His funeral

Mr. Nick Greyfoot, brother to the Alpha of Greystorm, met an untimely end during their recent travels to the dark lands. Sadder still is the knowledge that he failed to accomplish anything of note during his twenty-seven years upon this earth.

—Obituary in the Alpha times.

Nick

I need scotch … badly.

But duty requires that I stand outside the residence of Greystone, the pack house of our clan, and express my gratitude to the few alphas and lunas who have attended my twin’s funeral this afternoon.

“Awfully glad it wasn’t you, Greystorm.”

“Such a fine dancer, although he did tend to hold the she-wolves scandalously close during the waltz.”

“Shame he had to go before amounting to anything.”

“Drank me under the table more times than I can count, I tell you.”

The acknowledgments continue, painting the portrait of a wastrel and scoundrel. Not that I have ever before minded how the Alphas younger brother was viewed, but today it bothers me, perhaps because the notions expressed are so damned accurate.

My childhood friends, Zac and Tom, stand nearby garnering their share of condolences, as everyone knows the four of us are as close as brothers, having been raised by Zac’s father.

Although I have had very little opportunity to visit with them before the funeral, I wish they were both climbing into their own conveyances right about now, but along with Minerva, Tom’s wife, they were staying the night. Julia has extended the invitation, thinking her husband would welcome more time with them. She couldn’t have been

more mistaken, but I know she had meant well.

Graciously expressing her appreciation to those who have come, she is a vision of loveliness even draped in black. She handled most of the arrangements, sending out the mourning cards, informing the priest of how the service was to progress, ensuring that refreshments were on hand for their guests before they began their journey home. I have barely had occasion to speak with her throughout the day, not that I would have known what to say if I had. Since my return, we have had far too many moments of awkward silence. I know that needs to change, and quickly.

As the last of the carriages finally roll down the drive, Julia wanders over, slides her arm around mine and gives it a slight squeeze. “Rather glad that’s over with”.

Even heavy with child, she is the most graceful woman I have ever seen. Reaching up, she places her black gloved hand against my cheek. “You look tired.”

“It’s been a long week”. I returned from my travels ten days ago. Most of my grieving and mourning had occurred during the long and arduous journey home. For me, today is simply a formality, something to get through before moving forward.

“I could use a good stiff drink,” Tom says as he, his wife, and Zac join us.

“I know just where to find one,” I assure my longtime friend. After leading the group into the foyer, I place a hand on Julia’s lower back. “Will you ladies excuse us for a bit?"

She hesitates, a thousand questions swirling in those lovely blue eyes of hers. I didn’t mean to dismiss her, but I am desperate for a drink and hope she mistakes my craving for wanting time alone with my friends. After searching my face for what seems an eternity, she nods, “Yes, of course." Turning to Minerva, she smiles softly, “I’ll ring for some tea.”

“We won’t be long." I assure the women, before heading down the hallway, my two friends are not even half a step behind.

Once I enter the library, I charge forward to the sideboard, pour scotch into three tumblers, and dispense them before holding my own up. “To my brother. May he rest in peace," I down the contents of my glass in one long swallow.

Tom merely takes a small sip, then arches a brow. “That’s hardly likely to happen, is it? What the bloody hell are you up to, Nick?”

My body freezes while my mind reels with the possibility of denying the accusation, but too much is at stake. I walk to the window and spy the spire of the village church where only a few hours earlier the funeral service had been held in my honor. Visible in the distance, ribboning through the rolling hills, is the road over which the black

and glass hearse bearing the polished casket with its elaborately carved moldings and gleaming metal handles had journeyed, while mourners followed, to the pack mausoleum. “When did you figure out I wasn’t Noah?”

“Shortly before the funeral began,” Zac says.

“Did you say anything to Julia?"

"No,” Tom assures me, “We thought it best to hold our suspicions until we had them confirmed. What the devil is going on here?”

“I promised Noah as he lay dying that I would do all in my power to ensure Julia did not lose the baby she carries." During their short marriage, she has lost three, never carrying any of them to term. “Pretending to be my brother seemed the best way to go about it. I need to know how you deduced the truth. If Julia suspects ….”

“Have you lost your mind?” Tom bellows.

“Lower your voice,” I ground out. I do not need the servants to overhear.

“Do you truly believe that you can fool Julia into believing you’re Noah?"

I have been doing it for a little over a week already. Have convinced everyone: the servants, the priest, the few mourners, Julia. But not these two, and that is a problem. I spin around. “Noah gave me no choice if I am to honor his request.”

“Surely she is far enough along now that she is past the point of a possible miscarriage,” Zac says, standing shoulder-to-shoulder beside Tom, as though together they will be better able to convince me of my foolhardiness, as though I am not already perfectly aware of it.

I glower at him, “Can you promise me that? Can you guarantee it? You know how much she loves him, how much he loved her. If she learns that he was the one killed, will she not crumble? Will she not make herself ill with grief?"

In answer, with a heavy sigh, Zac moves off to the sideboard, grabs the decanter, and pours himself more,scotch. Although I know I have made my point, I take little satisfaction in it.

“Do you have any idea what this deception will do to Julia, how she will feel when she learns the truth?” Tom asks.

It is all I had thought about as I trudged through the jungle with my brother’s body in tow, as I sailed across the blue waters toward our home county, as I rode in the wagon that transported the wooden box that held the Alpha of Greystorm. “She’ll think worse of me than she already does. I expect she’ll attack me with the handiest object that can inflict a mortal wound. And she’ll be devastated, her heart will be crushed, and her life will go dark.”

“Which is the very reason you must tell her now before you take this deception any further.”

"No," I simply say.

“Then I bloody well will,” Tom says, heading for the door.