Chapter 3

3

“You saved my Mercedes .” Bolin ran up, his phone clutched in one hand and the man purse in the other. That vial had come out of it, but it was once again sealed.

“Yeah,” I said, “your car was my priority.”

“It’s worth more than the rest of the beaters in this lot combined. I shouldn’t have driven it here. My insurance agent would have dinged me for coming into such a bad neighborhood.”

I bristled, wanting to defend the neighborhood as perfectly fine, but some aspects of it had gone downhill of late. Prior to the last few years, I had never seen a motorcycle gang around here. Or any kind of gang.

Duncan ambled up, pushing his wavy hair back from his face with one hand and gripping the metal detector with the other.

“That’s how we negotiate where I’m from,” he said.

“Where I’m from too,” I admitted.

The pack didn’t have much use for diplomacy. Werewolves weren’t what they’d been in past generations, before the magic had faded, but they still used muscle and fang to get what they wanted .

“About what I figured.” Duncan nodded knowingly at me— too knowingly. “Now that we’ve battled foul enemies together, maybe you can give me your name.”

Battled foul enemies? Who said things like that?

“Where are you from ?” I asked, and not only to deflect his suggestion.

“Here and there.” Duncan waved vaguely. “I spent some years in the countryside outside of London.”

“And they talk like that there?”

“I can’t remember. I’ve been gone a long time, and it was rural enough that I didn’t interact with that many people. In my childhood, I was influenced by an abundance of medieval literature, with a smattering of the fantastical when I could sneak it in.”

“The fantastical? Like what? Harry Potter?”

“Those books came out after my childhood, and I prefer slightly more adult and manly fare anyway. I adore what’s now called the grimdark genre, though I’ve also immersed myself in many of the original fairy tales. They were quite dark, you know. And then there are the classical tales of pirates and swashbuckling adventure. I’ve copies of Dumas in my van. One’s a leather-bound that’s more than two-hundred years old. Do you want to see it?”

“So that is your Roadtrek.” I’d assumed so but hadn’t known for certain.

“I’ll confirm that with a yea or nay if you’ll give me your name, my lady.”

“This is Luna Valens,” Bolin offered before I could tell Duncan to quit asking.

I sighed, now doubly sure I didn’t want an intern.

“A most beautiful name.” Duncan held the metal detector out to the side like a sword and bowed deeply.

When he straightened, I noticed an old scar above one of his eyebrows. A circular burn mark. Like might have been done with a cigarette? It wasn’t noticeable from a distance and didn’t detract from his looks, but I wondered how he’d gotten it.

Sirens grew audible in the distance, and I didn’t ask. One of the riders didn’t stir but the others hurried toward their motorcycles, either getting them upright and running again or abandoning them. A couple of the men ran toward the woods that Duncan had been exploring earlier.

I eyed him, wondering if the appearance of the police would make him scurry off. If he was a criminal, it should.

“Luna is the perfect name for one who enjoys the moon’s influence,” he remarked, holding my gaze.

Hell. He did know I was a werewolf.

It didn’t surprise me, since I was fairly certain he was one, and if I could recognize my own kind, he could too, especially since he presumably wasn’t taking an alchemical concoction to dull one’s magic—and magical senses. The lack of surprise didn’t keep me from wincing. I didn’t trust this guy, whether he’d helped us or not. I was positive nothing good would come from him learning about me.

“My mom picked it,” was all I said. “I didn’t have any choice.”

My surname was another matter. For the twenty years I’d been married, I had been Luna Schneider. I’d never much liked that name and had been eager to take mine back after my slimy ex had sailed off to enjoy life with his various girlfriends around the world.

“What’s her name?” Duncan asked.

“None of your business.” I shot Bolin a quelling look, though there wasn’t any way he could know my mother’s name. Even Ed didn’t know about my family.

“Indeed not,” Duncan said agreeably, then looked curiously at Bolin. “You’ve magic about you.”

Bolin blinked in surprise, though it had to be surprise that someone had noticed rather than confusion about the statement. I’d seen him throw that vial of whatever it had been. Nothing mundane.

“I thought it was only contained in your bag at first,” Duncan continued, “but it’s in your blood too.”

He didn’t step closer to Bolin, but he raised his nose in the air, nostrils flaring as if he were a hound testing someone’s scent.

No, not a hound. A wolf . And that was exactly what he was doing. Once, I’d also had keen senses that could pick out odors normal humans couldn’t, and I recognized the nose waving.

“Not a witch…” Duncan mused thoughtfully.

“I’m just the intern.” Bolin stepped back, glancing at me.

Now that Duncan had pointed it out, I could get a gist of something paranormal about Bolin too. Usually, I couldn’t tell a witch from a necromancer from a mundane donut maker, but if I was due for another dose of my potion, it wasn’t surprising that I was sensing more than usual. Further, there had been a lot of strength behind my rock throws.

“You must study… Ah, yes. Of course.” Duncan snapped his fingers. “You come from a family of druids.”

Bolin opened his mouth but didn’t speak, only shaking his head in denial.

“I came across your kind often in the Old World. They’re much rarer here, though I suppose if druids would be found anywhere, it would be in these wooded wetlands.” Duncan waved toward the cloudy sky, though there hadn’t been any rain in two days.

A single police vehicle rolled into the parking lot, the driver sipping from a coffee mug as he maneuvered around broken glass and pieces that had flown off the damaged motorcycles. There was only one other officer in the car with him.

“I’m glad we handled the biker gang on our own,” I said, feeling the pair might have been outmatched.

“Indeed. Since I’ve misplaced my papers, I believe I’ll take my leave.” Duncan eyed one of the apartment security cameras mounted on a lamppost.

I made a note to download the footage later. Duncan hadn’t turned into a wolf—I wouldn’t have missed noticing that —but it was hard for me to imagine even someone with supernatural strength ripping apart motorcycles. One of the original werewolves of old might have—those great beasts had been tremendously powerful as they’d stalked about on two legs with thick muscles flexing underneath their short fur—but our kind had never been that much stronger than typical while in human form.

“Thanks for helping,” I called after Duncan, trying not to sound grudging. Even if I didn’t trust him and suspected he was up to no good, he had assisted us. Throwing rocks—and vials—alone wouldn’t have driven off six drugged-up bikers.

Duncan lifted a hand in acknowledgment as he walked away. Instead of heading for his van, he veered toward the woods again. Still looking for lockboxes of gold under the ferns?

“He’s magical,” Bolin whispered, watching Duncan disappear as the police car parked.

“Apparently, you are too.” I raised frank eyebrows.

Encountering people with magic in their blood wasn’t that uncommon, though mundane humans couldn’t usually tell unless they saw someone do something obvious, but I hadn’t had an inkling the Sylvans had paranormal blood. It was possible, however, that my brief meetings with them had occurred during times when I’d recently dosed myself with my potion, when its sublimating effects were strongest. I couldn’t remember.

“I’m just the intern.” Bolin’s smile was nervous.

I looked at the man purse.

“Thanks for helping with my car,” he said, then headed over to address the police.

“You’re welcome.”

I debated if it would be cowardly to let Bolin handle their questions. He was just a kid, but he had been the one to call them, and his family owned the complex. Dealing with the authorities always made me nervous, as their response to unearthing paranormal beings was usually to shoot first and ask questions… never.

“Luna?” came an uncertain call from a doorway.

Numerous doors and windows were open, the heads of tenants sticking warily out. It was the middle of a weekday, but so many people worked from home that one couldn’t count on the place being empty.

I sighed, realizing I would have to let Bolin handle the police. I needed to attend to the residents and take photos of the vandalized cars for insurance claims. I looked wistfully toward where Duncan had disappeared into the woods, envious of someone with no apparent responsibilities who could treasure hunt in the middle of the day.

My phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket, expecting it to be a tenant with a problem, though most of them only had my work number. The contact that popped up made me stop and stare. Augustus. One of my cousins. One of the pack.

It had been so long since any of them had called me that it surprised me that the number was in my phone contacts. Augustus and I had been close when we’d been kids, and I’d done the werewolf equivalent of babysitting him and his brothers and sisters, but he’d turned into a surly adult, vying for leadership of the pack.

Without answering, I tucked my phone back into my pocket. Given the way the pack had spurned me for my choices, I would prefer to continue not speaking to them.

Something told me I wouldn’t get what I preferred.