Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves)

by Melissa Snark

  "I can walk. Put me down." Squirming, Michael asserted his independent streak as soon as they reached the ground.

  "All right. Stop fussing." Jake swung his son down and released him. Trying not to be too obvious about it, he hovered while Michael took his first shaky steps.

  "I need to throw this away," Michael said, holding up the wad of used tissue. Instead of heading toward the receptacle, though, he detoured beneath the rocket ship to where a piece of refuse lay in the tan bark. He scooped up another tissue. With his narrow shoulders squared, he marched over to the green barrel and dropped the trash inside.

  Out of more than just idle curiosity, he glanced into the waste bin. A cynical snort escaped him when it proved just as he'd suspected—empty soda cans nestled amid torn foil candy wrapper.

  "Just how much of this junk did you eat, Son?" He appraised Michael again, and the pinched look on the boy's face took on a whole new dimension of meaning.

  "No-ne..." Michael sputtered out a clumsy lie. His throat worked convulsively so his Adam's apple bobbed, and his hands clutched at his belly. "Not much. I had some, but Ben ate a lot more."

  "I'm not surprised." Despite everything, Jake's lips twisted into an unwilling smile once his fear for Michael's safety started to fade. Scolding the lad served no useful purpose. Some lessons were learned the hard way or not at all. "Is Ben that other boy's name?"

  "Ben is my friend."

  "I'm not so sure about that."

  "Jake, I want to go home," Michael said in a plaintive voice. Tears brightened his eyes, and his complexion retained its ruddy hue.

  "C'mon, kiddo, my car is this way." He jerked his head to the side. "Are you sure you feel up to walking?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine." Arms crossed over his abdomen, Michael shuffled toward him. He made it three feet when a tormented groan tore from his throat. "I don't feel so good."

  "What's wrong, kiddo? Can I help?" Jake laid a hand on the boy's forehead and found his temperature was flushed and feverish. Whatever Loki had done, the symptoms were worse than just an upset stomach.

  "I think I'm gonna be sick." Moaning, Michael doubled over and puked all over Jake's boots.

  "I'd say that's a given." Jake held the boy's head for a couple minutes, and then picked him up and carried him from the park. Michael was a small, precious weight in his arms. He rested his head against his guardian's shoulder, so quiet that Jake's concern steadily deepened. He took his son home rather than return Michael to school. Until Jake figured out what Loki had done to the boy, it was better to keep a close eye on him.

  "Ahh im tble?" Michael mumbled around the thermometer in his mouth.

  "What's that again?" Jake gave up on the boy being still to have his temperature taken. He removed the device and checked the digital display. It read 98.6, confirming what a forehead check had already told him—Michael wasn't feverish.

  "Am I in trouble?" The six-year-old pushed off the bathroom counter and dropped to the ground, landing squarely on both feet. At Jake's insistence, he wore pajamas but it was under protest.

  "For playing hooky from school, hiding out at the park, and eating enough candy to give your dentist apoplexy?"

  Unrepentant, the boy grinned. "Yeah, that."

  Jake doused the end of the thermometer in rubbing alcohol to sterilize it and returned it to its place in the medicine cabinet. "Do you think you should be?"

  "Ben said I should blame him."

  "Did he?" He grew still, the hunter in him intent.

  To Jake's utter exasperation, Michael trucked right on out of the room to where Rascal waited for his master. "Yeah. He said I should cry and some other stuff, too." Boy and dog shot down the hallway toward Michael's bedroom.

  "Hey! What else did he say?" Irritation prickled his skin like a heat rash. He hurried to catch up with the two-and-four-legged terrors.

  At the intersection of the hall and the kitchen entrance, Michael skidded in a smooth circle, looked back, and flashed a cheeky grin. "He called you a sucker."

  A rusty chuckle rattled his chest, and he felt like a man who'd forgotten how to laugh. Slowly, the hard block of fear in his chest was melting, but even indulging amusement struck him as inappropriate. Although Michael seemed to be fine following his encounter with Loki, appearances were all too deceptive, especially when the Trickster was involved.

  Jake walked into the kitchen and inhaled, breathing in the aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Hearty warmth permeated the atmosphere from the oven. Tasting the air, he identified toasty cinnamon and rich brown sugar, and the bittersweet note of dark chocolate. The scents set his mouth to watering and his stomach to rumbling.

  Cooling cookies formed neat rows atop paper towels on the countertop. Lucy Ketteridge, his housekeeper and the only solid female presence in their household since his wife's passing, buzzed about the kitchen. Despite being slightly arthritic, the woman was a dynamo—a baking whirlwind. Her extensive and colorful resume included hippie, monster slayer, and a trauma nurse. Her experience had prepared her well for her current position in his employ. Lucy knew how to handle the boys and she understood the nature of Jake's calling.

  The lush apple of Iðunn sat in the fruit bowl atop a stack of oranges. An unripe banana bowed before the glowing fruit that looked more a replica cast in pure gold than an edible thing. It drew the eye and captured attention; impossible to overlook.

  Stretching out his arm, Jake plucked the apple from atop its perch. He gripped it in the palm of his hand and considered it while his mind traveled back through the years to when Sarah had first been diagnosed with breast cancer. His initial reaction had been absolute shock and denial—gods simply did not suffer earthly ailments.

  Unthinkable and unacceptable.

  Following the first chemo treatments, Sarah's hair fell out in clumps that clogged in the drain. She put on a brave front for her husband and sons, but she cried in the shower, using the hot spray to hide her tears. The treatment made her nauseous until she all but stopped eating. The paler and gaunter she grew, the worse Jake's turmoil until he finally couldn't stand it anymore.

  Jake pulled strings on earth and in heaven to obtain the apple which was a cure-all for any and all sicknesses and diseases. In doing so, he broke every rule he'd set for himself as a mortal man. Until then, he and his mate had lived human lives along with all the associated inconveniences and infirmaries. Together, they bore children and built a life but he, Odin, the All Father, the mighty and powerful king of the gods hadn't been prepared to accept the death of his beloved spouse.

  He chose a Friday night when all the boys were out of the house to present it to her. Discomfort made him brusque. He thrust the apple toward Sarah and growled a command. "I want you to eat this."

  She stared at the apple long and hard, until his outstretched arm ached from the strain of holding the same position. Then, with a sad smile on her lips, she lifted her face toward him. "No, my love, I cannot."

  "Why not? It's right here in front of you. Not eating it doesn't make any sense." He all but shouted for the world of frustration and anger shredding his heart.

  Sarah spoke with serenity that destroyed him. "Because this is what we chose together. A mortal life with an inevitable mortal end."

  "I can't accept that."

  He'd never been able to accept the limitations or live within the boundaries as Sarah had done. He aged but he refused to surrender the runes he secreted within his soul even for a short lifetime. Thus, he cheated and retained remarkable strength, stamina, and regeneration. Kept his weapons. Allowed one fatal flaw capable of ending his human existence. And not once had his beloved wife ever questioned or criticized his decision.

  "I'm sorry, but it's not your choice. It's mine. If mortal medicine cannot cure my mortal body, then I'll accept my death. I'm grateful for you and our four amazing sons and this life we've had together." She framed his lower face within her hands, pressing her palms to his beard, and brushed a sweet kiss to his lips.


  "If you won't do it for me then do it for our sons. They need their mother." He shook in the grip of devastating sentiment. His monumental anger was great enough to destroy worlds.

  Pain twisted her lovely face but he was too much of a selfish bastard to apologize and retract the spiteful words. Sarah drew upright, a queen in her bearing. "No. Our sons must learn the difficult lessons of life, and death of a loved one is the hardest of all. It is fitting."

  His shout carried for miles, shaking the ground. He slammed the apple down on the kitchen counter before her. "It'll will be here when you change your mind."

  She shook her head, adamant in her decision. "I won't change my mind."

  And so the apple sat in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter of their Arizona home—a glaring reminder of their marked disagreement. Months passed. Jake wasted more than half their remaining time together on anger before he stumbled into the awful realization that Sarah meant it. He scrambled to make up for loss but it hadn't been enough. Not by a long shot.

  She died on a fine spring morning in April, cradled in his arms. She left and took her light and love and laughter with her. His wife—gone more than two years now. Not a day passed that Jake didn't mourn her and miss her. His sons suffered in her absence and, for a time, their family hadn't experienced joy or celebration.

  A couple months after Sarah passed away, Jake locked the apple away in the safe and there it had remained until the weeks prior to Daniel's sudden and violent death. There'd been no opportunity to save him. Once again, Jake sealed the apple away—until now.

  "I want a cookie!" Michael's insistent voice intruded on Jake's reverie.

  Jake blinked, forcing his attention to the present.

  "Why can't I have a cookie?" Michael donned his puppy dog face and clasped hands with the shameless determination of a skilled beggar.

  "Because young men who have eaten so much junk food that they puked should not have cookies." Lucy used her spatula to add emphasis to her point, aiming it toward the boy like a wand. Although her expression was schooled to sternness, her deep blue eyes shone with good humor. She wore her dishwater-blonde-going-gray hair confined in a neat bun, and a fluffy yellow apron protected her clothes.

  "Ooohhh, that's not fair," Michael moaned.

  "Life isn't fair." Her face relaxed into deep smile lines.

  "Can I have a cookie?" Jake asked, already reaching for one.

  "No." The spatula tapped his knuckles hard.

  Undaunted, he stole a cookie anyway. The hot dough burned his callused fingers, but not enough to deter him from popping the whole gooey goodness straight into his mouth. Chewing, he reached for another one.

  "These are good."

  "Jake Barrett, you're a bad man. You know that?" Lucy looked askance at him and issued a firm warning. "I'm making those for the bake sale. I'd better not turn around and find out you've eaten the entire batch."

  "Yes, ma'am." Jake mumbled around a mouthful of cookie. Michael and Rascal looked on in pure jealousy while he downed a third. Neither boy nor dog could have one, and for good reasons, so he didn't feel the least bit guilty about eating in front of them.

  "I let you get away with murder."

  "Yes, you do." He flashed a shameless grin.

  "This doesn't look like a young man who should be home sick with an upset stomach." Shaking her head, Lucy eyed Michael with the critical eye of a mother suspecting illness fraud.

  "Trust me. I was there when he got sick. My boots paid the price," Jake said, offering assurance. In fact, his boots were sitting on the front porch waiting a thorough cleaning before they'd be fit to wear again. "Thanks for agreeing to watch him, Lucy. I'm sorry you had to cancel your doctor appointment."

  "Not a problem at all. I don't like that doctor anyway. I swear, the man is a moron." The corners of her eyes crinkled, matching her smile. She rinsed her hands and dried them on a towel. "Is he allowed to watch television?"

  "Later, after he's taken a proper nap," Jake said, evoking a groan of protest from the boy. "I mean it. That nightmare had you up last night for a couple hours, so I know you didn't get a good night's sleep."

  "But—" Michael began an automatic protest.

  "No arguing." Jake addressed Lucy. "I'll see him to bed so you don't have to deal with the fuss."

  Hands on her hips, Lucy harrumphed. "All right. Though, I'm sure I could handle one little boy..."

  "I'm sure you could too." He threw up his hands to signal his surrender on the issue, but then dropped them to herd the boy from the kitchen.

  "I'll lie down but I'm not tired." Michael sprinted toward his bedroom.

  "Fine. Then just lie down." Jake wasn't in the mood to argue technicalities. Besides, he suspected once the boy's head hit the pillow, sleep would soon follow of its own accord.

  When he arrived, Jake found the boy in the middle of ripping his drawings from the walls. All the artwork depicted images from Michael's traumatic encounter with the monster that had murdered his mother and kidnapped him the prior Christmas.

  "Whatcha doing, Champ?"

  He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. As he watched, Michael dumped an armful of pictures into his waste bin. A few escaped, swishing and sliding on the air, scattering in random directions. One landed at Jake's feet.

  When he bent to retrieve it, a sinister brown spider sprinted across the carpeting. Jake's skin crawled. Reacting rather than acting, he smashed his boot down on top of the arachnid. He lifted his foot but found no bug juice smear. Just a long, wriggling leg as it vanished beneath the baseboard.

  A cursory inspection of the drawing in his hand revealed a painting of children imprisoned within oversized birdcages. As always, anger and protectiveness churned within Jake, but to no avail. The beast responsible had long since been slain. His wrath had no outward target to lock onto.

  "I'm getting rid of all this. I want them gone so I don't have to remember." Michael deposited pushpins into the top drawer of his desk, and returned to taking the macabre artwork from the walls.

  "How come?" Standing around didn't suit him, not when there was work to be done. Jake targeted some of the higher pictures, leaving the lower tier for the boy to deal with. Once white space appeared on the wall and the small waste bin neared capacity, he realized just how many of the damn things there were; drawings and watercolors had been tacked in overlapping layers.

  "Because." Michael offered only the single word and nothing else.

  With a shrug, Jake accepted the answer. Sometimes, a man had to put his thoughts in order before he was ready to share them. Instead, he helped Michael clear every last troubling reminder of his traumatic experience from the room. Once they were done, the two of them stared at the overloaded waste bin and the stack of papers that hadn't fit.

  "Can we take these out to the big can?" Michael asked.

  "I have a thought," Jake said. "That might be more satisfying than throwing these out."

  "Yeah. What?" Michael's small face gazed up, curiosity bright in his eyes.

  "C'mon. I'll show you." Jake tipped his head to the side, inviting Michael to accompany him. Given the remarkable development, his son's nap could wait a while longer. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the sudden improvement in the boy's condition—if it truly constituted advancement for the better.

  Together, they made their way to the backyard where Jake constructed a small pyramid from charcoal briquettes, applied lighter fluid, and lit a match. Standing opposite each other, the man and the boy fed drawings to the fire and watched them burn. Thick smoke rose in a column, adding its heat to the broiling atmosphere.

  "Ready to talk yet?" Jake asked, testing the waters. He had to leave in fifteen minutes or he'd be late to the parent-teacher conference.

  "Yeah, I think so." Across the flames, Michael held Jake's gaze. Square shouldered, the boy stood straight and proud but then he frowned. "What're we talkin' about again?"

  His mouth carved out a hard smile. No matter what, the boy w
asn't a slouch. The kid understood the art of evasion, though his technique could use some polish.

  "You were explaining why we're burning all your art."

  "Oh yeah." Michael thrust another drawing into the fire. Hungry flames licked at the edges which curled inward as the fire ate toward the center. The boy took a deep breath and began to speak. "My mother's name was June, June Fraiser. She was thirty-two years old and she had pretty brown hair that curled at the ends around her shoulders. She smelled like flowers. The perfume she wore was her favorite. She used to say it was her mom's favorite and it reminded her of Grandma. I never got to meet my grandma because she passed away before I born. It was always just Mom and me. We were a team. We didn't have any money, and I know she loved me..."

  A tear streaked the boy's cheek, running in a swift stream to his jaw. Others followed, painting his cheeks with the tracks of his sorrow.

  "You remember your mom?" Jake asked carefully, striving to keep his voice neutral though his emotions formed a messy mix of joy and relief. For months, the boy had been unable to recall anything about his mother aside from the barest facts—her name and age, their address and phone number, but nothing personal. Nothing intimate. At last, the barrier to his memories of her appeared to have vanished.

  The convenience left him wondering. As a rule, he put no faith in coincidence.

  Jake added another handful of papers to the grill.

  Michael nodded and a smile brightened his young face despite the tears streaking his cheeks. "I can remember now. I can see her face again and what she used to look like when she smiled."

  "Do you know what happened to change things so you could remember?"

  The child's head rocked up and down, and he hugged himself. "Ben helped. I don't know how, but he helped. It doesn't hurt anymore. I still feel bad. If I hadn't stolen that toy, then mom would still be alive and none of this would've happened."

  "We've talked about this," Jake said in a gentle voice. "What happened wasn't your fault. The Krampus was a monster that fed on guilt and targeted helpless children. None of its victims were to blame.”