brynn at thirty-two. Recognizable — the
