by Maribel Fox
“Judy,” she says, introducing herself. “I like your spunk, kid, but our kitchen’s not fully set up yet. How about you come back tomorrow, bright and early, make me breakfast, and we’ll talk.”
“You’ve got a deal,” I say, thrusting my hand out for a shake eagerly.
Judy’s still not sure about me, trying to frown, struggling to keep it up even though she’s still shaking her head as she shakes my hand.
“Say Judy, I’m pretty new in town and looking to find someone—” I stop at the face she immediately makes.
“Just moved here myself, ‘fraid I won’t be much help. Might try up the hill at Brigid’s though. Folks up there seem to know everything that’s going on around here.”
That gets a head tilt out of me. Is she referencing the local Court? Does she even know that’s what she’s doing if she is? The air in this town is thick with magic, so it’s difficult to tell who is and isn’t part of it. Judy just moved here, though, so it seems likely that she’s an innocent human bystander making a challenging choice for her home’s location.
“How do you mean?”
Judy shrugs, folding her arms across her chest. “There’s half a dozen of them, it seems. Hard to escape the notice of all of them, I’d imagine.”
I nod, pondering that, what it could mean, as I make my retreat.
“Until tomorrow, Judy!” I call, waving with a flourish.
She rolls her eyes, not smiling back, but I don’t take that personally. “Goodbye, Iseul,” she drones.
Once I’m outside again, my eyes instantly drift up to the hill. I’ll have to backtrack to get to the road that goes up there, but apparently that house has a name? Brigid’s.
Mentally shrugging, I slip my helmet back on and head up the hill. Upon getting closer to the house, there’s a sign. In one direction, the sign points and says ‘Brigid’s B&B’ — explains a lot — and in the other direction, the sign says ‘The Shamrock Bar and Grille.’ Though the arrows point in opposite directions, both paths curve around to opposite sides of the same large house.
Brigid’s first. I need a place to stay anyway, so this is working out pretty well.
There’s a dark-haired, impeccably dressed guy behind the counter — somewhat out of place for a homey little joint like this. He looks like he belongs in a five-star hotel, but he’s here, so what do I know?
He’s startled when I clear my throat, and it takes me all of five seconds to identify him as a Devil. There’s just something so obvious about the way they carry themselves.
But this is good. A Devil may know something about the Court. All the pieces are clicking together.
“Can I help you?” he asks, obviously sizing me up. I don’t mind. Let him look. If he’s into it, let him do whatever he wants — he’s gorgeous.
I push that thought aside, licking my lips, telling myself to focus.
“Yeah, I need a room. Also… Uh… I would like to — if at all possible — speak to the local Court, if you know how to make that happen…” I say, knowing I’m probably breaking a hundred Fae protocols. It’s been a long time since I read up on Court proceedings, and there are so many nuances. I always figured I’d never need to worry about it… Should’ve known better.
The guy’s eyes widen, and he looks a bit taken aback.
“Uh… Let’s get you the room first,” he says, pulling a face as he looks down at the screen in front of him.
We complete the transaction, and I receive a key, but he says nothing more about my request for an audience.
“If you’re in the mood for a drink, I suggest The Shamrock — it’s right down that hallway and to the left,” he says instead. “We serve food there, but if you’d like something else, I think the new diner in town is open — The Drowning Duck Diner.”
There’s no point in telling him I already know about it, and he seems reluctant to outright give me an answer about the Court. Perhaps I’ll try with someone else.
“Thank you,” I say, smiling as I take my key and head off to inspect my room. It’s an adequate room, with a view over the cliffside at the ocean below that I appreciate. Being near the ocean always makes me feel more at home.
I didn’t come here to hide in a room, though, so I head downstairs to The Shamrock. If anyone asks, I’m looking for a drink, sure, but really, I want to get the lay of the land — and to look for anyone else who might have information about the local Court. This isn’t really a matter that can wait forever. My birthday’s fast approaching, and I’m not looking to throw a party.
The one-thousandth birthday is fairly significant for my kind — it’s when we come into our own powers, most of which I don’t even know. But I know what my father became — what he chose to be — when he felt he’d finished his task of raising me.
I fear the same will happen to me.
Because he left so long ago, I don’t know the particulars of what to expect, but I know something will happen, and I know that the likelihood that I’ll start craving human flesh is quite high, so I’ve come to this place where temptation will be low — and, if it comes to it, the local Court can dispatch of me.
I don’t expect them to be too objectionable to that, it’s if I start asking them to try to restrain me without killing me that I think I’m likely to run into opposition. Regardless, I first have to gain an audience with them, and I need to do so as soon as feasible. My birthday isn’t going to wait.
The Shamrock is about what I expected from what I’ve seen of the B&B so far. It’s a dimly-lit divey-type bar attached to a privately-owned hotel. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean, it’s warm, and I’m sure the booze works just fine.
Oh, and there’s a really cute girl behind the bar.
That’s always a plus.
She looks up at me as I approach, dark eyes appraising me, full lips pursed into a curious, studious look, eyebrows lifted high. There’s another guy at the bar, his hair just as dark and curly and wild as hers, only he has his pulled back with a tie that’s doing its best, but failing to contain his mane.
“How’s it goin’?” the girl asks, moving over from the other guy to me, a hand on her hip. “Get you a drink?”
“A beer would be great,” I say, passing her cash for payment. She starts pouring after a brief rundown of the options, then gives me my change.
“Want to see something cool?” I ask, hoping to curry her favor.
The girl smirks, but says nothing.
I take the largest of the bills she just gave me as change, and pull a permanent marker from my back pocket.
“Write your name on this for me,” I say, passing the bill and the marker over.
She makes a skeptical face, but does it — Rue, her bubbly handwriting says.
“Now your phone number,” I say, nodding at the bill. She starts to put the marker to the bill, then stops, giving me a shrewd look.
I snort and hold up my hands in surrender.
“All right, thank you Rue,” I say, taking the bill back. “Now you, sir, you look like a big, strong man,” I say, having trouble not noticing his bulging biceps, despite his tweed jacket. “What’s your name?”
Now he makes a face at me. It’s like these people have never seen a magic trick before.
“Ku,” he says.
Hey, it’s my turn to make a face! “Ku and Rue? Are you guys related?” I ask, again noting their similar curly hair — but that’s where the similarities end. Ku’s complexion is much warmer, oranger, while Rue’s is rich and brown. They’re both attractive, but in entirely different ways — she looks African, he looks Polynesian — and I’m not sure where to rest my eyes because they’re both so pretty.
Rue snorts. “No. Ku’s a guest.”
“Hey! Me too,” I say with a grin, sliding onto the barstool next to Ku. “So, can you rip this up for me?” I ask, handing him the bill. Ku takes it, frowns at it, pulling at it a bit.
“It’s mostly cotton, not paper. Cutting works better than tearing,” he says, get
ting a groan out of me. Is it so hard to work with me here?
“Got any scissors, for him, Rue? I guess he’s not as strong as he looks,” I tease. Ku seems unfazed by it, turning to me when Rue passes the scissors.
“How do you want me to cut it?”
“Any way you want, big guy.”
Ku cuts across Rue’s name, in between letters, he makes my money confetti before he sets the scissors down, satisfied with himself.
“All right, this’ll be extra fun then,” I joke, sweeping the bits of money into my palm, gesturing for Rue. “Come here, hold out your hands,” I instruct. She follows along, and then I tell her to ball her fist up tight. “And throw that confetti right in my face,” I say, grinning, figuring she’ll get a kick out of that.
It does get a little smile, which feels like a victory. Then her hand flies at me, fist opening, and… a wadded up bill falls on the bartop.
“Ta-da!”
Rue looks down at the money on the bar, and frowns at it. I get the feeling she would have rathered it still be confetti when she launched it at me? But since it wasn’t, she rolls her eyes and sighs.
“You’ll fit right in here,” she mutters.
Before I can ask what that’s supposed to mean, the doors to The Shamrock fly open, slamming into the walls hard enough to rattle the frames hanging around the bar.
It’s a man — a man with dark eyes, a heavy brow, a thick black beard and hair shot through with just the hint of silver. He’s dressed like a civilized person, but those eyes tell another story. He’s wild. He’s not just a man — he’s a wolf.
And he’s pissed.
He stalks directly toward us, toward the bar, and Rue gasps. I turn to assure her that she’s safe, that we won’t let him bother her, but she’s grinning, fanning herself and pulling a phone out of her pocket.
“Oh my god, I need to text Ava,” she mutters to herself. “I can’t believe it’s happening again.”
4
Dima
Yet again, damned curse is acting up. For over fifty years it’s been a thorn in my side, no way to get rid of it, no way to ignore it.
Just my luck. Try to do the right thing, wind up cursed.
No good deed goes unpunished.
And now I’m in this cold, damp forest, the one that reminds me too much of home, when I could be warm somewhere. By a fire, knocking back vodka until I forget how to stand.
But no.
Instead I’m traipsing through the woods, wet leaves underfoot, a misty rain coming down, making my hair cling to my skin, my clothes sticking too.
Shifting would make this easier. Being a wolf is always best in forest. Navigating forest is always best as wolf. But shifting means losing my clothes, and without something to carry them in, that’s not going to happen. It took me too long to find another pair of good boots after my last wore out. The cobblers and other artisans were all chased off or wiped out in the revolution. During the Soviet years, shoes of any kind were hard to come by, let alone quality ones.
I don’t take these things for granted.
So instead of making good time, being able to follow my nose, I’m relying on my other senses, years of tracking and hunting, living in woods eerily similar to these.
Fog cloaks the ground, hugging the thick tree trunks, they all stand close together, keeping tight watch. I don’t know what fresh hell this curse is going to inflict on me now, but the certainty of it nags at me. Makes my hands ball into fists, my jaw clenched and gnashing.
Of all the wolves in the world to be saddled with such a burden… Why me?
My ears prick at sounds deeper in the woods. Voices maybe.
Mudak, I curse mentally, edging toward the voices. What am I going to come up on? Surely this is someone’s territory, someone is going to be unhappy about me encroaching.
Maybe I can make a nice introduction before they attack from the shadows—
“Fuck,” I groan, doubling over as the curse hits me full force. It’s a solid punch to the stomach, pain exploding through my body in a wave that makes me dizzy and disoriented for a minute. The wave passes, and I shake out my arms, my head, my whole body, everything weaker after the hit, getting weaker by the second actually.
Taking a step forward, my knee gives under my weight, and I stumble, tripping forward, rolling instead of hitting the ground with my full weight. I groan, leaves and dirt all over me, sticks in my hair. I grumble as I pull myself up to my feet again, giving myself a moment longer to get my strength before setting off again.
I don’t know what trouble’s waiting for me, but it wouldn’t be the first time this curse got me into a mess I had to fight my way out of. Even as a human, I can smell something, something different enough to follow.
What I’m hoping to find, I don’t know. People, maybe, since there were freaking voices, but the only thing I find is an old stone well. I scowl at it, the crumbling masonry covered with moss and ivy, looking disused and forgotten. It must be quite an old well, because it’s got the lingering stench of sulfur clouding the air around it — a smell that makes the hairs all over my body stand up, alert.
I don’t like this.
I don’t know what this place is, but I don’t like it.
I bend forward, looking down the well. It’s deep enough that I can’t see the bottom. It fades into blackness, shadows eating up any detail. Cupping a hand around my mouth, I whistle, the sharp trill echoing down, down, down. Nothing comes back.
“Hmph,” I grunt, grabbing a nearby pebble, tossing it down. A dry well is a great hiding spot for a tunnel, a smuggler’s route, who knows.
It’s a long journey down, but the pebble finally splashes, killing that theory.
The voices are gone from what I can tell, and the sulfur smell isn’t getting stronger. I don’t know what to do now. What point to follow.
I suppose the only thing left to do is to carry on into town. That’s where I was headed before my curse had to go and be such a problem. The hope is that there is someone in this town who can break it for me. Perhaps even have answers about strange well. It seems a long shot, but it’s the only idea I have.
I bite back a growl and kick up leaves as I trudge back to the main path, cursing myself, that mudak, and this damned curse all in the same breath.
Figure out how to break the curse, that’s first order of business. After that? Maybe someone in this town can tell me the best way for a werewolf to permanently remove himself from this cruel world. I’ve certainly had enough of it. Life is struggle, and I have struggled enough.
Or maybe not quite enough, since there is still more to do, but close. It has been too long since I’ve known why I’m fighting to stay alive. Once I’m rid of this curse, finally, truly free, then I’ll be able to finish what was started a hundred and fifty years ago in Russia.
A long time coming, if you ask me.
It’s the scent of witches that I follow — the stench I learned to fear, to hunt, to despise. Witches and Fae are not known to be comrades, but I do not know how things are done here. I only want answers. I want this curse gone. Even now it is draining me, making me weak and fraying the control I have on my wolf.
He doesn’t like the scent of witches. Especially not when it was a suka witch that did this to me. If she hadn’t already paid the ultimate price, I may have wanted revenge on her. Too bad. She can only die once.
The scent grows stronger and stronger, and with it I start to smell other things — Hell’s influence, Heaven’s too, even dragons? What is happening in this place?
It doesn’t matter to me. I care about one thing and one thing only, and when I see a sign for a bar, that’s where I head. A drink — many drinks — is in order, but first things first.
I’m walking faster than I realize, practically sprinting, so when I come to the door and a sudden stop, I have to fling it open to stop from crashing into it. My wolf is roaring inside, the smell of witch blood driving him wild, but there are more important things, I growl in
wardly, hoping to cow the beast.
There are three people at the bar — two men on this side, and a girl on the other. I stalk right up to the girl, ignoring the other two, and suddenly realize it’s her the stench is coming from.
“You,” I snarl without intending to. “Take me to your leader.” It’s the best I can manage while trying to fight back my wolf’s instinct to rip the witch’s throat out where she stands.
Not having any idea the danger she’s in, the girl laughs — one of the men, too — both of them chortling, ignoring my request, ignoring the effort it’s taking me to be civil and composed. Too much effort.
I snarl at the guy, not trusting myself with the girl, and grab him by the front of his shirt, shoving him against the bar.
“Hey, dude! You can’t do that,” the girl protests, but the guy doesn’t seem worried, or scared of me at all. Before he can blink, the fox — that’s the distinct smell I’m getting from him, once I pick it apart from the witch’s — slips out of my grasp and is behind me, grinning ear to ear, even as I growl and clench my fists, ready to take him on. I could use a good fight right about now with the curse acting up like this.
“Calm down there, pup,” the fox says, tossing his head to the side so that his floppy black hair slides away from his eyes. “You’ll have to sit and wait your turn. I’m first in line.”
5
Ocho
“Pinche pendejos,” I swear, pulling against the arms trying to restrain me. I don’t know where these idiotas came from, but I don’t appreciate them getting in my way. We’re underground, it seems, going by the rock walls on all sides of me.
As we move down the tunnels, my captors get jumpier — maybe unnerved by the way every flickering sconce we pass by goes dark, throwing us into shadows. My shadows. “Do you even know what you’re dealing with?” I growl, still fighting even though it’s four on one.
Yeah, it takes four guys to pull me down, and even now they’re struggling. There’s four of them. Big, strong demonic types, yanking and tugging at my limbs, hitting me when I try to lash out. I take a knee to the stomach and try to double over, but they’re holding me up and it wrenches my shoulders painfully. I yank my arm, try the other one, but their grips are like steel.
