My Wednesday afternoon was going awesome until the little bell above the door rang, and in walked a werewolf.
I could smell the magic on him all the way across the space I used as a store/office. Werewolves have a very distinctive smell – think wet dog lit on fire.
The wolf sauntered slowly through the small room trying to look casual, but the tightness in his shoulders gave him away.
My store was cluttered, so he had to sidestep and weave around glass cases filled with stones and gems and antique magic items laid out on velvet cushions. I definitely needed to clean inside the cases a little more often, but I will say I think the dust gave them more authenticity.
He almost ran into a wire rack filled with ancient magic tomes that were mostly useless but looked cool, and spent a stupid amount of time looking over the book shelves I kept stocked with new magical items.
His slow meander gave me time to inappropriately stare at him since he seemed to be more interested in looking at every item in my store than looking at me. Like most wolves, he was stupidly handsome with an air of ownership of the world around him, a prince among paupers. Or so he thought. His chestnut hair was an undercut, the shaved section starting to grow out, and he had a beard that was getting a bit long. Great. Hipster werewolf. Two of my least favourite things combined like Voltron to revolt me from the start.
I stood up from my desk and walked to the glass topped case filled with crystals and expensive enchantments that separated my office space from the store part of my business.
I sighed and raised an eyebrow at the guy. “Sorry, I’m all out of flea collars,” I said.
Werewolves are pretty much all dickheads. I have met very few that aren’t. They’re entitled and condescending, based on the fact that they think they are superior to humans in pretty much all ways.
“Flea collars?” The guy asked, deadpan. His muddy green eyes were fixed intently on me. Sure he was handsome, but a lot of supernatural creatures are good looking. Part of it is the allure of something other. And for someone like me, attuned with magic, part of it is the magic.
I stared him down and didn’t say another word.
He popped his neck and tensed his shoulders, the muscles lifting attractively under his dark, plain t-shirt.
“I’m looking for Mage Nieminen,” the wolf said.
“You’re looking at him,” I returned.
His eyes widened almost comically.
I look younger than I am. I wear big nerdy glasses, and I’m skinny. Don’t get me wrong, I’m decent looking with a bit of a guy-next-door sort of vibe, but I don’t look like the most powerful mage in Minneapolis. I might even be the most powerful in Minnesota, but I’ve never had a reason to fight with the St. Paul mage who made it summer in January downtown that one time; so we may never know.
“You can keep staring, but it’s still me. Mage Fredrik Nieminen. My friends call me Freddie, but don’t do that because we’re definitely not friends. I can go grab my ID, and my PhD in magic from the University of Toronto,” I said. “Or, here’s a fun idea, you could tell me what you want so I can get on with my day.”
Dealing with werewolves is all about power games. Posturing and bravery. I would never suggest a human get snarky with a werewolf because they’ll probably end up dead. But I have magic most werewolves have never seen, and can easily defend myself against one; even if magic is unpredictable against them.
The wolf narrowed his eyes at me, sizing me up, but finally gave in. “We want to hire you.”
“Who’s we?” I asked.
He faltered at that, stuttered a little as he said, “My pack.”
It was intriguing to see a werewolf put-off enough to stutter. But to hesitate about his pack? Very interesting.
It wasn’t my habit to get involved in werewolf matters. Too many blood feuds. Too much probability of ripped out throats. It was easy to steer clear when there were no packs right in the city. It was too dangerous for them to live side by side with the very breakable human population. Sure they came into the city for work or supplies or partying, but their dens were all out in the boonies.
So I didn’t know most of the local werewolves personally. They just weren’t often in my sphere. Their business always took place out in a forest or something, in the middle of a full-moon night. Werewolves are so dramatic.
“Which pack?” I asked. Despite not being involved, I knew the names of all the packs and their Alphas. I’m not dumb. I wasn’t going to ignorantly sit on the neutral ground between six werewolf packs and not have any information.
“O’Connell,” the wolf replied.
Oh great. The pack with the least stable hierarchy, led by two young Alphas.
“What service can I provide to the O’Connell pack?” I asked. “I’m not into assassination if you’re looking to lose one of your Alphas.”
Werewolf packs don’t typically keep more than one Alpha. It’s actually totally unheard of. The O’Connell pack was a strange beast. The inheriting sons were twins, their parents killed in a pack uprising. The brothers were close and had opted to rule together. The moment it had happened, the word had been all over town. All over the state. It had even made a little ripple on the world stage. But the rumour mill said the pack wasn’t happy. The Alphas were too young (young for Alphas anyway, at thirty six). Untested. And having two Alphas was just plain weird. The pack felt divided in their loyalties. So said the grapevine.
“I definitely have no interest in that, seeing as how I’m Lincoln O’Connell,” the wolf said with a little growl, letting his pointy canines show.
“Oh shit,” I sighed.
“Wanna stop being a prick and listen to what I have to say?” Lincoln snarled.
I lifted the little partition at the end of the counter. “Step into my office.”
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