We pushed through the rainbow-draped crowd as I planned what to say to Dag’s ex-husband. We smelled bad, though the mundanes didn’t seem to notice that, either.
The twins, now in formal black suits, white shirts, and slicked back glamour-hair, but still with their earpieces and sunglasses, stepped in front of us.
They’d switched from Taken to The Matrix. “Excellent choice of glamours, considering.” I motioned to the crowd.
Mr. Left crinkled his nose.
“Please tell your boss that we ran into a troll and would like to shower before engaging in any social interactions,” I said.
Mr. Right snickered. “Beer helps,” he said. “Don’t drink it. Use it to wash.”
Mr. Left nodded. “Icelandic beer. Not that German crap.”
Were they truly offering troll scat removal advice? This was possibly the most absurd situation I had ever been in during the entire two-hundred-plus years of my life.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Icelanders make beer?” Remy asked. He blinked rapidly, too.
The Siberians frowned, but continued to stand stiffly in the middle of the busy walkway.
Niklas der Nord walked toward his guards. He held his shoulders straight and his hands clasped behind his back very much like the many mundane faux-supervillains walking around.
My first impression had been wrong—Niklas der Nord walked through the crowd in just enough of a glamour to make the mundanes think he wore makeup, like them. His tall ears were clearly visible, as was the silver ink of his scalp tattoos. He was Magnus-level handsome, too, with a straight nose and a strong jaw. He’d trimmed his sideburns so they matched the grooming of his well-kempt beard and waxed and curled mustache. He also wore his black hair trimmed into one of the currently popular thick-on-top styles, and it responded in the same semi-living, lifted way as every other elf’s ponytail.
He extended his hand. “You are Frank Victorsson?” he asked. “Niklas der Nord, Siberian delegation and Head of Security for the Conclave. It’s a pleasure.”
I held up my hands to signal shaking was a bad idea. “Troll scat,” I said. “I don’t want to accidently transmit any.”
He dropped his hand. “Wise,” he said.
“We’d like to shower,” I said.
He didn’t move. “My emissary did not inform me of early Alfheim arrivals.” He looked over his shoulder at Mr. Left, who nodded. “Everyone is to enter the Feast hall at the same time. To keep a level playing field.” He pointed at the banquet room.
“We’re security,” Remy said. “Like you.”
“King Odinsson wishes diligence,” I said. “We can scent out magic elves might miss, something which can only enhance the overall security of the Courts, correct?”
Der Nord’s eyes narrowed. He did not believe us. “I was under the impression that Odinsson’s non-elves would be witnesses.” Witnesses held hint of sneer.
“Yes,” I said.
“You are both witnesses and security?” He looked as if he was about to roll his eyes, but caught himself and decided play along, instead. “Smart,” he said. “But I would expect nothing less from my Dagrun.”
His Dagrun? He’s going to be a problem, I thought.
Remy stood like a man having the same exact thoughts as me. But unlike me, Remy had a hooligan streak. “Why don’t you have a ponytail like all the other elves?” he asked.
He’d paled and his eyes were dilated. The kitsune must have done something to extend the effects of the troll scat, like Remy suspected. Either they interfered, or all the ElfCon sensory stimuli were having the same effect on Remy as they were having on me.
Der Nord waved his graceful hand as if swatting away Remy’s question. “Bears.” He answered in much the same way as Benta had blown off Jax when he asked to see the cougars—in that offhand, blowhard way mean adults respond to children.
Remy was not impressed. “Bears?” he chortle-yipped. “Bears.” He chortled again. “You must have barely survived.”
Der Nord’s lip twitched.
“Troll scat.” I pointed at a speck on Remy’s shirt. “I need to get him cleaned up.”
Der Nord pulled a card out of his pocket. “My cell number,” he said. “In case you wish to coordinate our security analyses.”
I took the card.
He stepped aside. The twins looked at each other and parted like the Red Sea Remy had mentioned when we stepped into this looking glass.
I hauled Remy into the crowd. “Eyes forward,” I muttered more for myself than for him. “Walk fast.”
The crowd thinned near the elevators, but more people here stared at my scars and Yggdrasil tattoo than out on the floor.
I tucked der Nord’s card into my pocket without looking at it and pulled out my cellphone. Arne needed to know that the Siberians were already here, and that they were aware of Remy and me.
Remy paced and blinked.
“Hit the button,” I said, as I unlocked my phone’s screen.
The kitsune in the tropical print shirt appeared. He—she, now—manifested from nothing right next to my left elbow.
She popped a chip into her mouth and looked down at my phone as if I was holding the world’s most important fox relic.
The one in yellow appeared off to my right. She sucked on her lollipop and also stared at my phone.
Remy stopped pacing and sniffed at the air as if he smelled the kitsune, but couldn’t see them.
“What is with you two?” I asked. They were clearly foxes under their shapeshifting magic. And they were sneaky.
Lollipop pointed at my phone.
I looked down at a picture I didn’t take. Or didn’t remember taking. A picture of a beautiful woman with a sad smile. She hugged my dog.
I had no idea who she was, though I knew I should. I had no memory of her, yet I had vague, nebulous memories of not remembering someone I should remember.
The kitsune with the chips smiled. The other one pulled her lollipop out of her mouth.
It was no longer a wolf. It was now a heart.
A shimmering, beautiful, sweet-red heart. A wonderful, psychedelically troll-scat-enhanced visual metaphor of an emotion I knew all too well.
I looked down at the photo. I couldn’t remember the woman’s name. I couldn’t remember anything about her other than that I was all-too-aware of my inability to remember.
Remy barked. He literally woofed like Marcus Aurelius.
The two kitsune hissed. This time, Lollipop chittered. And they vanished once again.
They knew something. The two kitsune had information about the woman in the photo on my phone. They had to. Why else would they take such an interest?
I needed to know. I had to know. This not remembering—the blanks in my thoughts—they were too much like the blanks I’d suffered when I first awoke. They were holes in the world, pits into which I could all too easily trip.
Those pits frightened me.
Rage, now colored by the troll scat, took on a physicality that was eerily similar to the oily, sticky residue of low-demons.
How many times had I forgotten the woman in the picture already? How many times had the fear surfaced and I not realized? Because when my fear surfaced, so did my rage.
“You leave the foxes alone!” I bellowed at Remy.
Two new, blond fake-elves gasped as they walked by.
“And you two!” I poked the air in their general direction. “You look ridiculous!”
They backed away.
I pointed at Remy. “Elevator!” I snapped.
He bared his teeth.
The Siberians were pushing their way toward us through the crowd in the wide hallway.
I looked back at the elevator.
A woman stood between me and the button. She was the same height as Remy, with long, sleek, black hair which she’d tied off into two low braids with equally black rawhide. She watched me with impassive, deep brown, almost black eyes from a sharply featured, lovely face.
Like the kitsune fox magic—like Remy’s wolf magic—her magic carried a specific shape, one that without the troll scat, I knew I would have difficulty picking out against the backdrop of her functional magic.
Or maybe it was my faulty-memory-caused rising blood pressure. Either way, her wings were fully, gloriously visible.
She must have known at the casino that I hadn’t figured out who or what she was. She clearly knew I understood now.
What did Maura say before I left Alfheim? Beware the tricksters.
The spirit who was Raven grinned, then she, too, vanished.
I blinked. The walls wavered.
I roared.
And I punched my fist all the way through wallboard into the empty spaces underneath.
Chapter 11
I punched a hole in the wall. I’d almost put a hole in my new truck, too.
Too many stimuli. Too much happening. Too many magicals looking to mess with my head. I tucked my phone into my pocket and inhaled deeply.
Rage, I thought. This wasn’t low-demons. This was me being me. Buzzed-out and overwhelmed, but still me.
Water shot out of a cracked pipe behind the hole. The jet arced over the elevator waiting area and directly into a potted palm on the opposite wall. Thank Odin’s plucked-out eyeball I hadn’t hit electrical, too.
Remy stared at the stream as if it was a rainbow and he was its leprechaun.
There had to be stairs nearby. Maybe pulling Remy up fifteen flights of stairs would be enough to burn off the magic-enhanced troll-visions. I ducked under the stream of water and checked around a half-wall on the other side of the elevators.
Sigils appeared between the water jet and the crowd.
The water stopped flowing. It shimmered like a river just before ice forms—like autumn’s first kiss of winter—and froze solid.
Mr. Left and Mr. Right walked into the elevator waiting area and took up positions on either side of Remy and me. Niklas der Nord followed.
Gently and with great reverence, he touched the arch of frozen water.
It shattered. Crystals rained down onto the carpet in a twinkling symphony of harmonics.
He placed his hands behind his back again like a self-righteous supervillain. “Are you always this much of a threat to the world around you, Mr. Victorsson?”
My arm wanted to swing. My shoulder wanted to punch. My throat wanted to bellow and my fingers wanted to snap his elf neck.
Der Nord shook his head. “Arne Odinsson thinks he keeps you under control, doesn’t he?” He took a step toward Remy. “Just like those vampires.”
Remy shook again, and he oriented his entire body to der Nord. “Careful with your insults,” he said.
“Insults? I’m not the one who stumbled around Las Vegas and got myself troll-scatted because I shamble haphazardly into dangerous situations.”
Niklas der Nord was looking for a fight. I wouldn’t give it to him, but that didn’t mean I would concede defeat.
“Are you two his shining examples of Alfheim?” he tsked.
Mr. Left stiffened. Mr. Right’s expression showed clear surprise.
They weren’t der Nord’s full-time guards. They wouldn’t be surprised by his behavior if they were—or his arrogance had finally crested over their tolerance.
Remy walked right into der Nord’s personal space. “Was it polar bears that got your magic mane? Too much glare off the glaciers, huh? The bare nakedness of the Arctic too shiny for your sweet elf eyes? Puts you in hairy situations. How do you bear the burden? Those polar bears must have been barely visible.” Remy peered at der Nord’s ears. “A polar bear would have ripped those pristine ears and that hipster ‘stache right off your pretty elf head.”
“Remy…” I reached for him, but he dodged.
“Or did you mean ‘bear’ metaphorically?” Remy tapped his chin. “Did you lose big in the markets and have to sell your hair?” He nodded toward the twins. “Which is it, boys?”
Neither guard responded.
Remy dropped into a bad Australian accent. “Koalas come at’cha, mate?”
The twins alternated between angry stares and holding in snickers.
Der Nord crossed his arms. “Koalas aren’t bears,” he said.
Remy swirled his finger in front of der Nord’s nose. “And you aren’t a king.”
Der Nord pushed Remy away. Remy drunkenly sidestepped and came back around to der Nord’s shoulder. “Such pristine ears. No stories here,” he said, then stepped back. “I bet twins have ears that tell tales.”
He stepped right up to der Nord again. “You don’t have enough scars to be King.”
Niklas der Nord raised his hands to hit Remy with a full blast of magic, but Remy danced out of the way.
Remy leaned forward. He tightened his back and hunched his shoulders.
His wolf magic once again formed around his human shape.
I pointed at Mr. Left. “Your boss made the choice to escalate this situation even though he was fully aware that we had been attacked by a troll.”
The guard held perfectly still. No twitches. No acknowledgements. He neither moved to help nor hinder.
I pulled Remy toward the stairs. “Come on.”
He snarled at the elves. “Woof,” he said.
I yanked him around the low wall and into the stairwell. The door hissed closed behind us.
The halogen light in the stairwell bounced equally off all the surfaces—the shiny red-painted metal railings, the tight green weave of the carpet, and the dull textured beige wallpaper. I squinted and pushed Remy toward the steps.
He rolled his shoulders and grinned menacingly. “Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?” he said.
“Don’t get cocky.” The last thing we needed was to ignite an elf-wolf war. “We have a job to do, remember? We’re here to protect Arne, not make matters worse.”
Remy bounded up the steps. “You know, I honestly thought Portia Elizabeth would show up the moment we landed.”
He took the corner and ran up the next flight.
“Why?” If she hadn’t contacted him in three centuries, why would she start now?
He stopped and looked over the railing. “I was her favorite.”
I rounded the corner and started up the next flight. “Can you hear yourself?” I asked.
Maybe the elves had a point with all the “ancestor” business. An elf would never get so caught up in the past.
Remy looked up into the spiral above our heads. “You’re the one who broke a pipe.”
He wanted to change the subject. Obviously, thoughts of Portia Elizabeth raised too many uncomfortable memories…
Memories. I pulled out my phone.
“Remy.” I stopped two steps down and held out my phone. “Do you know this woman?”
He peered at the photo. “No. Should I?”
I had no idea. I carried no memory of him or any of the wolves meeting her any more than I carried memories of me meeting her.
Frustration pushed up from my gut again. “Those two kitsune insinuated that she’s important to me.” They insinuated a lot more than simple importance.
Remy pointed at my nose. “They mess with lonely men. You stay away from them.”
“I am not lonely,” I snapped.
“Sure.” Remy started up the steps again.
“You’re the one who thought your three-hundred-year-old affair with a succubus would restart the moment you set foot in Las Vegas.”
He turned around again. “You fell right back into bed with Benta the Nameless.”
“That was her idea.” It was. I should have listened to my gut and sent her home.
Remy laughed. “Right.”
Benta wasn’t happening again, anyway. I held out my phone again. “I need to know who this woman is.”
Remy walked backward up the steps. “We need to find Portia Elizabeth. You heard
Niklas der Nord down there. Do you really want him deposing Arne? Because that’s what he wants. You know I’m right.”
Referring to Dag as his, the fact that he was Siberia’s elder elf, his insinuation that Alfheim needed control, the calling of a Conclave…
Remy was correct. We had a usurper on our hands.
“That bastard will rip Alfheim apart if he gets his way.” He turned around. “He’ll destroy my pack. He’ll take Akeyla away from Jax. He’ll send away Axlam.”
And he’d toss me out, too.
“You will never figure out who she is if you lose access to the elves,” Remy said.
He was right. Finding Portia Elizabeth needed to be our priority.
I followed him up the stairs to our rooms.
Chapter 12
Room service carried beers from every nation on the planet except Iceland, so I didn’t bother with an order and cleaned off the troll scat with the hotel-provided “fresh scented” moisturizing body bar instead. I suspected it didn’t do a one-hundred-percent thorough job, but at least I was free of the obvious traces.
I stuffed my scat-tainted clothes into one of the hotel-provided plastic bags, rolled it over, stuffed the bundle into a trash liner, rolled that, then used another liner to tie it shut. I’d hand over the bundle to elves when I got home and let them do the necessary decontamination.
I shaved not only my chin but also the sides of my scalp, figuring that clearly presenting my elf-created Yggdrasil tattoo while der Nord and the twins were around might help them to understand my integration into Alfheim. I also lined up a few stories about how the tracers and protection enchantments—both of which had been stolen by my brother—had served me well while I carried them, including how they helped Dag find us in the Carlson house fire and had allowed me to carry out Akeyla.
Would my stories help garner at least some respect? I doubted it. But I would try.
Remy met me in the hall. Our rooms were directly across from one another, separated by a moat of golden-green industrial carpet and a bright circle of halogen glare. He tucked his t-shirt into his jeans as he pulled the door closed.
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