Wolf Hunted

by Kris Austen Radcliffe

  The pack was as confused by his drive-by antics as everyone else was.

  “I’ve been wondering if he was some sort of trickster spirit.” Which didn’t make any more sense than dark wolf magic, if I was honest, mostly because he hadn’t seemed physically magical. “Though he presented as a mundane.”

  Axlam blinked rapidly for a brief moment, and she pressed her lips together. “He may never come back.”

  She sounded as if she believed the opposite.

  If he was Old World familiar, could he be looking to settle some old French score with Gerard and Remy? But they’d been in Alfheim longer than the United States had been a nation. “If he’s here to mess with your husband, he’s fixated on some ancestral clan feud that should just be a story to him.” The elven practice of living only one life at a time had more than a present benefit. It also released the quarrels of the past, something mundanes usually did by dying off.

  Axlam’s frown deepened, and her magic shook as if, for that one brief second, fear had crept in. She pointed at the sky. “Some strong spirits and other magicals can manipulate a mundane into becoming an avatar. The magic may have chosen him simply because he’s fixated.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “I hadn’t considered that the magic might be wielding him.” It made perfect sense.

  Axlam made the maternal face again. But she didn’t respond. She pointed at the road. “Ed’s here,” she said.

  Ed Martinez pulled his cruiser around, backed it toward the house, and pointed its nose toward the road without blocking the sedans or Bloodyhood. Our sheriff had an enviable spatial relations ability I swore not even all the elves could match.

  The passenger side of his cruiser opened and his nine-year-old daughter, Sophia, burst from the vehicle with a huge bag in tow.

  Sophia was in the other third grade classroom at Akeyla’s school. They played at recess, but this was the first time she’d come over.

  “Hi, Mr. Victorsson!” she bounced over to Axlam and me. “Ms. Geroux!” She held out her bag. “We’re going to paint.”

  I glanced in the bag at the mix of real acrylics, brushes, and small canvases. “Looks like fun.” I pointed at the door. “Go on in.”

  “Okay,” she said, then to Axlam, “Your hijab is pretty.”

  “Thank you, Sophia,” Axlam said.

  Sophia hitched up the big bag. “Bye, Daddy!” she shouted, then trundled toward the front door.

  Ed stepped out of the cruiser and set his hat on his head. “Howdy, Frank,” he said, with a hint of Texas drawl, and hitched his gun belt. “Axlam. I’m glad you’re here.” He did a quick tactical scan of my house, garage, and surrounding trees. “I did some digging on that company our friend said was funding his photography, one Natural Living Incorporated.” He leaned against the back fender of his cruiser. “Turns out they’ve bought up land around Alfheim.”

  “A neighbor?” I instinctively glanced toward the lake and the new lots dotting the shore.

  Ed walked over. “Not in the town proper,” he said. “Not yet, at least.” He rubbed his neck. “Several farms in the county were purchased last year. Most of them on the north side, near the forest. They’ve been empty ever since.”

  Alfheim, like every town in Northern Minnesota, was within a quick drive of either state- or federally-owned parkland. The forests also made the wolves’ run less conspicuous, at least in the summer. But with the storm coming in, and with Samhain, the pack would be running more along the edges of the woods, through farm territory. They were less likely to get separated that way. And the last thing the pack needed was a lost werewolf on Samhain.

  Ed pulled his notepad from his pocket and flipped it open. “It’s a shell corporation.”

  Shell corporations usually meant someone was up to tax evasion, or money laundering, or some other form of no-good behavior.

  “It’s not just one layer, either,” Ed said. “It’s inside other shell corporations.” He flipped to another page. “I got the report this morning. They all trace back to a French property management company that does business all over the world. A Fils de Loup Administration.” He pronounced “administration” with all the extra flare and strong ee-oon at the end that Americans did when mimicking a French accent.

  “Son of the Wolf Administration?” Axlam asked.

  Ed nodded. “Whoever is behind this is happy to obfuscate the money, but this,” he tapped his notepad, “this here screams I’m here to cause problems.”

  “Wolf problems,” I said.

  “I’m trying to figure out who owns the management company,” Ed said, “but I’m running into an entire parking lot’s worth of roadblocks inside the French legal system.”

  Roadblocks that were likely set up on purpose.

  “It’s him,” Axlam said. “The photographer. The interloper.” She waved her hand. “Why does he feel familiar?”

  Ed flipped through his notes again. “The official background check will be sent to Dagrun and City Admin this afternoon.” He tapped at his book. “The French company is the most conspicuous. Thing is, they’re not doing anything illegal. Not even close. It’s all on the up-and-up, even if it is suspicious.”

  Axlam stared at the wine bottle gate. “Thank you, Ed,” she said. “Gerard and Remy will be home this evening. I’m going to talk to Maura and get Aaron Carlson’s contact information.” She turned toward Ed. “If you find anything else, text me.”

  “Will do,” he said. “I have the town police watching for him. After his little shows on Saturday, he’s a person of interest.”

  “Frank,” Axlam said, “will we see you at the feast?”

  She meant the feast at the Great Hall the night before the first of the two Samhain runs. I glanced at Ed. He tried not to frown, but it didn’t work. Axlam sniffed as if she’d smelled his annoyance. Her lips thinned as if she echoed his frustration, and she squeezed his arm, too.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t run.” I’m not magical, even if I can see magic. I would only get in the way. My lack-of-magic made a good excuse to stay away from all the feasts, since the elves refused to acknowledge that I didn’t enjoy parties.

  Axlam watched Ed flip through his notebook. “I will make sure you get the full run plan, Ed,” she said. “Our route, who’s running with whom, etc. We’ll start at our house, as usual.”

  His cheek twitched. “Thank you,” he said.

  She nodded to each of us, then walked toward the front door and the elves inside.

  “What kind of dumbass broadcasts intent like this?” Ed tucked his notepad away.

  He’d changed the subject. Axlam’s promise of information must be enough for now.

  “A dumbass lackey to greater evils,” I said. We had a rich man in town openly looking to cause pain. “He reminds me of my father.”

  Ed’s expression softened. I didn’t know anything about his family relations, or his wife’s, but I suspected he’d seen enough father-son interplay to understand the entire spectrum of human possibilities. “He thinks he’s a god?”

  When you live with magic, a metaphorical “god’s gift” was very different from a literal one. And whoever was behind this might just have some godly—or god-like—help. “If Axlam is correct, he’s enthralled by a dark magic.”

  Echoes of the deck doors opening rolled around the house. Happy kid sounds followed.

  Ed nodded toward the house. “No Jaxson, I see.”

  “He went with his dad to pick up Uncle Remy,” I responded.

  “Ah.” He walked back toward his cruiser. “All of Sophia’s other friends are normal.” He blinked. “Town mundanes.” Then adjusted his hat. “There aren’t a lot of magical kids in the school.”

  No, there weren’t. Elven children were rare, and right now, Akeyla was the only little elf in her elementary school. The children of the wolves tended to be mundane or not obviously magical, and they, too weren’t that common.

  Ed adjusted his belt again. He pointed west. “I want to ch
eck out the properties owned by Natural Living Incorporated, and I’d like to do so with someone who can see what I can’t.”

  He could have asked one of the elves, or one of his wolf deputies. But he was here, asking me.

  He must have read my expression because he grinned and slapped my arm. “Get what you need. I’d like to be home before dinner.”

  I turned toward the garage to clean up. Going out with Ed would give me an excuse to stop in town and see if I could find an end-of-season deal on a replacement bike.

  “Whose bike is that?” he asked. “Looks like a Flying Merkel frame. Too bad they painted it. They’re much more valuable in their original orange.”

  I glanced back at the bike. I’m too big to ride, and never paid that much attention to brands, motorized or otherwise, but I remembered the name.

  Ellie had a refurbished early Twentieth Century bicycle.

  Ed pointed at the house. “Make sure you bring that axe of yours.”

  “Will do.” Looked as if Sal was about to get her walk in the woods after all, even if it wasn’t to find my mystery woman.

  Time to look for the debris left behind by a bad wolf.

  Chapter 10

  Ed and I hit five different properties along the northern edge of Alfheim County, where the elves’ lands met the federal and state parks. All five were within the normal run territory of the wolves. All five owned by one of the shell corporations Ed had found—and all five were abandoned.

  We found nothing. Sal had clearly been annoyed by something at our last stop, but when Ed got called out to an accident on one of the highways, he made me go home. “You can get yourself kidnapped by vampires or evil spirits or demons, but please don’t do it on my watch, okay? We need you,” he’d said.

  Sal hadn’t been able to pinpoint her annoyance, and nothing overtly magical had made itself known, so I texted Arne and Dag and came into town with hopes of finding a new bike.

  The locals—and the tourists—liked Alfheim’s lack of chain stores. No big box warehouse anything here, just artisans and several blocks’ worth of shops along the city’s downtown shopping district.

  I parked in the small lot down the street from the bike shop, shouldered Sal, and walked the block and a half to the storefront. I would not normally take my axe for a stroll along Main Street, but not a lot of tourists were around now that the air had taken on the crisp scent of the approaching winter. Strings of lights decorated several display windows along with the town’s all-out dive into fall, apples, Halloween, and the bounty of Samhain.

  A bell tinkled as I ducked through the bike shop’s door. Like most of the shops downtown, its floor space was a meandering maze of cut-throughs linking spaces inside multiple adjacent buildings. Several of the galleries were the same way and made shopping more of an experience than an exchange of funds for goods.

  Arne said it added to the charm and ambiance of Alfheim. Mostly, it made finding an employee more difficult than running a search and rescue operation into Superior National Forest.

  After five minutes of navigating around a display of snowboards and snow goggles, another of winter clothing, a wall of local art, and a table of locally-made soaps of all things, I found Sif the Golden standing on top of a ladder at the back of one of the shop’s many halls as she stuffed boxes into a dark overhead alcove.

  Sif the Golden wasn’t an elder elf, nor was she particularly powerful. She was, though, the only elf in Alfheim who wove her entire magical black ponytail into a rope of smaller ropes of braids, colorful cords, and silver and gold chains. Sif carried an entire jewelry box’s worth of adornment in her hair, and even though she was one of the few elves who glamoured blonde, she rarely hid the extras in her tresses.

  “Frank!” she called. “Hello!” Soft twinkling filled the air around her head as she climbed down the ladder, as if she’d woven in pixies tonight.

  “Salvation! How are you, darling?” Sif extended her hand. “May I?”

  A gleeful, affirmative response blasted off Sal, and I handed her over.

  Sif held my axe as if determining the weight of the spellwork that allowed me to carry her. “Nice,” she said. “Benta’s webbing doesn’t interfere with your balance, my love?”

  A negative response followed.

  “Excellent,” Sif said, and expertly swung Sal in a tight circle, narrowly missing the display shelves. “You need to come by my place, Frank,” she said. “I’ll teach you some axe-specific techniques.” Sif taught self-defense—and belly dancing—at the Community Center, and knew her way around the battle end of any axe. She tossed Sal upward. My axe rotated blade-over-handle once, then dropped perfectly into Sif’s grip.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “After Samhain?”

  Sif nodded. “I’m running with the wolves this month.” The small grin that touched her lips said she felt honored to be considered.

  “You are one of Alfheim’s best trail guides.”

  The grin turned to a smile. “Thank you. So you will come by with Sal? I will always make time for you, my friend.”

  Like Benta, Sif oozed a distracting sexual intensity. But unlike Benta, Sif didn’t wield it as a weapon. If anything, Sif’s sexiness was comforting.

  “Of course.”

  She shouldered Sal. Guess I wouldn’t be carrying my axe again until I left.

  Like almost every female elf in Alfheim, she was stunningly lovely, and moved like a cat. Sif, though, carried an “everyone’s free-love mother” vibe that set up an uncomfortable—and obvious—dissonance for a lot of mundanes. She didn’t seem to notice, or if she did, she rightfully didn’t care, and went about her business being the town’s go-to trail guide, purveyor of outdoor entertainment goods, and teacher of elven mindfulness.

  “I need a bicycle,” I said, “and was wondering if you had any leftover stock.”

  She wiped her hands on a kerchief stuck in the back pocket of her jeans. “Let’s see.” She tapped her chin. “I sold most of my overstock last weekend. Big close out sale!” She waved her hand through the air to indicate a marquee sign, then motioned for me to follow her deeper into the store. “But I do have three or four units left. What do you need?”

  “Something sturdy with good tires.” I had no idea what size I needed to buy. “With a frame you’d find comfortable.”

  Sif stopped right in the middle of the narrow aisle between two racks of cross-country skis. “For a lady, Frank?”

  “Umm….” I swear my cheeks heated. Me, the walking pile of stitched-together corpse parts, blushed.

  “Yes!” Sif twirled Sal again. “It’s about time. And you came to me for a gift? I am humbled. Your lady must be special to get a mode of transportation. A bike is the modern equivalent to a horse.” She winked. “Anyone I know?”

  “Umm…” I said again, because again, I couldn’t get out the words I wished to share.

  Sif stepped closer. She peered up at my face. Then she blinked, stepped back, and without another word, returned to leading me deeper into the shop.

  Ellie’s concealments had struck again, so I changed the subject.

  “You haven’t had any issues with our person of interest, have you?” I asked.

  She waved her hand over her shoulder. “Thankfully, no.”

  “He seemed afraid of Bjorn, to be honest,” I said, “and more interested in harassing mundanes.”

  Sif stopped again and her lower lip trembled just a bit. “How are Bjorn and Lennart?”

  She was responding to my mention of Bjorn in almost exactly the same way Lennart had to my mention of Maura. Same set to her shoulders. Same looking away. Same touching of her ear.

  I was beginning to wonder if I’d missed a memo about how this particular Samhain also landed on some otherwise-unknown elven season of love.

  Sif laughed. “You know how it is, Frank,” she said. “There are rules to the magic.”

  Yeah, she was an elf.

  “Benta took up with me.” It just slipped out. Elven pairin
gs were none of my business, and honestly, I never really paid attention. I’d long been more concerned about my own broken heart.

  Which was selfish. It was. But sometimes one has only so much space in one’s world for other people’s hugs and kisses.

  Sif sighed. “And Maura took up with a fire spirit.” She shook her head. “We are who we are, we elves.” Now she shrugged. “We cannot argue with the magic.”

  And there it was, the elven equivalent of “It’s in God’s hands.” But that didn’t mean we couldn’t fight the power. Fight the magic. Make inroads. Make life better for the one we loved.

  Sal axe-snorted.

  Sif glanced at my axe as if annoyed that she would interject, then pointed a finger at me. “You look confused, Frank.”

  You have no idea, I thought.

  Sif chuckled. “Come.”

  I followed Sif and wiggled through a doorway proportioned only for the smaller among the elves into an also-too-small space full of overstock. Boxes filled every corner. Art sat stacked against the walls. Sif the Golden hoarded only the useful and the beautiful.

  “Let’s see.” She handed Sal to me before moving aside a stack of containers full of winter hats and scarves. “Need new mittens?” she asked.

  “Umm…” I said yet again.

  Sif touched the side of her nose. “You aren’t leaving until we have your unknown lady outfitted.”

  Sal agreed that the polite thing to do would be to make sure the unknown fae magic that kept coming around the house at least had warm toes.

  Sif’s mouth dropped open. “Fae magic, Frank? And do not answer me with an umm…”

  Sal responded that it was nothing to worry about.

  “Really, Sal?” Sif asked. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but just like before, stopped.

  As did I, as if I’d run into a wall. Or the wall had run into me. Would I ever be able to talk to an elf about…

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. Why was I here? “A bike,” I said. “I have an old bike in my garage and I need a replacement.”