I chuckled. The Scot did not.
“Where exactly did this meeting you were invited to take place?”
I didn’t hesitate with my answer, considering it was those idiots who put my wolves and me in the position of having to explain their actions in the first place. “At the Ballymactyre Stone Circle.”
His frown deepened. “Already searched that town and every other one with some Gaelic form of wolf in the name.”
I nodded. “I could see why you'd go with that plan. But all of your lot was founded exclusively by Vikings, whereas some of our lot's been here from the Bronze Age — maybe before. We’ve forgotten how long we’ve been here.That’show old we are."
The Scot glowered at me. "Your point being?"
"My point being, the Irish Wolves haveabandonedmore towns than you’ve founded at this point," I answered. "And with wolves technically being extinct here in Ireland, we’re most certainly out of the habit of letting any and all know about our whereabouts."
"Hmm, s'pose that's true." Apparently, changing his mind aboutthe whisky, the Scot set down the hunting knife and picked up the glass instead. “Though, I had a gut feeling about Ailte Faoilmar.”
I scrunched my forehead. “Those cliffs south of Galway? No one’s allowed there. They’re a protected site, on the verge of crumbling down.”
“Aye, that’s what the human guards blocking the place from both the land and the water told me. But the thing is, the rock face looked just about flawless to my eyes. Almost like a picture postcard. No signs of deterioration whatsoever. We have one-hundred-year-old mountains in less better shape than those supposedly thousands of years old cliffs.”
I shook my head. “What are you trying to say?”
The Scot looked at me for a long, hard moment. Then, instead of answering my question, he asked. "If they’re only using merlins to communicate, explain this!”
He slapped a phone with a shattered screen down on my desk. “We found this in one of the empty lorries they used to throw us off their trail. But no one in our village has a phone this nice — not even the Scottish Prince. And it wasn’t one of the accounts we were given by the kidnapped Scottish she-wolves parents to trace.”
"Somebody just tossed this in an empty truck?" Now, it was my turn to frown. “This is the latest GoNoTo Phone. My ex-girlfriend was upset because she wanted one for Christmas, but it won't be available in the British Isles until next year. They're only being sold in the U.S., China, Japan, and Canada right now. So this is basically thousands of euros chucked out of a window.”
The Scot picked the phone up again. “Why would an Irish Wolf have an expensive GoNoTo phone that you can't yet get or use here?”
“The obvious answer is they wouldn’t.” I drummed my fingers against the desk, also pondering the mystery. “But you had a village full of Canadian guests, didn't you? And you only need a WiFi connection to get the internet to work.”
The Scot shook his head. “Like I said, our Canadian guests don’t believe in technology.”
“Unless one of them did.” I reached for my desk phone. “Want me to ring one of my IT fellows? We could break into it — see who’s right about who it belongs to.”
“Nae. That won't be necessary." The Scot stuffed the phone back into his kilt bag. "We’ve got a tech genius back home I can consult about this. Nae way, I’m letting some Irish bawbags have a crack at an important piece of evidence.”
Well then. Apparently, our friendly conversation was over.
But I felt compelled to tell him, “The Land King is…"
Feral. An old gods zealot. Technically a sociopath.I settled for "… what he is. But the Sea King is not without honor. If he was the one who made you that promise, then the unwilling brides will be returned in the spring unharmed, just as he said.”
Another hard look. Then, the Scot abruptly stood up.
“I won’t slit your throat," he appeared to decide and announce at the same time.
As if I would have allowed that. He snatched a pen from the cup I kept beside my desktop in one hammy hand and began writing numbers on a sticky note. “Here’s the number to reach us at if those other two kings of yours send you any more merlins. Name's Alban Scotswolf.”
I stood up and stoically extended my hand for a shake. "If you’reever in the market for a Scottish distributor for Norwolf beer, you know I’m the king to ask.”
Alban scoffed at my offer of a handshake. But in the end, he left me there in the office without making me employ any of the boxing or martial arts skills I’d acquired over the years.
So that was exactly one thing that had gone well in the last few days. Startled exclamations began flaring up outside the office door Alban had left open.
"Where did you come from?"
"Holy hell, check the size of him."
