by C. A. Storm
Reaching up, she gently wrapped her hand around the hematite charm hanging from her rearview mirror as she centered herself. The three men in the convenience store, the four others paying absolutely no attention to her, she could sense the aura of dangerous power that hissed over her senses, but none of that violence was directed her way. Exhaling gustily, Harper shook her head as she ruthlessly tamped down on her empathic senses.
“Girl, you have got to let it go! New chapter, new life, remember? Don’t go looking for trouble where none exists.” Yeah, she had a nasty habit of talking to herself, but at least it guaranteed intelligent conversation!
With a shake of her head, Harper started up Little Lady and fired up her playlists. After a run-in with bikers, she wasn’t in the mood to deal with Alpha werewolves at all, so instead of returning to her audiobook, she pulled up her musicals.
As Cheyenne Jackson said, “What the hell, guys like me shouldn’t dream anyway,” Harper pulled out of the truck stop, as he, Kerry Butler, and the original Broadway cast of Xanadu raised their voices in melodies both mean-spirited and not. Harper’s raised her voice as well, but alas, melodious, it was not!
Chapter 2
BOOM!
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
BOOM! BOOM!
Bårdr "Bard" Ulvfang groaned as he yanked his pillow from beneath his head and threw it at the wall in a pointless, but oh-so-satisfying display of disgust. Shave-and-a-haircut was always annoying, but when someone banged it out on the heavy metal doors of his home, the cavernous converted warehouse space amplified the obnoxious banging to pure psychological warfare.
Pale, icy blue eyes, bloodshot from a night of perhaps…no definitely…too much akevitt narrowed as he squinted towards the clock beside his bed.
5:59.
Going by the fact his room was still pitch black, except for the pale blue luminescence of his alarm clock, it was AM. Too gods-be-damned early!
When the banging began again, Bard threw his head back and howled. Now, men howl a lot, about all manner of things, but no one on Earth or in the Otherworlds can howl like a wolf shifter. Especially an alphaborn wolf shifter in his own territory, who was grumpy, hungover, and had been dealing with his inner wolf being a bastard for the last week. Bard had officially had enough!
Before the echoes of his own howl reverberated back into silence, Bard tore out of the tangled mess of his sheets, literally shredding them in the process, and thundered down the stairs, making no effort to silence the pounding of his size 16 gunboats as they slammed against heavy wooden steps.
Yanking open the heavy steel door, Bard's snarled, "WHAT?" was met by a smug smirk from an unfortunately familiar face. One that was in no way as intimidated, or impressed, as a werewolf could wish.
"Dammit, Reggie, what the fuck?" Bard growled, glaring up at one of the few men that made him feel all dainty and shit. Scrubbing his face, Bard allowed his wolf to retreat, his fangs and claws retracting as the dusting of fur covering his exposed torso receded.
Reginald "Reggie" Goyle was a bloody giant, topping an easy seven feet in height, and built like a bull, much like his older brother. He was inappropriately dressed for an April in the Colorado Rockies in just a leather vest that strained to contain a way-too-broad barrel of a chest, worn Wranglers that were indecently snug, and biker boots. Oh, and that damn smirk. He was wearing a grin that was just too damned bright for this time of morning.
The giant's charcoal hued eyes pointedly swept downwards, his smirk widening further—if that were even possible—until it was a brilliant white gash in his heavily bearded face.
"Now, now, pup, I'd say don't get your knickers twisted, but does no look like you're wearing aught, eh?"
Scottish bastard, Bard drew himself up, crossing his arms over his bare chest and letting his dangly bits continue to sway as he glared up at the larger man. He ignored the chortles of the other bastards gathered behind Reggie's huge frame.
"Why are you here, Reg?" Okay, so going by the growl still vibrating his throat, apparently Bard's wolf wasn't quite as leashed as he had hoped.
"Ahhhh," Reggie drawled, stroking his long, thick beard thoughtfully as he regarded the shorter man. "Well, see, it seems there's been a spot of trouble here abouts, and the new Gray Lord has decided to bring us in to do a wee bit of investigating."
Bard just blinked a few times, his brain just not up to the task of dealing with Reggie this early in the morning. When synapses finally engaged, Bard sighed and swung open the door.
"Fine, whatever. The kitchen's in back, go start some coffee or something. You and your boys..." Bard paused when two distinctly feminine voices shouted out, "HEY!"
Leaning to one side, his platinum blond mane slithering down over his face, Bard said, "Sorry, ladies," before he tossed his head back, letting the long locks of his hair fly back into place as he picked back up speaking to Reggie, "You and your gang can make breakfast. I'm going to go shower. I'll be back down in a few."
Turning without waiting a response, Bard padded much more silently, back towards the stairs that led up to the loft that overlooked the main area of his warehouse. Pointedly ignoring the wolf-whistles as he bare-assed headed up the steps, he may or may not have purposefully flexed his ass more than absolutely necessary, as his home was invaded by "Reggie and the Gang."
"Don't forget your knickers, pup!" Reggie bellowed as the sound of laughter and applause followed Bard up the stairs.
Yeah, fuck that shit. Wake me up at an ungodly hour, you get what you get.
After a quick shower, Bard spent a few minutes combing out his hair and his own beard, pointedly ignoring the sounds coming from downstairs. Grabbing an old, worn Minnesota Vikings ballcap to control his hair, he tucked it on and eyed himself thoughtfully in the mirror for a few moments.
Damn, I've gotten scruffy, Bard thought with a rueful shake of his head. I look more like a bear than a proper wolf!
He debated for a few heartbeats. A wicked grin slipped free as he grabbed a pair of flannel pajama pants and pulled them on before he headed back down to join the chaos unfolding in his studio.
The old warehouse he had purchased a few years back had been gutted and repurposed. The front half of the main floor served as the front for his primarily business, Howling Storm Motorcycles, where he sold customized and converted motorcycles. The back half served as his forge and studio, where he could work on his projects and art without having to deal with people. His loft was situated over the front half of the warehouse, allowing him to overlook his studio below.
Bard found Reggie and his compatriots crowding the small kitchen, and except for the massive gargoyle, Bard recognized none of them. His nostrils flared, his wolf mentally pushing forward to scent the air.
Alfar. All of them are alfar-touched, Bard's wolf shared with a snort of disdain. Yep, the wolf was opinionated. Very opinionated. But there was something else in the air, something just teasing the edge of both his and his wolf's senses.
Reggie stood next to the industrial-sized fridge, occupied with pouring stuff into a large mixing bowl. The two females both sat next to each other on one of the counters, sharing a large container of yogurt they had liberated from the fridge, while the four males—two big bruisers that nearly rivaled Bard in size, and two smaller, but nevertheless dangerous looking men—sat at the long, scarred rustic dining table, ruthlessly demolishing Bard's stash of the delicious, sugary cereals his wolf was addicted to. No, really, his wolf loved them.
Finding himself the focus of seven sets of eyes as he stalked into the kitchen, Bard blamed the purposeful strut to his step, the one that made his dangly bits sway beneath the fabric of the low-slung flannel pants he wore, on his wolf. Yep, totally the wolf's fault.
You're wagging the wrong tail, Bard thought to his wolf, only to receive a mental image of his wolf tongue-lolling in amusement.
Going by the guffaw that broke from Reggie's chest, his "wagging" didn't go completely unnoticed.
"Ah,
pup, you're lucky it is no' my braithar getting an eyeful of your wag, aintcha?" Reggie said, with a pointed glance taking in Bard's appearance.
Both Bard and his wolf had to snort at that. "Now, Reggie, don't be jealous of my wag." With a shrug, Bard padded over to grab a coffee mug and pour himself a cup as batted his big, icy blue eyes at the larger man, "It's nothing Bertie hasn't seen before anyways. He and I go way back, but he knows you're my favorite Goyle. Apparently, I'm too pretty for him."
It took a supreme effort of will for Bard not to choke on his coffee at Reggie's flustered, red-faced sputtering. He had stricken the large gargoyle speechless! Bonus.
After the peanut gallery had exhausted their amusement, Bard met Reggie's eyes. "Okay, so now that's all out of the way, why are you here, Reggie, and not up talking to Aksel? He's the Alpha of the local Ulfhednar. Or Donar? Why are you and your Hunters at my place this fucking early on a Saturday morning?"
The room fell silent. Reggie calmly turned back to the counter, picking up a whisk and a huge mixing bowl. Cradling the bowl in the crook of a thick, heavily tattooed arm, Reggie turned back to face Bard, leaning back against the counter as he began to stir what looked to be a batch of batter.
"Aksel has your pack to worry about, and that includes all of the damned Shifter politics. Sinclair doesn't want to directly involve any of the other factions in this, since it looks like it's Leanaí business," Reggie said calmly, his brogue fading as he leveled his dark eyes on Bard. "As for Donar, well, he runs your family businesses, as well as being directly connected with the Leon boy. Besides, neither of them have your training."
"I don't do that sort of work anymore, Reggie. I build motorcycles. I sculpt. I make pretty swords and trinkets for the Ren Faire," Bard said in exasperation. Setting his coffee aside, he reached up and tugged off the ballcap so he could scratch his head in frustration before shoving the cap back on, spinning the hat so the bill was backwards so everyone could properly see his exasperated face.
"There are others that are better trained. I mean, hell, you brought them along for some reason, yeah?" Bard waved a hand to indicate the six others arranged around the small kitchen, all of whom watched Reggie and Bard avidly even as they continued to eat their way through Bard's larder.
Rolling his eyes, Reggie said slowly, as if he were explaining to a child instead of a grumpy, hungover wolf shifter, "Yes, they're here for assistance, and each of them has a particular skillset, but you're also here and your pack has lived in the area for decades now. You know the landscape, you know the people around here, and since you work at the Village anyways, you already have an in."
Waving one of his abnormally huge hands around, Reggie continued, "None of us are from around here, and once people realize who we are, none of them are going to spill their guts to us 'less we use our blades."
One of the women, a petite raven-haired beauty with sharp features and an angular face, hopped off the counter with a languid grace as she snagged the bowl out of Reggie's arms and sashayed towards the oven. She paused, tossing over her shoulder, "Where's your griddle?"
There was Texas in that accent, and feline in the glint of her lambent green eyes. Bard's wolf bristled instinctively, but the woman wasn't a Shifter with a capital-S, her scent was pure Fae. Granted, the distinction could be a bit unclear at times, just who fell under the "Shifter" umbrella versus "Fae" jurisdiction, but the raven-haired girl was definitely more Fae than not.
Pointing, Bard said, "Pots and pans are in the cabinet over there." Letting his arm fall, Bard exhaled gustily and grabbed up his mug, as he gave Reggie a look. "Reg? Who the fuck are these people? You still haven't explained just why you all are here, invading my kitchen at this ungodly hour, about to eat my food. If you're here because of the Gray Lord, why aren't you all up at the Estates or staying in one of the many, many hotels around here?"
"Oh, sorry, right then," Reggie said, clapping his hands as he began the introductions. "Miss Kitty over there is Kayleigh." A large, blunt finger swept around the room as Reggie continued introductions.
"That's Van," he indicated the tall, lithe blonde who flicked her fingers in a casual greeting. "And over there, that's Giles, Jack, Cormac, and Garth."
Giles wore a bandana and a wide grin, his olive skin and dark eyes hinting at a Mediterranean heritage, and he was built as large as the guy across from him, Cormac, who had a ruddy complexion with auburn hair so dark it was nearly black, and what looked to be a permanent scowl plastered on his craggy face. Jack was the youngest looking of the bunch, with a baby face, deep mahogany skin, and dreadlocks, with eyes a pale shade of gold. Garth was slender and wiry, with long hair that was so silvery- blond, it actually had blue highlights, and indigo eyes. All four of the guys, their mouths filled as they continued their relentless quest to polish off the last of the sugary-goodness of Bard's...er, his wolf's...cereal, gave the traditional, manly grunts and nods of greeting, which Bard returned with appropriate manliness.
Like Reggie, his entire "gang" all wore "biker" gear, a mix of worn denim and leather, and all of them had the same patch on the back of their jackets, a leering wolf's skull with elk's antlers – the mark of the Wild Hunt.
Introductions out of the way, Reggie turned his attention back towards Bard, his expression serious and intent. Just as he opened his mouth, however, a loud, feminine voice called from the front shop.
"BARD! Get your scuzzy ass up!"
Instantly, the Hunters all looked towards the source of the yelling, the sound shrill and piercing. Mortal Facades flickered as they sprang into action. Bard, however, just whimpered and covered his face with his hand.
"Fuck, so it wasn't just a bad dream?"
A tall, athletic teenaged girl stormed into the kitchen, a long, platinum blonde braid swinging like a war banner behind her. Wearing a hot pink, faux-fur winter vest over a white sweater, skinny jeans, and pink, suede, high-heeled boots, she couldn't have looked more out of place in Bard's shop.
Completely ignoring the seven deadly Fae, who all gazed at her with varying expressions of shock and confusion, the girl's narrow, ice blue eyes were locked on target with a predatory gleam as she halted in front of Bard, whose frame dwarfed her own. Without hesitation, she stabbed a manicured, pointed nail into the center of his bared chest as she growled, "Time to pay up, bucko! You lost, fair and square, and you promised!"
The words were said with a feral smile so wicked and malicious, it made all seven of the Fae take a step back and Bard release a low groan of defeat.
"Everyone," Bard said, still unwilling to come out from behind his hand, "This is my youngest sister, Tanja. Please, feel free to eradicate her from this plane of existence." Finally, he peeked out from behind his fingers, trying to ignore his younger sister as she continued poking his chest with her sharp little nail.
"Please?" Okay, so that came out more whiney than he had intended, but that was no reason for those damned Fae to all bust their guts laughing at him!
Chapter 3
Well, God Bless, there's an honest-to-goodness castle!
Harper was torn between wanting to pull over and gawk at the imposing, beautiful structure as it glowed in the early morning light, or putting pedal to metal and speed up the winding path so she could get to it quicker!
It's one thing to see a castle in a picture or in movies, but you just don't see massive castles in the Good Ol' US of A! Especially ones that looked straight out of one of those movies. For a brief moment, Harper considered. Had she pulled an Outlander? Was she actually living one of her beloved romance novels? Just for those few, sweet heartbeats, Harper was the giddy young girl she had once been, caught up in a fantasy of being a princess and meeting a knight in shining armor, or a studly Highlander in a kilt, who would slay all her dragons and sweep her off her feet.
That's when her more pragmatic side, the ruthless realist she had embraced to become one of Atlanta's top contract lawyers, reared back and ruthlessly forced her pretty little princess side back
into the dungeon where she belonged! Yes, Harper's internal monologues were usually narrated by either the love child of Cinderella and Scarlet O'Hare or the evil spawn of Cruella De Vil—the Glenn Close version, naturally—and Miranda Priestly in Devil Wears Prada.
Mmm, Prada. And just like that, Harper's fascination switched from the castle as she debated whether or not she could justify getting that eight-thousand-dollar etiquette bag in begonia and astral blue she had been eyeballing the last few months.
With both sides of her mind focused entirely now on thoughts of that bag, Harper's lips turned up in a small smile as she drove up to the castle. Okay, so apparently, it was called a château, but that always brought up mental images of a ski lodge. While the setting was definitely spot-on, this place had the whole towers, pennants crisply snapping in the breeze, and gargoyles perched on ledges, and even a frigging drawbridge, although there was no moat or anything. Instead, the castle perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a valley that was struggling to shrug off the last dusting of snow.
Harper drove Little Lady over the drawbridge, and into a large courtyard. With the small cargo container attached to her Laramie, she had to pull into one of the larger spaces further back, but given the size of Little Lady, Harper was quite used to having to walk. They just didn't make most parking lots built to handle Little Lady's curves!
As she was climbing out of the truck, Harper heard a familiar voice call out, "Harpy!"
Internally, Harper cringed at the nickname, but she turned around and gave her best Southern smile as she met the deceptively innocent looking eyes of a short, curvy redhead making a beeline across the parking lot.
"Samantha, sweetie," Harper replied, coating her words with an extra serving of honey as she addressed the one person on the planet brave enough to call her 'Harpy.' "Bless your itty, bitty, teeny, tiny heart."
