Miss Dragonfly only used her faerie magic twice in anger during the three years I was her companion. The first time, she demolished a vase of roses sent to her by an admirer. It took me hours to clean up all the shards and petals. The second time she blew up her motor bike because it had broken down on the highway. I’d suffered a minor injury, but Miss Dragonfly was extremely protectiveof her staff.
“Perhaps you would like to re-read Appendix C? I have the original will in my car parked out front.”
“Show me,” demands the faerie, flinging aside her broom.
I shake my head. “Not while you’re covered in all that debris. I’ll not have you smearing an important legal document. You need to bathe and change first.”
“You are the rudest man I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering!” She huffs, stomping her foot on the floor and forcing another spiral of gray powder into the air.
I cough, plaster a neutral expression on my face, and decide to wait her out. Even a woman as tempestuous as this faerie should soon realize I’m right.
After a minute of pouts and scowls, she finally lifts her shoulders in a half shrug. “Fine. Give me an hour, and then come to the cottage around back.”
“Very well. In the meantime, would you like me to pick up something for dinner?”
“Dinner?” She seems to realize it’s nearly five o’clock. “Um, that won’t be necessary. I have… plans for later this evening.”
She seems almost hesitant to admit she has plans, which I find curious. But it’s none of my business. I nod curtly. “Then I’ll see you at six.”
I climb into Miss Dragonfly’s low-mileage, bronze-and-beige, 2009 Cadillac DTS, which she sold to me for a dollar a few months before she passed. Other than the truck-stop hot dog I consumed five hours ago, I haven’t eaten all day. And while I’m not hungry—a werewolf needs to control all his urges, including his appetite—Ido need sustenance before another encounter with the bossy faerie.
The café across the street doesn’t serve dinner, and I didn’t spot any restaurants on the way into town, so I decide to explore farther north. I pass up the boutique grocery store because I need a real meal, and the supper club because I don’t have that much time, finally parking near a tavern with a porthole-style door.
The Howling Shores Pub obviously caters to shifters. Good, perhaps I can learn more about the local pack and get an introduction to the alpha. I pull open the heavy door and step inside, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom as I inhale the twin scents of yeasty beer and funky fur. The place is awash in shore-themed trinkets and trim, with nets holding shells and starfish dangling from the ceiling and lots of pictures of tall ships and stormy seas on the walls.
I head over to an empty stool at the bar, where a large man with a scruffy black beard rattles off the daily specials, all of which involve beef, pork, or chicken, and pours me root beer from a local brewery. I’ll need all my wits when I return to Sophie Spellman Brownlee’s cottage to complete our negotiations, so I eschew anything stronger, a habit I picked up in college after a particularly embarrassing incident involving a fraternity party, barbecued ribs, and warm beer.
All faeries are tricksters at heart; even Miss Dragonfly would lecture me on the perils of dealing with faeries. That’s why she hired the best supernatural estate-planning firm in the country to handle her affairs. She explained everything to me in advance.Miss Dragonfly wanted to provide for her two great-nieces, Sophie and her cousin, Cassia Spellman, a single mom with a greedy ex-husband.
Miss Dragonfly established an education trust fund for Cassia’s young daughter that is so ironclad her faerie father won’t be able to access a dime. Then she left the remainder of her estate, minus ten percent, to Sophie so she could establish a bakery. Miss Dragonfly was quite meticulous about the conditions set forth in her will for two reasons.
First, she told me Sophie is a kindhearted but impetuous faerie who could make serious mistakes if she didn’t have someone looking over her shoulder. Given what I just witnessed inside the bakeshop, I’d have to agree.
Second, Miss Dragonfly wanted to provide me with the means to start over; she knew my options were sketchy at best. She’d discovered me, unconscious and barely alive, on her grounds three years ago and nursed me back to health. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for Dragonfly Spellman—and I’ll do everything in my power to see that her final wishes are carried out.
The bartender delivers my eight-ounce burger, which comes with blue cheese crumbles, caramelized onions, two bacon strips, and seasoned curly fries on the side, pours me another root beer, and cocks his head. He inquires, in a not unfriendly way, about my plans. “Just passing through?”
Typical werewolf behavior; so protective of their territory and so distrustful of loners like me. While it’s smart to be cautious around lone wolves as a generalrule, I’m about as harmless as a ghost. I take a bite of my burger, chew slowly, and then meet Black Beard’s gaze. “Not exactly. I intend to relocate here.”
“Humph,” he replies, adding, “You a loner?” All packmates carry a whiff of their leader, but my old alpha’s scent faded long ago. I’ve been packless for three years, which means I’ll have to work harder than most loners to prove my worth and sincerity.
“Not by choice,” I say around a curly fry I’ve just popped into my mouth. “It’s a long story.”
“You looking for an intro to our alpha?”
I wipe my mouth on a napkin and look him in the eye, hoping he sees what I want him to see: my earnestness. I give him a firm nod. “Yes. Can you arrange it?”
The man grunts. “Pack meets upstairs every Sunday night at seven. I’ll let him know you’ll be stopping by for a sniff and a tussle.”
He must see the wariness in my eyes because he adds, “Nothing a big fella like you can’t handle. Name’s Wes Forrester.”
I extend my hand, and we shake. “I’m Teddy Barker. And thanks.”
After I finish my meal and pay Wes, I realize I still don’t know the name of the local alpha. “Who’s the pack alpha, by the way?”
As Wes wipes the crumbs from the counter he replies, “Jake Grayclaw Spellman.”
“Spellman?” I yip in surprise.
