So when I found a large Scottish wolf in my office with a massive hunting knife, threatening to kill me, I did what every Dublin King before would've done under the circumstances.
Cooly offered him a drink.
“What’ll you be having, then?” I asked, turning my back on him to approach my office side table bar. “I've whisky, red wine, water, and of course… it’s always the right time for Norwolf.”
I pointed to a vintage tin sign on my wall that featured a 1940s cartoon version of Norrie Norwolf, our mascot wolf. In this depiction, he wore a factory uniform and pointed to a clock that read 11:45 a.m. with one hand while extending a pint of Norwolf stout toward us with the other. Our long-time slogan, “IT’S ALWAYS THE RIGHT TIME FOR NORWOLF,” took up the rest of the frame.
Ah, yes, those were simpler times when everyone thought drinking on a factory job was a right good idea.
The huge Scot just squinted at me. Then growled. “You've already got a coffee.”
“You’re right.” I dumped half my coffee into the waste can that Scrubber Steve hadn't got the chance to empty and uncorked a bottle of Midleton Very Rare. “This conversation most certainly requires whisky. Want one?”
I interpreted the male’s low growl as a no thank you. But after I filled my coffee cup with "the water of life," as we called it in Ireland, I poured a couple of fingers of Midleton into a crystal tumbler anyway.
“Just in case you change your mind,” I said, setting it down on my desk in front of the guest seat before I sat down in my office chair. “Alright then…”
I took a sip of my whisky and coffee before asking, “Might as well tell me why you’ve reallycome.”
The Scot regarded me with a heavy scowl. “Is that your plan, then? To pretend as if you have no idea why I’m here?”
Jayzus Christ, this morning was off the rails. I took a larger swig of my no-longer hot coffee. “Seems like the best course of action considering…"
"Considering what?"
"I truly have no idea why you’re here," I answered honestly. "Or what you want that's worth putting a tranquilizer dart in an innocent janitor.”
"Innocent." The Scot gritted his teeth. “Not as innocent as the fifty-plus she-wolves you lot stole from our king’s wedding reception!”
I stilled. Then set my paper cup down to rub at the instant headache that formed when I found out what those two fools pulled off without me. “Fucking hell. I told them not to do that.”
“You told who?" The Scot shook his head. "Aren't you the Irish King?”
“Oh, I forgot. We’ve been enemies so long, you’ve no real idea how Ireland works anymore.”
I dropped my hand and heaved a weary sigh. “Listen, we don’t have one king like you and England and pretty much every other country in Europe. Guess you could say we’re more like the states — except not as regional. We’ve three kings these days. I guess you could say we’re divided by land, sea, and city. I’m the City King. And I told the other Land and Sea Kings it was a bad idea when they tried to float the idea of a Second Reaping past me.”
“Reaping. That’s what you call it?" The Scot sneered down at me. "As if you’re harvesting our she-wolves?”
“From what I understand, they weren’t strictly yours," I pointed out. "I'm fairly certain that’s why the other two kings could justify kidnapping your exchange brides to themselves, even if I could not. They said something about you hosting a group of Canadian fundamentalists.”
The Scottish Oak Tree stared down at me in a way that made me suspect that he still might try to slice my throat with that hunting knife.
Ah, Jayzus. I leaned forward, muscles coiled tight, ready for a fight I’d trained for but never thought I’d actually have to take on — not as the latest in a long line of beloved Dublin Kings, who just so happened to also be the biggest employer of wolf walkers in all of Ireland.
But then, the Scottish Oak sank down into the guest chair with a heavy plunk. “They’re called the Wölfennites. And they’re anti-everything. No tech. No electricity. Won't even ride in a car without religious clearance. Our king thought that would make them a good match for us in our remote highland kingdom village. But obviously, your other two Irish Kings thought the same."
His face hardened with the memory. "They waited until we were defenseless, then stole those she-wolves away from us with a particularly specious promise to return any of them that dunnae want to stay here with them next spring. We’ve been searching for days now without a single sign. We tracked them all the way to a plane in Wicklow, but then it was like they disappeared into the ether.”
A weary look passed over the Scottish Oak’s face. But then he reset it to demand, “Tell me how to find them.”
“No idea," I answered, truthfully. "Our kingdoms have been kept fairly separate due to… well, some events that happened a couple of decades back.”
"Events" was one hell of an understatement. But this wasn’t a reality series, and this fellow wasn’t here for a recap of the Terrible Belfast Mess.
"You just said you met with them before they carried through their plan," the Scot said as if he'd caught me in a lie.
“That meeting wasn't exactly scheduled with a calendar alert," I told him. "The Sea King sent a merlin — like, an actual falcon to my office window with a note attached to its foot and a time and place to meet. Had to write a note back on printer paper, poke a hole through it, and attach it to the thing's leg with a rubber band. You should have seen the time I had of it.”
