Wolf Hunted

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Both birds honked, and the bigger one hopped down a branch to get a better look at me. I held out my arm. Why, I didn’t know. It just seemed the correct thing to do.

  The big one swooped down and landed on my bicep, then hopped up to my shoulder.

  “Well, hello,” I said. Magic danced across his plumage, and when he shook, greens, blues, and purples rose like sparks before settling again onto his feathers.

  He clucked, then whistled a little tune, and the smaller one dropped down to the lowest branch to watch.

  Raven’s Gaze Brewery and Pub had its own pair of magical ravens.

  “Did Raven send you?” I asked.

  Lennart held out his arm and the big raven flapped over to his bracer. “I’ve been wondering that myself,” he said.

  His magic snapped and sparked like a summer storm complete with eddies and clouds. He controlled it, though, and channeled it into strong, sturdy spells that might not be delicate, but which stood against most everything.

  “They showed up a few days ago,” Lennart said. “This is Ross.” Lennart stroked the raven’s head. “He’s friendlier than Betsy up there.” He nodded toward the smaller raven still in the tree.

  Betsy and Ross. I chuckled. “Their magic looks like a dusting on their feathers,” I said.

  Lennart clucked at Ross and moved his arm so that the big bird would return to the tree. Then he whistled, and Betsy flew down.

  The birds liked him, obviously, so I doubted we were looking at dark magic.

  He rubbed Betsy’s head. “The names are temporary, aren’t they, darling?”

  Betsy clucked.

  “I’ll figure out who you really are soon enough.” Lennart kissed the raven, then shooed her back to the tree. “The mundanes have realized we have two new employees.” He nodded to the birds. “Bjorn expects a news crew from The Cities to show up before Samhain.” He frowned. “He likes the idea. For the publicity.” Lennart did not want mundanes with cameras hanging around. “How was the re-wedding?” he asked.

  I still looked like a groomsman, even with the hole in my pants. “Arne and Dag got a bouncy castle for the kids,” I said.

  Lennart laughed. “I take it you did not have time to romp inside the inflated vinyl balloon of doom.”

  “No,” I said. Not that I would have.

  He watched the ravens groom each other up in the branches. “Every child in Alfheim loves you,” he said offhandedly.

  Lennart often uttered random sentences, but “every child” loving me seemed… odd.

  “Akeyla have fun?” he asked.

  “Other than that photographer interrupting, I think so.” He’d shown up here, too. “He was over by the church, by the way. The photographer.” I wanted to tell Lennart about Ellie hiding me, and the man’s attitude, but once again, not much would come out. “I saw his shadow again.” I hadn’t, but it got the idea across. “He’s carrying a hidden magic of some kind.”

  Lennart’s eyes narrowed. “He got away from you?” He peered up at my face as if looking for signs of a magical infestation. “Is that why you were talking about ghosts?” He stepped back and tapped his fingers on his thigh.

  A sigil formed. “There was magic, alright, even if you couldn’t see it,” he said.

  Lennart was making several assumptions about what happened. Some were wrong, some were close enough, and they did get him to the correct place. “Raven’s Gaze has security cameras, correct?”

  “Of course.”

  “He didn’t do anything other than be annoying,” I said. “He’s shown up twice and been a thorn. No overt bad behavior.” What were we supposed to do? We had an obnoxious visitor with shadowy magic.

  Alfheim had what Ed would call a “person of interest” who hadn’t done anything bad but exasperated law enforcement anyway.

  Lennart thought for a moment. His eyes narrowed again. “I’ll check the church when we’re done.” He turned back toward the loft, and his body subtly stiffened and he changed the subject. “Did Maura enjoy the wedding?” He continued to look away.

  I had no idea he held an interest in Maura. “She and all the bridesmaids were as lovely as you would expect,” I said.

  He rubbed at the back of his Bulldogs cap. “Good, good,” he said.

  His attraction to Maura danced through his magic and screamed out to the world as loudly as any exhibited by the teenagers jabbering at the tables behind us. “We all missed you at the wedding,” I said.

  He patted his ear to remind me that glamouring around mundanes wasn’t easy for him. Then he grinned and nodded toward the brewery building. “Come. I’ve taken good care of Rose’s notebook for you.” With that, he walked toward the loft behind the buildings.

  I looked up at Betsy and Ross. “Tell Raven if she wants to get a burger, I’ll make reservations.” I pointed at the eatery.

  Betsy bobbed her head. Ross fluttered his wings and groomed his tail. Then they both flew higher into the tree.

  Magical or not, they were still ravens. I grinned and followed Lennart.

  He pushed open the wide door leading into the living quarters and ushered me inside. The UMD hat sailed toward a side table and coat rack just to our left, and the door banged shut behind us.

  Lennart dropped all pretense of glamouring. His tall ears fully manifested, as did the intricate, coiling tattoos covering his neck, jaw, and the naked curve of his scalp.

  Magic formed storm clouds around his body, and for a second, I wondered if it would condense out as rain. It didn’t, though, but kept with its roiling and boiling, as one would expect from a thunder god’s aspect.

  Bjorn’s magic wasn’t nearly as chaotic as Lennart’s. Bjorn had a calmness to him one would not normally attribute to Thor. His magic drew people in, patted them on the back, and offered them revelry and entertainment.

  The loft mirrored their dichotomy. The ageless tension between clutter and cleanliness fought each other like warriors of Valhalla, from the spotless desk in one corner to the couch covered in a raucous heap of distinctly patterned, handmade throws. Almost every surface had at least one potted plant. Sun streamed in from the high windows. A woodsy scent, complete with the higher humidity that came with so much foliage, hung evenly in the air.

  The loft was a modern elf’s paradise.

  Summer Sassafras—one of Bjorn’s queen Norwegian Forest cats—sashayed out of the sunroom and right up to my ankles. She meowed and rubbed, but batted away my hand when I tried to pet her fluffy grey and white head.

  “Is Mr. Mole Rat bothering you again?” Lennart picked her up and scratched her neck. “I keep telling Bjorn we need to get that cat fixed or one of the ladies will do it for us.”

  Mr. Mole Rat padded out of the sunroom looking more pleased with himself than he probably had a right to be.

  Sass hissed. Lennart set her down. “Sass here has no time for Cranky Rat, do you?”

  She meowed, hissed at Mr. Mole Rat once again, and sashayed away toward her normal nap zone.

  “She hates him,” Lennart said. “The only thing keeping him from dismemberment is magic.”

  For elves who prided themselves on the quality of their kittens, having a disruptive tom around seemed counterproductive. “Why does Bjorn keep him?”

  Lennart shrugged. “Benta.”

  During an off period in my on-and-off-again relationship with Benta, she’d taken up briefly with Bjorn.

  I shook my head and vowed not to allow our final break-up to turn petty. One would expect better from elves, but I’ve lived with them for two hundred years and knew better.

  Mr. Mole Rat let out a “Why are you here?” yowl. Then he flopped down in the middle of the cat bed next to the desk.

  “Benta and I are done,” I said. We’d talked and formally ended all romantic entanglements after I returned from Las Vegas.

  Lennart sniffed as if he only partly believed me, but smiled. His magic settled. “Come! The satchel’s in here.” He walked toward the sun room.


  Summer Sassafras napped as a ball of cat on top of one of the sunnier cat condos. Her sister, the almost-black tabby Winter Watermelon, raised her head from the top of her condo inside a gated-off section of the room. She let out a meow-yawn as Lennart walked by.

  Five big, fluffy kittens bounced up to the gate. A chorus of meows and purrs followed.

  Lennart scooped one up. “It’s time to find you a new home, huh?”

  The kitten purred and rubbed against Lennart’s sideburn.

  “Akeyla wants one,” I said.

  Lennart blinked as if I’d just offered him the moon. “Bring her by! She’ll have the pick of the litter, huh, sweetie?” The kitten headbutted his hand and let out a solid purr.

  He smiled again, set the kitten back behind the gate, and then rummaged around on the wide worktable taking up most of the sunroom’s space. “Ah!” He held up a lovely leather satchel that he’d hand-tooled with runic sigils.

  A tight bubble of stasis magic very much like the one surrounding Remy’s pouches sheathed the satchel. “Is it the same suspension spell as Remy’s?” I asked.

  He held out the bag. “Your ability to see magic is a precious gift, Frank Victorsson.” He grinned. “Took some research to find the spell, by the way.”

  I took the bag. “Thank you for this,” I said.

  He shrugged. “No matter how our King and Queen dislike the witch’s book, it has a purpose. And value. You are correct to protect it.”

  Out in the main living area, the door roared open. “I’m home!” thundered Bjorn.

  Lennart’s magic… re-adjusted. It didn’t calm, or change, but seemed to re-orient as if pushed by a new air current. He patted my arm. “Say hello to Maura and Akeyla for us.”

  Bjorn strode into the sunroom, looked around, and placed his hands on his hips. “All set?” he asked.

  I held up the satchel.

  “Good. Good!” He tossed his suit jacket at one of the cat condos. “Remy Geroux is checking in Las Vegas to make sure the Wolf encountered there isn’t behind our new friend’s intrusion.”

  “Good,” I said. Not adding a kitten to my bundle as I walked by turned out to be harder than I expected, especially with all the meowing and purring.

  Bjorn winked at Lennart as if all of this had been a conspiracy to get me to take one home.

  “I’m not sure how my hound would react to a kitten,” I said.

  Bjorn frowned. “We will find your dog, Frank.” He slapped my shoulder. “I’m supposed to ask you to pick up dinner while you’re here. Maura said the kids would like burgers.”

  Jax must be at my place. “Will do.” I threw the satchel’s strap over my shoulder. “Maybe we should check in at the restaurant to see if he came in there, too,” I said to Lennart.

  “Why?” Bjorn asked. He touched the tip of his nose, then pointed at me. “Those two ravens weren’t giving you trouble, were they?”

  “The ravens were friendly,” I said.

  Lennart tossed a quick look of annoyance at Bjorn. Betsy and Ross were obviously playing favorites between the two Thor elves. “That photographer from the wedding showed up at the church. He was here just long enough to annoy Frank, then he disappeared again.”

  Bjorn’s magic flared. “We do not need distractions this close to a wolf run on Samhain!” he bellowed.

  Lennart’s magic responded with its own roiling flare. He closed his eyes and pinched his lips as if the moment caused him pain. “Bjorn,” he said, “do you have that memory card?”

  Bjorn’s magic instantly settled. Lennart’s followed. Bjorn squeezed the other elf’s shoulder. “Yes, yes,” he said, then waved to me. “I’ll call when we find something,” he called.

  I gave Bjorn a thumbs-up as I walked toward the door. I looked over my shoulder just as the elves dropped into a deep discussion about concealment enchantments and what spells they could try to unmask the magic underneath.

  I left them to their magicks, somehow making it out of the loft without a kitten, and pulled out my phone to text Maura halfway to the eatery’s front door.

  Chapter 7

  The guitar riffs and steady cadence of blues rhythms boomed from Raven’s Gaze. Bjorn and Lennart might be metal, but blues sold more hamburgers, and the manager on duty had particularly good musical taste.

  I walked back toward the restaurant after putting the satchel in my truck. No need to carry it and chance a tourist asking where I got it.

  I realized I still needed to text Maura and find out what kind of burgers the kids wanted. My surprise when I opened my phone and looked down at the photo of my mystery woman—Ellie, goddamn it—got me every time I swiped my phone’s screen. Every. Single. Time.

  An entire encyclopedia’s worth of colorful language rolled from my throat as I walked under the rustling leaves of the red oak. Only one of the ravens hopped among the branches. It cawed, bobbed its head at my language, and disappeared into the leaves at the oak’s crown.

  I didn’t dare jokingly ask the ravens for help. The last thing I needed was a bored world spirit trickster poking at my concealment enchantment mess.

  Inside the restaurant, the manager—a nondescript mundane from town with a mop of brown hair and a thinner build than most of the locals—nodded once and went back to his cleaning duties.

  I sat next to the Halloween jack-o-lantern decoration on the end of the bar and held up my phone so he could look at the photo of Ellie with my dog. “Do you recognize this woman?” I asked.

  He frowned. “No,” he answered. “Is she a tourist?”

  So she hadn’t come in, either before or after she ran away. My notes said mundanes tended to remember her until nightfall.

  I shook my head. “I have her bicycle,” I said.

  “Ah,” he said. “If she comes in, I’ll let her know.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I thumbed through my phone plan while I waited for the takeout. Turned out I already had two lines. One had been used briefly around the time Dracula pulled me into Vampland, then nothing.

  It must be the phone Ellie lost. I put in an order for a new phone and a reactivation of the number at our local store. If I was fast, I could pick it up before dinner got too cold.

  The stool next to mine squeaked.

  My peripheral vision isn’t as good as an elf’s. It’s probably a little worse overall than the average mundane’s—another of my father’s many “gifts”—but I’ve had two centuries to teach my brain to compensate. Like everything else about my piecemeal body, I’ve put in the work needed to maximize what I did have.

  Or so I thought.

  The small photographer in the expensive suit leaned against the bar as if he’d been there for minutes and was annoyed that I’d just now noticed him.

  He scrunched up his nose and loudly inhaled. “Mr. Victorsson,” he said.

  “Who are you?” I demanded more than asked. I was beginning to think he wasn’t the semi-local photographer he claimed.

  He did the loud inhale again as if Raven’s Gaze, and me in particular, offended his olfactory senses. “How is it that elves can be so disorganized? It’s like a slow-motion Ragnarok around here.”

  This man was a liar who knew about Alfheim’s magicals.

  In the restaurant’s pools of halogen lighting I couldn’t tell if he carried the shadow, and the backlight from the bar was too diffuse for me to get a good look. “Then you need to take that up with our King and Queen.” He wouldn’t, of course. Such confrontations were the last thing a sneaky slimeball wanted.

  He looked out at the handful of patrons scattered around the seating area. “I’ve been debating when I should properly introduce myself.” He looked me up and down. “There was a shift here recently.” He waved his hand at the greater universe. “A change in the air, so to speak; hence the reconnaissance.”

  He could be referring to the reset the elves unleashed when my brother invaded town. Or he could mean the changes that came after the International Conclave in Las V
egas. Or he could be referring to the more mundane changes in town caused by several shifting economic factors.

  Or he could be bloviating.

  “What do you want?” Villains liked to talk. Perhaps he’d tell me just to see if I’d squirm.

  “A voice, Mr. Victorsson,” he said. “A chance to offer Alfheim and her people clear, disciplined, better management.”

  Was this little man threatening Arne and Dagrun?

  He laughed. “Who runs a tighter ship, Mr. Victorsson? Elves? Vampires? The fae?” He leaned closer. “Wolves?”

  The bar manager stepped up. “Would you like to order?” he asked the man.

  Our interloper tapped his pointer fingers together as if trying to stop himself from steepling his hands. “I’ll try the local brew,” he said.

  The manager nodded toward me. “Your order’s up.” He pointed to the end of the bar.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The manager nodded again and went off to fetch a pour for the interloper, who pulled a tooled leather wallet from his jacket pocket.

  He set a one hundred dollar bill on the bar. “You asked what I wanted,” he said.

  I did not speak. I waited for an answer.

  He looked out over the patrons again. “I want the same as you, Mr. Victorsson. I want solutions to the problems that vex me.” The manager returned and set the photographer’s glass on the bar. “Thank you,” the man said.

  The manager stared at the hundred on the counter. “Would you like change for this?” he asked.

  The interloper winked. “Pay for Mr. Victorsson’s meal, too, please.”

  “No,” I said, forcefully enough that the manager startled a bit. “I will pay for my own food.” One should never accept gifts from unknown magicals for any reason or at any time. What if this man was a fae? I’d been stupid enough to make deals with kitsune. I wasn’t stupid enough to stumble into a tit-for-tat with a fae, especially since that food would be going home to be eaten by Akeyla and Jax.

  But my gut said I wasn’t dealing with a fae. My gut said he was something closer to home.