by Jason Rose
Joycee nods in understanding while the whisper of a tear streaks down her cheek.
“You left a dead werewolf and a dead witch back at his majesty’s cabin?” asks Wilson. “You think his highness has maids that will clean up your mess or do we need to go back there? How close to civilization is it? Do we need to worry about somebody finding the bodies?”
“What happened to the other two wolves?” demands Sinn.
“I don’t know. Never saw them.”
A concerned look crosses Sinn’s face. “Colt, you’re an Advocate and one who isn’t particularly liked. Those are Concordat citizens you killed. Although justified and within the confines of the law, your kills will be more scrutinized than others. We need to go back there and clean up. Those other wolves could be gathering evidence against you.”
“They could also be dead.” I feel a little bit attacked, like leaving dead bodies behind was a choice. I understand where they’re coming from, they just want to protect me; I wished they’d do it without treating me like a child. “Okay, okay, that all makes sense, but there’s only one dead body.”
Sinn puckers her lips and squints her eyes. She looks sexy when she looks confused, which is a rare event. Does that make me shallow for thinking that? “Where’s the witch’s body?” she asks, interrupting my stream of thought.
“I locked her in a refrigerator, and I think it’s still plugged in. She’s on ice . . . not dead. At least, I don’t think so.”
Wilson lets out a full-throated laugh.
Sinn frowns, “You should have killed her.”
“Yeah, well it’s an even year, so I probably should have bet on the Giants to win the World Series—but I didn’t do that either.”
Sinn bites her inner cheek and then demands, “Open a gate. We need to go back there now. This can’t wait.”
I’m tired and I’m covered in blood. I want a fucking cup of coffee and a hot shower. Better yet, a hot toddy, a hot girl, and a hot tub. I don’t want to go back to Canada, of all places—too cold, and too many hosers. I can tell by the serious look on Sinn’s face I have little choice. She is determined to go back there right this instant. I sigh heavily and walk over to my favorite office wall for drawing gates. It’s a big, blank, exposed brick wall behind Sinn’s desk. You’d think it would bother me that I have to maneuver the pen in and out of the seams in the brick—it doesn’t. It’s strangely comforting. It’s like warm milk before bed; everything about it seems wrong and yet everything about it is just right. When I started here, there was an ugly impressionist painting covering this wall, old as shit and probably worth a fortune. I moved it. Sinn didn’t complain, so I’m guessing she didn’t like it either. I’ve always wondered where Pavo, Sinn’s dead adopted vampire father, the guy who got me into this mess, drew his gates. I hate using the P-word around Sinn; it upsets her, so I never asked and I probably never will. Another mystery I’ll probably never solve.
Once I’ve drawn the gate, and visualized our destination in the Canadian wilderness, I grab the handle and open a door back to the clearing out in front of the cabin. Before passing through the gate, I pause and turn back towards Wilson. “If the wolf wakes up, let it outside, I don’t want it peeing on the furniture.”
Wilson snickers and both Sinn and Joycee glare at me with disapproval—everybody’s a critic. I motion with my hand to Sinn. “Ladies first.” Without so much as a curtsy, Sinn steps past me and through the door. As I follow Sinn through the portal, I call out to Joycee and Wilson, “We’ll be back. Could somebody get me a sandwich while I’m gone, a muffin, a burrito, just something to eat? Please, I’m starving! And I need coffee.”
Chapter Seven
The sword is on the ground right where I left it. I had wanted to take it on my first trip back to my office. Unfortunately, I couldn’t carry both it and Adrian at the same time. As it was, I could barely carry the large black wolf; its limp body was heavy and awkward, not to mention the fact that it was bloody and reeked like a wet dog that had gone a whole summer without a bath. My fingers wrap around the sword’s dragon-headed handle. I lift the blade and take a practice cut, causing it to sing as it sails through the air. Its substantial weight is reassuring, although I feel the same sense of dread and foreboding I felt when I held it the first time. There is something off about this killing instrument—dark and deadly magic is definitely at work. Still, I feel better, safer, stronger with it in my hand. It’s as if I am supposed to have it. I don’t believe in fate; I leave the pursuit of that silly notion to hopeless romantics and dim-witted religious nuts. However, there is something about this blade that feels familiar, almost like I recognize it. Which sounds absurd; I probably need to get my head checked. Fate or not, I’m kicking myself for not grabbing Wilson’s shotgun before coming back here. Although this sword can effortlessly cut through bone, a shotgun beats a sword in a fight every time and twice on Tuesdays, and last time I checked, today was Tuesday.
Sinn is standing over the spot where I left the dead one-armed werewolf’s body. All that remains is a pile of charred grass and ash. The smell is . . . not pleasant. It’s hard to describe, nothing like burnt meat, more like sulphur, rotten eggs, mixed with dog shit, and a splash of Old Spice aftershave thrown in for giggles.
Sinn glances at me questioningly and I shrug. “Do werewolves spontaneously combust after death?” I ask, jokingly. At least—mostly jokingly. At most, fifteen minutes have passed since I left him, and the truth is I’m a little freaked out by the fact that someone’s been here and had enough time to cremate him. I know magic is real; still, it’s sometimes hard for me to separate my old reality, where magic involved cards, coins, and sawing women in half, from my new reality, where magic and monsters are an everyday occurrence, and monsters not only hide under your bed, but will actually eat you if you let them.
“No.” Sinn kicks the pile of ash and watches the wind spread the werewolf’s remains over the field. Thankfully, the wind is blowing in the other direction or I’d be covered in werewolf dust, which sounds like something they would sell at the mall in one of those goth-centric stores that cater to screwed-up teenagers. Werewolf Ash, I can envision it on the shelf next to Pixie Glitter, and Vampire blood Cologne; all the necessities for a psychopathic teenager trying to revolt from their parent, cloaked in the guise of giving society the middle finger.
“Then what do you think caused the dead werewolf to turn to ash? And don’t say fire.”
Sinn gives me a serious look. “A witch. Where did you leave her?”
I point to the cabin. Sinn nods. She is suddenly holding a Ruger LC9S, a small, delicate, compact yet surprisingly powerful handgun, her firearm of choice, probably because it’s well suited for her smaller hands. I’ve shot it at the range; it’s too small for me, and if I am being honest, has more of a kick than I like. I’m not sure where she was hiding it, and trying to imagine where is distracting me from the fact that we are in a potentially dangerous situation. Her outfit, black leggings, a long and tight blouse, and knee-high boots, leaves little to the imagination and very few places to hide a gun.
Focus, Colt, there’s likely a dangerous pissed-off witch ahead. Get your brain in the game. I shake my head to clear out the impure thoughts and to forcibly drag my eyes away from Sinn so I can concentrate on the cabin. I immediately recognize that something’s off and doesn’t look right. The front door is partially open. I’m pretty sure I closed it behind me, although I freely admit, I’m not a hundred percent certain about that. Last time I was here I had other things on my mind. I guess it’s possible I left it open, I just can’t remember. I’d warn Sinn, if I thought I needed to—I don’t. I can tell she’s already in alert, secret assassin mode. Stating the obvious would likely just piss her off, she’s not really a fan of backseat driving. Sneaking through the woods is really more her skill-set than mine, so it’s better to let her take the lead.
Sinn is stalking the cabin like a cheetah sneaking up on a herd of gazelle, ready to pounce at a mom
ent’s notice. Watching her sleek and balanced athletic form quietly approach the cabin is kind of a turn on. It’s like watching Catherine Zeta-Jones navigate the laser fields in that Sean Connery heist movie—except hotter. “Baseball, hockey, nursing homes, Hillary—,” I whisper a bunch of nonsexual words to myself to regain my focus.
Sinn’s head snaps back towards me, interrupting my anti-erection mantra. Her eyes crinkle around the edges and her lips purse in a frown. The message is as clear as day: I should probably shut up. At the very least, chant my mantra silently in my head.
The inside of the cabin looks exactly as I remember it, except for the giant, perfectly circular, woman-sized hole blown through the back of the refrigerator and the missing pile of jewelry from the table. After Sinn sweeps the rooms, she relaxes and joins me standing over the refrigerator.
“This is where you trapped her?” Sinn asks incredulously.
“Yeah.”
“You put her inside a refrigerator and then flipped it over?”
“Yeah.”
“And you left it plugged in?” She points at the cord still plugged into the socket.
I nod.
“Those things are practically airtight. She could have suffocated.”
I nod and try and play it off as if I knew that—which I didn’t.
“That’s cold,” says Sinn with a slight smile. It’s the closest thing to a smile I’ve seen on her face all morning; beggars can’t be choosers; I’ll take what I can get.
“I knew I should have made her strip,” I mutter to myself.
Sinn raises an eyebrow and any semblance of a smile vanishes. In retrospect, I probably should have chosen my words more carefully. “What I meant is . . . I mean . . . the jewelry. Um, I made her take off all her jewelry because of what you said about witches storing magic in their jewelry. You know what I am saying, I mean you’re the one that said it to me. Um, I didn’t check for under the clothes piercings, belly rings, nipp—you know . . . I guess I should have.”
Sinn still doesn’t look happy with my explanation.
“Or maybe I shouldn’t have?” I ask, unsure of what I’m supposed to say. I wished she’d stop looking at me like that; we’re not together or anything and she never indicated any real interest and perpetually ignores my constant flirtations. Frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t either reported me to HR, although she is the closest thing to HR at our firm, or kicked my ass. Is it really sexual harassment if you hold no power over the object of your affection, and the object of your affection can rip your throat out and drink you dry in the blink of a heartbeat? Isn’t sexual harassment about power—which I seem to lack? I don’t know, even without power, it still might be inappropriate. More than might be, it probably is inappropriate. Now that I run my own office, I think I I need to hire an expert to come in and provide sexual-harassment training. I know both Wilson and I could probably use a refresher, especially Wilson. You never can be too careful and while I think people should be people, and a reasonable amount of teasing should be allowed, nobody should ever feel uncomfortable.
Sinn grunts, ignoring my question, and for the first time seems to notice and intently study the sword I’m carrying, “Where did you get that?”
“It was hanging on the wall,” I point at the ancient weaponry that still adorns the cabin’s unfinished wooden walls. “Adrian said I could use it. It’s what I used to kill that wolf. There is something off about it.”
“Off?”
“I don’t know, it just feels off to me. It’s hard to describe. It feels dark, and it also feels like it belongs to me, at least it thinks so.” I’m not even sure why I said that last bit, it’s a sword for god’s sake, and yet, my words ring true.
A concerned look skirts over Sinn’s face. “May I touch it?” she asks.
“Sure.” I tilt the handle towards her so the blade is pointed away from her, towards the floor. I’m not sure if that is the appropriate way to hand someone a sword, they never covered that in elementary school—they did cover passing scissors, though, and, while it’s not the same thing, it’s close. As she touches the dragon-headed handle, she jerks her hand back in pain. I frown in confusion. “Are you okay?”
“Did you do that?” she hisses, while grasping her hand protectively.
“Do what?” I ask, even more confused.
“Burn me—you prick!”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“It burned me.” She shows me her hand, which is a raw reddish color, and it doesn’t seem to be healing, which is strange since she’s a vampire. “Keep that sword away from me. Get rid of it. It’s dangerous. You’re right, there is something wrong with it.”
Did she just admit I was right about something? I wish I could snap a picture and cherish this moment forever. If she weren’t in pain, I’d be rubbing it in. Frickin’ sword, stealing my thunder.
The sword glistens, as light bouncing off the window reflects off it. “If it’s dangerous, I’m not just going to leave it here—a kid could find it.”
“We’re in the woods!”
“Yeah, so?”
“In the middle of the Canadian wilderness. There’s nobody for miles. A kid is not going to find it!”
“Boy Scout, maybe? Girl Scout? Camping trip. You don’t know. Kids play in the woods.” I argue, not because I think it’s likely, rather, I’m a lawyer and it’s preordained, expected, that we will argue about everything—even stupid shit. I wonder if there is even such a thing as a Canadian Scout? Maybe all Canadians are naturally outdoorsy and don’t need to earn wilderness survival badges or learn why it is important to help old people cross the street. Maybe wilderness survival and manners are genetically bred into our neighbors to the north. Maybe it’s just us loud, obnoxious Americans that need etiquette and survival training.
Sinn’s fiery look tells me everything I need to know about what she thinks about my lame kid excuse. “Just keep it away from me!”
I nod. “Got it.” I absolutely must find out the history of this blade. If it can hurt a vampire just by touching it, and it can cut a werewolf in half like a warm knife through goat cheese, it might just come in handy. I’m tired of always being outclassed, and this sword could go a long way towards evening the supernatural playing field. Plus, what kid hasn’t dreamed about finding a magic sword? The only way this could be any cooler would be if I pulled it from a stone, or a naked nymph swam up from the bottom of a lake and handed it to me. That latter would have been way cooler.
I’m telling Adrian I’m keeping this blade, accepting it as payment for saving his life. Something about that seems poetic; save a King’s life—get a sword. If that isn’t a classic fairy-tale plot, I don’t know what is. Poetic, prophetic, prophylactic, whatever it is, I can’t help but smile; my whole life seems like an impossibly dark fairy tale these days. You have to savor the few bright movements. In a typical fairy tale, doesn’t saving the princess come after the hero finds the magic sword? I look over at Sinn. If I am a fairy-tale prince, does that make her my princess or the hottest dwarf/sidekick ever? On second thought, she’s probably not a princess, I can’t really ever imagine a scenario where she’s in distress. Maybe this is one of the inverse role reversal situations and she’s the princess and I’m whatever the masculine form of damsel is. Dominus? Don? Dude? Whatever it is, I’m keeping the damn sword.
I grab the black leather sheath and shoulder harness hanging on the wall near where the sword was displayed. The sheath is a perfect fit for the blade. The black leather is decorated with faded ancient scripture, written in a language I can’t read. It’s beautiful and ominous at the same time. I slip the harness over my shoulders; it’s a perfect fit like it was molded for me. I’m glad it’s a shoulder harness and not a belt. Just the thought of wearing a sword belt around my waist makes me cringe. It’s not really the look I’m going for. Sword belts are for Halloween, Renaissance Fairs, and Comic Con—not law offices in downtown Oakland.
After a final look around t
he cabin and surrounding woods for clues about who the attackers were and/or . . . bodies, which we don’t find—in fact, we find nothing, even the goat entrails are gone, I ask Sinn, “You ready to go home?”
She pauses as if making a decision. “Colt, I think we should talk before we go back. I don’t think we should get involved with the Varulv family.”
“Why?” I ask, surprised. Sinn rarely backs down from a fight. She must have a good reason.
“I don’t know much about Adrian other than he has a reputation for being a bit of a frat boy, at least before his marriage. His father on the other hand . . . I’ve heard a lot about Eirik Varulv. He isn’t, wasn’t, a man to cross.” The word Eirik rolls off her tongue like shit off a hot tin roof. Which is a weird saying that means quickly and unpleasantly. I wonder where it originated? Shit on a hot tin roof is also the name of an excellent blended cocktail, 1 banana, 3 oz Irish cream, 2 oz vodka, blended and served in a highball glass with shaved chocolate on top.
“What do you mean isn’t or wasn’t?”
“Rumors are that Eirik the Butcher, that’s what he used to call himself, which in and of itself, should give you a lot of information about the type of psychopath he was, went crazy. He killed an entire hotel lobby full of people, including his own granddaughter, and then became comatose. He’s rotting in a Massachusetts prison.”
“A human prison?” I ask.
She nods.
“Eirik the Butcher? Seriously?” I shake my head in disbelief. “He named himself?”
She nods again. “He has, had, a reputation for doing some pretty disturbing things. Torture, rape, he was not a good person.”
“What about the son?”