by Debra Dunbar
“Are there any other suspects you want me to track? If a different demon is the killer, you’ll have no way to track his arrival.”
My heart sank. “No. Part of me hopes Raim isn’t the killer, but it would be so much simpler if he was. Any ideas on how to find a devouring demon that we don’t know?”
Wyatt made a noise in agreement. “How about I scan breaking news along the northwest passage for any disasters, murders, or stolen planes? Seems the most likely thing for a desperate demon to do.”
He was the best — my partner in crime, even if it wasn’t really crime anymore.
“Thank you, Wyatt. Love you.”
“Yeah, I love you too. Just make sure you come back in one piece. And don’t go killing anyone.”
I hung up, because there was no sense in giving Wyatt false assurances, and turned to see Gregory out of the car and staring at me with a rather peculiar look on his face.
“Got him. Or at least we will get him if it’s truly this Raim guy. Wyatt is very thorough, when I can convince him to help me out.”
“I remember how useful he was last summer, when tracking Althean. I’ll have to remember his talents for any future issues.”
Yeah. I couldn’t see Wyatt agreeing to work for Gregory. He didn’t often agree to help me out anymore, and his feelings for the angel were pretty far into the negative category. I climbed into the rental car and headed toward our hotel, confident that Wyatt would call as soon as he had a solid lead.
I turned inland, heading for the bed and breakfast address Gregory had given me when we left the airport. We climbed steadily, navigating the switchbacks of city streets that were thick with trees and foliage springing from the sides of roads, narrow medians, and yards. Everything was overgrown. Outside of the more industrial, government–type buildings, the dwellings were hidden deep in a field of green. Finally, high above the city, we pulled in front of a three–story home. A placard outside read Wolf’s Den Inn.
The view of the downtown and waterfront from the inn’s mountain–side perch was spectacular. Wisps of low–hanging clouds danced across the channel below, giving the vista an air of magic. Everything in Juneau seemed to be right on the edge of the mountain range, right on the edge of the inlet, or right on the edge of a glacier, and this inn was no different. It was as if nature grudgingly granted limited space for human residence, hogging the rest for herself.
The house appeared to have been built in the early twentieth century, with wooden German siding that had been painted cream, and dark–green trim around the more modern windows and doors. A huge wooden porch spanned the front of the house, filled with an assortment of rockers, small tables, and terracotta planters bright with geraniums. As I lugged my bags up the steps, I noticed various water–resistant board games on the tables, and a small antique metal cooler next to a rocker.
“You check in and get settled,” Gregory said as I reached out a hand to open the screen door. “I’ve got something I need to do.”
Before I could protest, he vanished. I was a little grumpy that he’d left me to use my credit card instead of his angelic charm, but cheered up once I was inside.
The remodel on the house had clearly been done with an eye to preserving the feel of history. Wainscot covered the lower half of the walls, and the floral wallpaper above reminded me of a century ago. A cheerful fire in the large stone fireplace drove the damp chill away. The chairs were full of needlepoint pillows and crocheted throws. It was warm and cozy, and I immediately felt at home.
“Welcome to the Wolf’s Den Inn.” The woman that greeted me at the front desk eyed me carefully but seemed pleasant enough.
“Thanks. I’m checking in. Reservation for …” I hesitated then remembered Gregory’s plane ticket with a blank space where the name should have been. “Samantha Martin.”
The woman glanced at her records, then up again. Her gaze was non–offensive, but shrewd and knowing. She reminded me a bit of Candy, and I found myself wondering if the name of her inn was more personal in nature.
“Yes. The Klondike room. I have your paperwork here.”
I approached the desk and dug my credit card out of my pocket.
“Just one?” She took the card, frowning slightly and flaring her nostrils. I was convinced she was a werewolf at this point and was tempted to ask her if she thought I smelt like burnt chocolate.
“No, I’m traveling with someone, although I’m not sure he’ll actually be staying here. It’s not like he sleeps or anything, but I guess I should get him a room key anyway.”
She nodded, scrutinizing me over the top of her reading glasses. I returned the favor. She looked to be mid–fifties, a wiry figure in a pair of blue jeans and a yellow button–down shirt. Her hair was light–brown, pulled up into one of those bun–like ponytails.
“Do you want to leave one of the keycards at the desk for him to pick up?” she asked after I’d signed for incidentals.
“Ah, no. I’ll just take it.” Gregory was liable to just pop into the room without a key. And it’s not like I knew what name to leave it under.
She hesitated before coming out from behind the desk and taking one of my roller bags.
“I’ll give you a quick tour on the way to your room. This front room has two computers for guest use, and a fax machine. There’s Wi–Fi throughout the inn, but the connection is better in the front part of the house.”
We left the vast front room and walked through a smaller library and on to the dining room. Antiques occupied places of honor throughout. A handsome silver coffee urn sat in the library on a leather–inlaid hunt table, sturdy china with an ivy pattern beside it. Plates filled with cookies seemed to occupy every end table. The dining room held a large mahogany dining set, already prepped for breakfast with jade milk glass plates and bowls.
“You’ve missed breakfast this morning,” she apologized. “I can send something up for you, though. We pride ourselves that no guest goes hungry.”
I smiled. Werewolves and their obsession with food. “I’d love that. Anything you have would be welcome. My traveling partner doesn’t eat, and he frequently forgets that I do.”
“We have a full breakfast each morning at eight. It might tempt even your friend. Salmon, pan–fried halibut, smoked ham and bacon, omelets, the occasional duck or goose. There’s always plenty.”
I doubted any of that would temp an angel, but my stomach growled at the thought. “That’s a whole lot of meat. You guys must have a pretty solid digestion,” I mentioned casually.
“Carnivores,” she confirmed. “Although we also have sourdough French toast, and fresh berries when in season. Just to be civilized, you know.”
I nodded as we looked out the glass bay window into the rain–soaked gardens behind the house. Everything burst with color in spite of the gloomy weather. I liked it here. And I already liked this werewolf innkeeper. My tour guide led the way back to the front of the house and up a sweeping staircase to the third floor.
The room was adorable. A braided yarn rug covered the old pine floors, and the quilted bedspreads were appropriately themed with bears and other wildlife trotting across the squares. A sitting area, beside the king–sized bed, consisted of a round table, two cushioned armchairs, and a small couch.
“I’m Gina. Please let me know if you need anything.” The woman placed my bags off to the side before slipping quietly out the door.
She’d barely been gone thirty seconds when the reality of my situation hit me. I was in a rainy, chilly city wedged between a deep–water channel, miles of ice, and a massive mountain range, waiting for an angel. Nothing to do but wait. Wait for Gregory to come back. Wait for Wyatt to call me with any info on Raim. Wait for something interesting to happen. Bored. I was so bored. Normally I’d explore my surroundings and stir up trouble, but I didn’t want to call attention to the area and possibly scare off our killer.
I plopped down on the sofa and contemplated my options. Watch TV, nap, read the tourism brochures a
rtfully fanned out on the coffee table, or … I looked out the window at the town below, at the Gastineau Channel beyond. Who knows how long Gregory would be? I was reluctant to summon him — he could be in the middle of something important. Although, if he went off solo to capture this murderer, I was going to be royally pissed. I leafed through the brochures and finally threw my jacket back on and headed downstairs. I wasn’t about to waste my time curled up under a quilt, no matter how fluffy and warm.
~19~
Gina was back at the desk in the front room, frowning over a stack of what appeared to be invoices. The werewolf typed a few things into the computer, then ran both hands over her face, sighing as she picked up another paper to scrutinize. I coughed lightly as I came into the room. Werewolves weren’t easy to surprise, but this one seemed engrossed in the depressingly large stack of bills. She glanced up, her eyes wary as I approached.
“I’m not sure when my friend is going to get here, and, as nice as your place is, I’m going a bit crazy with boredom.”
The werewolf’s eyes widened. A bored demon was never a good thing. She had a valid reason to be concerned.
“Anyway, can you recommend something to do? I’ve read all the tour brochures. Zip line? Whale watching in the bay? Fly fishing?” Or perhaps I could cover City Hall with moose musk and sit back and watch the fun.
Gina took a deep breath. “Look. I’ve got nothing against demons, and you seem to be a bit more under control than ones I’ve come across in the past. Normally it’s just the gate guardian up here, but I’ve heard through the pack that there’s an enforcer sniffing around. As worried as I am for the safety of my inn, you’re better off lying low here than causing trouble in town. If that enforcer guy catches wind of you, you’re dead.”
I couldn’t believe she was warning me. Candy aside, most werewolves don’t give a shit about what happens to us. Vampires try to stay on our good side, to walk that thin line of alliance, but werewolves just like to keep their distance.
“I’m not sure your credit card will accept the charges posthumously,” she added, dropping her head to sort through the stack of papers. “Can’t have you dying and stiffing me on the room. And it’s not like the angels are going to cover my losses.”
“That enforcer sniffing around is the guy I’m here with. If you see him, please send him my way.”
“Mm–hmm.” Gina’s face registered disbelief. “Well, you’re not going to find any zip line or outdoor adventuring activities at this point. They all head out early in the morning.”
“Gold rush museum?” I asked, desperate to get out and do something. I couldn’t stay in this adorable little inn one more moment without setting it on fire or digging large holes in the plaster. “Whorehouse? Illegal gambling? Frat party with a rousing game of pong?”
She shook her head. I’m sure there were those activities in Juneau, and she was just reluctant to point me in their direction.
“There’s a nice bar downtown. They serve the local beer, and sometimes the guys will have a pick up poker game.”
She pulled out a little fold–out map of Juneau with cartoon pictures depicting popular businesses and key locations — such as the hospital and the office for hunting licenses. With a highlighter, the werewolf marked the streets from the inn to the Northern Lights Taproom.
“What’s this one?” I pointed to a small graphic—a fish with “x’s” on its eyes, holding a bottle with one fin. The tiny label said “Fjords Landing”.
Every muscle in her body tensed. “No. You don’t want to go there. Lots of religious people. They’re probably holding a revival right now and singing hymns.”
I bit back a smile. She didn’t know demons very well if she thought that threat would steer us away. Imps, in particular, loved disrupting religious festivities. Still, I was trying to keep a low profile, and shouting out death metal tunes in the middle of Amazing Grace, or rasping pew benches into pointy, splinter–laden seats wouldn’t keep my presence a secret. I sighed with regret and took the map, hoping the Northern Lights Taproom had a history of drunken bar fights.
It seemed only about ten blocks on the little map, and the rain had slowed to a fine mist, so I walked. I soon realized that ten blocks on the map was more like twenty in reality because most of the city was perched on a vertical slope. I was halfway there, sweating in the chill damp of the afternoon, when a number registering as “unknown” texted me.
Dear Sam, This is Nyalla sending you a text message, which Wyatt informs me all young humans do. He has given me this phone, and I am pleased to be contacting you and telling you how much I am enjoying your hospitality and your home. The men bringing pizza last night requested that I inquire when your sister will be returning. Also, you are out of beer. Yours sincerely, Nyalla.
For a moment I was stunned at the oddly formal, lengthy text, then my mind immediately jumped to the more important message. How the fuck was I out of beer? I’d had four cases of the stuff before I’d left. Had she become an alcoholic? Been hosting parties in my absence? Decided to water the plants with it?
“Hi, Sam. How is Alaska?” Nyalla’s voice was cheerful over the phone, and she was clearly proud of her English. I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings, so I switched to Elvish.
“What happened to all the beer?” I had to use a phonetic Elvish version of the Dwarven word for the beverage, as elves did not brew or consume beer.
There was silence on the other end of the phone, and I got the feeling my abrupt words had hurt her. Damn it, I wasn’t used to being so careful around someone. She’d been treated so poorly, spoken to so roughly during her life with the elves that I needed to think before I blurted something out.
“It’s okay. I’m not mad or anything, I’m just wondering what the fuck — heck, I mean heck happened to all that beer?”
More silence, then a reproving voice said “Well, you did not leave me with enough. Not that it is your fault — you only expected to be gone one day. I tried to purchase more, but the identification card Wyatt made for me is not the right kind for purchasing alcoholic beverages.”
I slapped a hand to my forehead. She was nineteen, and she’d tried to buy beer. It’s a wonder Wyatt wasn’t bailing her out of jail. It’s a wonder I didn’t have a warrant for my arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Four cases, for fuck sake!
“Nyalla, it’s actually against the law for you to be consuming alcoholic beverages. I’m not exactly the law–abiding type, and I’m okay with you having the occasional beer, but please be discrete.”
“But Amber drinks beer,” she protested. “And it was not for me. I only had that one when we were by the pool before you left. How am I supposed to provide beer for others when you are not here and I am not allowed to purchase it?”
I knew it! She’d been hosting wild parties in my house the moment I left. They’d drank all my beer, probably raided my vodka stash, most likely ate all my hot wings too. I sputtered, trying to control my indignation enough to speak to the girl without scaring her half to death.
“What am I supposed to give Boomer with his food?” she continued. “I gave him the remaining amount for dinner tonight, and had none left for the horses.”
All I could do was make incoherent noises into the phone for a few seconds. “Nyalla.” I took a deep breath, trying to remain as calm as possible. “Boomer and the horses should not have beer. Wyatt takes care the horses when I’m gone and Boomer …he takes care of himself.” I wasn’t about to go into gory details about Boomer’s preferred diet.
“Are you sure?” Nyalla sounded skeptical, as if she thought I was pulling a prank on her. “They all seem to enjoy it.”
I’ll bet they did. Good thing the beer wasn’t particularly high in alcohol, or that she’d been giving them the vodka instead.
“Positive. I’m not mad. It’s okay, but please check stuff out before you do it next time.”
“I did,” she argued. “I looked it up on the internet. Many p
eople give their animals alcohol. I saw the pictures.”
I winced. Some of those pictures were probably me, back in the day, getting animals drunk to barf all over their owner’s carpets and sofas. Nyalla wasn’t a demon though.
“Check with Wyatt next time. Or Amber.” Wait. Amber was half demon, maybe she shouldn’t check with her. “Actually, just check with Wyatt.”
“I will,” the girl sounded hurt. “But I am trying to do these things on my own.”
“I know, honey. Just hang tight. I’ll be home soon. I miss you all.”
“I miss you too, Sam.”
I hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. Here I was giving advice to a young girl, counseling her to not do all the impish things I loved to do. If I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up on one of those after–school–special programs. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I walked into the taproom. I needed a drink.
~20~
I felt like I’d stepped back into an old western movie. Northern Lights Taproom was a three–story row house complete with balconies along the front and a creaky wooden porch. A front door with two swinging shutters would have completed the image, but even without, the inside matched the tone of the building’s exterior. The wooden floors had been hand–hewn back in the early twentieth century and the gaps between the boards were filled with dust and debris collected throughout the last hundred years. Thick, sturdy round wood tables and straight–back chairs filled the vast room. Along the left, a bar spanned the length of the building, brass fittings accenting the heavily varnished, dark–stained oak top.
Outside, the sky was gray and heavy, but the lighting inside was so dim I needed to pause to allow my eyes to adjust. The taproom could probably accommodate nearly two hundred on the main floor, and another fifty along the edges of the second floor balcony encircling the room. I assumed the third floor was apartments, or some leased space, since the large staircase only led up one story. For a moment, I fantasized that during its early days, the upper floor had held rooms for all sorts of naughty activities with for–hire female companions.