Then we go home. No old-school Las Vegas mob threats. No tricksters, Japanese or otherwise. No strange red magical branding. And most certainly no harassing of little old ladies, trollness notwithstanding.
I rubbed my forehead and pulled the scatted shirt over my head. I tossed it into the corner.
Remy tapped his water bottle against the dresser. “Where did they take you?”
“A Great Hall. Someplace called the Crossroads Saloon.” I stood and walked toward the window.
He stared at me expectantly.
“I need to find the troll by this evening. The one who scatted us. If I don’t, the Las Vegas Wolf spirit is going to feed me to its dire wolf pups.”
“That sounds violent,” Remy said.
I held out my new shirt and the brand. “I can’t leave Las Vegas. I can’t remove the mark.”
Remy took another sip of his water. “We don’t have time for your trickster problems, Frank,” Remy said. “The Conclave Feast is tonight. Arne needs you here.”
The hangover began to clear, and my headache lessened, but a shower would help. “I know.”
“You’re not going to find the troll in the daylight, anyway.” Remy pointed at the window.
I still had to look. Maybe I should try to get the brand off, no matter the threats. I picked at the edges of the brand.
Fire surged through my skin to my bones. My entire arm felt as if it waged a battle on itself. “I stopped!” I said to the brand.
I swear it humphed. Was it talking to me the same way Sal talked?
“Go away,” I said to the brand. I had a history of being able to hear magical items. Portia Elizabeth’s dress talked to her, and this was the same magic, so perhaps the brand would talk to me. “I don’t want you.”
I understood the growl, but didn’t hear it. The brand growled in much the same way that Sal tossed me comprehension.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” I said to my arm. “What if I refuse to harass the troll?”
Fire screamed up my arm again.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I muttered.
“Is it talking to you?” Remy moved closer.
“It’s part of Portia Elizabeth’s dress,” I said. “It talks to her, so this little smudge should talk to me.”
The brand growled again.
“You’re a bit one-note,” I said to the magic.
Remy stiffened. “She gave you part of her dress?” He dropped the water bottle onto the dresser.
“She didn’t give me anything,” I said. “Wolf made her inflict it on me.”
Remy poked at the brand.
A jolt of hot pain ran up my arm. “Hey!” I yanked away. “Not helping.”
Remy’s magic shifted into the sheets of moonglow that appeared before his wolf surfaced. “Why didn’t she take me?” He poked at the brand again.
“Because I was stupid enough to offer my services,” I said. “And I’m big enough to bring in the troll.” Though I had my doubts about that.
Remy sniffed at the brand. His magic flared. “Portia Elizabeth is my mate, not yours.”
Not good, I thought. I did not need an under-the-influence werewolf mad at me on top of my troll predicament.
I pulled away my arm. “First, this has nothing to do with your wolf hormones,” I said. “Second, I think you’re still feeling the effects of her influence from last night—Sunday night.”
He stiffened again.
His phone pinged. He turned away, pulled it out, and looked at the message. “They’ve landed.”
“Give me that.” I wiggled my fingers.
Remy frowned, but handed over his phone.
Frank here, I tapped to Arne. Don’t go to your hotel. We need you ASAP.
Understand, appeared. We will be there in twenty minutes.
“They’re coming directly here.” I handed back his phone. “Can you keep it together until then?”
“This from the man who feels a burning need to chase down a troll.”
Remy said “troll” and the brand sniffed at the magic of the hotel like a puppy scenting bacon treats.
My ability to see magic erupted into a level of perception way beyond the visual. Mr. Left and Mr. Right were, at that very moment, standing outside the Feast banquet room debating whether one of them should get coffee. Niklas der Nord worked with a set of security sigils at the back of the room. The Alfheim elves were not within the magic’s range, but another set of elves approached the hotel.
A touched family, three floors down, fussed with their Con costumes. A low-powered magical dealt out cards in the casino.
And the cantankerous little old lady troll, who was only here because the desert helped her arthritis, played slots no more than fifty feet from where Remy and I ate dinner Sunday night.
The extra sensing shut off as fast as it manifested. “Whoa,” I said.
“What?” Remy sniffed at the brand again.
The troll was in the casino. She played slots, but she had her suitcase at her feet. “I need to take care of this.” I pushed by Remy and jogged for the elevators.
Chapter 20
Remy twisted through the closing elevator doors just as I hit the button for the lobby. “Where are we going?” he asked as he smoothed the front of his shirt.
The elevator robotically chatted out the floor levels as we descended. “Down,” I said.
He sniffed the air. “Is that troll in the building?” He sniffed again. “Why would she be here?”
“Maybe she’s here to annoy you,” I said. “You did chase her into the sunlight.”
Remy humphed.
“Maybe she sensed the elves and wants to piss them off. She is a troll.” I shrugged. “Either way, ElfCon provides cover for any new glamour breakage.” She had her bag with her. “I suspect she’s about to leave for the airport.”
I’d walk into the casino and…
I didn’t know how the “and” would play out. Would the red magic jump from me to her? Would she go full troll and destroy the slots? Would she stay in glamour, scream, flail, and tell security that the huge man threatened to hurt her little old lady self? Would Portia Elizabeth walk in and take her away? How was I supposed to get her to the House apartments if she didn’t want to go? She was bigger than me.
“For all we know, Raven sent her and this is a setup.” Remy paced as the elevator dinged through its last floors. “You, my friend, are likely walking into a trickster trap.”
He was probably correct. The troll was the bait to which I could not say no, and the brand on my arm was a spring-loaded, neck-breaking mechanism.
I held out my arm again. “Get off me,” I growled. Never again would I be kind or courteous to a trickster.
The red magic snarled, and flared. Once again, I had an intimate understanding of the locations of every single magical and magic-touched person within the hotel. I knew the directions they moved, if they chewed on a granola bar, or if they needed a nap.
I leaned against the elevator wall. “Do you growl and snap at Portia Elizabeth?” I asked my arms. “No wonder she wanted us to leave her alone.”
Now the brand humphed.
The elevator door slid open.
Remy’s phone chirped. “Arne wants you to go back to your room.”
The entire concourse was jammed with Con-goers. A pair of teenagers in bright, cartoonish costumes ran by. A large man with a full beard, a wide leather belt, blue stripes on his face, and a fake wolf skin draped over his head and shoulders flexed as he walked by the elevators. Someone burped. Laughter and groans followed.
I pushed my way out of the elevator and through a gaggle of skinny fake-elves. ElfCon’s major events started today, and every hotel patron other than Remy and me was in full regalia, all looking to out-elf and -character each other. Someone yelled something about winning the costume contest.
A large man in a bear costume walked by.
“Wonder what der Nord thinks of that,” Remy said.
“Focus,” I responded.
I waded into the crowd, with Remy following. A skinny guy in a red and black spandex suit jogged toward me and I pulled up so as not to run him over.
He pushed his fists into his hips and cocked his head. “You’re big!” He pointed at my chest. “Who are you cosplaying, dude?” he asked.
“I’m not here for the convention.” I stepped to the side to move around him.
He held his ground. “Oh! So manly!” Mr. Red and Black danced around and blew me a kiss. “You must be a frost giant!”
“Get out of my way,” I said.
Remy crossed his arms, stepped to the side, and grinned. Mr. Red and Black clapped, then posed as if shooting an arrow at the moon. “Onward to Valhalla!” Then he giggled again and ran toward a group of fake-elves.
He wasn’t the only normal in some variation of the red and black costume. The Con had an infestation.
“Tell the next one you’re a professional wrestler.” Remy pointed over his shoulder at the elevators. “Are you going to listen to Arne?”
I should listen. “Troll.” I pointed at the other end of the concourse, the lobby, and the entrance to the casino.
Remy’s wolf magic brightened. “Let’s see if the magic will jump to me.” He held out his arm. “I’ll take it.” He danced in front of me. “I’m a wolf.”
A wolf who thought three hundred years wasn’t enough time to kill his affair with a woman everyone thought of as a succubus.
I stopped walking in the middle of the concourse floor, about fifteen feet beyond the elevator lobby, and within full view of the Feast banquet room doors.
Magic flared up and over the heads of the Con-goers. Bright, blinding magic as each and every one of the elves threw up their own gearwork, sheets, sigils, and walls.
Elven magic.
“Remy…”
“I bet half the mundanes here felt that,” Remy said.
“I hope not.” The last thing we needed was a touched mundane having a heart attack because they felt “a ghost.”
The door to the Feast banquet room opened. More magic poured out, as did a lovely, real, golden light.
The Siberian twins exited first. Mr. Left moved unsurprisingly to the left, and Mr. Right to the right. The twins had glamoured themselves back to their Matrix dark suits, white shirts, sunglasses, and earpieces.
Niklas der Nord exited next. He continued to semi-glamour enough to appear as a mundane in a costume, and still wore his wine-red leathers.
A new, tightly-packed group of real elves walked toward the Feast room. A bubble of magic kept all the mundane Con-goers at least ten feet away on all sides.
One of the Courts approached the Conclave Feast.
Der Nord quickly made his way from the room entrance toward the approaching elves.
The male in the center of the bubble was visibly smaller than the other elves, and about five inches shorter than der Nord. Two other elves, both female and just as uptight and cinched-up as the male in the center, stood with their hands behind their backs as if they were the small elf’s very own Siberian twins. The two female elves were in full glamour with no overt elf-ness showing. Both were smartly—and comfortably—dressed, even if they did appear particularly uncomfortable.
They weren’t guards. They were this Court’s Queen and Elder.
The elf in the middle, like the women, was in full, unassuming glamour with unkempt clothes, a bit of a belly, and a receding hairline.
“Bragisson,” Remy said. He quickly pulled out his phone.
Gearwork magic very much like Dag’s slid and locked around the Elf Emperor. His was darker in color, and somehow more complex, even if it didn’t at first glance show how, or why.
The cloud of elf magic filling the lobby was drenched in his signature, leaving no doubt about who was in charge.
The Elf Emperor himself, wearing just as much of a costume as the ElfCon’s attendees, chatted with Niklas der Nord out in the open, in the center of the concourse, as his daughter and her disappointing husband were pulling up outside.
“Do we hide?” Remy asked.
They were standing between me and the casino. Hiding was not an option.
Magic flared upward from Bragisson and he stepped to the side of der Nord. He looked around, then threw his arms wide.
“Mr. Geroux!” he called.
“Too late,” Remy said. He quickly texted something to Arne, then tucked away his phone as we walked over.
Bragisson stood eye-to-eye with Remy and greeted him with a shoulder slap. He extended his hand to me. “You must be Frank Victorsson! It’s a pleasure,” he said in perfect, impeccable English. “Allow me to introduce our Empress, Astrid Heimdallsdottir, and our second, Þórdís Ullrsdottir.”
I bowed my head. “Welcome to Las Vegas.”
Bragisson laughed and slapped his thigh. “Now you have manners, unlike those vampires, huh?” He winked.
The Emperor of the Elves made a bad, gossipy joke and winked like everyone’s bad boss everywhere.
The affable elf business had to be a front. Nothing I’d ever heard about Tyr Bragisson led me to believe the elf in front of me was nice. Not his political dealings. Not the constant yelling over the phone that made Akeyla unhappy. Not Dag’s near-omnipresent frowns concerning all things Bragisson. Not Arne’s silence.
But mostly the fact that this elf had not once stepped foot in Alfheim since he married off his daughter to the New World king.
Remy looked as suspicious as I felt. Der Nord stepped back. Bragisson’s Queen and Elder ignored the conversation.
Bragisson clasped his hands behind his back. “My son-in-law sent ahead his attendants.” He frowned like an uptight librarian.
“As did you.” Remy grinned the sweetest, friendliest grin I’d ever seen him flash at an elf. “We’re all here to check out the facilities, no?”
Bragisson frown deepened. Then he, too, grinned sweetly. “Yes, yes. For security,” he said.
Remy bowed as if offering our services, as well.
His phone chirped. I glanced at the other end of the concourse before realizing what I was doing. What if Arne or Dag arrived and cut me off before I reached the casino?
I yanked on Remy’s arm. “Excuse us, King Bragisson, Queen Heimdallsdottir, Elder Ullrsdottir,” I said. “Remy and I would like to keep as close to protocol as possible.”
“Niklas tells me you had a run-in with a troll.” Bragisson’s tone was not sweet, nor was it friendly. His glamour kept its ignorable balding-middle-aged-man look and feel, and his magic continued to be a shifting, layered, indigo-violet version of Dag’s gearwork, but my instincts stood up and took notice.
“Trolls are a problem,” he said. “The entire lot of them.”
Bragisson had no idea she was in the building. None of the elves appeared to know.
The brand on my arm snickered.
I resisted glancing at it. The less Bragisson knew about my predicament, the better. At least until I could have Arne or Dag look it over.
He probably also knew every detail of our earlier troll encounter, and the resulting fallout. Niklas der Nord could have simply been reporting information to Bragisson, or he could have been strategically destroying our credibility.
My money was on destruction. Snitch, I thought. At least he hadn’t realized yet that she was nearby.
A small, almost imperceptible sneer flickered along der Nord’s upper lip.
Remy leaned closer to Bragisson. “She said she was on vacation. Seems the desert eases troll arthritis. Not their cranky attitudes, unfortunately.” He shrugged. “I would love to tell you the entire story after the Feast, sir.” He grinned again. “It’s an entertaining tale.”
Bragisson chuckled. “Our trolls enjoy harassing mundane road-building crews.” He shook his head. “We have two who will occasionally toss boulders into our enclave. The Danish enclave has had a handful of problems lately. Seems the trolls claim one of their elves is a thief.”
&
nbsp; “Fascinating,” I said. “Excuse us.”
Der Nord stepped between us and the lobby end of the concourse.
Did he know something? He had to.
Remy’s phone chirped again.
Der Nord’s eyes narrowed as he watched a laughing clutch of Con-goers walk by. They didn’t have elven politics to worry about, or world-spirits threatening their homes and families. They were here to have fun, and to enjoy Las Vegas’s wonders.
Remy’s werewolf magic fluttered. It shifted into a wolf form, and the curtains of energy thickened and condensed, as his aurora yellows and greens changed to blues and purples.
Der Nord’s actions irritated Remy. He’d been itchy around der Nord during every interaction we’d had. And now his laser-focus had once again come around to the one elf who could cause the Alfheim elves the most trouble.
Remy moved toward Bragisson. “I have never been to your island or met one of your trolls.” He looked around as if sharing a secret, then leaned closer to Bragisson. “You do know our work? My brother and I?”
Der Nord moved to pull Remy away from Bragisson.
Remy threw his arms up and stepped back in a way only the werewolves moved—he unconsciously dropped the center of his weight and poised his legs for a lunging bounce.
Der Nord stepped in front of Bragisson as if to take the hit in case Remy went feral. Bragisson shook his head, and his body language shifted into the smug righteousness of a politician who took the power of his political position for granted.
A new, bright flash of magic burst from the main lobby end of the concourse, and a light blue-green sigil formed in the air above the Con-goers.
The three Icelandic elves looked over their shoulders.
Dagrun Tyrsdottir moved like an arrow through the crowd toward her father, ex-husband, and us. She wore a glamour as boringly middle American as her father’s, but she wanted the other elves to know she could still out-enchant them, even with a cast on her arm.
Her magic lifted upward and over our heads as if purposefully flooding the concourse with precision spellwork.
“Father,” Dagrun said as she walked up. “Astrid. Þórdís.” Nothing else. No comments about itineraries or notifications. Just a single icy acknowledgement of the Icelandic Court.
Elf Raised (Northern Creatures Book 3) Page 15
