Ghost Wolf

by Michele Hauf

  “Nothing new,” she said to herself. All the wolves in the local packs were ripped. It was the very nature of a werewolf to be so muscular.

  Unless of course he was Kelyn, her youngest brother. Who wasn’t actually a werewolf at all, but rather, had inherited their mother’s faery DNA. He was lean and lithe, yet her father deemed him the most deadly of all his boys. Faeries were swift and malicious, Malakai would often say.

  Daisy hated to think of Kelyn as malicious. And he was not. She hoped he wouldn’t develop a complex because of her father’s words.

  No longer interested in the book, she stuffed it in her coat pocket and wandered under a massive willow tree where a half dozen tween girls were sipping hot chocolate and cider from thermoses and texting on their cell phones, fingertips bared by half gloves.

  “Why is your hair pink?” one of them asked as Daisy walked by.

  “Because my mom dropped a can of paint on it when I was born,” she offered, smirking. “Why is yours red?”

  The befreckled girl shrugged. “Yours is pretty. I wish mine wasn’t so ugly.”

  “Yours is gorgeous,” Daisy offered. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you differently. It’s good to be unique, not like everyone else.”

  The girl sat up a little straighter. The friend beside her, sporting a hot-chocolate mustache, nodded in agreement.

  “What’s the best food to get today?” Daisy asked the group. “I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

  “Try my grandma’s chocolate peanut butter brownies. Over there.” One of them pointed toward a table draped in red, around which dozens loomed. “She’s selling them cheap.”

  “Thanks.” Daisy waved them off and wandered toward the food tables, her boots crunching across the snowpack.

  Unique, eh? She smirked at her encouraging words. But not so unique that a woman’s body couldn’t make up its mind whether or not to be werewolf or faery. That wasn’t unique; that was just pitiful. She had to get it figured out. But she had no clue how to do so.

  When she reached the table, she had to wait in line, and when only halfway to the front, a tall, blond man approached her and offered her a treat. “These are awesome. I figured you’d like to try one.”

  “Are you following me?” she asked as she accepted a brownie as heavy as a small kitten. She got out of line. “You were just on the ice.”

  “And then I was not. I always answer the call of my stomach. Even if it sets me back a cool ten bucks for two brownies.”

  “What? These cost five dollars apiece?” The girl had said they were cheap. Shady sales tactics at that.

  Daisy bit into the thick, moist chunk of chocolate and peanut butter and sighed one of those after-orgasm kind of sighs.

  “Right?” Beck agreed. “Well worth the expense. I may never eat my mother’s brownies again. Ah, that’s not true. I’ll chow a brownie any day. Even the five-dollar kind. Now I need something hot to wash this down with.”

  “Over there.” She pointed to a refreshment stand. He grabbed her by the free hand and led her toward where she had pointed. “Did I say I wanted something to drink? Dude, we are not on a date.”

  “I know, but I figured the brownie should earn me some chat time with you. I’ll get us some cider, and there’s a tree over there that’s calling our names.”

  “Do you even know my name?”

  He paused from digging out his wallet from a back pocket. “Uh...I guess not.”

  “Bring cider,” Daisy said.

  With a wink that surprised her probably more than it did him, she wandered over to the tree.

  * * *

  With the brownie gently clutched between his jaws, Beck headed toward the tree where the gorgeous pink-haired wolf sat. Reading while others partook of the festivities? She was a curiosity to him, and he liked that he couldn’t figure her out.

  He bit off a bite as he sat, catching the brownie in his palm. She snagged the foam cup of cider before he’d even settled against the trunk.

  “I should have gotten two,” he said.

  “That’s okay, I only want a sip.” She handed him the cup.

  Beck peered into the cup. It was half-empty. “A sip?”

  She shrugged and finished off her brownie. He wanted to tweak those cat ears on top of her hat, but instead he wolfed another bite.

  “So who do I have the pleasure of sitting with under the maple tree this chilled and frosty January afternoon?”

  “Daisy Blu,” she said, and offered a hand to shake.

  Beck gripped the cup lip with his teeth, and with brownie in one hand, shook with his free hand.

  “Saint-Pierre,” she then said.

  He dropped the cup and it almost spilled in his lap, but he made a fast-reflex save. “Uh, Malakai Saint-Pierre’s daughter? The pack principal who makes swords for a living?”

  She nodded, licking her fingers clean of chocolate crumbs.

  “I thought he only had the boys.”

  Beck scanned the picnic area, filled with mortals and paranormal breeds of all sorts and sizes. Living in the next town ten miles north, he didn’t know a lot of people in Tangle Lake. He kept to himself far too much. But everyone knew about Malakai Saint-Pierre.

  “Four boys,” Daisy said. “But I was here first. Who you looking for? Don’t worry, my dad’s not around. At least, I don’t think he is.”

  Beck stood and nodded that she follow him around the trunk. “Let’s sit on the other side of the tree, okay?”

  She settled next to him with a laugh. “Are you afraid of my father?”

  “I wouldn’t say afraid, more like leery with an edge of self-preservation. Dude’s not the sweetest wolf in the pack.”

  “Yeah, he’s not too keen on unaligned wolves. Which is what you are, am I right? You being Severo’s son?”

  “Not for lack of your father trying to get me to join your pack.”

  “Really? My dad has invited you to join us? Why haven’t you done so?”

  “I have nothing against the Saint-Pierres. Or any of the local packs, for that matter. Joining a pack doesn’t feel right to me. My father was always adamant that a man didn’t need a pack to stand up for what was right within the werewolf community.”

  “I’ve heard about your father. Severo was a good man. But I have to point out the serious flaw in your sneaky attempt to hide out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Now we won’t be able to see my father coming.”

  “Shit. Maybe we should—”

  Daisy placed a hand on his knee just as Beck attempted to stand. The woman’s hand was warm, even in this weather, and her heat crept quickly through the jeans and to his skin. Nice. He settled against the snow-encrusted tree trunk.

  “I’d scent him before he got too close,” she said. “I’ll give you advance warning if you need to run.” Then she smiled and tucked a swath of hair over her ear. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, either. But I like a little risk in my life now and then.”

  “Don’t get enough from your books?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Is that why you think it’s a good idea to run in the forest all alone? You really should take someone with you.”

  “I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine. You going to eat that last piece of brownie?”

  Beck held up the piece, and Daisy made a remarkable snatch with her teeth. She giggled, pressed her fingers over her mouth, then snagged the cup of cider from him, as well.

  Licking his fingers clean, he could but shake his head. This one, as much as he should stay the hell away from her, he wanted to learn more about. Because getting close to Malakai Saint-Pierre’s daughter could prove a lesson in Stupid Things Guys Do. But at the same time: kitty ears, pink hair and an irrepressible giggle. How to resist that?

  She looked at him now with such curiosity that he matched her gaze with an intense stare. “What?” he implored.

  “I was just thinking there are probably icebergs in the Arctic the same color as your eyes
.”

  “Wow. Look who just got their flirt on.”

  “I wasn’t—uh...”

  He waited for her to realize that she had indeed been flirting. Didn’t take her long. She busied herself with the ends of her hair. Ha! She liked him.

  “So what do you do, Daisy Blu with the kitty ears who wanders about with her nose in a book?”

  “You mean like work? I am a budding journalist.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m competing for a freelance position with the Tangle Lake Tattler. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but I’m not so good at making up stories. I like digging for facts, learning the truth.”

  “A noble pursuit. So what truths have you dug up lately?”

  “Well, Mrs. Olafson, who lives at the corner across from the courthouse? She’s growing marijuana in her backyard shed.”

  Beck faked a shocked openmouthed gape. Could he touch that pink hair? Just a careful slide of his fingers over it without her noticing? Because if she wanted to flirt...

  “Thing is, she has no clue what it is. I couldn’t bring myself to actually write about it. Besides, I’ve got a bigger, better story I’m working on that I know will win me the job.”

  “Much luck to you. Isn’t often you hear of pack princesses working.”

  “No one calls me princess unless they want a black eye.”

  “Duly noted. So you’re the modern working-class prin—er, wolf chick, eh?”

  “I’m half faery.”

  “Is that why your hair is pink?”

  “No one will ever pull one over your eyes.”

  “A faery wolf. I like it.”

  “So what do you do? You said you’re not from Tangle Lake?”

  “No, I’m up in Burnham. I have a garage just off the highway. It’s not open to the public yet. I’m working on some friends’ cars right now. Want everything to be perfect and have a career plan in place before I put up signs. I get a lot of business just by word of mouth anyway.”

  “If I drove more than once every few weeks, I’d bring my car to you just because you were so nice to share your last sip of cider.” She handed him the cup, empty, and served him a wide grin that teased him for a kiss.

  But that would be too risky. Her father was a pack leader. And princess or not, Beck knew she wore a flashing no touch sign as a tiara.

  “I should have bought two cups.” He snickered and leaned his head back against the trunk. “So journalism is a full-time job?”

  “Hardly. Only a few hours here and there. When I’m not pursuing a career, I’m also a sculptor.”

  “That’s cool. You enter the ice sculpture contest?”

  “Next year. That’ll give me the winter to learn how to use a chain saw.”

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine her wielding a chain saw. Not after that powerful right hook she’d served him in the field. She was petite but packed a punch. “What do you sculpt?”

  “Anything with recycled metal. My dad’s a blacksmith. I used to watch him forge swords when I was a little girl. Always wanted to be able to manipulate metal the way he did. One day when he was welding on his old truck, I asked to help, and I’ve been welding my designs ever since.”

  “Welding? That sounds macho.”

  “Yeah?” Daisy bent up her arm, making a fist. An impressive bicep bulged beneath the sleek white winter coat. “I grew up with four brothers. I don’t think I could do feminine if I tried.”

  “You’re doing it right now.” Beck traced a strand of her hair back over her ear. Score! It felt as soft as it looked. She flinched and gave him the curious eye. “Sorry, just wanted to touch it.”

  “It’s hair, dude.”

  “And you’re kind of defensive, you know that? Is it because of the ‘you shouldn’t talk to an unaligned wolf’ thing? Or is it that I just don’t appeal to you?”

  “You appeal to me,” she said quickly. She sat up, tilting her head down and closing her eyes. Shaking her head, she said, “I didn’t mean to say that. It just came out.”

  “You like me,” Beck teased. He dipped his head to catch her straying gaze. “It’s because I seduced you with brownies, right?”

  She punched him playfully on the biceps. Beck winced. It hadn’t been quite as gentle as she may have intended it to be. So he fell over to his side and moaned.

  “Yeah, and don’t you forget it,” Daisy said.

  The sass that ran through her veins just needed a little prodding to rise above what he suspected was a bit of a shy streak. He hadn’t seen her talking to anyone here at the festival. And if she had a boyfriend, she wouldn’t be talking to him right now.

  “So what do you sculpt?” he asked, moving closer so their shoulders touched.

  “Anything that I’m feeling at the moment. I’m working on a project for the wolf sanctuary up north. I use lots of abandoned scrap metal. Right now I’m into recycling bicycle chains.”

  “Really? I have a whole box of bicycle chains at the shop. They’re yours if you can use them.”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Stop by anytime and pick them up. I’m at the shop most of the day, and if not, I’ll let Sunday know they’re yours.”

  “Sunday? You mean Dean Maverick’s wife?”

  “Yep. Sunday used to have a shop when she lived in North Dakota. She’s a gearhead like me. My shop is the only place she’s got to get her grease on.”

  “And her husband doesn’t mind?”

  “Dean’s a cool guy. We chat when he stops by to pick up Sunday. Not all in the packs are against the lone wolves like me, you know.”

  “I’m not against you. I just don’t understand why you don’t feel the need for family that a pack offers.”

  “I have family with my mom and my—” He hung his head. Now was no time to step into that bleak memory. “You want another brownie?”

  “No, thank you. I should get going. I promised my mom I’d stop by with some treats from the picnic.”

  “You going to the fireworks later?” he asked.

  “Possibly. Will you be at your shop this afternoon? Maybe I could stop by for the bike chains?”

  “I’ll be there in a few hours. But this is the deal—I’ll give you the chains if you’ll watch the fireworks with me tonight.”

  She crossed her arms and made a show of considering it. Her lips were the same shade as her hair. Beck bet if they kissed, she’d taste cool like ice but would warm him up faster than s’mores melting over a bonfire. Would she really turn down his offer? She seemed independent, yet certainly she was shy.

  “I might have a brother along with me. Kelyn and I always watch the fireworks together. We usually find a quiet spot at the top of a hill.”

  “Oh. Well, I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Nor did he want to bring the wrath of the Saint-Pierre family upon him for talking to their precious daughter.

  “We’ll play it by ear. I’ll stop by your shop later, and then we can decide, yes?”

  “Sure. I’m north on 35.”

  “I’ve seen the shop. I know where it is.”

  She took off, tugging the book out of her back pocket as she skipped across the snowy field that hugged the rink where the men slapped the hockey puck back and forth.

  Beck stood and brushed the snow from his jeans. “First date with one of the brothers as chaperone? I don’t know about that.”

  Chapter 3

  Beck’s shop was about ten miles out of city limits. The next town, Burnham, was four miles beyond his shop. Daisy knew the Darkwood was in the vicinity. Her brother Blade lived at the edge of the haunted forest that locals told tales about. Even the paranormal breeds avoided it for its fearsome reputation.

  Though the road was hugged by tall birch trees interspersed with thick pines, Daisy found Beck’s shop easily and pulled in her Smart car before the shop’s opened garage doors. While most fix-it garages in the area featured random junkers parked here and there, tires stacked against walls and general disorder, this area was w
ell-tended. The snow had been plowed and banked, and there was an orderly parking area with cars tagged on the license plates, likely for pickup.

  Stepping out into the brisk air, Daisy’s breath fogged before her. She’d bundled up in cap, mittens and winter coat. Striding toward the opened doors, she scanned for signs of life inside and called out Beck’s name. Instead of a handsome werewolf popping his head up from behind the raised hood of a truck, the blond dreads of a very familiar familiar swung around the front quarter panel of a red F-150.

  Sunday winked at Daisy. “Hey there, sweetie!”

  “Sunday! Beck told me you worked here, but I didn’t expect to run into you.” Daisy looked about the neat shop that featured four car bays. Tools hung neatly along the walls, and tires were stacked in a corner. There were even red-and-white-checked curtains on the door window that must lead to the office. “Does Dean mind that you work here?”

  The self-confessed grease monkey laid a wrench on the engine and wandered around the side of the vehicle. Grease smeared Sunday’s pale check. Daisy had known her since she’d been born because of the cat-shifting familiar’s friendship with her grandmother. She considered her an aunt, even. Of all the women in the family, she got along with Sunday best. Probably because they were a couple of tomboys.

  “Why should Dean mind?” Sunday asked. “I don’t let my man tell me what to do. Unless it’s in bed.” She winked.

  Daisy fought against rolling her eyes.

  “So why are you here?” Sunday asked. “Shouldn’t you be more respectful of your father and his very obvious dislike for an unaligned wolf?”

  “My dad doesn’t know I’m here. And you won’t say anything to him.”

  Sunday quirked a brow, but her easy smile held the kind of knowing that all women shared when a man was the topic. “There’s nothing to tell. Beck’s a good guy. Just because he doesn’t feel comfortable joining a whole group of wolves after living in a small family his entire life shouldn’t make him a pariah.”

  “Exactly,” Daisy said, relieved that Sunday had put into words what she should have said.

  Behind the car bays, a big-screen TV flashed a news report that featured area gray wolves scampering across the screen.