Page 1 of Relics of the Wolf (Magnetic Magic #2)

1

Four air purifiers whirred, the DuctMaster 5000 rumbled, and my XTreme Power steam cleaner roared across the carpet like a Ford Mustang on the final lap of a NASCAR race.

A few days ago, I’d heeded the moon’s call and turned into a powerful and noble wolf, hunting magnificent prey with my pack. Now, I was attempting to eradicate the smell of cigarette smoke from an apartment. As my sons had been quick to point out before they’d left home, my life wasn’t the most glamorous. Or bussin . That had been their word.

“Hi, Luna,” came a call over the noisy equipment. Bolin, my twenty-three-year-old intern, leaned into the entrance of the apartment. “Should you have the door open with your back to it when there are known muggers in the area?”

“Don’t worry. I’m armed.” I patted the machine I was wielding with two parts efficiency and one part irritation. We had a no-smoking-indoors rule that was highlighted no fewer than four times in the lease, but Mrs. Chang had desecrated the unit with her two-packs-a-day Marlboro habit. There was no way I would refund her damage deposit.

“With… a vacuum cleaner?”

“It’s a one-hundred-and-seventy PSI commercial-grade carpet cleaner that heats the water tank to two-hundred-and-ten degrees Fahrenheit.” I hefted the steam wand. “I could flay every skin cell off your body from here.”

Bolin wrinkled his nose. “Flaying involves peeling skin away. You’d be scalding someone with that.”

“What’s the origin of the word flay? Are you sure it’s not appropriate? Did you ever get any words that simple in your fancy collegiate spelling bees?”

“I did not, no. But it’s from the Old English flēan, which came from the Old Norse word flā meaning to peel .”

“Wow, you even know roots that aren’t Latin or Greek?”

“English words have antecedents from all over the world. The more you learn about where something originates, the more you’ll know about it as a whole.”

When my intern had first shown up without warning, I hadn’t wanted him, especially since he was the son of my wealthy employers, the Sylvans, who owned this complex and many others. But, with a mixed heritage that included a grandfather who’d been a real druid out of Ireland, Bolin had turned out to be unexpectedly helpful, even employing magic to eradicate mold in one of the units. Doing something useful for the complex was the quickest way to my heart. That and high-quality dark chocolate.

“You probably didn’t want to know all that,” Bolin admitted sheepishly.

“I did ask.”

Bolin tilted his head, as if I were a curiosity. Or maybe a rarity . “You did, didn’t you?”

I turned off the steam cleaner so we wouldn’t have to yell over the noise, though I left the air purifiers running. It would take a lot to get this apartment rentable again. I had a vinegar solution with vapors potent enough to kill flies—and possibly small mammals—waiting so I could spray all the window screens.

“You’re useful, Bolin. I hope your parents are paying you well for this gig.”

The next nose wrinkle was so intense that it showed me all the hair in his nostrils. “They’re not paying me at all for it. As I think I told you before, I’m earning real-world experience and proving my worth before they hand me the reins to a real job with their company.”

“The one that involves traveling to their apartments in exotic places?” I recalled he’d mentioned Saint Lucia and Singapore, among others.

“Yes.” Bolin sighed wistfully as he looked toward the drizzle pattering on the fallen leaves that had coated the lawn since my last pass with the backpack blower.

When I’d been a teenage girl turning into a wolf and hunting with my pack, I’d never envisioned the collection of power tools and cleaning equipment that I would one day wield.

“They must at least pay you an allowance. You spend fifteen dollars on coffee drinks before the workday even begins.” I hadn’t seen my caffeine-powered intern arrive at the complex in the mornings with fewer than two espresso-stand beverages clutched in his hands. “And I’m positive gas for your Mercedes G-Wagon costs a pretty penny. What’s that get? Three, four miles per gallon?”

“Ha ha.”

“I know it’s not more than twenty.”

“It’s thirteen. Fifteen if I will magical power into it when I park it at night.”

“Are you allowed to use druid nature magic to enhance gas-powered monstrosities?” I asked. “That seems like it should be against the rules. In fact, I’m surprised your blood doesn’t compel you to wreck that SUV against a tree. Or maybe a boulder. You wouldn’t want to damage a tree.”

Bolin squinted at me. “Your truck isn’t an eco-blessing either.”

“It’s a small truck, gets okay gas mileage, and I use it to haul supplies and equipment for work. The only thing I’ve seen you use your SUV for is to tote you and your coffee cups.”

Bolin took a pointed sip from his beverage. “I don’t think one of your duties as my mentor is to insult me.”

“Oh, it definitely is. It’s at the top of the list, falling under the category of building character . Your parents are paying me big money for that.”

“They are?”

“No. I’m not being paid any more than you are.” Less, most likely. I wasn’t horribly paid, and my rent was included, but I had a feeling his allowance was more than my salary. “I didn’t even agree to take you on. You just showed up.”

“But I have been helpful to you.” His expression had been confident, but it grew a touch hesitant. “I have been, right? I’m sorry I lost your case.”

The case was a magical ivory artifact with a wolf carved into the lid, but it wasn’t really mine. I hadn’t known it existed until someone—a nomadic werewolf named Duncan—had used a magic detector in my apartment to find it. Since I’d only had it in my possession briefly—apparently, my ex-husband had stashed it in the heat duct under the floor—I couldn’t pretend to be devastated by its loss, but I did regret it. Mostly because of a hunch that the artifact could be important to my kind. It had a wolf on the lid, after all.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I asked you to bring it here.” I was glad to see his black eye had healed, but the stitches above it couldn’t hide the scar tissue forming; he would probably have a mark forever. “It was safer in your dad’s vault.”

Bolin nodded and looked around the apartment complex, the older but well-maintained buildings occupying several grassy acres near a greenbelt. “My parents live in a good neighborhood.”

“They’re only three miles from here.”

As the property manager, as well as handywoman, I always bristled at insults to the apartment complex, even if I couldn’t do anything about the neighborhood. It wasn’t bad , other than the freeway being on the other side of the greenbelt and close enough that we heard the traffic, but this part of Shoreline experienced more crime these days than there once had been.

“In a gated neighborhood where the houses overlook Puget Sound and the snow-capped Olympic Mountains.” Bolin lifted a hand. “I didn’t mean to pick a fight, Luna. I came because I found out my dad did drawings and took rubbings of the case.” He opened the leather Stefano Ricci bag that was dainty and decorative enough that I’d been thinking of it as a man purse, and withdrew some folded sheets of paper. “Remember that writing I mentioned being on the bottom? That was hard to read? My dad magnified it and copied it. Turns out it’s Ancient Greek.”

“That’s not a language I would have expected on a druidic wolf case.”

“Yeah, my dad and I were surprised. You’d think Gaelic for something of druidic origins, but when I poked around, I learned that there is evidence that druids were in Ancient Greece as early as 200 BCE. Anyway, we borrowed some books and were able to translate the writing.” Bolin unfolded a number of precise drawings and a couple of rubbings.

The familiar wolf portrait was on one page, its head tilted upward, as if to howl, but it was instead displaying its rows of sharp teeth. Bolin shuffled through the papers and held out one showing the bottom of the case. Someone with a tidy hand had translated: Straight from the source lies within protection from venom, poison, and the bite of the werewolf.

The bite of the werewolf. My mother had brought that up when I’d visited her.

She’d spoken of how our kind were slowly dying because the breeding pool had grown limited and we had, as a species, lost the ability to make more of our kind by biting humans and passing along our werewolf magic to them. Since our people had been hunted for eons, and our own ferocious live-by-the-fang-die-by-the-fang ways caused fighting and killing within our packs, we’d always struggled to keep our numbers up. Because the bite magic had been lost, fading from the world like so many other paranormal elements, we’d been dying off. That had seemed to distress my mom even more than her own impending death from cancer.

“I remembered your interest in werewolves and thought you’d be curious,” Bolin said after I’d perused the papers.

“Yes.” I didn’t mention that I would be more interested in something that fostered the transition of werewolf magic rather than offering protection against it, but I had no problem understanding why normal humans would have feared those bites and wanted nothing to do with them. Those from respectable packs had never inflicted their fang magic on an innocent, bringing only those who wished to become werewolves and who were deemed worthy into the pack, but history told us that others had preyed on humans, claiming mates and slaves whether they’d been willing or not.

The case might not hold any answers to our lost bite, but the fact that it mentioned it made me wonder. Bolin’s earlier words came to mind. The more you learn about where something originates, the more you’ll know about it as a whole.

Was it possible that whatever was in the case, if not the case itself, could offer clues about that lost magic?

Unaware of my meandering thoughts, Bolin continued, “My dad and I assume that whatever is or was stored inside offers protection, not the case itself, but we don’t know for certain. We never did figure out how to open it. I’m upset that I let a thug beat me up and take it. I described him to the police, but they were as unhelpful as I expected.”

“I don’t doubt it. Didn’t you say the guy who attacked you was big and strong and seemed… supernatural?” I didn’t want to suggest he’d been a werewolf, since my intern claimed werewolves didn’t exist, but Bolin’s description had made me think that was a possibility.

The thug might have been working for my surly cousin Augustus. He’d been trying to kill me to keep me from inheriting a magical medallion from my mom, so it seemed plausible he would have his paws on another artifact.

“He was extremely strong. I don’t tend to win physical battles with other men, or even sturdy and aggressive women—” For some reason, Bolin eyed me when he said that, as if my five-foot-three inches and one-hundred-ten pounds would put me in contention for an Olympic shot-put medal. “But this guy threw me against a post like I was a toddler. My feet left the ground completely.”

I nodded. A werewolf, even in human form, had greater-than-typical strength.

“I admit that I’m invested in your case now. Last night, it occurred to me that the assault and theft might have been recorded.” Bolin waved toward the parking lot and the main walkway where security cameras were mounted here and there.

Not a week earlier, I’d checked some of the footage, wanting to see how Duncan had not only defeated a couple of big biker men but also ripped pieces off their motorcycles. The cameras hadn’t been mounted in good locations to catch much of his battle, but I had glimpsed enough to believe he’d done it with his bare hands. Speaking of greater than typical strength… Even for a werewolf, Duncan was a beast in human form.

“We can check them,” I offered.

“If nothing else, I can give the police a photo instead of my vague description.”

“Your description was vague? You know all the words in the dictionary. How could vagueness have been involved?”

“It being dark and him hurling me against posts was the reason for vagueness, not a lack of vocabulary on my part.” Bolin rubbed the side of his head.

“Ah, understandable.” I pointed toward the leasing office, indicating that we could go check the security cameras from there, but Bolin held up a hand.

“Whether we get a good look at the man or not, my dad said he would offer some reward money if we want to put word out to the paranormal community. Curiosity aside, he feels bad that I lost your case.”

“It’s not your fault. Or anything he needs to pay for.”

Bolin shrugged. “You’ve been my parents’ employee for a long time. Even if they usually run everything through Mr. Kuznetsov, they appreciate that you’ve worked for them and kept the place running smoothly. And that you’ve taken me under your wing and are suitably building my character.” Bolin cocked an eyebrow, and I trusted he was quoting me rather than his father. “Dad also wants to know what’s in the case.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Do you think the European guy with the metal detector could find it?”

“No,” I said promptly, even if Duncan might have been able to help. My ex-husband had hired him to steal that case from me. Duncan was the last person I would ask for help finding it. For all I knew, he, not my cousin, had hired that thug.

“No? I looked up the name on his van. It’s a YouTube channel, and there are a bunch of videos of him finding things. All kinds of things.”

From his emphasis on that word, I assumed Bolin had seen the videos of Duncan with his magic detector, sauntering through cemeteries at night on the quest for ghosts or who knew what paranormal magics lingered around tombs.

“I know, but he’s…” I didn’t want to explain my ex or how Duncan had betrayed me. “He left.”

“Oh? I thought you two might be...” Bolin turned his palm skyward.

What, dating?

“We’re not,” I said firmly.

“Too bad. He seems like just the guy to find a missing magical case.”

Or he was the one who’d stolen my missing magical case.

I scratched my jaw, realizing I should check to see if Duncan was in the area. If he was, and if he had the case, maybe I could get it back. Probably not by beating him up—alas—since that footage showed him being much stronger than I—than anyone. But he had sent me a gift. Maybe he felt conflicted about his betrayal.

“He should ,” I muttered.

Bolin arched his eyebrows again.

“I’ll see if I can find him.” I grabbed the carpet cleaner to fire it up again. If Duncan had my case, I would flay and/or scald him until he gave it back.

“Maybe we could contact him through his YouTube page?” Bolin pulled out his phone and had the app open in an instant.

I shot him an exasperated look. I hadn’t intended to seek Duncan out that second.

Reluctantly, I admitted that if he did have the case, trying to catch him before he left the area would be best. It might already be too late.

“All right. Send him a note.”

“Should I include a photo of my mugger?”

I almost snapped that Duncan probably already knew the mugger, but that would be jumping to conclusions. It was possible that thug had been working alone, and Duncan was also still looking for the case.

“Let’s see if we have one.” Leaving the air purifiers running, I led Bolin to the leasing office where we pulled up the footage from the security cameras. It was a good thing I hadn’t waited longer since our data-storage plan started deleting old recordings after a week.

“I think it was about nine p.m.” Bolin leaned over my shoulder as I skimmed through hours of uneventful footage of people going to and from the parking lot. Then his shiny blue G-wagon rolled in. “That’s me.”

“You sure that’s not a tenant with a six-figure SUV?”

“I’m sure.” Ignoring my sarcasm, Bolin frowned and leaned closer to the screen. “There. That guy isn’t a tenant.” He pointed to a hulking figure leaning out from behind a lamppost as the video version of himself got out of the SUV and walked toward the office, carrying something in his hands. The case. “He’s the one who grabbed me,” Bolin added.

In the video, the scene played out for us. With long blond hair and a black leather jacket decorated with metal studs, the guy looked like a Northern European metal drummer from an eighties band.

He charged up so quickly that Bolin didn’t recognize the danger in time. The thug gripped him by the arms and, shoulder muscles bunching under the jacket, threw Bolin ten feet into a lamppost.

I winced in sympathy when he hit it hard, crumpling to the ground. He’d dropped the case, and the thug bent to grab it. Despite the blow, Bolin reached into his pocket and threw something at the guy—another of his vials? It bounced off his attacker’s chest, landed on the cement walkway, and shattered. Vapors wafted up, and the man jerked back, waving at the air in front of his face.

On hands and knees, Bolin scrambled in and tried to grab the case. But the man recovered, grabbed him, hoisted him up, and punched him in the face. That accounted for the black eye and stitches.

After that, the man threw Bolin aside again. Stunned and probably groaning in pain, Bolin hadn’t continued to fight. I was surprised he’d had the gumption to do as much as he had.

When the thug picked up the case, he glanced toward the parking lot, giving the camera a good view of his face.

Bolin leaned in, pressed pause, and used his phone to take a photo before letting the footage finish playing. After that, the thief jogged through the parking lot. He didn’t get into a car but headed into the street, then disappeared from the camera’s range of vision. We didn’t know if he’d gotten into a vehicle out there, been picked up by someone, or had gone for an evening stroll to bask in his victory. I did know that there’d been no sign of Duncan in the video.

“You’ve got some gumption, kid,” I said, though Bolin was fiddling with his phone.

“What I’ve got is a date for you.” He smiled brightly and held it up. “He already replied.”

“Duncan?”

“Presumably. Whoever mans his channel and answers messages.”

“I doubt he has staff. He lives out of a van, after all.”

Bolin glanced out the window at the complex, but he didn’t point out that I lived in the same modest apartment I’d had for twenty years, so I wasn’t the epitome of financial success. It was, however, a valid point, so I shouldn’t have insulted Duncan for his lifestyle choices. In truth, I was more upset that his lifestyle had led him to be a nomadic treasure hunter who’d taken a gig from my ex-husband.

“Well, whoever replied said he would love to help you, and you can find him at the Ballard Locks this afternoon.”

“Okay. Which tool should I take to pound him with if it turns out he hired that guy?”

Bolin opened his mouth but paused, his brow creasing.

I hadn’t told him about Duncan’s betrayal, so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t suspect a link.

Finally, he replied with, “Interns aren’t versed on that kind of thing. Do you want me to ask him?”

I snorted. “Yeah.”

Bolin typed in the message. It only took a few seconds for a reply.

“He says he’d prefer to be pounded by a bar of chocolate but, if you must, the big wrench is flattering in your hand. Flattering ?” Bolin lifted his upper lip. “Are you sure you two aren’t, uhm?”

“Positive.”