Freya's Inferno (Winging It Book 1)

by Sonja Bair

  Freya’s Inferno

  BY SONJA BAIR

  Cover design by Carol Fiorillo

  For Nathan- because of your love, support, and good ideas. I’d always choose you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 1

  There are many ways to start an adventure, but probably this is the only one that starts with a lentil shortage in a grocery store. Maybe I could imagine a shortage of bread or top sirloin to start a chaotic fight between good and evil, but lentils? Never. But alas and alack, that particular dearth of dried beans must be considered the start of this adventure.

  So there was only one sixteen-ounce, dark olive, lumpy package of lentils lying forlornly on the shelf. And then there was an awkward pause of two people when they realize that there is one item left and two people who want it. There’s the shuffling of the feet, the clearing of the throats, and that pause, the pause in which one waits for the other person to succumb to niceties and say, “No, no... Go ahead, it’s all yours.” But the pause was becoming uncomfortably long. I was the first to break and interrupt the loaded silence.

  “Rock, paper, scissors?” I offered, looking up at him. If he expected me to be the bigger person and give him the last bag of lentils, he had another thing coming. I got a small chuckle from my legume adversary, and he started to motion me to take the beans. But then, simultaneously, both of us froze in place, coming to a new horrified realization at the same time. If I thought the silence was loaded before, it was nothing compared to the heft of the air now. At this point in a movie, the trumpets would swoop in and sound out loud, brassy tones, demanding the viewer realize something BIG was about to happen. But this was not a movie; this was the middle of a small town grocery store. I think Belinda Carlise was singing about circles in the sand over the PA.

  “Well, this is an interesting situation,” the bean rival muttered as we both stood a little taller. Of course, for me, standing taller bumped me from five-foot-one and three-quarters inches to five-foot-two, whereas it bumped him up from tall to ridiculously tall.

  In testy situations, I usually revert to an old, old strategy best used to flummox older siblings—deny the obvious. “Definitely interesting. The store needs to look long and hard at their shelf-stocking practices. Imagine the lentil riots that would break out if the word got out? Now, I was going to make my favorite Spinach Lentil Stew. It’s one of my six recipes that I can actually manage. My brother-in-law, however, can make a mean lentil couscous and, believe it or not, he’s a cattle rancher. You would think that it would be all chuck and cowboy coffee, but, nope, he’s the best cook around. So are you going to take me up on the offer of rock, paper, scissors, or can I have the bag?”

  He sighed and took a moment to decide if he was going to play along with my game. “So you must be new in town. Are you visiting or staying?”

  Nope, he wasn’t going to play my game, and from my vast experience of deciphering the very clear, I could see he preferred me to be hightailing it out of town soon. I wasn’t so easily scared, however, and I knew the rules of the game.

  The gentleman in question was perhaps thirty years old and broad shouldered. His skin was a café au lait color and his hair was cropped short, but the little that remained was curly. His facial features and height most likely made him popular with the ladies, but if he had charm, it wasn’t showing. His face was blank, but that scary blank that meant there were all sort of thoughts and emotions rolling around in his head.

  “Yes, thank you, I am in new in town. So new, in fact, that I didn’t know that lentils were the hot commodity. Perhaps you can steer me to some good lentil restaurants? Lentil bars?”

  Again he sighed and, with an air of resignation, replied, “Look, I’m not going to attack. At least not in the grocery store aisle. But perhaps we can meet somewhere and discuss the situation? If there are going to be two of us in town, we will need to clear the air and set rules.” There was a slight pause, and then he just had to add, “Of course, it would be best if there were only one of us here.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet, a really nice looking, deep brown leather wallet and handed me a business card. The card was printed on heavy cream paperstock and was very elegant in its simplicity. David Waterstone, CEO Waterstone Technologies and listed a phone number and email address below. As he folded and put the wallet away, I noticed quite a few flashes of green. Not many people carry around cash anymore. I wondered if he preferred cash because of the anonymity it provided, and if so, why. There were several puzzle pieces about this situation that didn’t fit well, but I couldn’t worry about that now. Instead, I had to keep up the odd conversation concerning the supernatural in the most non-supernatural setting of the local market. Never mind that the average person would see nothing out of the ordinary about the appearance of either of us; he and I knew better. I have found that the most unusual abilities and traits are usually hidden away from unknowing eyes.

  The incongruity of holding his fancy business card while worrying about supernatural abilities pushed me over the border from apprehension to amusement. I actually had a nervous laugh trying to escape during the whole exchange, but David Waterstone didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would see the humor in the situation. But now a somewhat socially acceptable small chuckle bubbled over my barriers, which then escalated to a chortle, finally settling into a full-on laugh—the type that caused other shoppers to stop and swivel their heads to see what the commotion was about and to see if they could join in on the joke.

  David Waterstone waited patiently for me to finish and then cocked up an eyebrow of disapproval. “If you are finished causing your little scene, perhaps you will do me the pleasure of introducing yourself.”

  “Freya Holm.” I said holding out my hand. “Pleased to meet you. And yes, I did just move into town, and no, I don’t plan on moving out of town anytime soon. But I’m sure we can work out some sort of deal. After all, San Luis Obispo, according to Oprah, is the Happiest Town in America.” Again with the button pushing. If someone wants to annoy any local, the fastest and easiest way is to mention Oprah. San Luis is way too cool to want to acknowledge a former daytime talk show host’s opinion, even if that former daytime talk show is Oprah herself. “I’m about to start a teaching job at a private school here in town. Perhaps you can introduce me to your favorite coffee shop and then maybe we can stroll to a park to have that talk.” Someplace public, but not too public. “My classes start in about a month, but until then, I’m fairly free.”

  “Tomorrow I’m busy, but I’ll meet you Friday at the coffee shop on Santa Rosa Street. From there, we can walk to the corner park. Nine a.m.? Good. I will see you then, Freya Holm. And I can see the look on your face, so don’t even ask. You may have the lentils.”

  David Waterstone handed them to me. Although it was only a bag of beans, I felt like I won a victory. I just refrain
ed from raising my hand in the air and shouting, “The beans are mine” in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice (which really isn’t any different than my worst Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, come to think of it). Instead, I smiled widely, thanked him, and walked down the aisle, taking a right at the display celebrating orange, gooey macaroni and cheese as the perfect American Family Food. I patiently waited my turn at the self-check and bagged my few purchases in my green mesh bag. Only after I got in my car did I start shaking and breathing heavy. I was so screwed. I had moved into a lone werewolf’s territory. Of course, I wasn’t a defenseless damsel in distress; I had resources and powers of my own. But I had not expected this development when I moved out here from Illinois.

  ***

  My sister had promised good weather, plentiful hiking, friendly people, and an air of civic pride in San Luis Obispo. She had praised the abundance of farmers markets and bike-friendly streets. She even introduced me to the school I’d be working at, although I must say that I got myself the job. Elin had also implied that there were no supernaturals out here, either. None, at least, that she was aware of and none that my mother was aware of. But Elin couldn’t sense supernaturals herself and my mother was all the way in Chicago and, although she wouldn’t like to admit it, was not all-knowing. I had moved out here for all the reasons that Elin had mentioned, but also for the reason of getting away from the constant presence of my own family of supernaturals. The Flock wasn’t pleased with my choice, but my mother had started the rebellious immigration herself, so she couldn’t complain. Or at least, she couldn’t complain too loudly.

  So, out of the frying pan of family and into the fire of lone werewolf territory. That is what David had to be. I knew by his scent that he was a werewolf. My sister thinks it is bizarre and a little off-putting that we supernaturals can identify each other by smell, but to me, it is just another function of a perfectly normal sense. Bees can identify colors humans can’t see, elephants can hear sounds below the human range of hearing, and supernaturals can smell a lot more than typical naturals. And really, having super smelling is the least of our oddness. For example, I would say my ability to make wings mysteriously appear from my back or David’s ability to shift into a very large wolf are a little more out of the ordinary. So, yes, much like a natural can tell an Asian from a Latino, I can tell a werewolf from a fire-breather or a masker.

  But the lone wolf part was puzzling. Werewolf packs and the more civilized of the supernaturals (scary, isn’t it, that werewolves are considered one of the civilized ones) have a policy of letting the other supernaturals know their territories. This particular policy has been shown to decrease bloodshed in the long run. My mother, back in Chicago, would therefore have sketched out on her five-foot-by-eight-foot world map a pack’s territory around the San Luis Obispo area if there was official word of one. And trust me, if there was that grey line indicating a werewolf pack around San Luis Obispo, she would not have let me, let alone my sister, move down here. Ambassador Alma Holm can be fairly persuasive, and if that fails, she can be downright scary.

  So why would a werewolf be lone wolfing it over here? Werewolves need to be in packs. They get their strength, power, and control from the bonds between each other. I could only imagine that a werewolf would be on his own for a couple of reasons, none of them good.

  After mulling over my situation the whole way home, I pulled my dark-blue-with-wood-paneling 1986 AMC Eagle station wagon into my driveway. I mention my car in all its detailed glory for a purpose, the purpose being that I think my car is flat-out awesome, but for some reason, I have to try to convince others of this same assessment. Imagine a normal family wagon, but then take trunk and hood and smoosh the two toward each other, so it almost looks like the roof of the car has its eyebrows raised in a “Hey, what’s up” sort of way. And then put on big, but not too big, tires which declare to the world that the car is ready for everything and anything. Freeways? It eats them up with a hipster shrug of the shoulder. Mountain trails? Grr, what else have you got for me? Currently, the general public does not agree with my assessment. Ebay will get you one of these bad boys for about 3k. History will vindicate me.

  The Eagle was also a perfect place to contemplate how I was going to proceed with this development and, being of the scientific mindset, I adore lists. So out of the glovebox came my trusty, well-used, green spiral-bound notebook to which I often turn. Page one of the notebook is a list from March 3rd of assignments I had to grade, and judging by the crossed-off items, I had finished all the grading except the reading assignment, which I had decided to grade on a basis of checkmarks.

  Checkmarks are a teacher’s secret shortcut to appearing to have graded papers while not actually having spent more than a glance with each assignment. Tricks like that are the only way someone could actually survive as a teacher. Page two of the notebook, dated March 5th, featured a pro/con list of moving from my steady employment teaching in Chicago to potential steady employment teaching in San Luis Obispo. The first item on the list on both the pro list and the con list was moving away from parents. I smiled at the entry. I still wasn’t sure which side to put that item on. I skipped over many pages of grocery lists, car parts which needed work, to do lists, grading rubrics, brainstorms of new cello songs to learn, lists of emails I had to respond to, etc., until I got to a blank page. The page got dated and titled with, “What to do about the werewolf.”

  1. Ask for the name of his London tailor

  2. Call Mom and... What? Tattle?

  3. Call Mom and ask for advice

  4. Call sister and warn her. But will he even notice her? And if so, what then?

  5. Do nothing

  6. Contact the nearest werewolf pack and ask what’s up. But do I really want a pack of werewolves up in SLO? Or even noticing SLO?

  7. Meet with said werewolf and have a civilized discussion over a soy latte.

  8. Research werewolves: packs, loners, and David Waterson in specific. Guaranteed he’ll be doing the same with me.

  I sighed and tapped my pen against the paper. There was no specific path for this type of situation. There weren’t a lot of typical anythings with supernaturals. My mother and her buddies at the Union of Supernaturals were trying to change that, of course, but they had a long way to go and only had made small inroads to (fairly) civilized discourse and cooperation between groups. If I remembered right, werewolves were only Associate Members of the USN and were generally grouchy when they did show up for any sort of meeting. So of the above list, I circled 4, 7, and 8. I had been away from Chicago for three weeks and I didn’t need my ambassador mother to have a reason to ruffle feathers and order me back to the Flock.

  I popped open my car door and headed inside. My garden cottage rental was looking pretty nice, if I may say so myself. When I had first signed my rental agreement, the cottage was looking pretty dumpy and rentalish, but I sweet-talked my landlords into putting a couple layers of paint on the inside and outside. The cottage was in their backyard; one would think the state of the building would have bothered them anyway, regardless of the fence separating the two homes, but the old, flaky paint told another story.

  The newly planted flowers and landscaping, however, were all me, although I had plenty of learning to do about the Mediterranean climate I was now living in. Nevertheless, I had moved to California to be outside more; therefore, I wanted my outside to look nice. The inside of the cottage, although freshly painted, still needed more help. The linoleum was peeling off in spots, and the 1970s were calling me daily to ask for my kitchen back. But the deep closet in the bedroom was the perfect place for a small bookshelf, which held several three-ring binders of documents written in Swedish, one of which could possibly help with this werewolf situation.

  If a robber ever broke into my house, decided that there must be something of value somewhere, went into my closet, still thought there was anything of value, dug deeper, found the bookcase, and could read Swedish, he or she would be very surprised. It
wasn’t a training manual for IKEA or some other banal document. This book was a little more interesting. In each binder, there were descriptions, to the best of combined knowledge of USN, about all the supernaturals living around the globe. Each corner of the world seemed to have its own unique supernatural, ranging from the meek and mild to the hope-you-never-see-them type.

  It is a complete mystery to me why the supernaturals aren’t known to the public. Although small in number compared to the naturals, we are all around. Maybe the secret is kept by supernatural means, maybe there are supernaturals in places of power, maybe every group has a strict moratorium on discussing themselves, maybe we have been lucky. My mother, who is in the know as much as anyone, has never answered that question to my satisfaction.

  I flipped to the index, located the werewolf section, and grabbed binder number three. Werewolves’ original territory was from Northern Africa to Southern Europe, but several werewolf packs, like most supernaturals, have made a secondary home base in the Americas. Binder number three contained other supernaturals from the South of Europe; I flipped past various forms of orcs and shapeshifters until I reached werewolves. Overall, there wasn’t much new to me. In fact, anyone with access to public media would know almost as much from the standard lore surrounding werewolves. Information was gleaned from the section and recorded in the green notebook:

  1. Werewolves were born, not made

  2. Reside in packs of 30-40 werewolves, plus additional naturals associated with pack

  3. The pack leaders are a mated pair and below them is a strict hierarchy of power

  4. Naturals who are in the family are integrated into life of the pack although they are not part of the traditions which are wolf-based

  5. There are five packs in the United States: two in the southwest, two in the Rockies, and one in Maine.