The hidden half of the basement extended beyond the house’s foundations and out to the curved rock wall that supported the grand balcony overlooking the mansion’s gardens. Above us, rich mundanes used to dance under the moon, inside and outside the wall of flung-open doors. Down here, the rocks poked out from the walls the way they would in any cave.
Earth oozed here, between the joints of the rocks, and cooled the entire space. The air was surprisingly dry, though close and heavy.
Ivan looked up from his tilted draftsman’s desk. The flickering candles at either side of his project tossed orange light onto his sallow, pale skin. Reds danced in his deep-set dark eyes. Long ago, a creature had managed to permanently scar his left cheek, and when he grinned, the right side of his face lifted more than the left.
At times, Ivan reminded me too much of my younger self, with the ugly skin and the scars.
He hopped off his stool. Ivan stood a good foot shorter than Tony, but was wider at the shoulders. He hadn’t been handsome in life, and his transformation into one of the undead had not given him the same statuesque quality it had given Tony.
But it did make him stealthier. Ivan blended into the environment. Perhaps it was a consequence of his vampire enthrallings. Perhaps he just looked more like the rock. But Ivan was not always noticeable.
“Mr. Victorsson,” Ivan hissed. Over seventy years in Alfheim and he still carried just enough of his odd, indeterminate Eastern European accent to add a hint of snake to his words.
“Ivan,” I said. I may not like the vampires, but I had enough respect to never refer to them as Biterson to their faces.
He patted the angled top of his desk and the propped-up, open manuscript it held. “Samhain?” he said.
Ivan did not ask questions. Ivan used questions to inform you that he already knew the answers you sought.
Samhain was a night of everything and nothing, of life and death, of love and hate. A witch had to understand the power of Samhain, and her own conductivity, and what she could channel.
Elves, fae, and especially their Japanese kin, the kami, controlled magic in its most natural state. Witches, because of their mundane blood, resisted the flow. And like all resistors, they corrupted and overheated.
Rose had overheated. Mentally, physically, magically. She overheated and her house burned and Ivan the vampire was now the only individual with enough corruption in his soul to be able to make sense of her corrupted, crazy rantings.
Ivan, and me.
“Samhain and long-distance spells,” I said.
Ivan puckered his lips and tapped his temple. “Portals? Gates?”
I held my body language. Ivan’s ability to read the nature of the moment was as reptilian as his voice. He’d strike before you realized he had his fangs out.
“Fire,” I said.
Ivan rounded his mouth. “Ahhh….” he breathed. “The blossoms?” Ivan bounced and held up his long, troll-like finger. “They smell of elf magic.”
I clutched my hands behind my back and struck my best military pose. The two vampires responded to the local chain of command as much as any other magical in town. I might not be elf, but I was one of Arne’s “favorites.” Playing up my elven connection served me well at times.
Ivan, this time at least, did not seem impressed. “So much magic!” he giggled, and did a small, troll-like two-step.
I dropped the pitch of my voice. “And this surprises you how, Ivan?” I rumbled. “Every inch of Alfheim smells of elf magic.”
He rounded his mouth again, then flashed a too-bright, death’s-head grin. “Do you know what happens when you mix magicks, Mr. Victorsson?” He sniffed at the air as if inhaling the world’s finest perfume.
Akeyla was what happened when you mixed magicks—a fire spirit elf with incredible promise.
Many of the older magicals had a problem with “mixing,” Ivan and Tony among them. Akeyla got stares. Then again, so did I, even after two hundred years. I wasn’t magic, but I was the ultimate example of the distasteful practice of mixing.
“Ivan,” I said, “I find your attitude wanting.”
He clicked his tongue and curled one of his long, bent fingers. “Yes, yes.” He tapped the finger against the side of his nose. “But there is mixing, Mr. Victorsson.” He flittered it through the air, then pointed it at his desk.
I walked over to the desk and the open leather-bound journal.
Nothing showed on the pages. No words. No diagrams or sketches. No poems written in Rose’s blood or smudges made of the ash of burned bones.
No quotes. No wishes. No calls for help. Nothing.
I frowned.
Ivan leaned forward like the little troll-like vampire he was. “You no see?” he asked.
“What do you see?” He wouldn’t tell me the truth. I could tell by the set of his undead shoulders.
“Ashes.” He hissed out the final “s” like air escaping a tire.
I didn’t take the bait. I waited.
He looked up at me, his face a mask of innocence. “Much of her end work involves boundaries of some type, Mr. Victorsson.” He stepped back from the desk. “Samhain is one of the nights when magic dances on its edges. When steps move back and forth.”
He did the two-step again.
Dancing. Mixing. Ashes.
“Samhain comes, so I do my diligence.” Ivan nodded. “I always check her works of mixing at this time of the year. Always.”
He pointed at the notebook again, and again, he batted his troll-like eyes to feign innocence. “I know nothing of your questions, Mr. Victorsson, but I am always happy to help when I can.”
Ivan grinned again.
“And you see this on a blank page?” I had been special to Rose, and she to me. She allowed me to see into her soul not because I was corrupted enough to match her—though I was corrupted by the death from which my father molded me. She allowed me to see because she trusted me.
Yet those blank pages said otherwise. Carefully, I flipped through the book.
All the pages were blank. “I don’t remember an empty notebook among her saved artifacts.”
Ivan pushed on the side of his nose, flattened his nostril, and inhaled through the other side. “It is what it is, Mr. Victorsson.”
I slammed the notebook closed. The desk jerked and wobbled, and a low, humming vibration rumbled from its legs. The candles flickered.
I ran my finger over the tanned cowhide wrapping the book. It wasn’t anything special. No tooled designs. No charms. No magic hummed off it, or rose like a shade. This book had simply been one of Rose’s many depositories of her ramblings. It had never held a spell or an enchantment.
It was empty.
Ivan did not move. “Would you like to check out this volume, Mr. Victorsson?”
I felt his thrall-push. He wanted me to take it.
“Wrap it up for me, please, Ivan.” I stepped back. “I will do my best to keep it safe.”
Chapter 6
Ivan wrapped the notebook in brown paper and tied it with twine. I set it behind the passenger seat of my truck. Marcus Aurelius stared, but thankfully did not growl.
I couldn’t take the book into The Great Hall. Nothing touched by witch magic could cross the glamour into elfdom. I pulled out my phone.
Arne’s number went to voicemail. “Something’s been bothering me,” I said, and hung up. The less detail—and the less time on a cell phone—with Arne, the more likely I’d catch his attention.
Dag answered when I called her number. “Come by my office later,” she said. “Maura and I are finishing up here.” Then she hung up on me. She didn’t like phones any more than her husband did.
I didn’t bother with Maura. Her ex’s latest attempt to win her back must have had something subtle attached to it, or she wouldn’t have called in her mother.
Looked as if I was on my own for a couple of hours.
Marcus Aurelius wagged his tail.
“Should we stop at Lara’s? Get our cof
fee and you a treat?” I could finish my shopping and then head over to Dag’s office.
Lara’s Café and Deli had been a mundane town staple for close to a century. The original Lara passed away in the early sixties from smoking too much, and the café passed to her nephew, who immediately sold it. It had changed hands every five years or so for the past several decades, but never closed, mostly I suspected because the elves liked it. The interior had a woodsy, dark grove feel.
Lara’s occupied its own brick building in the center of a small parking lot, which made it easier to glamour, if an elf saw fit to do so. The huge elm shading the back of the building helped as well. More trees spread up the hill behind the building. Out front, the short driveway opened onto the main road leading through the center of Alfheim.
The café was now owned and operated by a Syrian family who had recently moved north from The Cities and who must have changed to new distributors. Lara’s coffee and tea—and the pastries—had significantly improved since they took over.
I parked my truck and watched the café door for a long moment. Marcus Aurelius turned circles in the passenger seat, hoping to come in with me. “Sorry,” I said. “You need to stay in the truck.”
He yipped his dog equivalent of a frown.
“Do you not want to stay in the truck because of the book?” Perhaps I should put it in the tool chest in the truck’s bed.
My dog yipped again.
“All right,” I said, and pulled it out from behind the seat. Ivan had done a superb wrapping job. The midafternoon sun detailed the crisp corners and the perfectly tensioned string. “Perhaps Ivan should open a gift wrapping boutique, huh?”
Marcus Aurelius barked.
“You’re right,” I said. “Who wants a vampire wrapping their Christmas gifts? Takes a bite out of the holiday spirit, huh?”
My dog whined.
“The joke wasn’t that bad,” I said.
He looked away.
I chuckled. The book must not be putting off any undetectable horrors, otherwise there wouldn’t be jokes, no matter how terrible.
“I’ll get you a treat.” The deli often had pet biscuits.
The entire front window of the café was decked out with painted-on apples. Alfheim’s Apple Festival—the first of the season’s pre-Samhain festivities—brought in tourists. It also gave the elves an excuse to party.
From the sign on the window, it looked as if Lara’s was running a special on fritters.
I entered intending only to purchase coffee. I exited with a month’s worth of Earl Grey, three pounds of coffee, a bag full of fritters, half an apple pie, and the promised special treat for Marcus Aurelius, who barked and stuck his head out the open window.
I patted his head. “Thank you for not jumping out and chasing squirrels.”
The emperor barked again.
A couple of tourists had taken up spots at the tables by the door while I was inside. They sipped their coffee and tried not to obviously stare at my scars and head tattoos.
A familiar sedan pulled into the lot.
A golden wave of Akeyla’s fire elf warmth spread out from Maura’s car. Maura must have picked her up from school on her way from of the florist.
The little elf burst from the sedan’s backseat. “Uncle Frank!” she squealed, and, as always, jumped into my arms.
I swung her up to my hip and did my best not to jostle her or my big bag of café goodies too much.
“Hey, Frank. Did we run out of coffee?” Maura asked. “Or tea?” She wagged her finger.
I laughed and wiggled Akeyla to settle her better on my hip. “I’m here to buy Marcus Aurelius treats.” I held up my bag.
Akeyla pointed at my dog. “Why is he in there all by himself?”
“Because I was about to give him his treats,” I said, and held up my bag again.
Akeyla frowned. “That’s not a good reason.”
Maura winked. “She’s training to take over Dad’s job,” she said. “She’s big on logic right now, aren’t you, honey?”
Akeyla nodded her agreement. “You need to make sense when you answer someone’s question, Uncle Frank. If you don’t make sense, then you’re ob… odd-fuss…” She frowned.
“Obfuscating?” I asked.
“Odd fussing,” she answered.
Odd fussing was the best definition of obfuscating I’d heard in a long time.
“Are you a third grader or a grad student?” I asked.
Maura closed one eye and tapped her temple. “Odin grants us knowledge and magic,” she said.
Odin, and her father, the man who called himself son of Odin. Arne had been the Elf King of Alfheim for a thousand years and wasn’t likely to hand over his job no matter how capable his granddaughter grew up to be.
Akeyla pointed at the café. “We’re getting the macadamia nuts!”
Two crows on the roof cawed as if angry she wasn’t going to share her bounty—or our brownies—with them.
Maura took Akeyla and set her down on the ground. “Give Marcus Aurelius his treats.” She pointed at my truck. “We’ll be home later. We’re going to the Geroux’s, aren’t we?”
Akeyla bounced again. “Jax has a cold and didn’t come to school and I have his homework.” She pointed at the sedan. “I think he’s faking.” She frowned.
Akeyla was probably correct—werewolves rarely caught colds. But then again, Jax was a third grader, and kids were known disease vectors.
“Nice of you to bring him his studies,” I said.
Akeyla patted my hand. “You talk like an old person, Uncle Frank.”
Maura laughed and took Akeyla’s hand. “Let’s get our nuts, huh?”
“It’s full moon this weekend and he can’t be sick.” Akeyla pointed at the sky. “It’s almost feast time.”
“You can always come to feast, Frank,” Maura said.
The werewolves and the elves feasted together before every full moon. Gerard and Remy said it helped the pack attach to the elves’ magic, which helped them hold onto their humanity while in wolf form.
And holding their humanity was of the utmost importance with tourists around. With the elves’ help, the Alfheim Pack hadn’t killed a mundane in five decades, and even that kill had been disputed and likely self-defense on the part of the wolf involved. Before that, it had been almost a full century.
Gerard and Remy traveled the world and rescued the newly-turned. The good and strong-willed, like Gerard’s wife, Axlam, were often brought to Alfheim. With the elves, the wolves could live full lives. Without the elves’ magic to help them, Arne would have had to put down the entire pack long ago.
Or at least that’s what Arne liked to claim. I figured as long as the arrangement worked for everyone, it was not my place to comment.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
Maura gave me a quick hug. “You know you’re always welcome.”
“I know,” I said. The elves always welcomed me. I was their adopted jotunn, after all. Like all Norse magical creatures, they liked their giants.
Maura took Akeyla’s hand and they walked toward the café door. In my truck, Marcus Aurelius yipped. The two icy tourists continued to stare at me. One got out his phone. The two crows took flight.
“I’m coming, oh great emperor of mine.” I opened the truck’s door.
A sedan buzzed by on the road in front of the café. An ordinary sedan, one of boring metallic beige and boring, common rounded corners. It was one of those cars that unless you saw the emblem, you would have no idea of the make, much less the year.
The sedan slowed and for some internal reason, some inkling I did not understand, I looked over my shoulder at Maura and Akeyla as they stepped into Lara’s Café.
When I looked back, the sedan had moved far enough along the road that it momentarily blocked the entrance to the parking lot.
Blocked the entrance and sat perfectly perpendicular to the café’s door as Maura held it open for Akeyla.
Geometr
y mixes with magic. Geometry was one of the ways non-magicals called up spirits, or accidentally brewed an enchantment. Geometry guided the protection glyphs on my scalp, and the tracers on my forearm.
The sedan had geometry and—
And my father. Victor Frankenstein leaned out of the passenger-side window, his cold, blue eyes gleaming like diamonds and his brown hair cut into the short, forward-pushed early-Nineteenth-Century style he preferred. Victor Frankenstein, the mad scientist whom I had left for dead on the Arctic ice two hundred years ago. Victor, the man who fashioned me from clay polluted by death.
Dead Victor Frankenstein. A ghost. A wraith, just like my Lizzy.
That Victor Frankenstein pointed at the café.
I looked back at the door just as the fireball blew out the front window.
Chapter 7
Marcus Aurelius was out the open door and bounding for the café before I dropped my bag on the seat.
The café door swung open. Maura pushed Akeyla out. “Take her!” she yelled, and disappeared back inside.
Akeyla screamed. Her glamour shattered. Flame-like magic erupted around her small body. The two tourists who had been staring at me earlier had already ducked into their car, and thankfully did not see Akeyla’s ears.
“Akeyla!” I shouted. “Honey! Come here!” I took a step toward her.
Her lips rounded into a circle. She blinked, then screamed again.
My little niece screamed, and took off for the trees behind the building.
Marcus Aurelius barked at the broken café window, then barked at Akeyla. Thankfully, he paced her as she ran around the corner.
I looked back at the road. The sedan had vanished. Totally vanished, as if it had never been there. And my terrified, vulnerable, un-glamoured niece was running for the trees.
“Akeyla!” I yelled. I had to trust that Maura would get the owners and customers out on her own. I also had to trust that someone else would call the fire department.
I rounded the corner just as Akeyla climbed the small hill behind the café and disappeared into the stand of trees.
Monster Born (Northern Creatures Book 1) Page 3