Oscar sniffed the air, but the stranger was downwind. So he listened. Just one person, judging from the near-silent footfalls that pierced through the wall of fog. Moving with a predator’s ease that made Oscar's instincts rise to the forefront. Oscar palmed his fighting knives as the male’s scent hit him—unwashed, but with a hint of pine and snow. And then he smelled Pierre on the stranger, the scent complex and layered, woven into the male himself. The male emerged from the fog; tall—maybe taller than Oscar himself, if only by an inch—powerfully built, and heavily armed both above and beneath his pale gray surcoat and hood. Pierre took a step forward. One step, as if in a daze. Pierre loosed a shuddering breath, and a small, whimpering noise came out of him—a sob. And then Pierre was sprinting down the alley, flying as though the winds themselves pushed at his heels. Pierre flung herself on the male, crashing into him hard enough that anyone else might have gone rocking back into the stone wall. But the male grabbed Pierre to him, his massive arms wrapping around Pierre tightly and lifting him up. Nesryn made to approach, but Oscar stopped her with a hand on her arm. Pierre was laughing as he cried, and the male was just holding Pierre, his hooded head buried in his neck. As if he were breathing Pierre in. “Who is that?” Nesryn asked. Oscar smiled. “Charles.”