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Summer came and went, and with it another successful and unbelievably enjoyable and fulfilling FPLA charity event. They had raised more money, and had more guests than any previous year. Arden had more responsibility and visibility on the steering committee at David's insistence, and during the event itself, he had the pleasure of announcing through the night. And though it was disappointing that the event was still needed at all, Arden felt immense pride being involved with such a good cause. Even Tim seemed to grudgingly tolerate his contribution. Life was looking up.

Before he knew it, Arden was working with David on yet another act for Halloween week at the Château. Arden had learned that David was a close friend of one of the Château executives, and it was through him that the fox got his coveted bookings. And though he seemed to be having a particularly hard time with his energy lately, the fennec still appeared to come alive when working on his act. Alison was back, as well as the twins, and life felt good as they whiled away the days creating and laughing and living.

While Arden had never had more than a couple of terse sentences from the man, there must have been something redeemable about David's father, because in an unexpected show of magnanimity, the normally sour vulpine offered to rent a non-sentient lion (because that was something you could do in Howlywood, apparently) for the weekend Château performances, so his son could perform the big and impressive "Lion's Bride" illusion, where Alison, the Prairie Bitch herself, would be thrown into a cage, to immediately disappear and magically transform into said lion, never to return! Until the next of three performances each night, of course. The only thing David said about it was, "I wish we could have gotten a tiger!"

Opening night, Arden noticed with some concern that David seemed to be having more trouble than usual. He seemed unfocused, and couldn't remember the order of the show. The wolf wrote out the order of the illusions on a cue card, and posted it on the back of the proscenium arch, so everyone on stage could see what came next. It helped. David had stumbled through dress rehearsal, but seemed to rally at the first performance, even going so far as to humorously ad-lib a bit with a stray balloon, which happened to be filled with the perfect amount of helium so as to seem to be levitating about the stage. His deep-set, unblinking, kohl-penciled eyes stared at the colorful interloper, as he willed it to move with sweeping arm gestures. It was hilarious. The audience loved it.

And so it went, night after night until mid-week. Arden could never say that the pure magic element of the show was all that mystifying, there had certainly been 'better' magicians who had played the Château. But he had to admit that there was something about the fennec that connected with the audience. Maybe it was the magic of Halloween. It was more about that connection, and the performance overall, than the individual illusions. David was happy, the audience was happy, so Arden was happy. Watching from the wings during each performance, however, he could see the toll performing took on the frail fox.

One of the highlights of the show was a piece in which David brought an unsuspecting female audience member up on stage with him, and proceeded to pierce his arm with a huge, frightening needle, with copious amounts of blood streaming down his arm in direct contradiction of his assurances that he was "a trained professional." The audience member would scream and wince, the audience would whoop and laugh, and it became one of the highlights of the evening.

Until Wednesday night, when a sheepish-looking dog came to the greenroom looking for Arden. "Can you come with me a minute? I need to talk to you about something."

Peter Pitbull was Château royalty. He had been performing longer than Arden had been alive. He had invented illusions that were classics of the craft, performed by furs around the world. He was highly placed on the Château board of directors. And yet, here he was, hat in hand, furtively requesting an audience with Arden, a wolf who Peter himself had denied membership to the Château the first time he auditioned. Arden did not care for him. So why was he here?

Following him out to the bar, Arden took a seat. Even on the high stools, Peter had to look up at the wolf.

"What do you need Peter?" He decided the direct route would be the best approach.

"Well, um." The canine looked everywhere but directly at Arden, which put the lupine on edge. "So. There's been some concern about one of the tricks in David's act."

"And why would be you be telling me, rather than talking to David? Is he flashing a prop, or something?"

Peter's stub tail, which had been nervously twitching, stood deadly still, and his drooping ears, which never stood tall, fell even lower. "Um. No. Nothing like that. It's the needle through arm trick. It's not working."

Now, it could be fairly said that Arden was a rather harsh critic, especially of magic. He knew a lot about it, had studied it since he was a kid, and knew a lot about performance and presentation; it was his major in college, after all. He knew when a trick worked, when it didn't, and usually what could be done to make it better. As such, he could state with confidence, "It's the best routine in the act, Peter. The audience loves it. I've watched it from all angles, and it's fine."

"Well, no see. Um. It's. The blood."

"It's Halloween, Peter," Arden chuckled, "we've used blood before, and again, the audience loves it. Did David get some on the stage? I'm sorry about that. If so, we can put down a drop cloth before the act." The wolf was beginning to feel his fur prickle again.

It is difficult to describe a fur's face when the blood drains from it. Fur being the excellent cover that it is, it's usually difficult to actually see such a thing. Usually. For short-hair breeds like Peter, though, and one with white fur to boot, it was more than noticeable...it was impossible to miss.

"Well, no. It's just. They don't want him doing it because of...the blood." As his voice trailed off, the dog looked like he was going to bolt any minute. He smelled of fear. "David has to cut it."

And suddenly, it dawned on Arden what was going on, and in that moment, several things occurred within him, almost simultaneously. First, he was shocked. Then he was angry. And then, over all of that, came a deadly calm; the calm of the righteous; the calm of the just. Everything about this situation screamed to him that this was wrong! Maybe he really had connected with his ancestors. To his subconscious mind, one of his pack was being threatened, and he was having none of it.

Arden knew what he had to do; what he had promised his friend he would do. He would support him. He would stand by him. And he would fight for him.

"You're not serious, Peter, are you?" Arden intoned evenly, boring into the hapless dog on the barstool next to him with his cerulean eyes.

The dog squirmed. "It's just-"

"Who are this 'they,' Peter? Who sent you? Tell me Peter, or I'm going to get up right now."

Peter looked up with genuine sorrow in his eyes, and in that moment, Arden realized something else: Peter no more wanted to be here than he did.

Peter cleared his throat. "Ryan."

Ryan Walsh. The fat, ancient Irish setter who just so happened to be the current president of the Château board. Supposedly a talented performer in his own right, he'd certainly been at it for enough years.

"So he has the temerity to be homophobic, but doesn't have enough strength of his convictions to come and be his own errand boy, huh Peter? And you of all people went along with it? Shall we go and have a conversation about you with him too?"

It was a low blow, and Arden knew it. And in the moment it felt perfectly justified. Peter's expression darkened, but he said nothing.

"Tell me, Peter. How is it that we can have a president of a supposed world-class magic academy who doesn't know that the needle through arm uses goddamned FAKE BLOOD? YOU CAN'T GET FIDS FROM FAKE BLOOD!" Arden's voice went from a bellowing bark to a deadly growl, and for the second time in just about as many months, his hackles rose, his lip curling menacingly. Sometimes being a wolf had its perks.

Peter started to interject. "N-Now-"

"No Peter. No. I've heard enough. We're not cutting the piece. Here is what's going to happen. I am going to tell David that the laughs are inconsistent for this bit, and that we need to punch it up. As such, I will suggest we use a plant each night. I have somebody in mind. David won't like it, but he will believe me, and follow my direction, and I am going to lie to save his feelings. He loves this place, Peter, though I'm beginning to question why. I sometimes think it's the only thing keeping him alive. And I am not going to be the one to reveal the illusion to him, because it may literally kill him to see what's actually behind the curtain here. You go back and tell that damned bitch that if that isn't good enough for him, he can damn well talk to David about it himself. And we both know the homophobic asshole won't do that because he's too afraid he'll "catch the gay," right? And Peter, I better not see him anywhere near David or the rest of our crew for that matter, because I will make a scene in front of the whole damned club, and let everybody know who and what he really is. Are we clear?"

Peter looked like he might actually cry, and the acrid smell coming off of him made Arden's nose further wrinkle in disgust. "Yes. Fine. Yes. OK." His stub tail, Arden imagined, was so far between his legs, he might actually look like a male at this point.

Jenny was only too happy to come to the rescue for the rest of the run, and the slinky pine marten looked fantastic in her Hellvira costume, easily transforming her into the curvy, campy flying fox. The audience loved her squeamish reactions, and though he worried that David might not believe the ruse, by the end of the week, Arden was comfortable that not only had he pulled off the charade so his friend was none the wiser, but that it did, in fact, make the bit funnier. Win-win, right?

Except... Arden sat in the green room on Saturday night listening to the rented lion cub (adolescent, technically, and you know how dramatic they are) cry and moan from backstage in his crate, waiting for his moment in the spotlight. Replaying the confrontation with Peter over and over in his mind, the wolf thought the yowling of the cat perfectly mirrored the imagined sound of his own internal monologue, though certainly for completely different reasons. The cat could probably smell the food in the green room. Arden wanted to throw his head back and howl in frustration and shame. The lupine knew that his anger toward Peter had been somewhat misplaced. He knew he had overreacted a bit. But he also knew that when someone threatened someone he cared about, it made him as close to feral as he could ever be.

And all it had taken to rectify the situation was another lie. Why not? After the first one, they become easier, right? Slippery slope and all that? And good intentions, and the path to Hell...

Sunday night, Arden knocked on the dressing room door.

"Come in," Peter called from inside. His eyes flew open at the sight of the imposing black wolf.

"Hey Peter," Arden said calmly, trying to be as non-threatening as possible, paws behind his back at parade rest. "I just wanted to have a brief word, if we could. I know you have to get ready for your act, but we've still got about half an hour."

"OK." Peter said, eyes never leaving Arden's gaze.

"So. Look. I wanted to apologize. I realize you were in a terrible position, and I will always hate Ryan for what he did - to David as well as to you, and for putting me in such a situation. I have no respect for him at all. But I do want to say that I have respect for you. I know you had to go back to him, and I don't know what you had to tell him, and frankly I don't care. But I wanted to thank you for listening to me, and for making sure David's time here remains a good memory."

Peter's body relaxed from tension he hadn't realized he was holding. "Oh. Yeah. Well. Yeah, I'm sorry too for everything."

"Also, I wanted to say that I said something terrible to you in my anger. I want you to know that I would never, ever, say or insinuate anything to anyone about your personal business, whatever that may be. It was way over the line, and I apologize."

Peter looked away uncomfortably.

Arden slowly moved one paw from behind his back, and in it he held out an elegantly wrapped box to the dog. "I got you a closing-night gift. It's some special candy I think you'll like."

Peter looked quizzically at the wolf. "Well, thanks. But, um. I'm uh. Diabetic."

Arden smiled. "Oh. I know. I asked around, and found out you love candy, even though you can't usually eat it. These are the best sugar-free artisan candies I could find locally. I've got some expert advisors who assure me these are some of the best. I hope they're as good as advertised."

Once again, Peter looked like he might cry. "I don't know what to say. Thank you. Thank you very much."

Arden extended his paw, and shook the older man's. "You're welcome Peter. Have a good show."

...But like they also say, all good things must come to an end. That would prove to be truer than Arden could ever have imagined.