Ferocious Flea Market Dragons, page 8
I thanked them—even after they scowled at me.
“We should check each farm around the lake,” Thorn suggested.
I sighed, knowing the hours of work ahead, then I caught sight of a truck, pulling up to the grocery store. Owen got out and began the slow process of unloading supplies from the back.
Without another word, I hurried over to help.
“You’ve already done enough.” He tried to shoo me away, but Thorn had already stacked up a hefty load. In three strides, my mate had carried it inside.
“We should do more.” I took a couple more and followed Thorn.
“Say, I heard from Todd that you ended up over at his place,” Owen said. “He sure is grateful you set him free.”
“This whole situation is frustrating,” I replied. “I came here to find the Seed Seller and discovered a lot more problems—including a powerful elf.”
“That would be Calliope. I should’ve warned you about her. Gerhard had her brought in.”
“Don’t worry about that. How are you holding up?” I moved to help open the register, but he declined my help.
“So far I’ve been open for half-days,” he explained. “At least until my nephew can drive up here from Long Island. He’ll take over so I can take Patty’s body to her sisters.”
We stood in silence for a while. Thorn leaned against the wall nearby.
“Have you found anything?” he asked quietly.
“We’re stuck. The werewolves left the Farrow place and we’re not sure where they went.”
Owen tapped the counter as if deep in thought. “I wish I knew more, but those bastards have hidden away. There’re hundreds of acres of farmland and forest around here. They could be anywhere. If it helps though, last I heard the werewolves might be living out there in their RV. It’s a pretty old Winnebago Chieftain. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Thorn said. “Anything helps.”
An idea came to mind. One I hadn’t considered since the carnival. “Do you know anything about Granger Cranberries?”
“You must mean the old Granger farm. They had a nice place out near the bogs. It’s rundown. The Grangers had to sell the place, but no one wanted to buy it. Might not hurt to see if those werewolves might be hiding out there.”
“We should check it out after dinner tonight,” I said.
“With reinforcements,” Thorn added. “Do you think we can just show up and they’ll admit they murdered Patty?”
I had a sinking feeling we’d have to take them by force.
“The only way to find out is to ask them.” I tried to sound hopeful, but even I knew most cornered wolves bit first and asked questions later.
Even if the Stravinskys were on the run, birthdays were still celebrated. Instead of a mere celebratory dinner and a simple cake for my dad’s birthday, Mom baked one of his favorite treats, a cherry pie. The thing bordered on dangerous with enough sugar to take out a borderline diabetic.
As the sun set, my family made additional party preparations: Aunt Vera’s children strung up the Christmas lights we found in a box in the attic, and Uncle Boris took the outrageous speakers from the back of his van and hooked them up to play Russian party music. The rave lasted for twenty minutes before Mom put a stop to that.
Just like any other dinner, we gathered at the table, sang the birthday song, then we ate dessert for dinner.
After we decimated the angel food cake and the cherry pie, Mom said to me, “It’s a shame we didn’t have a rack of lamb for my Fyodor’s birthday.”
“We’ve passed farms,” Aunt Vera said offhand. “I don’t know why we didn’t stop and get one.”
I snorted. “Who in their right mind would let random strangers buy a lamb? We’d have to load it into your minivan too.”
Aunt Vera, Aunt Olga, and Grandma turned to me in disbelief.
“Who said I meant buy?” Aunt Vera said with absolute seriousness. “I’d just take it.”
Why couldn’t I have a normal family?
Minus a succulent rack of lamb, we’d managed to eat until we were lazy and sated. Folks chatted quieted over hot tea. We watched regular TV now and then, so my parents had plenty to say about current events. Unfortunately, during our post-dinner conversations, Uncle Boris said the dreaded words, “You know nothing, Vera.”
No one said a word as my aunt replied, “Do we need to hold a game of Trivial Pursuit? The Werewolf Edition?”
Even Grandma gasped.
Karey laughed and said, “I’m not playing. You guys never play fair.”
“Never,” Aunt Vera replied. “I play to win.”
With those words said, Karey picked up Sveta and headed into the kitchen.
“Let’s bake some banana bread for Grandpa,” she said to her daughter. “I have a feeling we’re gonna have some hungry people after this.”
I caught the sounds of Karey fetching bowls and warming up the oven. I got up to help, but Thorn caught my arm.
“You’re not abandoning me,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m like Karey. I thought my father and Will were vicious during games, but your family is no joke.”
I rolled my eyes as the teams were formed. Thorn, Dad and I would play against two other teams. Aunt Vera, Aunt Olga, and Mom formed the second team while Alex and Uncle Boris were the final one. Grandma sat on the sidelines to keep things fair. Each team sat on opposite sides of the living room. Uncle Boris glared at my aunt and slid his thumb across his throat. Aunt Vera bared her teeth at him.
“This time we won’t be fighting,” Dad warned.
Uncle Boris booed while Alex gave a thumb-down in protest.
Dad continued. “Each team gets one question. One. Then the other team will have sixty seconds to answer. Agreed?”
“I won’t need a minute,” Uncle Boris boasted. “But for my dear sister Vera, we shall give her a full minute. Elderly minds get slow after all.”
My aunt kept a straight face and blew him a kiss.
“Since it’s my birthday, I will go first with a question to my wife’s family.” Dad shifted to the all-women team. “In 1588, there was a werewolf captain who worked for the Queen of England. He intercepted the oncoming Spanish Armada and took out multiple ships. And yet, he was never rewarded, nor his all-werewolf crew. Who was it?”
Aunt Olga bit her lip as she concentrated, and Aunt Vera turned to Mom to whisper in her ear.
Meanwhile, Thorn asked me, “Have you heard of that guy?”
I shrugged. Thorn and I had attended the human schools and learned human history. Not that our elders didn’t teach us about werewolves, only that we never got to these nitty-gritty, far-fetched facts.
Ten more seconds passed as Aunt Vera replied, “That would be Ashley Worth.”
“Correct.” Dad gave her a nod and slipped her a red checker chip he’d stolen from the checker box game in the corner.
“Took you long enough,” Uncle Boris said.
“Oh, be quiet. Now it’s my turn and my question is for you,” she said.
Uncle Boris leaned forward, eager to show off. “During the American Revolution, which you probably witnessed, by the way, a werewolf helped clear the path for Paul Revere’s ride. He intercepted two British soldiers who could have shot the man down. Who was it?”
The blank look on my brother’s face said he had no idea. He glanced at Uncle Boris, who had the kind of focus you’d only see if he spotted a beautiful woman he wanted to talk to. Dad glanced at his watch and amusement grew on his face as the seconds ticked by. Uncle Boris began to mumble, “It was. It was.”
Aunt Olga grinned at Mom. “He doesn’t know!”
“Who was it, Boris?” Aunt Vera asked sweetly.
“Oh, hush,” my uncle said. “I know who it was. It was my good friend Bob Carrington.”
I almost choked on my sip of water. Who the hell was Bob Carrington?
Uncle Boris kept going. Apparently, he liked putting on a show. “Robert Carrington, born 1758, was a trapper and a supporter of the Continental Army. When he heard Mr. Revere was making his run,” he demonstrated by holding up his fingers to show a man running, “he ran through the woods and helped the cause.”
Aunt Vera mumbled, “Correct.”
“What was that?” Uncle Boris asked loudly.
“Correct,” she said sharply.
Dad tossed a red poker chip and Alex caught it mid-air.
After a couple rounds, Aunt Vera was clearly the winner with a generous stack of seven red checkers, while Uncle Boris only had three. She wouldn’t even let dad win on his birthday either. My team had only secured one checker, but at least our loss would have a sweet end. The heavenly scent of baking banana bread filled the entire house.
“Another round?” Uncle Boris asked.
Groans echoed all around the room, but Aunt Vera grabbed at Aunt Olga’s arm before the woman could escape.
“Do you like punishment, my friend—” Aunt Vera began to say.
Suddenly, the back door slammed, and Karey strode into the room. Her pained gaze connected with Alex’s and I knew what she’d say before she opened her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Mom stood.
“The trees have sent an urgent message,” Karey said, clearly shaken. “The hound is on its way back to the last place you left it in Canada. And it’s not alone. There are five of them now.”
The oven dinged, a resounding roar in a dead, silent room.
Chapter Fourteen
Under the cover of the night, Dad, Uncle Boris, Thorn, and I made our way toward the Granger farm. All around us, the Maine woods whispered secrets. The half-moon seemingly beckoned us to run instead of hunt.
The farm emerged from the darkness, an eerie silhouette against the night sky. According to my brief Internet search, this place once had vibrant cranberry fields. Now the farm was a tangled mess of weeds and decay. As we approached, the first thing that caught my eye was the broken-down sign hanging lopsidedly on one nail. The once-bold letters now were faded and read, “Granger Cranberries.” The sign creaked ominously as a gentle breeze brushed past, a sorrow-laden sound that seemed to echo the farm’s forsaken state.
“Did Owen say what kind of RV we’re looking for?” Uncle Boris asked.
“He said it was an older model. A Winnebago Chieftain,” I replied.
We crept our way deeper into the property and approached the main house. Its windows were boarded up and grime streaked the surface.
Dad stopped suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
We listened, and sure enough, there were voices coming from the back of the house. We moved closer, staying hidden in the shadows.
When we reached the back, we spotted the RV in question—along with a woman and two men—arguing. They looked like average folks. One man was bald, while the woman had blue hair. The third, dark-haired fellow, towered over the others and was dressed in a black T-shirt and camo shorts. A downwind breeze crossed my nose, bringing their scent. We’d found the men who’d murdered Patty at the grocery store.
“Can anyone hear them?” I edged closer, fearful they’d catch our scent. “They’re the ones we want.”
“No,” Dad said firmly. “The wind isn’t our friend today.”
But before we could learn more, the argument ended abruptly, and the trio disappeared into the house. I moved to go after them, but Dad grabbed my shoulder. He still averted his eyes out of respect for my position as alpha female.
“We have them,” I hissed.
“We don’t know what’s in that house,” Dad said firmly. “Work smarter, not harder, daughter.”
We were so close. With a sigh, I followed the others back into the woods. We’d parked over a mile away. Once we were at a safe distance, my dad finally spoke again.
“Here’s what I propose we do,” Dad said with a look to Thorn for approval. “We’re in their territory and we’re at a disadvantage. I say we set a trap.”
“How?” Thorn asked.
“Boris and I will scope out the property. When the time is right, we’ll draw them out and lead them to that demon’s boat,” Dad explained.
Uncle Boris grinned. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
“Why are you taking them to the night demon?” I folded my arms. “Why not the dryad?”
Dad snorted. “Those werewolves aren’t gonna hang out and do gardening until justice is served. The night demon has the means to hold them until the local fae can deal with them.”
I laughed a bit, imagining the madame swallowing those werewolves like finger sandwiches. “That idea might work.”
“And you two,” Dad said to Thorn and me, “will find the elf who beat up your uncle.”
Uncle Boris grinned. “What a woman. Wait, why can’t I help them?”
Dad continued and ignored his brother. “Our plan might not work if the elf is hunting for them. We need to intercept her and bring her to our side.”
Thorn and I exchanged a glance. “That sounds easier said than done.”
“She will not come willingly,” I added.
“Then you need to persuade her.” Dad chuckled a bit.
“Say we try that. We need to find her first,” my mate said.
“We could use old magic,” I replied.
Thorn’s jaw twitched with irritation, but he reluctantly nodded. We’d reached the point where our complications were piling up and time wasn’t on our side anymore.
With a plan in place, we split up. Uncle Boris and Dad returned to hide near the house while Thorn and I fled back to the car. The woods felt alive around us, every rustle of the leaves a potential threat. A bush jostled and I almost imagined a hellhound busting out like back in Central Park. I waited and listened.
“Smell something?” Thorn asked.
“Don’t know. I’m twitchy at this point.”
“Do you think this will work?”
“I hope so. I just know I don’t wanna fight Calliope again.”
A half hour later, we were deep in the woods north of Stitchings. Thorn was beside me, his amber eyes scanning the dense trees.
“Twenty square miles of forest, and we’re looking for a needle in a haystack.” Thorn muttered, his voice low.
I couldn’t help but agree. The area was too vast, the task seemingly impossible. But we had no choice. Those werewolves would find the elf sooner or later.
I knelt, placing my hand on the cool, damp ground. Closing my eyes, I pictured her in my mind—the blonde hair, the black eyes, her sturdy build. I reached for the old magic and waited for the tug. It was like walking blindfolded on a tightrope over a chasm.
The magic surged, a wild, untamed force. I felt a sharp stab in my back, a reminder of the risks. I gasped as the pain radiated through my body.
“Easy,” Thorn said, his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t push too hard.”
I nodded and gritted my teeth as I drew back a bit. The magic was a living thing, a serpent coiling around my senses. Slowly, I tugged at the threads of power, weaving them into a connection with Calliope. It was a painstaking process, each pull sending jolts of pain through me. Finally, I felt a faint tug.
“There,” I finally whispered, my voice barely audible. “She’s to the west.”
We got in the car and hit the back roads. Another half hour passed, and we hit a couple of dead-end streets. Eventually, the signal grew stronger until we came upon a tiny house, trailer, and a Dodge truck nestled among the trees. It was a whimsical structure in the colors of greens, blacks, and blues. The classic A-frame house was small, yet inviting.
Thorn and I crept closer, our steps silent. There was no sign of anyone outside, but the sounds emanating from within spoke of life—the clatter of pots and pans, and an off-key rendition of a Stevie Nicks classic.
“Think that’s her?” Thorn whispered, his eyes fixed on the trailer.
“It’s gotta be,” I replied.
I scanned the home and considered our options. Back when I’d fought the Jackson pack, I’d had battle elves on my side. They were known for their formidable power. They’d only helped me at the time because the Jackson pack had kidnapped one of their own. Maybe I could use the same tactic with Calliope. Wasn’t the enemy of my enemy my friend in this case?
We decided to wait and watch, settling into a comfortable position at a safe distance. As we observed, a strange pain flared up in my back, a tender spot that seemed to throb in time with my heartbeat. I winced, touching the area gently.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket, a startling intrusion. The goblin blade jerked hard too. I reached for the phone, but before I could check the screen, a voice cut through the air.
“How did you find me?” It was Calliope standing behind us. Her eyes were narrowed.
“We’re not here to fight,” I began.
She held two swords and extended them in our direction. The metal gleamed in the moonlight.
Thorn and I scrambled to our feet, dodging her first swing.
“We just want to talk!” Thorn yelled, but she continued to attack us.
I ducked under a sweeping blade, feeling the whoosh of air as it passed inches from my head.
“Get out of here!” Thorn tried to push me away, narrowly avoiding a thrust.
“I’m not leaving you!” I shot back.
The elf was a whirlwind of motion, her swords a blur. I had to get the goblin blade without getting cut in the damn process.
My phone rang again. I bolted to the east and stole a glance at the screen. It was my mother. I ignored it. Now wasn’t the time.
The phone rang again and again.
Thorn managed to wrangle the elf to the ground, so I retrieved the goblin blade. It shifted to become an iron bowie knife.
I glanced at her swords. Her weapons were much bigger.
“Really?” I said to the goblin blade. “That’s it?”
I raced back into the fray, suddenly realizing that each time the phone rang, the call didn’t click over to voicemail.
Something was wrong.
The phone rang and this time I picked up the call.
“Nat, it’s the Jackson pack,” Mom said, her voice trembling. “They’re trying to get into the cabin.”
