The Keeper

 

For my sons-
Brian and Lance
You have blessed my life

 

 

CONTENTS

 

Chapter One. 1

Chapter Two. 14

Chapter Three. 18

Chapter Four. 35

Chapter Five. 39

Chapter Six. 42

Chapter Seven. 49

Chapter Eight 57

Chapter Nine. 67

Chapter Ten. 70

Chapter Eleven. 79

Chapter Twelve. 88

Chapter Thirteen. 92

Chapter Fourteen. 96

Chapter Fifteen. 106

Chapter Sixteen. 110

Chapter Seventeen. 122

Chapter Eighteen. 127

Chapter Nineteen. 138

Chapter  Twenty. 143

Chapter Twenty-One. 148

Chapter Twenty-Two. 153

Chapter Twenty-Three. 164

Chapter Twenty-Four. 166

Chapter Twenty-Five. 171

Chapter Twenty-Six. 191

Chapter Twenty-Seven. 202

Chapter Twenty-Eight 209

Chapter Twenty-Nine. 212

Chapter Thirty. 214

Chapter Thirty-One. 221

Chapter Thirty-Two. 232

Chapter Thirty-Three. 240

Chapter Thirty-Four. 243

Chapter Thirty-Five. 253

Chapter Thirty-Six. 260

Chapter Thirty-Seven. 268

Chapter Thirty-Eight 271

Chapter Thirty-Nine. 277

Chapter Forty. 286

Chapter Forty-One. 295

Chapter One

 

As soon as Lachlan Quinn came off the job site, he sensed the swirl of spell-craft. He had zero talent for manipulating magic himself, but like some people can taste colors, he had an odd synesthesia and could smell it working every time. This spell carried the scents of peppermint and sage, so two witches were doing the casting.

He looked around and spotted them about fifty meters away. Two redheaded teenagers staring wide-eyed at him from a beat-up gray VW Bug.

He stowed his tools, his mind racing—maybe it wasn’t him they were after.

The VW slotted in behind four car lengths behind his white F-250 pickup right after he pulled out.

Their “ignore me” glamor was adequate, good enough for the average mundane. Unfortunately for them, while he was mundane, he’d grown up around witch-crafters, so he wasn’t average. Quinn figured they were neophytes, probably from one of the Emory Covens.

Small favors—even neophytes could be deadly.

He couldn’t imagine what must have stirred the Aunties up to make them send shadows after him after all these years. He was a nobody, a small-time finish carpenter and furniture builder. A vet with PTSD. So, the question was—what the hell was going on?

It was the letter. He shouldn’t have tossed that fucking letter.

Sweet Mother of All, he fucking hated witches.

After Quinn was lucky enough to get out of the Navy in one piece, no small thing when you spend the whole hitch tending to a bunch of combat Marines, he had planned to build a smooth-running life for himself, one full of well-ordered routine. He wanted to know for certain on a Monday what things would be like three Mondays hence. Boring was good—adventure or drama was bad.

His goal was control over his life. He’d never had it, and he wanted it.

The challenge came because his life had been anything but ordinary. He’d had to study up on ordinary. Quinn had spent the last five years watching other people, teaching himself to act normal.  Regular people didn’t check automatically for exits or appraise every person they met to determine their threat level. Regular people don’t make sure to sit with their back against a wall with a clear view of an exit. Regular people just seemed to blend in.

Quinn put a lot of effort into blending in.

He told himself not to be pissed at those two young witches; they were just doing what they’d been told to do, but their presence was a capper on the irritants that had turned his spring and summer into crap.

He’d found out too late that the supervisor on his latest job was lazy and incompetent. The custom home they were building on the south end of Seattle’s Mercer Island had so many shoddy shortcuts that it embarrassed him to have his name associated with the place. He knew he shouldn’t care so much and for once just go with the flow, but old man Finn’s lessons had set his work philosophy in concrete.

He had signed on to build a white oak and stainless steel three-story circular staircase. The finished product was flawless—Quinn built nothing he wouldn’t be proud to show the grouchy old masters who taught him. The problem came from the fact that he’d had to build it, then take time to follow-up and often re-do the structural support the framing crew often just slapped together. He had anger issues on his best day—working on that house drove him to distraction daily.

And then this morning, like a bad omen, his truck’s check-engine light flicked on. The way his luck was running, he was convinced it would be big bucks coming out of his dream house fund to fix it.

He smiled at the sudden memory of Finn and muttered the old man’s refrain, “Lad, some days it’s just one fucking thing after another. Deal with it and quit your fucking whining.”

The good news was this job was complete. All he had on his agenda was a fishing trip up on the Big Hole River in Montana.

The bad news was that now he had two Covens of witches meddling in his life. Some of whom were no doubt preparing to send the flying monkeys his way for the slimmest of reasons.

His cell rang, interrupting his gloomy thoughts.

“This is Quinn.”

“Hi Doc, you on for some poker tonight?”

“For sure, Gunny. I’ve got to stop by the house, change and jump in the shower and I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll win for a change.”

“Good to have a dream,” he laughed. “See you around 1900. It’s the Nun’s turn to bring snacks, so there’ll be some good chow.”

“Aye aye, Gunny, see you then.”

Quinn disconnected. Okay then, a bright spot in this day—the twice monthly poker game with his VA group.

**

Just before Quinn mustered out, the company’s Gunny had pulled him aside and suggested (strongly) he sign up with the VA as soon as he got home to get help to deal with the PTSD that was sure to come.

So far, he’d had limited success with the VA’s program. His fault he knew—for the process to work you had to share your thoughts, experiences, and feelings—something he was willing to do but couldn’t—as soon as they heard what he had to say, they’d be locking him up and throwing away the key.

Nobody alive had experienced what he’d been through.

Quinn also agreed to attend the group’s poker game because he figured that was something a normal guy would do—play poker with his buddies twice a month. After the first night, he was grateful that they had invited him. The game was as close as he could come to being back with the platoon.

He arrived at the Gunny’s combination garage and workshop to find Billy and the Nun in the middle of an argument.

Billy O’Day, a former grunt from the 10th Mountain, had some serious burn scars, a prosthetic hand, and a bubbly irreverent outlook on life. He had no censor between his mouth and his brain. If a thought popped into his head, he said it.

He had named Captain Mary Agnes O’Malley, the Nun, because of a seventh-grade teacher he’d had at St Mary’s Catholic School in Philadelphia with that exact name. Mary Agnes was no nun, however, a fifty-something retired CSH operating room nurse, she was profane and profoundly cynical. Mary Agnes put up with the name good-naturedly; she gave as good as she got. She was also a lesbian—a source of endless fascination for Billy.

“Gunny, for Christ’s sake, go get me a ruler,” she yelled. “I can see there was too much Mr. Rogers in this boy's childhood. He’s not okay by any stretch, but two good whacks across the knuckles on his good hand might make him fit for polite society.”

Billy jerked his right hand behind his back and grinned at her.

“What’s going on, Barbie,” Quinn whispered. Warrant officer Barbara Sessions was a burn-scarred former medivac chopper pilot. Billie had named her Barbie over her vociferous objections. He had stopped slinging Ken jokes after Barbie had pulled a knife out of her boot and threatened to cut off an ear after he had offered to help find her a Ken one too many times. Quinn pulled her up short before things got out of control. Barbie, a serious weightlifter, could wring Billy’s neck like a chicken, as she often threatened too.

“Hey Doc, ‘bout time you showed up. Dumb ass found out next Saturday is Mary Agnes’ birthday. So, he’s been going on and on about how we should all take her to Honey’s and buy her some beer and table dances as a birthday present.”

Quinn shared a grin with her and settled down to enjoy the show. He had a regular seat at the end of the table, his back to a wall and with a view of an exit.

The LT called Billie and Barbie, the twins. Maybe because they were both carrying burn scars, or more likely because they were both bat-shit crazy. Excitable, LT called them with his understated southern drawl.

First Lieutenant Lamar Jackson was a big solid black guy, a medically discharged Texas A&M graduate from the 4th Stryker Brigade. He had almost made it through his second deployment when a bit of hot shrapnel from an IED sliced through his cheek and right eye. He was due for a prosthetic eye, so he wore a patch. Billy called him the Pirate (behind his back).

Gunnery Sergeant Kevin Murdock, a marine with a prosthetic foot, was the eldest of the group. He’d almost made his twenty before he got wounded. He was a proto-typical gunny—he projected an effortless calm leadership.

Quinn was Navy, an HM2 corpsman. He figured he was the lucky one. He’d come through four deployments with the second of the sixth marines without a scratch, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was the craziest of the bunch. While the others suffered PTSD from the combat they’d experienced, Quinn’s had roots that stretched farther back.

Billy had tried to name him Doc Quinn, Medicine Woman. But he only did it once. Quinn had zero ego, but he was proud of the Doc title. Months into his first deployment, when the gunnery sergeant finally called for Doc Quinn instead of that fucking squid, Quinn felt like they’d awarded him the Navy Cross.

“Billy shut the fuck up. Nice to see you Doc. Okay everybody, let’s play some poker,” barked the Gunny as he dealt the cards.

“You okay Doc?” Mary Agnes asked him. “You seem a bit off tonight.”

The others looked up sharply. They made it an ongoing habit to keep track of each other. They’d gone to funerals of guys who had slipped through the cracks before.

“I’m okay,” he said. “The last job’s been a bastard.”

“Did you decide to go back home for the will reading you told us about last week?”  The nun was like a dog with a bone. She’d keep digging and digging until she got a real answer.

Quinn winced at the reminder of the letter he’d tossed. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Jeez, Doc,” said Billy. “Why not. Maybe you’re gonna be rich.”

Barbie laughed at Billy. “Good thing it ain’t you that’s getting rich. You’d be like my uncle Fred and spend it all on hookers and blow.”

“Shut up you two,” the Gunny said. “What’s the issue, Quinn? Whose estate is it?”

“A guy named Cayden MacLeish. He was my foster father.”

“Seriously?” said Barbie. “I didn’t know you grew up in a foster home.”

“Homes,” Quinn said. “I was in four. My parents died when I was little. Never had a family for long.” That slipped out before he could stop it. What the hell is wrong with me?

“You got us, brother, don’t forget that,” the gunny said in a gruff voice.

“Yeah Doc, you got us,” Billy and Barbie chimed in together. The two black sheep of the family.

“Ante up. Draw, jacks or better,” Barbie dealt another hand while the others threw in a dime.

Quinn looked at his cards. Sweet Mother, she’d dealt him a royal flush.

“I’ll open for fifty cents.”

The others promptly folded.

“You guys suck.” He growled as he reached out and grabbed the tiny pot.

They all laughed.

 “Thing is, I want nothing to do with God-forsaken town, besides, I’ve been planning my fishing trip for months.”

“Okay,” said the LT. “Why not just call and tell ‘em that?”

“I did, but they told me that the old man himself had required my presence.”

“What’s your girlfriend, what’s her name Beverly or Belinda have to say about all this,” asked Mrs. M, the Gunny’s wife.

“Is she the tall blonde model,” Billy asked. “I kinda liked her.”

“You would,” Barbie said. “That was Sierra, the one who was like ‘I’m so special—look at me—look at me’. She was seriously high maintenance. Doc, I gotta say you have a terrible taste in women. What was the latest one’s name?”

“Bailey,” he said. “she’s no girlfriend anymore. We agreed to see others when I found out she already was.”

“I rest my case. She was a skank,” Barbie said. “At the LT’s Christmas party, she was flirting all over LT’s neighbor, that lawyer guy.”

“It would have been nice if you would have told me.”

Barbie snorted. “Like you would have listened.”

“Quinn is all ‘no impact—no idea,’” Billy laughed. “He has no more idea how to deal with women than...”

“Any more than you do, Billy,” interrupted the Nun. “Someone ought to dally a rope on both of you two ground-pounders, corral and halter-break you.”

“I’ve been trying to do that to Himself for years, so far it hasn’t worked,” Mrs. M laughed. “Let me go get you all some more coffee.”

“Anyway,” Quinn said, “I may be out of touch for a while if I decide to head up there and see what it’s all about. After that, I’m going on my fishing trip.”

The Aunties picked that moment to cast the summoning.

A powerful spasm of pain tsunamied into both of Quinn’s legs. His chest constricted. Couldn’t breathe. Vision blurred. A booming—ETORRI HONA sounded in his head. The command sparked a desperate need to move — to go—NOW.  

 The dormant glyphs that had been spelled onto the muscle and bone of his back—flared into life. They blocked the spell but not before Quinn had lunged to his feet, took a step, and slammed his head into one of the two by eight beams in the Gunny’s garage roof.

He dropped to the floor, stunned.

“Fuuuckk that hurt.”

“Damn, Doc, what the hell was that?” the Gunny asked.

“Just a bad muscle spasm, I hurt my knee at work,” he improvised. He climbed to his feet, policed up his chair and sat down, and rubbed the swelling bump on his forehead.

The others stared at him; concern written on their faces.

Quinn’s mind raced with the implications. He had grown up among witch-crafters. He recognized a Summoning when he felt one.

I need to get out of here now before they send something else.

“My knee is really bothering me,” he said. “I think I’ll head on home and put some ice on it. I’ll see you all next week.” He flipped the others a sketchy salute and remembered to limp as he walked to the door.

“Okay then, you take care, Doc,” the Gunny said as he dealt the next hand. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Aye aye, Gunny.”

Mary Agnes followed him to the door and pulled him into a fierce hug.

“I suspect you’re not telling us the entire story, Lachlan,” she said quietly. “I worry about you. You’ve always been remote, but you’re getting worse. As far as I can tell, all you do is work, exercise, and sleep. It’s not healthy.”

“I date,” he protested.

“Yes, but I notice you choose women you are in no danger of committing to. You’re too young to live like this. You’re a good man—you need to take care of yourself better.”

“I’ll try Mary Agnes,” Quinn smiled at her. He knew was a long, long way from being a good man, but her caring touched him. Her hug was like cool water in the desert.

 I wonder what she’d think if she knew what a monster I am.

“And don’t you disappear. We care about you here, so you better keep in fucking touch— you read me, Doc?”

“I will, Mary Agnes.” He winced inside at the lie. He doubted he’d see any of them again.

Quinn pulled the door open and walked out into the rain.

**

A glowing nimbus surrounded the large black cat that sat grooming itself on the hood of his truck.

They’d sent a fucking Fetch.

He should have expected something like this. The two red-headed witches gawking at him from the VW down the block had no doubt drawn the hosting glyph.

His second thought was that he should have thought to hide his tracks better—maybe moved to Antarctica. But then he realized it wouldn't have done any good. They probably still held some of his fingernail clippings or hair that they’d squirreled away for a rainy day.

The scent of lilacs filled his nose—Charming Delancy. No surprise, she always bragged about how she was best at traveling. She was also the snarkiest pain of all of the sisters.

The green nimbus that surrounded her feline flygja form pulsed with each beat of her heart.

“What do you want, Charming?”

“It’s about time. Been waiting out here for ages. Wow, you have changed! I barely recognize you.”

“I assume that was you, using a sledgehammer in there. You could have just called like a normal fucking person.”

“Wasn’t me. The Aunties crafted the summoning, and thirteen of them sent it.”

A circle of thirteen! Sweet Mother, it’s a wonder my head didn’t explode.

“I’m just the messenger. They don’t like being ignored. You, being the idiot you are, ignored the letter they sent. You know the Aunties. They get what they want, and they want you back to attend the reading of the old man’s will. You were stubborn. So, they took steps.

She eyed Quinn and licked a paw and groomed her face.

Same old Charming, over-the-top method actor, Quinn thought sourly.

“Althea has been struck down. The Keeper has passed.”

“Seriously? Next, you need to say ‘Winter is Coming’ in a spooky voice. I want nothing to do with you, bitc… people. You all can’t even get along with each other. Come on Charms, you know as well as I do, even if I were dumb enough to show up in Emory, it would be like pouring gasoline on the latest drama fire you all got going. And I for sure want no part in your wars.”

“Nevertheless, you will obey. The Aunties told me to tell you that the old man owed us a Life-Debt and it falls to you to honor it. They are calling it due. You have no choice.”

With that, she smiled that smug smile that had made her insufferable ever since the fifth grade and vanished—like Alice’s Cheshire Cat, only way more irritating.

Quinn was left standing in the alley, rain soaking his sweatshirt. He tried to sense the others beyond the visitation, but all he picked up were faint traces of peppermint and sage from teenagers still trying to maintain their half-assed concealment spell down the block.

He opened the door to his truck, climbed in, and sat there, one hand on the steering wheel, the other slowly rubbing the swelling lump on his head.

A fucking Life Debt. The old man was fucking up his life again—this time from the grave.

 

Chapter Two

Interlude

Twenty years ago

The fight started it all.

Eight-year-old Lachlan Quinn arrived in Emory on a rainy March day holding tightly to a faded blue pillowcase that held all his worldly possessions: a tattered book of poems by Kipling that a visiting Santa gave him two Christmases ago, two pairs of underpants, seven mismatched socks and his play jeans with a hole in the knee. He was wearing his good ones.

The social worker, a tired-looking thin-faced woman, had smoked one cigarette after another during the silent drive up from Seattle. As soon as they arrived, she pulled over, parked, and turned to him. Lachlan was an old hand at this, he knew a lecture was coming, so he put on a well-practiced attentive look and pretended to listen.

“Young Man, you are stubborn, stiff-necked, and disrespectful. You better get a handle on that temper of yours or you’re going to end up in Greenhills. You are lucky to be here, so don’t mess up and embarrass me.”

She placed him in a regular family with a mother, a father, and a little sister.

To young Lachlan, the new place was like winning the Lotto. His new father even bought him a warm coat and some brand-new Nikes.  After the first couple of months, he had even started sleeping in pj’s instead of being fully dressed down to his shoes in case he had to run. He’d had to run before—twice—a caregiver’s boyfriend, Jack Daniels, and meth was a dangerous mixture to any small boys hanging around.

He tamped down the surety that this was too good to last and let himself believe that his life from now on would be clean sheets on a bed in his very own room—with so much food that he didn’t have to worry about hiding some away for the hungry times.

Later, Lachlan knew he should have known better—but he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from hoping.

He had been in Emory nine months when a little second-grade girl with big blue eyes and blond pigtails walked up to him on the playground of Lincoln Elementary School and breathlessly announced that her name was Amanda Teague, but everybody called her Mandy.

The little chatterbox pointed out three little girls who were standing off to the side like outsiders do, watching the other kids play. She informed him they were her sisters, Katie, Charming, and Bella. They were all new kids at school, and they had a new mommy who seemed nice, but she wouldn’t let her bring her kitty, Biscuits, to school.

That clued him in that, like him, the girls were system kids. To kids like them, the name mommy had a whole different meaning than it did to regular kids. To them, a mommy was any random female caregiver of whatever fresh hell the state had placed them.

She was a persistent little thing and the other girls looked so forlorn, so he’d let her take his hand and lead him back to her sisters so she could tell them she had made a new friend.

Later that afternoon, as he and Jeff Thomas were tossing a football back and forth at recess, he noticed that a sixth-grader named Rodney Cryder and his friends had surrounded Mandy and her sisters. The boys were spiraling, circling the girls, shoving and telling them to hand over their lunch money.

Lachlan certainly wasn’t a knight in shining armor. He was mindful of the social worker’s warnings—but when they shoved little Mandy so hard that she fell and started crying. He waded in. Despite his good intentions, he was still feral.

He knew all about predators—the key to dealing with them was absolute aggression.

It was no contest. The way boys fought in that school was for a kid to “choose” another and settle the affair after school like an old-time duel (at a place called ‘Blood Alley’, the drama was important).

All the boys except Lachlan, that is—he was the product of a different school of thought.

He ran at him with a scream to get the boys’ attention. Delivered a kick in the crotch as hard as he could and when Rodney bent over, shoved him down to the ground and jumped on top of him. Lachlan picked up a rock and was preparing to bash his face in when a teacher pulled him off.

Actions have consequences. He had learned that lesson long ago. He relaxed in the teacher’s grip and with numb despair awaited the consequences that were sure to follow.

Later, in the principal’s office, now filled with shouting people, young Lachlan knew the other shoe had finally dropped.

Nobody wanted to hear his side of the story.

The mother of his new family, the one person whom Lachlan had counted on, announced that lately, she’d had fears for her daughter’s safety with this wild boy living with them. She was going to insist to her husband that he had to go.

Mrs. Cryder, Rodney’s mother, shouted that her husband was going to get him sent down to Greenhills Reform School (after a fair hearing to determine the length of his sentence). That was the only way to keep him away from decent people.

The noise dropped to a respectful silence when Old Cayden MacLeish stepped into the room.

“He’ll be coming with me.” He stuck out his hand for the boy to grab and the two walked out of the room.

And just like that, after four years of frying pans, young Lachlan Quinn got dumped into the fire.

 

 

Chapter Three

Niamh Harpe shifted back from her were-panther form and walked naked down the lane the last hundred yards to her cabin on Wolf Creek Road in north-central Washington State. She liked to shift away from her cabin lest her panther-form cause the female striped skunk who lived under her porch to lose her mind.

The weather, typical of high mountain country, had started sunny and changed to a cold driving rain that hinted of snow. She ignored the rain as she ignored the pain of the shards of gravel beneath her feet. Niamh never allowed discomfort to rule her.

The six-foot blue-eyed blonde was in a good mood. She’d had a good two-day run in her panther form. Her belly was still full of a careless mule deer buck she’d taken down the first day in a good stalk. Refreshed and reinvigorated, she was eager to get back to her latest vacation project, a large mural on a five-foot by six-foot old-growth cedar panel she was carving for a Seattle law office lobby.

Her good mood evaporated when she came within sight of her cabin and found two stocky middle-aged women standing by an elderly jeep. Their elaborate braided hair was as black as a crow’s wing, they looked enough alike so they had to be sisters maybe five years apart.

They smelled of Wolf-Kin.

She could also smell their uncertainty and fear—that wasn’t unusual. She was an enforcer for the police arm of Were-Council. Beings were often fearful around her.

“Singer and Song bless you, Niamh Harpe,” the eldest said. “A fine place you have here.”

“Thank you, I like it.”

Niamh stood quietly watching them, waiting for them to tell her what they wanted. She couldn’t imagine what it would be. She worked for the Council, not for any individual pack or clan.

The eldest of the two licked her lips and spoke. “My name is Aiyana, and this is my sister Aviaja. Perhaps you could get dressed and then we could talk.”

Niamh sighed. Her carving was going to have to wait.

“Very well.”

She led them into her cabin.

“Have a seat, I’m going to shower and get dressed. I’ll be down shortly.”

The two women were looking around wide-eyed at the interior of the cabin. Niamh smiled slightly at their reaction. She was proud of her home. Her great grandfather had built the cabin, and each successive generation had added on to it. Her contribution had been a new kitchen wing.

As she showered and washed her hair, she considered her visitors. They were probably from the Chelan Pack. The pack had a new Alpha. She had liked and respected the old alpha. She did not like the new one. He was arrogant, but all alphas were arrogant. His problem was that he was dumb and ambitious as well, a bad combination. Thankfully, it wasn’t her job to deal with him.

**

Niamh brewed the tea and placed cups and her grandmother’s good teapot on a placemat in the center of the ancient heart pine table that dominated her kitchen.

The two women stood close together, eyes downcast, twisting their hands nervously. 

Their submissiveness was irritating.

She gestured them to sit and poured the tea, making a ceremony of it to calm them.

Niamh spoke the blessing:

“May the Mother of All bless and keep us.” She took a ceremonial sip of tea and watched them nod in appreciation for the brew.

She waited to find out what they wanted.

Aiyana spoke. “My niece is missing. We’re afraid somebody abducted her. They say you search for the Lost Ones. Are they right?”

Niamh ignored the question.

“When?”

“Three days ago, we were babysitting for my sister who had to be over in Seattle. We took little Katrinka shopping with us in Wenatchee at Old Navy. I went into the dressing room and when I came out, she was gone.  Avi and I searched the store and the parking lot. But no scent of her anywhere.”

“How old is she?”

“Kat just turned eight.”

“Does she know how to shift?”

“Yes and no. You know how it is. At that age, the shift is painful-so the little ones are not always willing to go through with shifting back and sometimes they forget how to do it.”

“How long were you in the dressing room,” Niamh tried to build a mental picture of how things went down. Despite herself, she was interested. It was a puzzle. She liked puzzles.

“Hmm, I don’t know. Normal time, I guess. I wasn’t feeling well, so it couldn’t have been long.”

“Aviaja, what were you doing?”

The younger woman had tears in her eyes. “I was watching. I promise you I was. I had just turned my back for a minute and she disappeared.”

“What did the other folks in the store say?”

“They remembered nothing. They were having problems with a rude woman  up in the front screeching about how she’d been cheated.”

The two women watched and fidgeted as Niamh digested what they had told her.

“What did your new Alpha say when you told him?”

“He said he’d look into it,” Aiyana’s lips thinned, “but I could tell he won’t do anything. Katrinka’s grandfather was the pack’s former Alpha. He’s playing politics. His position is stronger if she isn’t around to remind the people of her grandfather.”

Niamh agreed silently.  The man was a slimy individual—that was exactly what he would do.

“Okay, I will look into it. I’ll keep in touch, but you be sure and call me the second you hear anything.”

“Her mother is missing too. Would you let us know if you see her?”

Niamh nodded.

The women were so pathetically grateful, it was uncomfortable. She sighed with relief when they drove off. Her home was her refuge. She rarely had visitors, and she liked it that way.

After they departed, she puttered around her kitchen cleaning up when her phone chimed a text message from her boss.

“Get on Zoom,” it read.

Damn Harlan. What the hell does he want? They’re going to ruin my vacation, sure as hell.

When Niamh logged on, she found both of her superiors, Mina and Harlan, looking back at her from a headquarters conference room in Bellingham.

“Greetings may the Singer and Song bless you, Niamh Harpe,” Mina said.

Mina Albright was Ursa-kin—were-grizzly. A big woman with iron-gray hair and a determined mouth, she had a mind like a steel trap and little patience for fools. She was Niamh’s boss's boss on the Council, the organization that governed all were-kin.

 If Mina was the hammer, Harlan Hanks was the velvet glove that concealed it. He was a were-coyote known to his subordinates as, The Trickster. He looked like a nice, rather absent-minded uncle; the one who sent you odd Christmas presents—until you noticed how pitiless his winter gray eyes were. He was dedicated to the council’s goals and would sacrifice anything or anyone to achieve them. Niamh was careful to always plan an escape route in case he figured she needed to be the sacrifice.

Niamh trusted few people, especially anyone who reported to her grandfather.

She waited patiently to find out what they wanted.

“How much do you know about the Keeper’s Boy?”

Wow, that was out of left field.

Niamh took a couple of beats before she answered, trying to figure out where this was going.

“You mean Lachlan Quinn?”

Mina nodded.

“I’ve known him a while. I met him when I was thirteen. He grew up in Emory.  I know he’s a vet, a combat medic, or more accurately a navy corpsman. He served several tours with the Marines. I heard they awarded him some medals, so he was good at what he did. I think he lives down in Seattle somewhere.”

“He grew up in Emory; is he a witch?”

“No, he’s mundane through and through. Old MacLeish would have never allowed a witch under his roof.”

“Did you meet him,” Mina asked, “Keeper MacLeish, I mean?”

“Sure, I used to go with my grandfather to Emory. He introduced me on one of those trips.” Niamh shuddered, remembering the old man’s hawk-yellow eyes. “That old man could freeze the blood in your belly with a glance. He scared me silly.”

She looked at her two bosses who shifted their eyes from hers.

“Okay, what’s going on you two? Why the questions?”

“In a minute, Niamh. First, tell me how you met Lachlan Quinn.”

**

“This is boring, boring, boring,” thirteen-year-old Niamh Harp muttered to herself. Grandfather was inside talking to the scary man he called The Keeper, and she was left sitting in the truck. A colossal waste of time. She couldn’t get the stupid radio to work. She couldn’t go exploring because the woods outside the old man’s house were off-limits.

“Do not go into the Opari,” was Grandfather’s cardinal rule about the woods in front of her. He stated it like a mantra every time they came to Emory.

It was a stupid rule. She was old enough to shift into her panther form. She prowled for days by herself all over the wilderness of northern Washington and Canada. How could this forest be any different? She was a shifter, for Mother’s sake—an apex predator.

“This is stupid, stupid, stupid.”

She eyed the old-growth cedars that marked the border.

Maybe just a brief run along the edges. Nobody would know.

She crept around behind a massive six-foot-thick cedar, undressed, and shifted.

A game trail beckoned.

Soon Niamh found herself in a forest like none other she had ever seen. The cedars that lined the border gave way to hardwoods like hickory and beech. The damp air grew warmer, more like July than April. The smells of the place were strange and confusing. Creepy. She kept glimpsing shapes out of the corner of her eyes that disappeared when she looked at them. Something, a lot of somethings, lurked in the dark recesses of foliage, watching her. She heard the quick scampering sounds as they followed her progress. Lots of whispers and mad giggling. They smelled alien, like no other animal she’d ever scented.

Maybe I made a mistake.

Hackles raised and snarling, she turned to make her way back to the truck, but the game trail had disappeared.

Stubbornly refusing to admit she might be lost—she never got lost. Niamh continued. A short while later, she pushed through an opening in the dense underbrush and emerged into a small meadow. A beautiful spring-fed pond at its center beckoned. Good deal, she was thirsty.

She crept out into the meadow and triggered a snare trap.

Snarling in panic, she found herself hoisted five feet in the air, dangling from a vine tied to a tall young maple tree. She shifted back to human form, thinking to untie herself from the tough vine.

With no success. The knot was too tight—she had no leverage. She sobbed in frustration and terror as she furiously fought to untie the knot.

“Do you need some help? Boggles don’t like trespassers, so you might want to keep quiet.”

The voice startled her. She jerked on the vine, settling off a series of violent up and down bounces.

When the oscillations finally stopped, she looked over her shoulder. There was a boy about her age sitting on a log looking at her. A bright green sprite sat on his shoulder, whispering in his ear.

And she was hanging upside down, with one leg tied to a vine.

Naked.

“I most certainly do not,” she said furiously. “Stop staring at me. Go away.”

“Okay,” he said, “but you better hurry and get yourself free, cuz the Boggles will be back pretty soon.” He pointed to a pile of bones she hadn’t noticed. “This is one of their hunting spots, and it’s nearing dark. They patrol their snares at dusk.”

“What’s a Boggle?”

“It’s a hairy primate with big teeth. Meat eaters with bad tempers. You’ve heard of Boogey-men? That’s Boggles.”

He and the tiny sprite continued to calmly sit on the moss-covered log. He had a bag of M&Ms that he was sharing with it. They munched on the candy and stared at her like they were at the zoo and she was one of the featured exhibits.

Niamh felt tears prickling. Oh My God. She was going to cry. She took a deep breath and when she had control, she said, “Anyway, what are you doing here, you stupid boy.”

“Oh, I’m on break. I saw you go in and I followed you. Now, I’m waiting to see how you escape. It looks pretty difficult to me but maybe you have skills.”

“Sweet Mother of All,” she yelled, “would you stop staring and help me?”

“Not so loud.” He made shushing motions. “Noise attracts attention. Holy cow, you sure are a grouchy girl. I may be stupid, but I’m not the one caught in a trap that a five-year-old would have seen. What’s your name?”

“It’s Niamh. Would you PLEASE just shut up and help me?”

“Yup, typical girl. I thought you wanted me to go away.” He walked over and pulled her down so he could jump and cut the vine holding her.

“Hey, watch where you’re putting your hands.

“Quit wiggling. Criminy, you sure complain a lot.” He jumped surprisingly high and with a slash of his knife, the tough vine parted and dumped her onto the ground.

“Oof, you could have warned me, you jerk.” She glared at him while untying the noose around her leg. She shifted and dashed into the forest.

“Hey girl, you’re going the wrong way,” he yelled.

She stopped and wound her way back to him. Stubbornly staying in her were-panther form, she looked up at him expectantly.

“This is the way back.” He pointed out a trail that she would have sworn wasn’t there a minute ago.

After ten minutes, they emerged out of the forest and stopped alongside her pile of clothes.

“I better get back to work,” he said. He flipped the final M&M to the little sprite, who grabbed it with a grin and disappeared into the woods.

“Lan, oh there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” A tall girl with green hair and pointed ears glared at him.

“Okay. Okay Sari, keep your pants on. I’m coming,” the boy said. The two of them walked across the meadow without a backward glance at Niamh.

Right then and there, that was when Niamh decided she hated him.

Her grandfather was waiting in his truck after she got dressed.

“Now you know,” her grandfather said.

“Now I know,” she said. “That is a very scary place.”

“The Opari, SHE is deadly. That is for certain.”

“You talk about the woods like it was a person.”

“Not a person, Niamh. This is no ordinary forest. The Opari is as close to a God as you’ll ever meet on this side of the grave. However, you need to learn about HER, so next summer I’m going to send you to Anna, the hedge-witch. She’ll teach you a bit about Opari.”

“I met the strangest boy there. Do you know who he belongs to?”

Grandfather gave her a stern look.

“When I send you down here, I want you to stay away from that boy, Niamh, I mean it. Stay the hell away from Lachlan Quinn. He is no good. They should have sent him away. I do not know why the Keeper lets him stay around.”

Weeks later when grandfather had sent her to Anna. She asked Anna’s apprentice Healer, a girl her age named Mandy, about the strange boy.

“Yeah, I know him. He used to be nice, but now he’s a stuck-up jerk face,” was her tart reply.

**

Niamh finished her story (minus the embarrassing parts) and sipped her tea.

“Hold on a minute,” Harlan said. “You can walk the Opari? Why didn’t we know that? The witches say people enter and never return.”

“I can get in and out of the fringes. Lachlan is the only one I know who can travel freely. Even Anna, the hedge witch who lives and makes her living there, just pokes around the edges.

“You have to understand that on our side of the Thinning, the Opari rainforest is minuscule— a few hundred acres, but on the other side it’s vast — many millions of square miles of wilderness, for all I know it might be infinite. It’s more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. Every monster out of humanity's legends lurks there—and they all She paused, then went on. “I suspect you know most of that, so why don’t you two quit stalling and tell me what’s going on.”

“Okay,” said Mina. “Some background first. The two Emory Covens have petitioned to declare Cayden MacLeish dead. He has been missing for seven years, so it’s sure to happen legally. Our question is why now? Up ‘til now, we’re sure they liked not having the Keeper around interfering in their affairs. Honestly, we didn’t mind the freedom either. Old man MacLeish was a my-way or the highway type. He was not an agreeable sort. He got in our way just as much as he did the covens. The two covens never got  along, but lately, their relationship is worsening—but things must be bad if now they have come together and agreed to tolerate a new Keeper.”

“Anyway, they’ve concluded that Lachlan Quinn is the heir. We always thought the Keeper’s Boy was just the old man’s charity case—a bit of Seattle’s flotsam that washed up in Emory that the crafter community adopted. We were wrong. The question the Council wants to know is what there is about him that’s so special.”

“The other question is why now. What aren’t they telling us?”

“Okay,” Niamh said, “but what does all that have to do with me? The witches and I don’t get along.”

“Your job hasn’t changed,” Harlan answered. “We still need to find out who’s kidnapping children and find where they’re being taken. It’s sure money the gods-damned Fae are involved.”

“What we want is that in the course of your investigation, see if you check up on this Quinn quietly. You should have plenty of opportunities. You’re going to be down in Old-Town and Emory as well. You’re an old friend. The council needs to know if he’s capable of being Keeper.”

“What if they decide he isn’t suitable?”

“You will be ordered to sanction him,” Harlan said. “There is far too much chaos now in our camp and the coven’s camp to allow someone unsuitable as Keeper.”

“Who gets to define what unsuitable means? You? I’m not ending Lachlan Quinn on your say so.”

“Mother of All, Niamh,” Harlan yelled, “You will do as I say. Or else.”

“Really?” she asked her voice cold, “Are you threatening me? Do not go down that trail, Coyote. You will not like what you find at the end of it.”

Harlan paled, then opened his mouth to respond, but Mina interrupted him.

“Settle down you two. Niamh, we’ve got a dangerous situation developing here. More and more reports are coming in of missing kids from both sides of the border. We know the Fae are shipping drugs, we suspect they are trading for children. We can’t work the Fae side, but we can find out who’s doing the kidnapping on our side. If we don’t get to the bottom of it, the council will lose control of the local kin-packs. We’re sure to see vigilantes emerge. The Kin will return to the anarchy of the old days.

“On top of that, there are rumors of a Hag on the loose. There is no doubt in my mind that the Fae are behind all this chaos. We have no way to stop them, that’s always been the Keeper’s job, and these days we have no Keeper.”

The big woman finished her explanation and poured more tea in her cup and nodded to Harlan.

“I will do my job, but if they pass the decision to sanction him, I want to know that the full procedures have been followed.”

“Fair enough. Okay, that’s the background. We hate to cut your vacation short, but we need you to get back to work. Get us whatever you can on this Quinn person and press harder on the lost ones. I have a bad feeling this is all connected somehow.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “By the way, your grandfather wants you to visit him up in Bellingham.”

“He can want all he wants; I have no interest in him or his plans for me.”

“Well, like it or not Niamh,” Mina said. “Your family is the closest the Kin have to royalty. You are going to end up on the Council eventually.”

“They’ll have to drag me kicking and screaming. I hate politics.”

Mina laughed. “We know. We know.” She reached over and cut the connection,

I was right. They managed to ruin my vacation.

**

Before she left, Niamh put out some tuna for the striped skunk family that lived under her porch. She had a good working relationship with the little female. The skunk loved tuna and in return for the treat, provided a warning system if anyone thought to set an ambush when Niamh was away.

She dressed in her leathers and steel-toed boots, packed a change of clothes in her battered rucksack,  hopped on her Ducati Streetfighter, and sped toward  Wenatchee.

When she arrived, she pulled into a 7-11 and used the restroom to change out of her bike leathers and put on her version of summer vacationing college girl clothing—a long sleeve checkered shirt with tails fashionably tied around her waist to show her tanned midriff, Daisy Duke shorts, and sandals.

Niamh excelled at disguises. When she went to work for the council, Harlan hired a Hollywood wardrobe consultant to give her tips on blending in with mundanes. With a different outfit and a deliberate change in attitude, she morphed into a late teen-early twenties student named Trixie who was home for the summer.

The Old Navy in Wenatchee was crowded with summer shoppers.

“Yeah, I remember that day for sure.” An eighteen-year-old clerk, whose name badge said Rita, eagerly related the dramatic story. “A little girl went missing. Hard to believe. We kinda watch out for kids, you know, but the store is crowded. Nobody remembers seeing her. Especially since that evil old lady was throwing a fit because Sandy wouldn’t give her a refund on a blouse that was practically worn out.”

“Wow,” Niamh said sympathetically, “I bet it’s tough dealing with the public day after day. She sounds like a bitch.”

“Yeah, you have no idea. I felt worse for her little puppy. You can imagine how mean she probably is to it.”

“Really, she had a puppy in the store?”

“Yeah, it was gray with the prettiest green eyes. The poor thing was cowering every time she looked at it. It looked so miserable I felt bad for it. Hey, are you looking for work, I bet I can talk to Gloria my manager and get you some shifts.”

“Seriously?” Niamh gushed. “Thanks, I’ll think about it and call you. This seems like an okay place to work.”

Niamh paid for a blouse she would never wear and left the store.

She called Harlan. “I am in Wenatchee. We have another missing kid—wolf-kin. Quite sure a witch got this one—probably the Hag you mentioned. She set up a classic distraction scene, bespelled the two aunts, frightened the little girl into shifting, and walked.”

“Shit,” came Harlan’s growl. “Mina’s not gonna be happy. All we need is for the Chelan Pack stirred up on top of everything else.”

“Harlan,” Niamh said softly, “you know I hate working in the dark. If you’re playing one of your games and withholding information, I am going to be seriously pissed.”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just that with this guy supposedly in line to be the Keeper, everybody is on edge. If I’m being honest here, you being in the middle of this makes me nervous. Especially with the witches now involved. You are a lot more direct than diplomatic.”

“Hey, I can be diplomatic.”

He ignored her, “Why don’t you head on down to Oldtown and nose around. If nothing comes up there, you’re probably going to have to go up to Emory and ask Althea to loan you one of their seers to help. If you do, for Mother’s sake, try to be pleasant. Do not piss Althea off.”

“I will be the soul of discretion,” she said.

“Sure, you will,” Harlan groaned. “Now, I gotta go talk to Mina and tell her I have sent the fucking bull into the china shop.” He hung up.

Niamh walked back to the 7-11 to change back into her leathers. While she walked, she wondered as she had wondered every day lately whether it was Mina or Harlan who was selling out the Shifter-Kin to Dökkálfar — the Dark Elves.

Somebody was, she was sure of it.

 

Chapter Four

The next morning Quinn awoke, after a night of tossing and turning to a perfect cloudless June day—precious to anybody who lives in Seattle. He put on a pair of shorts and a green t-shirt with an 8404 Devil Doc logo. He slipped on his favorite New Balance running shoes and jumped in his pickup and drove to the Arboretum and prepared to run his frustration into the ground.

He usually ran from his duplex in Ballard, but the morning was so perfect he decided it was an Arboretum Day. He got his truck parked and set off down Azalea Way, his earbuds blasting the first of his running tunes,  Radar Love.

Quinn loved old-time rock-and-roll.

A mile later he thought it was going to be a good run until he came out of the shadow of the tree-lined lane and onto a sunlit wildflower meadow. Four college-age guys were tossing a frisbee around, showing off for the gorgeous blue-eyed, golden-haired woman who was stretching in the shade.

Fucking Niamh Harpe. The blessings keep piling up.

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like? I have been waiting for you,”

She got to her feet and started stretching her quads. Two of the college kids ran into each other trying to catch and watch at the same time.

Quinn took a breath trying for patience and asked again.

“Nim, what do you want?”

“I told you. By the way, I followed you from your house. You are criminally careless. You have two witches shadowing you and you blunder along like a man with no enemies.”

“No surprise there. I have no enemies. I’m a fucking regular guy. And I know about the girls. They aren’t bothering me, so I don’t bother them.”

She finished her stretching.

“Let’s run. We can talk along the way.”

They started in companionable silence, strides matching perfectly. The whole time, Quinn bitched and moaned in the back of his mind because the day had been perfect until fucking Niamh Harpe came out of nowhere to ruin it. He finally spoke up, trying his best to keep the irritation out of his tone.

“What does the Shifter Council want with me? As far as I know, I have broken none of your laws. So why send you down here to hassle me?”

She gave him an amused glance that said she could read the irritation he was trying to hide and didn’t give a damn whether he hid it or let it loose.

 “My bosses have heard  the Covens have requested your presence in Emory.”

“Demanded more like. They cast a Summoning and sent Charming to deliver their demands.”

“Charming,” Niamh’s nose wrinkled, “if ever there was a woman misnamed, it has to be her.”

“Don’t change the subject. Keep talking.”

“Rumor has it  the witches have had Cayden MacLeish declared dead and your name has popped up as a replacement for him.”

Quinn laughed. “Never going to happen. Can you imagine me as Keeper? You know what the witches are like. They don’t like me, and I hate being around them. Except for a few crafters, they consider me the mundane trash that the old man neglected to put out on the curb for the garbage truck. Now that I think on it, your Council thinks the same way. Your grandfather always looked at me like I was something he stepped in. As far as I’m concerned, both of you magic-fucked crazy people can fight your own battles. I’m going fishing in Montana.”

“Poor Lachlan.” Niamh mocked. “You and I both know you are something more than a random mundane that the old man took in on a whim. Until now you have gotten away with it. But now the Covens have taken an interest in you. That has made my bosses curious about you. They hate being in the dark. They want to know if you are going to be the wild card in all the chaos that has been unfolding.”

“So, they picked you to come calling. That’s interesting, don’t you think?

Does your grandfather still have his fat fingers around the Council’s throat?”

“Yes, but I do not work for him. Anyway, my boss wants me to keep an eye on you, so that is exactly what I am going to do. By the way, when you go back to Emory—and you will have to go, despite all your big talk. Watch yourself. With your attitude, Mr. Regular Guy, those bitches are going to eat you alive.”

With that, she turned and ran back the way they’d come.

Quinn watched her go. He suddenly remembered the rumors that Niamh had another job besides being a detective. She was the one the Council called on to sanction those people the Council suspected would bring harm to their community.

 

Chapter Five

Interlude

Eighteen years ago

 

The boy, Lachlan Quinn, had lived in his new foster home for two years. Two years of sixteen-hour days. From the first day, he found that Mr. MacLeish, as the boy called the stern remote man who was his new father, had specific ideas of how a young boy should be educated. Ideas that came more from the German Apprenticeship Model rather than old Horace Mann’s ideas of primary and secondary schooling for children.

The boy had tutors that over the years eventually included half the magic crafters of Emory. He found working and learning from them fascinating and frustrating. Try as he might, he could never seem to approach the level of perfection that they achieved with the products/art they produced.  

He found them confusing as well. When Mr. MacLeish brought him around, almost all of them gave him a warm welcome (contrary to the welcome he received from the witch-crafters). After they saw he was a serious boy, hardworking and polite, most were eager to show him their craft. They encouraged his endless questions—unless they were in their magic-induced Flow State—then their personality change was profound and radical. They went from warm to remote; he learned early on that a boy who interrupted for any reason during Flow State was quickly banished from the shop.

For the first two years, Lachlan had washed pans as a baker’s boy, He sorted willow reeds for the basket weavers. He shoveled sand for a master glassblower. He pulled weeds and watered plants for a master landscaper. He mixed clay for the potter.

When the group consensus found he had a knack for working with wood, Mr. MacLeish placed him in the shop of an acerbic furniture builder/carpenter known as Old Finn.

His general education was not neglected. He spent four hours a day seven days a week in a classroom with a retired Harvard history professor along with ten neophyte witch-crafter girls. The professor (who also taught him how to fish) was determined to give them all a classical liberal arts education.

An ageless silvan-halfling man named Hunter came out of the Opari every morning at 6:00 to lead him in an exhausting series of precise slow-motion katas along the twisting pathways of the ancient meditation labyrinth behind the Keepers House.

 The man was relentless. He expected Lachlan to always have perfect control of his body and breath. A difficult thing for a boy growing like a weed into feet and hands too far too big for his body. Any inattention or clumsiness received a sharp painful rap on the body part had moved away from what he considered ideal.

Young Lachlan didn’t mind all the working and studying, he enjoyed learning. He was less successful at ignoring the young witch-crafter girls who played tricks on him with their newly acquired spell-craft and looked down their snooty noses at him daily.

He desperately wanted what the crafters-mentors who taught him had—that ultra-confident air that comes with expertise. The more he learned, the less he’d have to depend on people. Eventually, he’d be free to live on his own. He might even be rich enough to buy a truck.

Young Lachlan was as happy as he’d ever been. Surprisingly, given his street-smart cynicism, he never thought to ask what price he was going to have to pay for all this education.

 

Chapter Six

A furious pounding on his front door woke Quinn from a sound sleep. The clock on his bedside table read 3:00 AM. He stumbled to the front door. A stocky nude Amerindian woman stood on his porch holding a puppy with green eyes. Her voice was ragged, she looked to be on the far edge of exhaustion.

“Take my baby, Keeper. Protect my baby.” She thrust the puppy into his arms. Her form blurred, and she shifted into a black timber wolf. Her head rose, nose up to taste the scents in the air, and dashed off into the rainy night.”

“HEY, wait a minute…” The wolf-kin had disappeared into the dark, long gone before Quinn hollered.

He cuddled the wet, shivering pup and closed the door.

“What the hell am I going to do with you?” The pup was soaking wet and shivering so Quinn set her on his couch and went to get a towel.

As he was briskly rubbing her down, the runes that had been spelled into his back flared hot and shocked him fully awake—they sensed some major spellcasting outside. A triumphant shriek sounded from the backyard.

“Sweet mother, now what…”

Quinn dashed to the kitchen, flipped on the yard lights, slid the patio door open, and stepped out onto the cold, wet grass.

 A woman stood at the edge of his yard, half in and half out of the mass of rain-soaked rhododendrons. She wore a dark green raincoat open at the front. A drooping slouch hat covered her hair and a heavy silver and turquoise necklace hung outside a gingham patterned blouse.

Cold malevolent eyes glared at him out of a bone-white face. A shapeless animal body lay twitching at her feet. As he looked closer, he realized it was the wolf-kin woman who had been at his front door.

The witch, with a flare of magic surrounding her, held a black knife in her right hand. She eyed Quinn and reached down and slashed the black wolf’s side.

 The copper smell of blood magic told him instantly what she was— a Blood Witch, An immensely powerful one as well—maybe a Twelfth or Thirteenth Circle adept.

A fucking Hag in my back yard.

Another form flickered into being behind her, a seven-foot, stick-slender elf with huge amber eyes with vertical slitted cat-like pupils.

Sweet Mother, a Dökkálfar prince in my backyard.

“Hail human,” the tall elf sang in fluting alfar.

Quinn collected his wits and answered back in the same singing whistle clicks. “Begone Erendriel, you are not welcome in this realm. Go lest the dirges sound at your House lamenting your true death as they did for your brother.”

“Shadow Walker, I will end you soon,” the elf’s perfect features curled in hate. His form flickered.

“You have the shifter whelp,” the hag-witch interrupted. “I need her. She is mine. Give her to me.”

“Get lost witch,” Quinn said, “if I had the shifter, you two would be the last people, I would give her too. BEGONE.”

Her eyes rolled back in her head. One hand clutched her necklace, the other held the bloody knife. She chanted out again, her voice girlish, shockingly at odds with her appearance.

A wave of powerful magic pulsed out.

Quinn was hit again with a sudden smell of apricots overlaying the stench of blood. His back flared white-hot as the glyph wards again activated.

Her eyes widened as she saw her spell-craft did not affect him.

“What are you,” she shrieked. And began her casting again.

By now, Quinn had finally gotten his shit together. He twitched his wrist and reluctantly awakened the lethal symbiote weapon that the troll women had gifted him--a dragon lizard razor whip that wound around his right arm like an ornate full sleeve tattoo.

The symbiote unfurled itself from his arm with a shriek.

The activated symbiote in turn awoke the Other from its long sleep in the back of Quinn’s mind.

“Kill? The Other was not gifted with nuanced reasoning. When it perceived a threat, it went directly to the killing.“

At the sight of the whip, the elf’s eyes widened, and he finger-signed a spell then disappeared.

Quinn caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

The two teenage witches who had been following him earlier stood at the other end of his yard, side by side with their athames in hand. With faces as pale as chalk and eyes impossibly wide, they held hands and began chanting.

Sweet Mother of All, they were going to try to bespell the Hag, the idiots. They had no chance of facing an Adept of this level.

The Hag muttered and gestured again. Quinn smelled the sharp scent of apricots again and again his glyphs flashed as the magic washed by him and flowed over the girls. It froze them in mid-chant—their mouths and eyes wide open in soundless panic.

“Enough,” Quinn shouted to distract the witch before she could do them harm. He moved across the yard toward her.

The symbiote voiced a rising shriek as it anticipated a kill.

The Hag looked desperate now. She muttered another spell and gestured again.

Quinn’s wards flashed white-bright more once and the spell dissipated.

The Hag’s fingers signed a cantrip and she too disappeared along with the body at her feet.

“Sweet Mother of All, he’s a warlock.”

Quinn turned toward the sound of the girl’s voice. Both girls were cuddled close together like two little scared kittens. They gaped at him with terrified eyes, then turned as one and ran from the yard like the devil himself was present.

Quinn sighed tiredly, he knew very well what he was and though he had tried his best to make up for it, he would always be a monster. His alter-other hovered at the edge of his conscious, alert and quivering with battle-lust. The fight had awakened it after all this time. It wasn’t going to be put back to sleep easily.

I need to watch my temper now.

He shivered, the rain was pounding down hard now and he was soaked to the skin. Quinn was disgusted with himself. He could have saved that poor woman if he’d had his shit together. The troll women would have flayed the skin off his back for an effort like that— and he would have deserved it. He absently curled his wrist back and the whip obediently wound itself back into its lair in his arm.

Quinn walked a wide loop around the yard that ended where the Hag had stood. The blood magic smell was rank here but there wasn’t as much blood trace as he feared so maybe the wolf-kin woman still lived. He knelt to examine the knife, an eight-inch shard of razor-sharp obsidian. Careful not to touch it with his bare hand, he took off his t-shirt and carefully wrapped it around the black blade and made his way into the house.

“This is exactly the kinda shit that happens when you get involved with these people,” Quinn muttered to himself.

**

The little wolf pup lay curled tightly against the armrest of his couch her ears drooping as her eyes warily watched him enter. She was sounding a constant almost soundless whine.

“She is scared Lanie,” a tiny voice whispered. “You have to help her, Lanie. Promise you will.”

Sudden cold sweat beaded his face. His heart started to hammer. He felt the familiar panic attack gathering.

“I will, Annie. I will. I promise,” Quinn croaked. “Annie, are you happy wherever you are? Won’t you tell me please?”

There was no answer.

There never was.

The low whimpering of the little wolf pup called him back from the edge.

“Drive on, you pogue,” he muttered to himself.

He stumbled to the couch and knelt.

“Easy little one, I won’t hurt you—I won’t let anyone hurt you,” He ignored the sharp little milk teeth that snapped at him and picked her up and cuddled her to his chest murmuring soothing nonsense words as he petted her.

That’s all it took, the wolf pup snuggled into his chest and sighed. Quinn imagined it seemed relieved to be comforted. He snagged the towel he’d been using on her earlier and continued to give her a brisk rubbing, as much to dry her off as to prevent any stress shock that might be lurking. He stood and carried her into the brighter light of the kitchen to check for injuries.

The little gray pup blinked her green eyes at the brightness. Quinn knew his life had now grown infinitely more complicated. He searched his memory for information on young shifters. Should she have shifted back by now? Was it healthy for her to stay in her wolf shape? He was going to need some help. He put her down on the couch and began to pace.

“You’re a pain in the butt, little one.”

She twitched her ear and watched him with wide eyes from the couch.

After securing the obsidian blade in a Ziplock bag. He cut up a piece of the rib-eye that was supposed to be tomorrow’s dinner into bite-sized chunks and put them into a salad dish. He filled another bowl with water. He set both down on the floor by his couch.

She jumped down and gobbled it up, drank some water, and retreated to the couch.

Quinn put the dishes in the dishwasher, turned off the lights, and went back to bed. He didn’t object when the whimpering little wolf jumped up on the bed and snuggled into his back.

She was still shivering so he flipped on the light again and got out a t-shirt, wrapped it around her, and fell back to sleep.

 

 

Chapter Seven

That was a preview of The Keeper. To read the rest purchase the book.

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