The Crescent Heir
Jabari straightened his jacket, and turned to face Deimon.
Neither man spoke.
The fire in the hearth breathed quietly behind them. The disco ball turned overhead, scattering small golden lights across the walls in slow, indifferent circles — unbothered by everything that had just happened.
Then Deimon exhaled — sharp, shaking at the edges — and dragged one hand slowly down his face.
"What gave that child the—" He stopped. Ground his teeth together so hard the muscle in his jaw jumped. "How old is he, anyway?"
"A were-Coyote, Master Ashworth." Jabari's voice came measured, careful. "Their understanding of etiquette and boundaries is... not what most would call reasonable."