Faolan shakes his head, watching the other man gently manipulating the cloth around the wound. "No bites," he confirms. "I'd made damned sure of that." He's not about to go furry on the full moon. Not if he can help it. That's the last thing that he needs, more shit in his already complicated life.

He sighs at the rest of the questions. He knows where Lancelot's going with them, but he's coming at it all wrong. It wasn't a dog, or even a real wolf. It was a werewolf. And short of coming out and saying as much, which he highly doubts would go over all that well, there's no other cover but that. "Look, don't worry about that," he says. "I made sure it didn't bite me. Believe me, if it had, I'd be a lot worse off than this." Like probably dead, if he's being entirely honest with himself.