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son. Reynard allowed himself to be embraced, arms at his sides. When they separated, Reynard coughed into his fist, hung his coat in the hall closet, and continued down the short hallway to his office. Maybe if he stopped believing he was there, he considered, Savoy would vanish.
    “How is your sister?” Savoy asked, following.
    “Fine, thank you.”
    “And her health?”
    Perfect as always , he wanted to say, not like she is any of your business . 
    Reynard’s office was filled with overflowing bookshelves and cabinets, dominated by a massive oak desk. The closed windows left the room smelling like the radiator. He opened his liquor cabinet, removed a bottle of Svënets-brand vodka, and poured himself a splashy drink. He swallowed and poured himself another. On the third he caught Savoy standing in the doorway, watching him.
    “Drink?” Reynard offered.
    “What is wrong?” Savoy asked.
    Savoy grimaced into something of a smile. “Did you know Bill Tourney?”
    “An employee, yes?”
    “He has been murdered.”
    Reynard recounted the morning telephone call that roused him to Chalmette; the details of the dead men in that filthy alley; the words of the inspector and the theories germinating from those spectators who had gathered nearby. He noted Savoy’s attention, the quickening of one intrigued, how his methodical mind began turning over the story’s minutia with alarming tenacity. Reynard took another drink, disgusted at the man’s morbid interest.
    Yes , he thought, it has been a long time . Here stood the one whose silver bullet staved off that which nothing else had power. Yet with each twinge under his scar he wondered how much thanks he really felt. He’s almost glad to hear my news .
    “A wild animal?” Savoy asked.
    “It is not what you think.”
    “What would I think, Renny?”
    Reynard pressed his glass to his lips and thought back to the Monastery of Jerónimos. He remembered the clay mug pressed against his weakened lips, drinking water as greedily as he now took vodka. He remembered itchy, woolen blankets, the burnt-herb scent of dying candles, the distant sound of bells. He remembered the hollow pain in his chest that saturated into his tissues and veins and between his ears. When the burning of his wound eased, the subtle torture of silver in his blood lingered; it was nearly six months before he managed a full night’s sleep.
    Why did he save my life?
    Savoy had shot him—and then he had saved him, for the monks of Jerónimos never suspected the wounded stranger under their care was the very creature who had slain one of their acolytes. He was a wretch, Savoy explained, a vagabond. They had accepted his explanation without suspicion—for Artémius Savoy had driven the lobis-homem away, and that was all that mattered.
    “Do you have time to spare?” Savoy asked.
    “I can make some.”
    “Then let us take a walk.”
     
    They took the back stairs and avoided the bustle of Royal Street, working their way toward St. Philip underneath terraced, terra cotta apartments with their many balconies and iron-lace galleries. The wind brought a southern breeze from the river, smelling of smoke and burnt leather, and Savoy kept his umbrella under his arm and an eye on the darkening sky.
    They walked until their pauses grew longer, their casual discussion less productive, keeping pace as if both expected the other to know their destination. Despite Savoy’s subtle attempts to draw him out, to reveal the day-to-day goings on in his life, Reynard proved less than candid. Upon reaching Esplanade Avenue with its wide sidewalks and whitewashed trees, they headed north at a more leisurely pace. Rain began to fall; Savoy popped open his umbrella. Only when there were few pedestrians and none close to them did Reynard ask:
    “Why are you here?”
    “I told you,” Savoy said. “To check on your progress.”
    “There is more.”
    “Yes.” Savoy removed the newspaper clipping from his bag. “Are you