As he settled back to wait, his old-school flip phone rang. He fished the device from his pocket and opened it. Contrary to the modern culture of upgrading to a newer "smart" device every six months, Jake preferred to trust what he knew. So he'd used the exact same make and model phone for over a decade. They got destroyed every now and then, but he had over a hundred stashed away in a storage closet up at Red Butte.
A glance at the screen ID'd the caller as Sawyer.
"What's up?" Jake asked, bypassing the preamble of a greeting. His sons didn't expect one from him and wouldn't have known what to do with a pedestrian "Hello, how are you doing?" from their father.
"Dad?" Sawyer began, sounding like he had no idea what to say. Or maybe he did but hadn't figured out how to word it.
"You expectin' someone else to answer my phone?" Out of habit, Jake assumed his gruff hard-as-nails, don't-take-no-shit attitude. His relationship with Sawyer stood about a world removed from the one Jake shared with Michael.
Sawyer all but growled in reply. "No. Look—"
"Sounds like something's gotten under your skin." Based on his son's apparent agitation, Jake envisioned Sawyer running his hand through his hair, shoving those too-long bangs out of his eyes.
"Something has," Sawyer bit off and then fell silent.
Ever patient, Jake glanced down and noticed his short nails had a dark layer of grime beneath the edges. He wedged his phone between his face and shoulder. Then he drew his belt knife and used the point of his blade to clean them while he waited.
"It's nothing I can't deal with."
"Okay," Jake said in easy agreement. He respected his son's judgment as an adult...for the most part. But sometimes when his notoriously hot temper, impulsive nature, and rebellious tendencies combined, Sawyer was prone to terrible lapses in judgment.
Well, father and sons often had issues.
"Dad, do you have any worshippers up here in the Sierra Pines area?" Sawyer asked out of the blue.
Jake's lips parted. His initial inclination was to request clarification, but there was really no mistaking the implicit meaning. "I have worshippers far and wide. Not as many as I used to, but they're still around. But you know I'm cut off from my greater form while I'm human."
"So you're not aware of any of your specific followers being here." A solid thump, Sawyer's hand striking a hard surface, reinforced the demand.
"No. What's this about?"
"Nothing I can't handle. That's all I needed to know." Sawyer once again chose to play the independence card.
"All right." Jake rolled his eyes. As the twins said— Whatever. He could have pressed for more information but it would only lead to another argument.
The sleek shape of a raven circled overhead. Two males flew escort; her wingmen. Their calls had already attracted the attention of other birds from miles around. Via his kenning, Jake sensed the brooding unkindness.
"I called to tell you that Victoria has given Finn the go-ahead to schedule the werewolf conclave," Sawyer said, cutting to the point at last. "It's happening on the next full moon in Desolation Wilderness."
The news caught Jake off-guard. The tip of his knife slipped, slicing the pad of his finger wide open, and a stream of blood gushed from the wound. "Damn it," he muttered, and yanked the blade away. A few more drops of blood splattered the pavement before the wound healed.
"Should I tell them to wait?" Sawyer asked, misinterpreting his father's curse.
"Nah, that ain't it." Jake wiped the knife clean on the leg of his jeans and sheathed the weapon. "I trust Victoria's judgment. I just wasn't expecting this to happen so fast."
Though, he supposed, he should've. The damn gathering of the wolf-shifter packs had been months in the making. Even with Alpha Finn's help, they'd encountered one obstacle after another. Entire packs gone MIA—displaced or destroyed by undead. Stubborn, small-minded Alphas concerned with their own selfish priorities. Bickering. Suspicion. Herding werewolves was even more aggravating than herding cats.
The timing sucked. Couldn't have sucked worse. His people were reeling from their devastating losses in Tucson. They needed him close. Throw in Jake's enemies, Loki and the Norns, who were just circling, looking for an opportunity to strike. He dared not leave Michael unguarded. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed help and only Sawyer possessed the right ability, knowledge, and status to render it.
Jake swallowed his pride. "Son, you'll have to represent me at the werewolf conclave. Things are bad here. I can't get away."
Dead silence, and a beat passed.
"Ah, sure. No problem," Sawyer managed in stunned response.
Jake exhaled, and a tension boulder rolled off his chest. "Thanks."
"If things are that bad, should I come home?"
"No, I need this alliance with the wolves to happen. We need to catch a break, Sawyer. Every time the Necromancer strikes a civilian populace, the size of his army swells..." Jake trailed off. His son was a smart man; Sawyer didn't need the obvious spelled out. While the hunters were magically enhanced, they were still human. When his soldiers died, Jake couldn't simply call bodies forth from the grave to re-enforce their ranks.
"I'll take care of it, Dad. Consider it done. You have my word." Sawyer sounded so damn much like Daniel that Jake's heart hurt. At the same time, he had never been as proud of his rebellious son as he was in that moment.
Jake dropped a brusque nod. "Keep me informed."
"Will do." Sawyer ended the call without farewell. Like father, like son.
Raising his arm, Jake loosed another whistle. He held out his arm. The female raven swooped toward him and alighted on it. Her sharp talons bit into his bare flesh, securing her roost. He stroked a tender hand over her sleek black feathers.
Bending his head, he conspired with his pet.
Chapter Nine
Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr
Arik's eyes narrowed and his hands reverted to fully human in a quicksilver recovery. His voice was as smooth as fine whiskey. "Do you remember that kid in Albuquerque—the one who died?"
Her face slackened. All humor drained away. She clipped her answer. "Yes. His name was Jasper."
Freya recalled the incident in question only too well. December, the prior year: In the wake of the massacre in Phoenix, the surviving members of the Storm Pack had fled Arizona to New Mexico. They'd arrived in Albuquerque with Jake Barrett and his men right on their heels. In the ensuing conflict, fifteen-year-old Jasper, a teenage werewolf, had been captured and murdered. It remained a sore bone of contention even in the ensuing peace.
"Sawyer killed Jasper. He shot the poor kid square in the back." He dropped a lawyerly nod and folded his arms across his chest. "But then you already knew that, didn't you? When you made Victoria swear herself to justice rather than revenge—you knew."
The atmosphere crackled with hostility and division. Freya held herself rigid. Her first instinctive response was to issue a vehement denial and progress straight to tears. She possessed an exceptional talent for deceit. She opened her mouth; the words perched on the tip of her tongue. But then she hesitated. Something about Arik's impassive stare convinced her lying was the wrong strategy.
Instead, she rolled her shoulders. "I didn't know anything for certain."
His eyes narrowed in keen appraisal. "But you suspected?"
"Yes, I had my suspicions." The confession parted from her with the difficulty of yanked teeth.
Arik continued, relentless and cruel. "Jasper's soul is damned to the rest of eternity in the frozen wasteland of the underworld. Suffering because he died a coward's death."
"He was only a child," Freya whispered, succumbing to tears. She still mourned the boy. A star had gone out of the sky when the teen perished.
"So Sawyer murders a child and gets a free pass. And you lied to Victoria—" He crafted air-quotes. "For her own good."
"Don't you dare judge me! I did what I had to do to protect Victoria and her pack. If I'd told her, she'd have gon
e after Jake Barrett and she'd be dead too."
Phoenix, Arizona
A raven sat on a street lamp and gazed down upon the world.
The bright, clear morning bustled with activity. Teachers hurried to open their classrooms before the first bell sounded. Parents escorted rambunctious youngsters to the Kindergarten corral. Vehicles dropping off students crowded the surrounding streets, and pedestrians flowed toward the school like a living river. On the playground, a pack of boys chased past in a game of tag. The persistent squeak of rusty chains marked the back and forth of the swings while other children swung from bars and tumbled down slides.
A lone six-year-old boy played amidst the motion, and a lone watcher observed.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Look up! Ten thousand feet up, and you'll see The Magnificent Michael as he balances on the world's thinnest tight rope! Without a net!" Arms held straight out to his sides, he placed one foot in front of the other and moved steadily forward along the wide brim of the raised planter.
Beyond the fence surrounding the play yard, Loki adopted the identity of Benjamin. Hooking his fingers through the chain links, he leaned back, tilting his head to stare down the two-lane residential street. The Trickster noticed things mortals missed. He marked the lengthening of shadows upon a particular section of the road and turned his ear toward the ground, listening to whispers emanating from deep within the earth. Voices only he heard.
Oh, and that damn bird on the lamp.
Prescience slapped the back of his mind—a brilliant strobe light. Pain and knowledge. Loki turned the brown eyes of Benjamin Hustler toward a silver Mercedes SUV a quarter of a mile down the road as it zipped past the Slow—School Zone sign, doing double the posted limit. The driver had a cell phone tucked between his face and his shoulder. He drove distracted—engaged in an avid discussion with his wife over the aggravation of having to submit yet another round of refinance paperwork to their mortgage company.
The strobe flashed again.
Loki's gaze shifted to a white bungalow house directly across the street from where he stood. A seventy-year-old woman wobbled toward her white Toyota sedan and then gingerly climbed into the driver's seat. She was on her way to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her arthritis; every movement produced pain and required a great effort on her part.
"Wait! What's this! Oh no!"
The boy's shout grabbed Loki's attention, snatching it away from the woman.
"Michael the Magnificent has lost his balance!" The boy's foot lifted, flung far out to the side, and his arms windmilled while he acted out the scene conceived in his imagination. "Will he fall? Will he plummet to his death?"
"Hey, Michael! Over here!" Loki rattled the chain link fence to add emphasis because he had to be sure to catch the boy's attention.
Hopping on one foot, Michael swung toward the call. Upon spotting Ben, his face lit with a grin of recognition.
The strobe flashed, providing another image of events beyond his perception. Loki winced, wishing the foresight to be gone, but the onslaught continued. Across the way, the Toyota's backing lights came on and the vehicle began a slow roll toward the bottom of the long driveway.
"Hey!" Michael called. His high wire act seemingly forgotten, he placed his second foot back on the edge of the planter and turned toward Loki. "Do you go to school here?"
"Hey!" Ben surged against the chain link fence, hooking his feet into lower rungs. "Yeah, I'm in Mrs. Riding's third grade class. What grade are you in?"
"First." The discrepancy in their elementary status brought a frown of displeasure to the boy's face. He jumped down from the planter. "But I'll be a second-grader when school lets out in a week."
"I'll be in fourth." Ben smirked in boyish one-upmanship, and rattled the fence.
"Yeah, well, maybe I'll skip a grade," Michael said, determined not to be outdone, as he came over to the other side of the fence from Loki.
The driver of the Mercedes performed a rolling stop at the four-way intersection and ignored the energetic reprimand of the crossing guard to get off his phone. He remained intent in his outrage over the injustices of the banking process. A persistent buzz broadcast over the school's auditory system marked the first bell, prompting motion across the grounds toward the buildings. Students had five minutes to reach their classrooms or be marked tardy.
"Shoot, I'd better hurry or I'll be late." Ben dropped to his feet and headed toward the closest break in the barrier, a gate on the far corner of the playground. He dragged his feet for a split second.
"Want to hang out at lunch today?" Michael asked, assuming a course parallel to Ben's.
"Sure. Do you buy or bring?" Ben cast a quick glance over his shoulder just as the Mercedes sped past the driveway of the backing vehicle.
The sedan rammed into the side of the SUV. The shear tore the Toyota's rear bumper from its frame. Within the Mercedes, the airbags deployed and smacked the driver who cranked the wheel and smashed his foot down on the gas.
With a startled yelp, Michael jerked toward the sound just as the SUV plowed into the chain link fence. Groaning, the steel posts bent. The stressed section of fence toppled. The vehicle shot forward. It collided with the planter, demolishing the barrier before coming to a full stop.
Loki had always thought nothing was quite like the silence that followed in the wake of a tragedy—the dramatic intermission between life's acts.
"Whoa!" Michael's mouth hung open. He grabbed Ben's shoulder and clung. "You coulda been killed!"
The Trickster opened his mouth to retort—So could you. But he stopped before voicing the words aloud. He thought it better to remain silent. Michael already suffered from nightmares. Why risk making the boy's PTSD worse? Especially when there was nothing to be gained from it. Besides, Ben and Michael were supposed to be friends.
"C'mon. Let's get out of here before we get into trouble." Ben urged Michael to run. On flying feet, the boys shot off down the street, their backpacks bouncing on their backs.
The tall rocket ship in the center of the small park afforded the boys refuge and a vantage point from which to spot the vigilant truant officers on the prowl for delinquents such as themselves. Drought-resistant bushes and trees grew at infrequent intervals. At the center of the open range, play structures stood atop a cushy surface made of recycled rubber; a volleyball court at the center of an emerald patch of artificial turf.
With more than a touch of smugness, Loki supposed the rocket ship wasn't a bad hideout at all... If only his partner in crime wasn't a nervous wreck.
The six-year-old moaned in misery. "I'm going to get into trouble."
"You're not. Stop worryin'."
"I am. I just know it. My dad's gonna find out."
"Balderdash." Still wearing the guise of Ben, Loki rolled his eyes and cracked the tab on a one-hundred-percent-pure-cane-sugar cola. The can was ice-cold; moisture beads clung to the shiny surface. None of that crappy high-fructose corn syrup—only the best for the God of Lies. Tilting back his head, he chugged the entire twelve fluid ounces.
"Balder-what?" Michael squawked his distress.
"No way Jake's gonna blame you for playin' hooky." He emitted a long belch and flashed a self-satisfied smirk. "If he does, then blame me. If he gives you a hard time, blame me and cry. The old man's a sucker for the water works."
Frowning, Michael settled his hands on his hips. "How do you know my dad's name?"
"Long story. Trust me, kid. If you blame me, your dad won't question it for a second." On the playground below, a green trash barrel was located beside a bench, more than sixty feet distant. With an overhanded throw, he heaved the can into the air. As soon as it left his hand, a gust of wind caught and swept the container across the playground. The breeze died as suddenly as it'd sprung up, dropping the empty soda into the receptacle.
The world might paint him as evil, but Loki cleaned up his own messes.
"We're going to get caught." Michael paced in tight circles —the only
passage the narrow cone of the playground rocket permitted.
"We're not going to get caught." Dangling his feet between the protective bars enclosing the rocket’s nose, Loki dug into his bright red backpack. His head bent so unruly dark curls tumbled into his face while his agile hands worked magic, conjuring a feast of candy and gum, chips and soda.
"But what if we are!" Michael ground to a halt and threw up his hands.
"Good grief, Charlie Brown." Rolling his eyes, Loki tilted his head and stared into the cloudless sky, watching the dozen or so ravens circling above.
"Who's Charlie Brown?"
"Who's Charlie Brown? Are you kiddin' me?" Loki glanced over and registered Michael's blank expression—complete and total confusion.
"Yeah, who's Charlie Brown!" Michael stomped his feet.
"Wow, your generation lives in a cultural wasteland." Loki dumped a pile of saltwater taffies onto his lap. He opened candies and stuffed his mouth until his cheeks threatened to burst. Chocolate on one side; strawberry on the other. Good separately but awesome together. As the wrappers fell from his hands, they followed the same flight plan as the soda can straight to the trash.
"Boy, you're weird." Michael simply stared at him.
His mouth was too full for speech. Loki chewed furiously, mashing the two flavors together, and swallowed a gob big enough to choke a snake. "Yeah, I get that a lot."
The boy frowned.
Loki thrust his hand into his backpack. He passed a fistful of chocolate and licorice to his friend. "Here. Maybe some sugar will calm you down."
Long-faced, Michael accepted the stash. He heaved a long sigh and plunked down beside the Trickster. The two boys sat with their feet dangling, staring out over the empty playground while they devoured a mountain of junk food. When Loki set his legs to swinging, his companion took up the rhythm.
"How do you do that?" Michael asked as the breeze whisked a Doritos bag through a roller coaster of loop-d-loops before dropping it into the bin.
"Magic." Loki rolled the word off his tongue out of respect for the mystery. Everything about the modern era was trite and clinical; scientific explanations devised to undermine the wonder of true mysticism. They lived in a cynical era, full of cynical people. Charlatans and con men deceived unsuspecting fools. Magicians performed tricks, and then revealed their secrets.
Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves) Page 12
