The Wyvern's Defender Dire Wolf

by Alice Summerfield

  It hadn’t really surprised Helena.

  Generally speaking, civilization hadn’t been particularly welcoming towards shifters. There had been some truly extraordinary exceptions here and there, of course, but in general, it had been a shifter’s best bet to keep their mouth shut and their second form under wraps if they ever wanted to get anywhere in life. Or get away with anything, as circumstances dictated.

  Even among the supernatural community, the extent of what was really possible for anyone – shifters, witches, dragons, and most especially vampires – wasn’t really known. In previous centuries, it hadn’t usually been in anyone’s best interests to let it be known, a history of secrecy that had been carried forward to the present day.

  But knowing that there were dire wolf shifters in the world – and potentially, shifters belonging to other extinct animal groups – had given Helena a workable idea for her doctoral thesis.

  Now, she wanted to compare the anatomy of modern wolves against dire wolves fossils against the anatomy of dire wolf shifters, preferably more than one. The addition of the Eurasian cave wolf, as well as any living shifters that took that form, to her study also seemed like a potentially interesting area of inquiry, although Helena was certainly willing to consider alternative forms of canine megafauna, if she could get in touch with the appropriate shifter type in large enough numbers.

  A potential alternative area of inquiry lay in comparing sabertooth cats, cave lions, and American lions both against each other and their more potential counterparts among the big cats, assuming that any of the extinct cats had existing shifters of that type.

  Either way, Helena had abandoned her previous area of employment in favor of searching for two part time employment opportunities in Florida, one at a wolf sanctuary and the other at a big cat sanctuary, although she was willing to volunteer if necessary. It was her first step in shaping her thesis in comparative anatomy. Her second step, she had decided, would be to find an appropriate program and funding.

  It felt great to have a definitive direction in which to advance again. For the first time in months, Helena actually enjoyed filling out her applications and enquiries. They were the first step in her new direction, after all.

  “Are you still in your swimsuit?” asked Declan, the sound of his voice startling her.

  Helena had been so engrossed in her work that she hadn’t even noticed his approach. Blinking, she looked down at herself and then hummed.

  “Yes,” said Helena. “I suppose I am.”

  She had forgotten about that. And honestly, her suit felt mostly dry now.

  “So what are we going to do today?” asked Declan.

  “Your apartment and these applications and lunch,” said Helena. “Then maybe something more fun in the afternoon?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Declan.

  At nearly the same moment, the bathroom door squeaked and Dolf called “Helena? Do you want the shower?”

  “Yes!” answered Helena quickly, saving her work.

  Aware that everyone was waiting on her, Helena took the shortest shower of her life and dressed just as quickly, her clothing sticking to her damp skin. She took a bit more time and care on her hair and makeup, though.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, Dolf and Declan were listening to the local news as they attended to some minor chores. His small suitcase lying open in the front room, Declan was dumping an armful of laundry into the washer, while Dolf made the bed. Next to the door, someone had thoughtfully stacked Dolf’s cleaning supplies for their trip upstairs to Declan’s place.

  In the background, an officious man’s voice started in on the Rothschild murder, the one that had happened later the same night as Mr. Lazarus’ murder. Apparently, they were still holding the maid, a were-lioness named Conchetta Fernandez, without bail for the murder. She was potentially being looked at for other crimes.

  “Perhaps even another murder,” said the announcer, his voice lowered and his tone gossipy. “Although that death might just be a coincidence, or at least, that’s what an official source told me.”

  Helena couldn’t believe it!

  Three deaths in a single family in two months? Two in the same night? And none of them from natural causes? And someone thinks that could be a coincidence? Or a jilted maid? Helena thought wonderingly, as Dolf shut off the radio and Declan turned on the washer.

  Admittedly, if she wasn’t acquainted with Mr. Lazarus and his wife’s wills, and if she hadn’t come from a seemingly similarly structured family, perhaps her first thought might not be for the inheritances.

  Maybe I would have thought it was some sort of organized crime thing or that the entire family had been placed under a death curse, but I definitely would have found the whole thing highly suspicious, decided Helena, as they gathered at the door to put on their shoes.

  Or at least, she liked to think that she would have done. It was, perhaps, a comfort to think that even had she lived a very different life to the one that she currently had, she still would not have been so different from herself.

  That was something that Helena mused on as she and the men made their way upstairs to Declan’s apartment, all of them carrying cleaning supplies.

  Yesterday, she and Declan had taken a first crack at cleaning up his trashed space. They had definitely worked hard at it.

  When Declan unlocked the door and pushed it open, his shoe crunched against the floor. Looking past his shoulder, Helena found it more than a little disheartening to see that the place was still such a wreck.

  “Have you considered just getting rid of the carpet?” asked Dolf. “You’re never going to be able to get all of the glass out of it.”

  “Yeah, management said that they’d put in a new one by the end of the week,” said Declan. “They’re going to fix the cabinets too. I just want to get everything else cleared out before then.”

  That, at least, Helena found cheering.

  Not much more to do then, thought Helena, now happy.

  And indeed, her biggest contribution that day seemed to be keeping the men company (and admiring their straining muscles) as they first hauled Declan’s broken poker table, then the clawed up frame of his couch, whatever bits of broken cabinet they hadn’t already tossed away, and finally his slashed mattress and box spring down to the apartment complex’s dumpsters. At that point, the only things left in Declan’s apartment were his bed frame and the cheap folding chairs that had once clustered around the now ruined poker table.

  Declan’s apartment more or less sorted out, they returned to Dolf’s apartment where Helena got to watch as they moved the remains of Dolf’s couch down to the dumpsters. After all that, the men went to get a drink of water in the kitchen.

  Helena called the jail to see if Conchetta Fernandez was being allowed visitors yet. The answer was no, try again that afternoon. Apparently, she was having her first appearance that morning, after which she would either be in jail or out on bail. Satisfied, Helena resumed work on her various applications. In the mean time, Dolf and Declan seemed to have settled down to play a card game in the remnants of the living room.

  For lunch, they went out, and after it, Helena called to see if Conchetta Fernandez was in or out of jail.

  Apparently, she was in.

  “I want to go to the county jail,” announced Helena, after she had hung up with the nice receptionist.

  “Why?” asked Declan, sounding surprised. “There’s nothing for you there.”

  “There’s someone that I want to meet,” said Helena. “The Rothschilds’ maid, to be specific. Apparently, she can have visitors now.”

  “The Rothschilds’ maid? As in the maid who murdered her rich boss?” inquired Dolf. He, at least, sounded suspicious.

  “Mhmmm,” hummed Helena. “Her employer was one of Mr. Lazarus’ in-laws.”

  “Helena, you aren’t trying to investigate Mr. Lazarus’ death, are you?” demanded Dolf.

  “No, of course not!” gasped Helena. “I wou
ld never dare! I just have a few questions for her. That’s all.”

  “That sounds like investigating to me,” retorted Declan, who was also the one driving.

  “It does not! I’m just curious!”

  “Mhmmmm,” hummed Declan, in a fair approximation of Helena’s earlier response.

  “Are you going to take me to the county jail or not?” demanded Helena, annoyed.

  “We are,” said Declan. “After all, you’re the boss.”

  Helena scowled at him. “That’s unfair,” she complained.

  Declan shrugged. “And yet, that’s just the way that it is,” he said.

  Irritated, Helena crossed her arms over her chest. She chose to spend the rest of the drive to the jail looking out the nearest window rather than arguing it out with Declan.

  Cousins! They were just so annoying!

  At the jail, Helena complied with all necessary security procedures, and in short order, she found herself sitting opposite an older Hispanic woman. In her mid-fifties now, it was obvious that Conchetta Fernandez had once been beautiful with high cheekbones, full pouty lips, and large, dark eyes. Even now, older and having been in jail for several days, she still looked pretty.

  She also looked utterly perplexed to see Helena sitting across from her in the visiting booth.

  “I’m surprised that you’re still in here,” said Helena, while gingerly holding the receiver near her face. “I thought for sure they would have realized that it probably wasn’t you.”

  “I couldn’t afford bail. But given the situation, it’s probably safer for me in here, anyway.”

  “Are you afraid of running into someone without the guards to protect you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Helena nodded. “If you say so.”

  “Have we met? I don’t seem to recognize you, not even from television. Are you a reporter?”

  “No,” said Helena. “I’m – I was a friend of Mr. Lazarus’ – I mean, Mr. Pommard. You probably knew him as Mr. Mitchell Pommard.”

  An expression of dislike flickered across Ms. Fernandez’s features before they settled into a more neutral expression.

  “I see.” Ms. Fernandez sat back in her seat. “I do not see what that has to do with me, however.”

  “I found something of Mr. Lazarus’ that the Rothschilds seem to want. I want to know which of them to give it to,” said Helena, and it was very nearly true.

  “Miss Phyllis Rothschild,” said Ms. Fernandez promptly. “She’s the best of them.”

  “Are there any others?”

  “Are you looking to find out about one of them in particular?” fired back Conchetta Fernandez.

  “No,” said Helena. “But someone tried to run me over in a Ferrari the other day. They hit someone else.”

  “What an unfortunate accident.”

  “Ferraris aren’t very common outside of certain circles,” returned Helena. “And its color was very unique. Do or did any of the Rothschilds drive Ferrari?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Conchetta coolly. “Perhaps you ought to ask the DMV.”

  “I’m asking you,” said Helena. “Would five hundred dollars help your memory?”

  “No.”

  “How about a private defense attorney?” offered Helena. Everyone knows that public defenders are so overworked these days. A private defense attorney would be able to give your case the attention that it really needs.”

  There, Conchetta Fernandez hesitated.

  “Could you afford one?”

  “I’m from a dragon’s clan,” said Helena, allowing Conchetta to leap to her own conclusions.

  In this case, though, they’d probably be right. Most dragon clans weren’t particularly wealthy, but some were extraordinarily so. Helena’s was one of the latter, and thanks to her mother, Helena was extremely wealthy in her own right.

  A complicated expression crossed Conchetta Fernandez’s face.

  “I need time to think about it,” she said at last. “Perhaps overnight?”

  “All right,” said Helena. “But if you take too long, I might not be around to deal with.”

  Conchetta nodded. “I understand.”

  Helena moved to go, and then hesitated. Sitting back down, she picked up the receiver again and, on the other side of the thick safety glass, Conchetta obligingly did the same.

  “One last question,” said Helena. “My friend. Why did he go by Mr. Lazarus rather than his real name?”

  “Who can say?” retorted Conchetta scornfully. She hesitated a moment longer before adding in more measured tones, perhaps to assure Helena of her worth as an informant, “He was in a coma for weeks after the accident, and then as soon as he woke up, Mr. Mitchell began accusing the family of trying to steal his and Miss Pamela’s inheritance!”

  “Was he right?” asked Helena.

  “It would have been nice if Miss Caroline had left some little remembrance for him and Miss Pamela in her will, but it was her money to do with as she pleased, and it must have pleased her to leave her family’s money to her flesh and blood family. It was probably his sister, Miss Pamela, who put the idea of a conspiracy into his head. Have you met Miss Pamela?”

  “Once.”

  “Then you’ll understand what I mean when I say that she was always like that: loud, dramatic, accusing. When she was younger, Miss Pamela was always accusing Miss Phyllis of trying to steal things from her: boyfriends, common fashions, even her things. As if Miss Phyllis would need to! And after Miss Caroline died, she got worse. She said all sorts of terrible things. Miss Pamela was the one who first accused the rest of the family of trying to rob her and her brother. She even accused the family of trying to kill her brother! Can you imagine?”

  Yes, thought Helena. I can, since I’m fairly certain that they’re trying to kill me too.

  “And when he woke up, Mr. Lazarus agreed with her?”

  “When Mr. Mitchell woke up, that was when the fur really began to fly. Oh! But it wasn’t his fault! It was Miss Pamela’s idea, and he just wasn’t in good enough health to sort through her wild accusations, poor man. He couldn’t rein Miss Pamela in like he usually did.”

  Or maybe, Pamela Pommard had been right – for once, from the sounds of it.

  Even a broken clock is right twice a day, thought Helena grimly.

  “Hmmmm,” hummed Helena. “That’s very interesting.”

  Across from her, Conchetta looked pleased. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much more that Conchetta was willing to tell her, at least for the time being.

  When Helena left the jail, Dolf and Declan were waiting for her outside.

  “Did you get what you wanted?” asked Declan.

  “No,” said Helena. “But she’s thinking about giving it to me. We’ll have to apply more pressure tomorrow.”

  “But let’s get a pizza today,” said Dolf, and Helena grinned.

  The three of them argued pizza toppings all the way home, mostly because Declan was wrong: Pineapple was not a thing that belonged on pizza. It was a fruit best enjoyed in daiquiris and on pulled pork sandwiches. And Declan and Dolf were both wrong about anchovies: they were delicious.

  At home, parking was a lot more harrowing than it used to be. The entire time that they were in the lot, Helena’s heart thundered in her chest and her gaze jumped around, looking for moving death vehicles. It wasn’t like any of her little party tricks – or Dolf and Declan’s transformations – could stop a car.

  I wish I – or Declan – was a real dragon with a real dragon’s form and everything, Helena thought furiously.

  It wasn’t the first time in her life that Helena had wished it.

  It was, however, the first time that she had wished it for someone else.

  To Helena’s utter relief, everyone made it safely across the parking lot and into the apartment complex. No one even tried to kill them, not even once.

  Upstairs, however, was something that set Helena’s heart to pounding again. For there, slouched aga
inst Dolf’s apartment door was a stranger, one who wasn’t meant to be there.

  On either side of her, Dolf and Declan tensed.

  As they left the stairwell, he flicked a grey-green glance their way, sending a shock of recognition through Helena.

  I know that man… from somewhere. I think.

  She hoped that it wasn’t from anywhere awful.

  Chapter 20 – Dolf

  Leaning against his apartment’s door was a man with a very distinctive look, one that Dolf knew meant that the other man was a shifter. As they left the stairwell, he straightened and flicked a glance their way, giving Dolf a better opportunity to observe this man.

  He was shorter than either Dolf or Declan but stockier than either of them too with square hands and a neatly pressed chauffeur’s uniform. In the shadows of the hallway, his hair lay in shades of grey ranging from pale, predawn grey to a shade that was nearly black, although judging by his face, he roughly the same age as Dolf. His catlike grey-green eyes nearly glowed.

  “You,” breathed Helena. “You were Mr. Lazarus’ friend. You came to warn him.”

  Surprise flittered across the stranger’s face, before the corners of his mouth were tugged down into a wry grimace.

  “I didn’t expect you to remember me from that.”

  “I’m surprised that you remember me at all either,” admitted Helena, and man grinned.

  “A woman with your looks is pretty hard to miss,” said the handsome man, and he flashed Helena a ready smile.

  She flushed, all pretty and pink and sweet, sending an ugly, primal part of his heart into a rage. It lashed through him, filling his lungs and trickling from between his clenched teeth as a warning growl.

  This guy had no business flirting with Helena, and especially not when he was right there.

  At his response, the stranger looked surprised and then smug. Dolf might have done something regrettable about it, but that was when a small, warm hand alighted on his arm, its touch as delicate and as butterfly’s.