The last light of the setting sun was dipping the streets of Deva in deep shadows and painting the rooftops red. It felt like an omen of what was to come, Greg thought as he followed Gustave through the crowded streets.

  Gustave wore a bright green sash over his clothes, to show that he belonged to one of the newly formed students’ regiments. The sash had a little brass plaque with the regiments name and emblem, too. It was supposed to sit at the wearer’s chest, but it kept sliding down to hand at Gustave’s hip. As a result, Gustave was constantly fidgeting with it.

  As Greg looked around, he noticed that Gustave was far from the only one. In fact, the closer they got to Deva University, the fewer and fewer men were out without some sort of insignia. And of those who were, several looked like they had gotten a dusting of flour. Those men hurried along, shoulders hunched.

  Maybe he should have taken his crossbow, Greg thought. He had heard rumours about this earlier at work—that there were groups going around trying to mark men who didn’t sign up to fight the Valoise as cowards.

  Greg had no intention to join any of the volunteer corps springing up all over the city. If David’s plan failed and the Valoise made it all the way to Deva, he’d rather join up with “Lord Relentless’s Irregulars.”

  Not that he was certain he’d get a choice at that point.

  The Irregulars didn’t have a sash or other unit marker, as fast as Greg knew, beyond the signs that marked some werewolves.

  He really hoped all the young men around, nervously clutching their little sashes, would never see a battle at all. Especially Gustave, who apparently couldn’t wait to get to his club. To join his comrades there.

  Greg sighed. He couldn’t say that. Officially, Deva was getting ready to defeat the Grande Armée at its gates. The volunteer units from other cities were expected to arrive in the next few days.

  To fight the last battle.

  The streets were overfull with the refugees from Deggan and the south. Greg kept rubbing shoulders with strangers involuntarily as he tried to keep up with Gustave. The crowd was too quiet, people moving with purpose. Laughing too loud and shrill if they did laugh. And drinking. So many people were already drunk.

  As they reached the right little side alley, Gustave finally slowed down, even stopped, looking over his shoulder as Greg caught up. Gustave suddenly looked uncertain.

  “Maybe we should have gotten you something,” he said softly, tugging at his own sash again.

  Greg shrugged. “Flour is fine,” he lied. “As long as nobody is throwing eggs, I can deal.”

  He really didn’t want flour on himself, either. But he’d been called worse than a coward before.

  “Right,” Gustave muttered. “Right.”

  He still swayed in place. Probably regretting that he had invited Greg along in the first place.

  The thought hurt. A lot.

  As if he’d read Greg’s mind, Gustave stepped forward. “Well, if you’re sure,” he said.

  Greg followed, hands balled into tight fists. The thing in the back of his head was curiously quiet. Maybe cowardice was too human a concept for it to feel anger about. Or maybe it felt secure enough in its own bravery to not be bothered.

  Greg wished he could say the same. Perhaps he should at least try to talk to Rust about if he could join the Irregulars, if it became necessary. Better to fight with veterans than a bunch of volunteers, right?

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  On the other hand, the Irregulars were certain to be fighting. A volunteer regiment might be held back in reserve, or be tasked with something less dangerous. Like building barricades. Perhaps he could argue that he had quite a bit of experience with an axe.

  Who was he kidding? Greg shook his head at himself. He was a werewolf. He could survive a lead bullet and continue fighting.

  If David’s plan failed and the battle came to Deva, he’d be in the first line of battle.

  He’d been so lost in thought he didn’t even notice the group of three sneaking up on him until he was enveloped in a cloud of white. The flour got into his nose, making him sneeze violently, struggling for breath, driving tears to his eyes.

  But the thing that really got him, that made the monster in the back of his head growl in anger, was the laughter. The high-pitched giggling that sounded more like children than men. It made him want to rip their throats out.

  Gustave cussed at them.

  And then someone slapped him on the shoulder, half-hugging him from behind. Like an old friend.

  It took all the practice Greg had gathered to shove the wolf back down again, to keep his human shape at that breach of boundaries.

  “My, my, my, what brave defenders of Deva you are,” a familiar voice said right next to his ear. “Must be scary, carrying that back of flour around with you.”

  Not Gustave. But familiar. Greg rubbed his eyes.

  “Looks like you need to get your eyesight checked, though,” the voice went on. “Or did you really mean to insult the Honourable Feleke like this?”

  The giggling stopped abruptly. Greg spit out some of the flour onto the street and managed to clear his sight enough to get a proper view of the three men who had ended up covering their own arms in flour. Three students, no older than Greg himself. Wearing the same green sash as Gustave.

  The hand on his shoulder didn’t move. Greg couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever was holding onto him was trying to hold him back.

  “This is Lord Gregory Feleke,” the voice said, louder. “The werewolf who saved the Lackland Company and gave us a chance to fight the pisscoats and take our country back! And when I let go, you bloody idiots had better have made yourself scarce!”

  Greg huffed when the three turned and ran, quickly disappearing in the crowd. At least he had recognized the voice now. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

  “Ah, but did you see their faces?” the engineer asked. He let go of Greg’s shoulder, tapping his jacket instead to shake loose some of the flour. Which just created another cloud of it, spreading it to Smith and Gustave. “Well, let’s leave it at that,” Smith said after a moment. “You’re here for a drink? I was hoping to talk to you, if you have a minute?”

  Greg glanced over to Gustave, who was staring into the crowd. He didn’t look to be in a hurry to get to his club, even though it was just a few more yards. Greg could see the door from here.

  So he said, “Sure. Lead the way.”

  Smith grinned. It looked relieved. “Right over there,” he said, turning back to the entrance Greg and Gustave had just walked past when the attack happened.

  A couple of students leaned in the open door, smoking. They stared at Greg and his dirty clothes, then at Mr. Smith. They wore no sashes, but a large brass brooch on their chest.

  “Mr. Smith,” one of them said. “Are you sure…”

  Greg wished he knew if the man had meant to ask about the flour or if he had heard Mr. Smith calling him a werewolf; Mr. Smith walked past the two as if he hadn’t heard a thing. The pub was packed with people, all of whom turned to stare. But nobody else challenged them.

  The pub had benches rather than chairs along long tables. Mr. Smith pushed through to the one closest to the bar, and called over the hubbub: “make some room for my friends.”

  To Greg’s endless surprise, that actually resulted in enough space for them to sit down—even though it meant a couple of students had to get up and leave the table.

  Mr. Smith didn’t seem to find that worth mentioning. Maybe it wasn’t surprising to him. Greg hadn’t thought about it, but Smith was a full engineer—he probably had a similar position to Dr. Mardis as Gustave’s club?

  “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Something stronger?” Mr. Smith asked. When he turned to the bar, he finally seemed to notice the way the rest of the students were staring at Greg. “Right,” he muttered, then rose, basing his hands on the table in front of him. “Everyone, this is Lord Gregory Feleke,” he called into the room. “If you don’t know who he is, ask someone who’s been listening when I talk.”

  That didn’t stop people from staring. It just added a whisper.

  Mr. Smith ignored both, sitting back down. “Now,” he went on, turning to Greg. “This is truly a serendipitous meeting. Professor Mardens strictly forbade me from contacting you on his behalf until the battle for Deva is won… but I am afraid he may not have that long.”