And Alfheim could have offered the same opening-up expertise to everyone else that our elves were bringing to New Zealand.
But no, Niklas der Nord had an old hurt he’d allowed to fester for over three centuries. And that petty festering and its squabbles led directly to the brand on my arm.
Because if this Conclave proved anything, it was that the elves were more concerned about their own brawls than they were about the damage their fights caused to the people and environment around them.
They were Vikings, all right.
“Frank!” Dagrun called.
Astrid Heimdallsdottir was in her husband’s face and yelling in Icelandic, with Þórdís Ullrsdottir right at her side.
Dag walked around the tables, twirling Sal around her wrist as she moved. “And here I thought my husband was the crazy one.”
She held out Sal.
My axe growled at the red magic on my forearm, and the magic growled right back. They were not compatible—the elven weapon magic that had decided it liked me, and the new, visceral magic that wanted me for a pet.
Dag released Arne’s containing band of energy.
Show time, I thought, and grasped Sal with my unbranded arm. “Watch out,” I said to Dag, and to Ragnar, “Ready?”
The troll stretched her neck and positioned herself like a baseball catcher between the door and me.
Sal did the elven axe version of an inhale.
I touched the flat side of her blade to the brand.
Chapter 24
Sal, in her infinite war-weapon wisdom, had made it clear that she did not like my idea for clearing the red magic from my person. The exact impression she’d tossed me had been don’t be an idiot.
Its removal from my arm wasn’t my only goal. I also needed to permanently remove Wolf and its lackeys from my life and Ragnar’s in the short amount of time we had left. A violent show of force would work. Arne agreed, even if Sal did not.
She cooperated anyway.
An explosion had resulted the last time Sal touched red magic. This time did not disappoint.
The concussive blast tossed me into Ragnar, and Ragnar through the open doors. We rolled out into the concourse, a rocky troll and a giant with the glowing battle axe, and into the middle of the open-air elven fight.
Sal lay next to me on the concourse carpet, silent and unconscious. My head, and ears, rang with a loud, piercing whine caused by the physical blast and thankfully not by vengeful magic.
Every mundane in the concourse pointed. Der Nord gaped. The twins held back Dag and Magnus, both of whom grinned like kids who’d just won their ball game.
The whine in my ears blocked out Arne’s voice. I felt Ragnar’s rumble more than heard it. She poked at my arm.
The brand had disconnected from my flesh.
The troll slid her rocky hand over the liquid magic and swept it into her other palm before standing to her full height.
I rolled over onto my back. Nothing felt broken, but my vision blurred and the ringing continued to echo through my ears.
The magic was off. I sighed and looked up at the concourse ceiling.
Ragnar pointed at the elevator lobby.
Every mundane and costumed fake-elf stared as Remy, in full wolf form, trotted into the concourse.
Like me, he and Gerard hadn’t started out in the world as beautiful creatures. Old school French loup-garou were not the strong, fluffy beasts of modern werewolf lore. They were craven half-man, half-dogs, and horrible to behold.
But the Geroux brothers were men of strong wills, and they had elven help. The Geroux brothers now fully controlled the terms of their transformations.
Full moon, new moon, daylight, whenever—Remy transformed into a huge, fluffy, gunmetal gray North American timber wolf. His snout and the backside of his ears were charcoal. The main body of his tail was also charcoal, and graduated into the black at the tip. His sides were slightly lighter than his back and paws, and in the bright light of the concourse, he appeared to have a saddle much like a German shepherd.
Remy shook his head and his massive ruff fluffed out around his neck. He trotted into the concourse, tongue lolling. He sat, looked over his shoulder, and barked once.
The werewolf wore a red “Service Animal” vest. Remy Geroux, Alpha of the Alfheim Pack, wore the one marker that would keep the mundanes from screaming.
Brilliant, I thought.
Dag knelt at my side. “… concussion…” she said.
“I’ll be fine.” I rubbed my temple. “I need a moment.” My body would right itself soon enough. The ringing, thankfully, diminished to a low squeal fairly quickly. I sat up.
The crowd parted, and Portia Elizabeth also walked out of the elevator lobby. Her dress swirled around her legs and her arms like a gown befitting one of the fake-elves. Her hair was piled high on her head, with tendrils of the dress woven throughout. A generous hood cascaded over her shoulders.
Her green magic flowed around her as great, resonate sheets, but away from Remy—and the elves.
Arne stiffened as she walked toward the elves, and put out his arm to keep der Nord, Magnus, and the twins back.
She smiled only because the situation demanded it. Her mouth may have moved, but her face continued to show suspicion and sadness. “Arne Odinsson,” she said. “Your paladin blew himself up.”
I rubbed my ears. My head still swam, but I picked out most of her words.
“I got it off, didn’t I?” I picked up Sal and forced myself to stand. My axe stayed silent, which was probably for the best. I held her out. “Tell your boss that my elven axe will not tolerate interference or uninvited magic.”
Portia Elizabeth’s green magic flowed around the mundanes in great oscillating waves. It filled in around the already-calming elven spells, and bolstered their glamours, concealments, and electronics-interfering spells. Everyone in the concourse would remember a show; most of them wouldn’t think twice about the lack of video evidence.
Tyr Bragisson appeared in the banquet room’s doorway. “What is—” He stopped speaking when he noticed Remy and Portia Elizabeth.
She extended her hand to Ragnar. “I’ll take that.”
Ragnar held the liquid magic away. “You leave me in peace,” she said. “This explosion was a warning. The elves will come for your boss. No more bothering me or the not-a-jotunn.”
Portia Elizabeth bowed her head. “I know.”
“Promise!” Ragnar barked.
“I cannot promise for Wolf,” she said. “Any more than you can.” She wiggled her fingers. “But this,” she waved at the crowd, “this is too visible, even with the elven magic. Wolf doesn’t like hunting in the open.”
Ragnar inhaled. Her rocky skin darkened. She was going to roar at Portia Elizabeth, or swing her fists, or throw scat.
Remy jumped between the two female magicals. He barked and wagged his tail. Then he leaned against Ragnar’s leg.
She stared down at the werewolf. “Good wolfie?” she said. “But you old wolfie.”
He sat on her foot and pawed at her leg.
Ragnar’s stony features visibly softened. She gingerly touched his head.
If Remy could purr, I swear he would have, just to make Ragnar comfortable.
Ragnar smiled. Remy got a troll to smile.
“Good wolfie!” Ragnar plopped down onto the floor. She looked at the red magic on her palm, frowned, and tossed it at Portia Elizabeth.
Remy licked Ragnar’s face.
The troll laughed like a little kid. “Good wolfie!”
I stumbled toward Portia Elizabeth. “We can free you, too,” I said. The elves could figure out how to use Sal’s magic in a way that didn’t cause damage. She could be free.
She looked up at my face. “The dress chose me. I chose it. We’re symbiotic.”
“You don’t have to stay in Wolf’s employ,” I said. “You can—”
She touched my chest. “Remy was right. You are as good as they come, aren’t you?”
I didn’t know about being “as good as they come,” but I did try, no matter how it got me into trouble.
“We can help,” I said. “Sal and I can help.” Perhaps she was still influencing me. Perhaps not. But she wasn’t the dark magical Arne thought her, and I saw no reason for her to suffer.
She touched my cheek. “No offering services to tricksters, Frank Victorsson.”
I looked up at the ceiling. Was she a trickster, too? Weren’t they all?
She patted my arm, and turned away.
“Portia Elizabeth,” I said. “I’m sorry for calling you a, you know…”
She nodded. Her green magic pulled in, and its resonance changed again. It pointed at Niklas der Nord.
Her magic shifted downward at the same time it rose up around der Nord’s head. “Before my time in Alfheim, I destroyed men like you. Mundanes, elves, spirits, even a few fae. I consumed them slowly, taking their will, their fortunes, and their reason for living. I spit them out and left only a husk behind.”
Portia Elizabeth walked around der Nord. “I chose the bitter.” She stroked her finger along his shoulder. “The manipulative and the frightened.”
She stopped directly in front of him, with her finger over his heart. “Did that make me a dark magical?”
He stood rigidly, as if she’d turned him to stone.
“Well?” she asked.
He stuck out his chin defiantly. “Yes,” he said.
Portia Elizabeth leaned toward him so that her lips were a mere inch from his. “I never found joy in the destruction I caused, yet it was the only cause I knew. Alfheim helped me to widen my worldview.”
She kissed him gently. “A lesson you need to learn.”
Niklas der Nord gasped.
Portia Elizabeth stepped back. She raised her arms and her dress wavered as if blown by a wind. “Your politics are your own.”
Portia Elizabeth flipped her massive hood over her head. She walked to Remy and Ragnar, bowed to the troll, and placed her hand on Remy’s ruff. “Red Riding Hood and the Good Wolf!” she declared.
The mundane crowd cheered.
She turned her back to the elves. Remy moved to her side, and they both faced the crowd.
She swung out her arm and took a deep bow. “ElfCon hopes you have enjoyed the show!”
The crowd cheered again. Hoots followed, along with loud chatter.
I waved to Arne. “Take a bow,” I mouthed, and gestured, so he’d understand.
He whispered to Dag, who nodded. She spoke to Mr. Left, then took his hand. Within in moments, all the elves near the door were standing in a line—Tyr Bragisson included—like a Broadway show.
They all bowed.
Niklas der Nord frowned. He clenched his fists, and refused to bow. Arne said something to the twins. They nodded.
Mr. Right took Niklas’s left elbow, and Mr. Left his right, and escorted him into the banquet room.
Remy trotted over and sat next to my leg. He leaned into me in much the same way Marcus Aurelius leaned against me when he wanted a pet. I responded the same, not really thinking about the fact that I was scratching an Alpha werewolf’s ears. Remy snorted and rubbed his head against my hand.
I saw no green magic around him. “You’re doing this because you wanted a good Las Vegas story to tell the kids, didn’t you?” I asked. “How you played with a troll and were instrumental in saving the day?”
He sneezed and shook his head.
I grinned. “It is a good story. Thank you for convincing Portia Elizabeth to come down.” Because I was pretty sure her appearance had little to do with me exploding the red magic off my arm and a lot to do with her decision to visit Remy.
Remy winked and trotted to Portia Elizabeth. He leaned against her side, but in a different way than he’d leaned against Ragnar. This time, he meant it.
A dusting of magic washed over them when she placed her hand on his neck.
A couple of fake-elves slowly approached Remy. “That is the biggest dog I have ever seen,” the male fake-elf with his fake-blond hair tied up behind his head. This guy wore something that looked more like armor than the regular robes-and-cornet.
Portia Elizabeth smiled, but kept her hand on Remy’s neck to signal that the fake-elves were not to touch. “He’s part King Shepherd, part Malamute, aren’t you, love?”
Remy barked.
“He’s gorgeous,” the fake-elf said.
“That, he is,” she responded.
“What’s his name?” The fake-elf was getting much too interested in Remy and might figure out that he wasn’t looking at a domesticated dog if we didn’t distract him.
Portia Elizabeth didn’t look at the fake-elf when she answered. She didn’t look at the elves, either. She looked directly at me. “Freki,” she said.
Freki and Geri, Odin’s wolves. I glanced at Arne as he directed Tyr Bragisson back into the Feast.
When I looked back, she was gone. Just like that, like Batman, she vanished away. The fake-elves didn’t seem to realize that they’d been talking to someone who had literally disappeared in front of their eyes.
Remy trotted over to me and sat next to my side as if I were his human and not the woman who’d just disappeared. The fake-elves walked away, oblivious but chatting about ElfCon’s “shows.”
The concourse’s chatter returned to normal. One of the twins appeared and offered to escort Ragnar to the airport, to make sure she arrived at her plane safely. The security spells around the banquet room brightened momentarily, then resettled into “ignore the elves” as all the elves other than Arne filtered back into the Feast.
He waved us over.
“Come in.” He stuck his hands into his pockets. The high roller clothes weren’t a glamour. He really was dressed in a way that screamed “affluent modern economy” to the other elves. His black, semi-living elven ponytail and the silver tattoos worked surprisingly well with the four-thousand-dollar suit.
I looked out again at where Portia Elizabeth had vanished, then back at Remy’s vest. I swore it wasn’t the same shade of red it had been a moment ago.
Remy barked and trotted toward the elevators.
“I think he wants to change back to human.” I nodded over my shoulder toward the casino. “There might still be fallout from slighting the Las Vegas Wolf spirit.”
Arne shrugged. “It knows the elves are now aware.”
He was correct, as was Portia Elizabeth—Wolf did not enjoy hunting in the open. We were safe, at least for the moment. “I don’t think I will ever come back here,” I said.
Arne laughed. “Go on. Help Remy with his Service Dog vest.” He laughed again. “We need to get a set for the pack, for emergencies.”
And that, right there, was Arne Odinsson, the elven All-Father—setting up contingencies to keep his people safe. As was being the elf with witnesses. And a New Zealand deal.
“Oh,” he said, “Magnus is going directly from the Conclave to Auckland.”
“Arne,” I said. “I’m not flying to New Zealand.”
He gripped my arm again. “I think I may ask Þórdís Ullrsdottir. They get along and she might be enough to keep his more intimate relationship-building skills under control.”
Someone had to. I motioned toward the elevators. “We’ll be back in a few,” I said.
Arne turned toward the Feast. “Oskar will let you in when you return.”
Oskar must be the twin who stayed to guard the Feast door. I waved and my werewolf friend and I made our way to the elevators for one final clean-up before our official—and no longer necessary—presentation to the Conclave.
At least we’d get a good Las Vegas meal out of it.
Chapter 25
The bar shimmered with as many gaudy golds and greens as the rest of the casino. Shadows flitted in the corner booths and between the tables, and the only well-lit part of the floor was the stage area. I sat at the bar proper, a beer in front of me and a lounge act behind.
The s
inger belted out his rendition of the same pop song Benta had been singing in the shower the morning we left Alfheim for Las Vegas. Turned out it was some mega-hit by a band called Barston Flood. I did my best to ignore the singer’s ohs and ahs while I sipped at my beer.
Remy and I had returned to the Feast and delivered our official speeches to the surprisingly civil elves. Deals were struck. Alliances reformed. Guidelines for how to deal with vampires and other dark magicals hammered out.
The elves talked in hushed tones about Wolf. This development, too, needed hammering. Arne and Dag offered to take point, since the spirit had a particularly American feel.
No one brought up the kitsune. I didn’t speak of the two brats while in the banquet room, and figured I’d bring it up privately with Arne and Dagrun when we all returned to Alfheim.
All in all, the Conclave accomplished solidarity. Niklas der Nord had been vanquished by the time Remy and I returned, and the Siberian leadership had already taken a punishment. Tyr Bragisson had clearly lost power among the Courts as well, and Arne and Dagrun had gained.
Portia Elizabeth did not return, nor did the phone-thieving kitsune.
The singer rolled from his rendition of the Barston Flood song to a lounge-lizard cover of Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is.”
I picked at my beer bottle. Those two kitsune brats had taken the one connection I had to my mystery woman.
I should have been in my room, sleeping off the whole incident. Remy might be staying in Las Vegas for a few more days, but the elves and I were flying home in the morning. Yet here I sat in the bar, hoping Chip and Lollipop would make one last appearance.
I pulled the label off my beer. The lounge act sang, and I waited.
Wings fluttered. I looked up from my drink.
Raven sat on the stool next to me, her black hair in her two low braids still, wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and an expensive-looking leather biker jacket. “Fashion Santa sure is a bag of dicks,” she said.
I almost choked on my beer.
Elf Raised (Northern Creatures Book 3) Page 18