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Wyatt drove his late-model Cadillac with a full complement of five. In the front seat beside him, Mrs. Whitson sat the slightest bit stiffly, her clothes decked out in Sunday finery despite it being only Saturday. All of us were well-dressed, including my wearing the official Company Uniform, right down to the whitest and most starched collar that I had in my meager collection. The back seat was roomy enough that Leif, Fletcher, and I sat comfortably. I had my arm unashamedly around the young wolf's shoulders, my other forepaw in his, and I felt him shaking with fear and uncertainty. I wasn't sure about anything myself; I was grateful for the support of the others, and whatever else might happen this day, I knew that they would never desert me.

When I called Wyatt that Thursday around noon, I was looking for emotional support after a disturbing phone call. What I got in its stead was Leif picking me up in his comfortably sporty Prius, gathering his Master from the library, and the three of us having a particularly good lunch in a very private booth at the back of a small sports pub that they frequented. I was just as glad to be casually dressed, as I've no idea what they might have thought of a vicar visiting what was known to be a perfectly respectable bar whose clientele was primarily gay. We were served by a kindly lioness about my age named Stella, who had visited me with her wife for some marital counseling a year or so ago. She discreetly referred to me as "Graham" and did her best to keep the tables around us empty to prevent our conversation from being overheard.

It took two tries for me to get Wyatt to stop referring to the Archdeacon in highly pejorative terms, as I explained that the buck was, for all I knew, a fine and fair male who had to answer the claims made by my deacon, Thomas. At that point, all of the pejoratives and expletives were made toward Thomas, and in my current mood, I was loathe to correct him.

"What does it boil down to?" Leif had asked.

"It's a bloody fekkin' witch hunt," the black Irish wolfhound growled, not raising his voice too much yet letting every word have its impact in the quiet space.

The young leopard raised an eye at his lover. "Am I to disappear under the table and calm you down more directly, my Master?"

Wyatt snorted. "Stella would know where ye went an' start sellin' tickets." He leaned over to give the cat a tender kiss. "Thanks fer yer sacrifice," he grinned.

"I live to serve," Leif teased, a brief purr assuring us all that the comment wasn't entirely untrue. "Now, Graham. Let's have the worst."

I outlined the call again, then observed, "We're back to being called into the principal's office. If there were any charges of lawbreaking, I'd have been arrested by now. Thad assures me that they can't take Fletcher away for anything short of such charges; if they arrest me, Mrs. Whitson has charge of him, and I suspect you two would be on paw to help." They nodded, and I continued. "You probably know that the church has a horrible history of abuse of yowens by clergy. For good or ill, it has always been dealt with -- badly -- within the hierarchy of the church. Only recently has it been brought up as a civil matter, again for good or ill. As you say, Wyatt, it can be a witch hunt, as well as a means to get money out of the churches. The cases that are genuine should be dealt with properly, of course; however, the circumstances for abusing the legalities are no less terrifying."

"Where does that leave you?"

"There is no proof of any kind that I have molested Fletcher in any way; that's why the complaint went to the Archdeacon rather than the police. The authorities can't act without direct proof, usually in the form of the minor making accusations and his parents backing it up with some behavioral evidence or observations. Anyone observing Fletcher, including the social worker, Esperanza Mercier, would say that he shows signs of excellent physical and mental health, in all ways. At this point, at least, I'm more worried about what the Archdeacon is going to want to do."

"How does the church deal with these things?" Leif asked. "Is there some standard, set by a higher authority or something?"

"In most cases, it's entirely up to the church authorities. If the Archdeacon decides that the charges are valid, I could be defrocked or, more likely, quietly transferred away to another parish far away from here."

"And Fletcher?"

"I'd likely be coerced into dropping the adoption process, and the court will probably award custody to the wolf's biological sire, unless it can be proven to the authorities that he abused the pup."

Wyatt stared, dumfoonert. "He's th' bastard who--"

"Fletcher ran away from home, and I've been worried sick, he'd say. No matter what Fletcher said, the court will take the word of that..." I cut off before I echoed too many of the black Irish's earlier epithets. "I would rather take defrocking and keep fighting for adoption, although the act of being banned from the priesthood would probably ruin my chances for being granted adoption." I pinched the bridge of my nose in hope of stopping myself from crying. "The Archdeacon holds at least two lives in his paws. I can only hope that he's fully aware of it."

* * * * * * * * * *

Wyatt and Leif got me back to the vicarage in time to greet Fletcher when he got home. Knowing it was Thursday, and that Mrs. Whitson would not be there, he arrived enthusiastically and, finding me in the kitchen, provided me with a kiss that described his absolute delight with his first day at school. He prattled on about his new classes, his new textbooks that were downloaded into a school-issued tablet for his use, and how part of the day was spent making sure that all the students understood how to use the devices, how to bookmark and highlight, even how to take notes on it, if the student chose. He was introduced to new teachers, some new students, even a few who he remembered from fourth grade and who were surprised but glad to see him. It was wonderful to see him so happy, and I did all that I could to keep him in that mood all evening long. He insisted on cooking supper for us, from Mrs. Whitson's fine leftovers, and then said he ought to do a bit of studying before bed, just to keep on top of things. He sat on the living room couch, reading his new tablet, while I sat in my study nearby, pretending to write a homily for Sunday, assuming that I'd actually be there to deliver it. Works by Mozart played softly through the rooms, partly in deference to research that found beneficial results to studying with the composer's music playing in the background, and partly in hope that it would calm me enough to know just what to do about the upcoming meeting, and how to tell Fletcher about it.

When bedtime came, we had stripped to the fur for some proper cuddling. I wasn't sure if I would be in the mood for Fletcher's more intimate attentions but, as he had before, he surprised me. He held me close, gave me a long and lingering kiss, then looked into my eyes and asked softly, "What is it, Graham?"

I spent precisely 2.3 seconds trying to deny it, then I gave him a wan smile, petting his headfur tenderly. "I love you, Fletcher. Thank you for... well, everything."

He gave me another, brief kiss. "I felt it all evening. Tell me what it is. Like you showed me, this is what lovers do."

"No secrets," I nodded to him. Taking in a bushel full of air, I exhaled slowly and told him everything, including the conversation with Wyatt and Leif. At the end of it, I said, "The Archdeacon suggested that I tell you it's just part of the adoption process, like meeting your adoptive sire's boss. He didn't suggest that I lie to you, my lovely wolf; I think he feels that you would be better off not being worried by it, as if you couldn't really know what was happening." I held his head gently, brushing a thumb pad across his cheek. "I thought doing that might be the same as keeping a secret from you, and we promised each other that we wouldn't hide, even if it hurts."

"It's hurting you, and I don't want you to hurt. If you have to hurt, I don't want you to hurt alone." He offered me another kiss, then settled a little into my embrace. "Got to be a way," he said quietly. "Got to be a way to stay together. We'll find it. I won't lose you now."

"No." I gripped him tighter. "No, you won't. And nothing will happen Saturday that would separate us. I won't let it. And neither will Wyatt and Leif. They want to drive us to the cathedral, to be nearby when we talk with the Archdeacon." I managed a weak laugh. "At the worst, we'll make a break for it."

My wolf didn't think it all that funny, and I just held him for a while longer, petting the soft fur of his back. At last, he asked, "Why is Deacon Thomas trying to hurt us?"

Considering for just a moment, I said, "I don't think that's what he's trying to do. He's not a bad furson, and I've not known him to be cruel. I think that he's trying to do what he thinks is right. He just doesn't understand, and he feels that this is the right thing for him to do."

Another little stretch of time passed before Fletcher said, "How can doing the right thing hurt someone? Shouldn't we try to not hurt others? Doesn't the rulebook say anything about that?"

I shifted a little so that I could look into his eyes again. "My beautiful wolf, I'm going to tell you something about the rulebook that will probably make you want to go look up the word 'heretic' for a definition. The bible, on which Christian faith is based, is a compendium of contradiction and misinformation. You can find passages that would approve of what Axel did to you, that would even approve of what happened to you in Othertime. You can find words that appear to demand death as a punishment for pawing off, or that it's all right for sires to impregnate their own daughters, or that anyone who doesn't believe as you do -- if they don't believe every word of the rulebook literally -- they should be put to death. There are horrible, grotesque things that happen in a book that some believe is the immutable, absolute, literal word of God.

"But there are other things, too. Like the passage I read about love, from First Corinthians. There are words to guide you to love your neighbor as yourself, words to lead you to work at seeing the beauty of this world instead of its ugliness. First Thessalonians speaks of not repaying evil with evil, but instead always seeking to do good for one another, for everyone. That's more of that 'turn the other cheek' idea, where we don't repay the evil of being slapped with the evil of slapping back." I smiled a little. "I agree with Wyatt: I want to smack the blighter into next week!"

Fletcher laughed a little at that one, then his ears splayed. "Do you mean that Deacon Thomas thinks he's doing good toward us?"

I nodded. "Toward you, at least. He probably feels that he's helping you."

"He's not."

"I don't think so, no."

"And I can't tell him."

"No. He's a good furson, but I think his mind is made up. That's why he went to the Archdeacon."

"And now I have to go to the Archdeacon."

"We both do." I licked his muzzle tenderly. "Together."

He returned the lick. "Together." After a moment, he nodded. "Okay. As long as we're together."

"Count on it." I hugged him close. "Are you going to be okay at school tomorrow?"

"No," he whispered. "But I'm going to be adult about it."

"How so?"

"I'm gonna fake it."

* * * * * * * * * *

"Grand, isn't it?"

Mrs. Whitson's voice, as she beheld our destination, held a note just this side of cynical. The red panda had made no bones about where she stood on the question being put to the Archdeacon, and neither would she hear of us going through it without her. She seemed of have sensed something when she brought us our morning tea on Friday. Fletcher and I were dressed in our t-shirts and gym shorts, as we were when we expected her arrival; the look in her eyes, however, told me that she had known something was different. As I woke that morning, it was with a start, and my wolf had flinched, pressing back against me. We didn't wait for breakfast before telling her the gist of what was happening. With her usual efficiency, she fixed us breakfast, got Fletcher off to school, me to my morning service, and the rest of the story waited until I was done tending my Friday few. She made her commitment clear then and there, and not even the "fighting Irish" dared to tell her no.

"Betwixt thee an' me," Wyatt told me privately, "I'd nae wanna be in th' Archdeacon's place wi' that lass starin' me down."

The wolfhound steered the Cadillac slowly through the great arc of the wide drive in front of the cathedral proper, then turned right at the entrance to the main parking lot. I'd explained where the Archdeacon's office was, with its entrance at the rear of the building, and he found it readily enough. Fletcher shook in my embrace, not quite visibly, and it hurt my heart soundly to feel it. I took more chance than I should have, turning his muzzle toward mine, kissing his lips firmly but chastely -- perhaps more than a sire should show his pup, but within the bounds of a kiss of peace shared by the higher-ups of the church. He whimpered softly, broke the kiss at the same time that I did, and took a few deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the maw. Leif looked on approvingly.

Wyatt parked in an appropriate spot (hardly an issue, since the lot was otherwise empty), shut off the engine, and turned to look at us all. "So," he said mildly, "what's th' plan fer this shindig?"

I had the feeling that Fletcher would want to look up the word when he got home. "The Archdeacon is expecting two," I said. "He even suggested that we meet today since his private secretary wouldn't be here. I think he really does intend for it to be a chance for him to meet Fletcher, not some sort of inquisition, Spanish or otherwise." I had to smile, since I'd cut Leif off before he could make the quote from the famous comedy sketch. I looked around the grounds. "It's a warm afternoon, and properly, you could wait inside the sanctuary, where it's cool. If any of the other priests or deacons are around, just tell them the truth. They won't turn you out."

"Was that some gardens I noticed, over to the side?" Leif asked.

"Yes. It's a contemplative garden, with benches underneath small arbors and trees. Well-kept. Might be comfortable, if there's a bit of breeze in the air."

"Good to see that the diocese's money is well-spent," the firefox noted with an edge in her voice. I didn't want to argue with her, for any number of reasons, not the least of which being that I'd probably lose the argument. She looked to Fletcher and smiled softly. "The Secret Cook's Society is planning a ziti bake for tonight's supper, and I'll need the help."

The young wolf smiled back at her, a bit of his confidence coming back. "Can't disappoint the Society." He leaned forward and proffered a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Ri' then, laddiebuck," the black Irish intoned confidently. "We'll be within a shout, fer any reason. Ne'er wrestled wi' an Archdeacon, but I'll nae be stopped because o' that."

"Double," said the leopard.

"Triple," our firefox added.

Fletcher managed a nervous bark of laughter, nodded once. "Okay." He looked at me, conveying so much love and trust that I thought my heart might burst. "Let's go meet your boss."

"Just the General Manager," I smiled. "My real Boss knows you well already."

* * * * * * * * * *

We didn't have to look very far to find the Archdeacon; the mule deer buck was at his desk in his office, reading a book whose title I didn't see. He looked up when he heard our approach, his dark eyes fixing on us, a smile on his pointed muzzle. "Graham," he nearly bellowed as he rose, filling the air between us with a largely genuine bonhomie. "Thank you for coming to see me."

He offered me a forepaw to shake, firmly but gently, then turned toward the yowen standing with me. It was in that moment that I realized Fletcher meant all the world to me, and I was just on the edge of not caring who knew it. I smiled as easily as I could make myself, and made the introduction. "Archdeacon Valenti, allow me to present Fletcher McCombs."

"How do you do, sir?" The wolf put forth a forepaw, which the buck took as he had taken mine.

"I'm well, young wolf. May I call you Fletcher?"

"As you wish, sir."

The Archdeacon leaned forward a little conspiratorially. "I'd be pleased if you'd call me Bernard, at least when no one else is listening in. It's easier to say than 'Archdeacon' and, honestly, it lifts some weight off me." His soft chuckle wasn't forced or insincere, if I were being honest with myself; I was looking for anything that might signal trouble, even though I truly had no idea what that would look like.

"Come now," he said, indicating a small cluster of chairs around a low, empty table, "let's sit down and chat a bit. I was teasing your foster sire that I wanted to meet his charge as would any boss whose employee welcomed a new member of the family." The venerable took a low-backed chair that made room for his ample antlers which, I noted, were about to lose their velvet from this year's growth. "I've heard a lot about you, Fletcher, and I was curious to meet you. I understand you've started school already."

The wolf confirmed this easily enough, spoke of his new teachers briefly. The buck said that he'd heard good things about the pup's entry into seventh grade, despite his being "detained," as he put it with somewhat forced discretion. Fletcher took the word in stride, his left ear flicking briefly in the "tell" that I'd come to know about him. He complimented his tutors from elementary, managed to drop in the fact that all three had offered letters of support for my adoption petition.

"I understand that you've gotten several of those," Bernard observed, shifting his gaze toward me.

"Thaddeus Whitlock is keeping them for filing with the court," I said evenly.

"As well he should. Educators are always good references for adoption proceedings. You've likewise had good reports from the DCS counselor, the physician who looked after Fletcher, and I expect you're likely to get more letters from members of your flock." He looked again to the young wolf, his eyes taking on an odd glint that I was suspicious of as much as I was hopeful about. "Fletcher, you're a fine yowen, and I'm glad to have a little time to know how you had managed to capture Graham's heart so fully."

Clever sod, I allowed myself to think; the wording was ambiguous enough to have thrown just about anyone, and I wondered if the buck had ever harbored a desire to be a trial lawyer. Thad Whitlock might have objected on the grounds of leading the witness. Happily, Fletcher himself had worried about a question like this one, and he asked me what he should say. I didn't coach him, despite the desire to; he worked it out on his own.

"Bernard," he said, still trying out the name on his tongue, "Graham saved my life. I guess you'd come to love anyone who rescued you, but it's more than that. He's helped me in so many ways, more I think than my own birth sire had done." He took a breath and a chance. "My sire and dam were Axel and Dana McCombs. My dam died several years ago. I call my birth sire Axel, when I refer to him, because I... well, Graham has been more sire to me than Axel ever was. He gave me back my life, sir. I'm not exaggerating."

Slowly, the Archdeacon nodded. "Some of your story has filtered through to me, Fletcher. I don't wish to hurt you with memories. If you want to share some of it with me, however..."

The young wolf nodded. "I thought you might want to know, sir. I've been able to remember a lot of it. Stop me if it's too much."

As I listened to things I already knew, I watched the buck become dumb with horror as the story of Fletcher's sale and sexual servitude unfolded. He stared open-mawed at the wolf's slow, dispassionate retelling of memories anyone would want to forget, until he finally raised a forepaw to stop anything further. His breath shuddered as he closed his eyes, tears escaping his eyes perhaps despite himself. He gathered up his thoughts, looked at me with genuine pain, then back at Fletcher.

"You are..." he began, stopping as if his mind had rejected the ability to finish whatever thoughts might have been there. "Fletcher, I..." Once more, he pulled himself together. "No fur should have to go through... and you have been able to... recover, if that's the right word..."

"Perhaps, sir," the wolf allowed.

A long moment passed as the buck considered us both. "I would not have imagined such horrors would happen here, if anywhere at all. I know how stupid this question must sound... You seem to be whole now; are you all right?"

"I am, thanks to Graham, sir." The wolf looked over at me and, surprising me, took my forepaw in his own and squeezed it. "He found me, took me in, gave me safety, warmth, food, and time to find myself again. It's been more than five months. Graham truly has been my sire. He helped me learn and grow, find friends, find my own mind." He paused, and I felt his paw shaking in mine. "Bernard... Graham has helped me to understand something very important: The distinction between what is private and what is secret. Graham and I are working not to have secrets." He looked the buck directly in his eyes. "I know that Deacon Thomas has said something to you. A complaint, I think."

The venerable had the decency to look abashed. "Yes, Fletcher."

"Sir, are you allowed to tell me what it's about?"

"I hope you'll take it as a compliment when I say that I expect that you may already know."

The wolf nodded a little, then stood to get a little closer to me. He kissed me chastely on the cheek, then looked back at the buck. "I did that, at the picnic last Saturday. We had tried running the three-legged race, and we fell on our tails. And we laughed, because we were all right, and because we were having fun at the picnic, and I kissed my sire on his cheek, because I love him. And he skritched my headfur, because he knows I like it. We did those things because we love each other, and because we were happy. And we're here before you because Deacon Thomas doesn't think it's right." He returned to his seat, still holding my forepaw, and looked back at the Archdeacon, waiting.

Taking a few moments, the buck breathed evenly. "Officially," he began softly, "the deacon has raised a question about how you are being raised. His primary objection appears to be that you are not receiving what he feels is a proper indoctrination into the Anglican faith." His jaw set a bit more solidly. "I worry about the word 'indoctrination' in such a context, but it is one that is often used. I gather from the deacon that he believes that a 'proper' yowen, raised with the tenets of the church, would not be so open in his displays of affection. The underlying implication, as regards Graham, is the he is being inappropriate with you. After what you have been through, young wolf, I think that you would have a much clearer understanding of that concept than any of us."

"Do you think Graham would hurt me? Especially... like that?"

The buck shook his head slowly.

"Archdeacon... I do have a question about this, about the church. I've asked Graham questions, about the church, about religion, and we've talked about a lot of things. Graham has tried to explain that Deacon Thomas probably thinks he's doing the right thing, doing right by me. I guess what I don't understand is... if God is love, why is it wrong to show someone love?"

Bit by bit, a smile spread across the buck's muzzle. "You have struck upon a fundamental hypocrisy in the way some people view faith, my good young wolf. I know the story about how Graham found you. How would you describe what he did? Would you call it an act of love?"

"Yes, sir."

"And so it is... yet we hide behind so many other words than that one. An act of faith, or of charity, or of rescue, or of concern for another, or perhaps even of healing. So many of us seem to be afraid of the word 'love'. Why do you suppose that is?"

Fletcher's ears splayed slightly. "I don't know."

"Nor do I, and I suspect Graham doesn't either." He looked at me as I shook my head, then continued. "It's not just the word that frightens people, it seems. You've a very good vocabulary, Fletcher; do you know the word 'empathy'?"

"Yes, sir. I don't know an exact definition, but it's... when you can feel the same way that another person feels. When you can feel their pain, or happiness, and so on. Share it."

The buck nodded. "Perfectly serviceable description. When you feel empathy for someone, you are letting your love through... but we're afraid to call it that. Often, we're afraid to act on it, and I don't think any of us could really say why. We're afraid to show our empathy, our caring, our love. You have told me that you love Graham, and you have bestowed a simple, beautiful kiss to him, and you're still holding his paw in yours. You aren't afraid to _show_that you love him. Why is that, Fletcher?"

Left ear twitching a little, the pup hesitated. I squeezed his paw gently, smiled at him, knowing that I could. "He... made it safe for me to show him. He is my sire, or... I mean, I think of him as my sire. Axel... I never felt like I could hug him or kiss him. Graham made it safe for me to feel... well, just that, made it safe for me to feel. I can love him. I can show my sire that I love him." He looked back at me, daring something of his beautiful smile to me. "He told me about prayer, that it's like gathering up your thoughts and feelings so that you can talk to God. And God knows how much I love him, and that I'm really lucky to have a sire like him." He looked into my eyes, squeezing my paw. "Thank you, God."

"Yes," I said. "Thank you, God."

"Amen." The Archdeacon rose, and Fletcher and I got to our hindpaws again. In some ways, I was surprised to see such a big smile on the buck's muzzle. "Fletcher, I am of the opinion that Graham is being an excellent sire for you. I shall see to sending your lawyer a letter of my own; it will be an occasion where I welcome all my titles, as they may have further weight with the court. You, my good wolf, are the finest young male I've met in a long time. I'm very glad that we met." He thrust out his forepaw again, and Fletcher took it firmly. "I understand you've been practicing your basketball."

"Do you shoot hoops?" the pup asked encouragingly.

"I'm terrible at any sport where my antlers might get in the way," the deer grinned, "but I'm pretty good at table tennis and badminton. Do you know how to play?"

"No, sir," the yowen grinned. "Would you teach me?"

"Done and done."

The three of us laughed with far greater ease than when we'd begun the meeting. I was happily surprised when the buck asked us for permission to hug, which we readily granted. "Don't worry about Thomas," he said softly to us. "I'll tell him that I'm satisfied with the result of our meeting."

We all looked toward the front room of his offices when we heard the door open. "I think perhaps Wyatt might have wondered what happened to us..."

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Archdeacon." The voice from the other room had a certain crispness that was somehow familiar to me. "I came in to check on some preparations for the Great Hall tomorrow afternoon..."

Through the open door, the furson I assumed to be Bernard's secretary strode in with a certain arrogant self-confidence that fit precisely with my mental image of him created upon hearing his voice on the phone a few days ago. He was a black-marbled feline a bit shorter than myself, about my age, dressed in clothes so crisp they might actually have hurt. He looked at the three of us coldly, as if he were testing new eyes, deferential only to the Archdeacon, and even then, it was with a faint scent of condescension. Everything about him set my fur bristling, and I did my best to keep it from showing.

"Quite all right, Arthur, let me introduce you to--"

"HIM!"_Fletcher shrieked suddenly. The cat looked to the wolf, a slight frown on his face. _"Graham, him, him, Othermaster, HIM...!"

Instinct more than sense made me move to grab him. I got part of a shirt sleeve before a sheaf of papers flew into my face, followed by raking claws against my arm, and the cat had bolted out of the office. My own screams combined with Fletcher's as I gave chase as quickly as I could.

He was fast, hindpaws thumping harshly against the wood floors of the office. I couldn't get close enough to grab onto his closely-fitting clothing again, and his tail flailed so wildly that I couldn't catch him that way either. My wolf's voice continued to scream in terror somewhere behind me, and I began barking out cries for Wyatt and Leif, hoping that they'd be somewhere nearby. Although there was access to the sanctuary somewhere in there, the cat headed to the parking lot where, as I burst through the doors, he ran to a small hard-topped car with all its windows open. Quick and agile, he had the driver's side door open and threw himself inside in almost a single motion. By the time I caught up to him, he had managed to get his key into the ignition. I reached in, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and a pawful of button-down shirt front. I felt claws at my face, and I screamed, but I wouldn't let go. I'd told Fletcher that I wasn't a violent dog, but I had particular reason to want this feline's pelt nailed to my wall.

I heard the engine start up, and I grabbed tighter, trying to pull him out of the car by brute force. I was dimly aware of Leif and Wyatt running up toward the car from the nearby gardens. All I could hear was the snarling of the cat and the snarling engine of his car, feeling him backing up quickly, the claws of my hindpaws trying to gain purchase on the cement, my tarsal pads scraping roughly against the hot surface, my forepaws moving up to try choking him into submission. The car jerked to a stop in his backward momentum, and I was thrown to the ground not far from it. Some instinct made me roll away from the vehicle as it started moving forward at high speed. License plate, I thought stupidly; Fletcher had identified him, the Archdeacon knew him, we wouldn't lose the bastardly feline now.

The sound of shattering glass, screeching brakes, noises I couldn't quite understand. I sat up, got shakily to my hindpaws as I tried to comprehend what I was seeing. The car engine had stalled, and brake lights showed why it had come to a stop. I saw Leif's long hind legs protruding from the passenger side open windows, and Wyatt had been far more successful than I at pulling the cat out of the driver's seat. Throwing him neatly to the ground, the black Irish showed incredible restraint as he merely kept the feline pinned there. I finally understood that Leif had managed to stop the car by using one forepaw on the brake, the other to put the gearshift into Park. What I couldn't understand was the shattered front windshield, actually pushed in on the driver's side.

Fletcher pelted up to me, wrapping his arms around me as I gripped him tightly. The Archdeacon was on his cell phone, talking to an emergency operator to send police and an ambulance; I wasn't sure at the time who had been hurt. I soothed the wolf as best I could, knowing that he would be all right eventually; the shock and fear would have been enough to flatten any of us, and I didn't begrudge his worry one bit.

Mrs. Whitson came strolling calmly up toward us, carrying something in one forepaw that put me in mind of last week's picnic, and I felt my muzzle break into a huge grin. Padding up to the cathedral's incumbent, she put out an unencumbered forepaw and introduced herself. "I must tell you, Archdeacon," she said in all her best composure, "I was quite amused to see that you have installed a horseshoe pitch in your gardens."