The Keeper and The Dragons Ch. 04-05

Chapter 4

Little Wolf Creek, Winthrop, WA

Niamh Harpe, a lithe six-foot blond blue-eyed panther shifter, looked like she should be gracing the cover of Vogue. Instead, she wore a pair of well-worn grey Carhartt bib overalls and a paint-stained sweatshirt with the University of Washington on the front.

She was in her workshop using a spoon gouge to carve out the undercuts that would outline the forest in the bottom corner of a cedar plank mural. She had harvested the massive plank from a windblown cedar she had come upon on one of her biweekly hunts. Her carving was a labor of love, a nice transition from her regular job as the lead investigator/enforcer for the Kin Council, which governed all species of shifter-kin from California to Alaska.

Jeffery, the little boy she had rescued from Dökkálfar slavers, watched with fascinated eyes as she switched gouges and carved out tiny trees in the forest along the edge. The seven-year-old's time as a slave had dampened his natural exuberance, but some healing from Anna, the hedge witch, had gone a long way toward repairing his psyche. He was still hyper-alert to disapproval, but this morning, he had been brave enough to say he didn't like sunny-side-up eggs.

A major win.

Niamh could tell he was dying to ask a million questions, but Jeffery was a rule follower; slaves knew all about the harsh punishment that followed rule-breaking. Niamh had asked him to keep quiet while she was working, so he just watched.

In the three weeks since his rescue, she had worked out a mutual fostering system with Anna, the Opari Hedge Witch down in Emory. Jeffery stayed with her when she was not on assignment and with Anna when she was gone. Most of the other fourteen rescued children, including Jeffery's sister, were with families in Oldtown. The remaining mundane children kidnapped from Seattle were spell-secreted and returned to their families — traumatized but far better off than they would have been as slaves for the Dökkálfar in Alfheim.

A vehicle crunching on the gravel road outside the shop interrupted her work. She looked out and recognized it as her grandfather's truck.

"Damn, what does he want?"

Niamh sighed and put her knives and gouges away on the shelves, away from curious fingers.

"Come on, Jeffery, let's go greet my grandfather."

Niamh's grandfather, Selwyn Harpe, was a panther shifter in his seventies who looked to be in his forties. A fit man with white hair trimmed short, he had clear gray eyes set deep within their sockets. A scar stretched from the top of the right cheek to the edge of his lips gave him a sardonic grin that was unsettling. According to family legend, the scar was a memento from a hunter's lucky shot during Selwyn's first adolescent shift. The bullet left a mark stretching across his right cheekbone. The shooter hadn't survived to tender an apology. These days, he showed his alpha predator nature by ruling the Kin Council, the body that governed all shifter-kin on the West Coast.

Niamh watched, stone-faced, as he got out of the truck, looked around, spread his arms and breathed deeply.

"Singer and Song bless you, granddaughter."

"And you as well, grandfather," she replied.

"This is a fine place. Your mother would be proud of how well you've kept it up. I see you've added on as well."

"What do you want, grandfather? I'm sure you didn't drive four hours from Bellingham to Winthrop to admire the home place of a woman you absolutely hated when she was alive."

"I will admit that I would have chosen a different mate for your father, but it all worked out in the end. You've turned out to be an excellent addition to the family line. Granddaughter, you need to move to Bellingham and stop this foolishness of living way out here. You need to get rid of the boy; no good can come of you saddling yourself with a mundane."

"Not going to happen, grandfather."

Niamh kept a firm grasp on her temper. To allow herself to be baited by the old man was to lose.

He shifted the conversation abruptly.

"What did you make of the Keeper's boy?"

She laughed. "Well, Lachlan is no longer the Keeper's boy. He is the Keeper. If I had to choose one word to describe him, I'd pick impressive—and I imagine the witches are no happier than you are of that fact."

The old man gave her a sour look. "I should never have let the old man talk me into letting you spend time with those women. You forget your place with your own kind. But never mind that. I tasked you with forming a judgment about him. Tell me."

"Well, I can say that he will be just as much a pain in the ass for you as he is for the witches. Lachlan Quinn goes his own way and does what he thinks is right."

"Is he damaged? Althea told me she thought him unsuitable.

Niamh smiled. "You and Althea are peas in a pod. What you two want is someone you can manipulate to your ends. That person is not Lachlan. Grandfather, you and I don't get along, but we serve the Kin. Do not think about moving against Lachlan. Do not threaten him. I'm warning you for your own good. I saw him take down two adult Sidhe warriors in the blink of an eye."

He scoffed. "You imagine things, girl. I will do what I must to protect the Kin community."

He paused and scowled at Jeffery, who was peering at him.

The small boy ducked his head and quickly moved behind Niamh.

"I've informed Mina about what I'm going to have you do next. I have agreed to pair you with one of Althea's guardians, Katherine Keenan. I think you know her well."

Niamh nodded. She knew Katie very well. As a teenager, she spent summers with her and her sisters when Anna, the Hedge Witch, tutored her. She didn't mention that half of the time had been spent with the two of them, hating each other and fighting over Lachlan Quinn.

"Anyway, I've gotten word that some beings are soul-raping and killing young half-blood females in Oldtown. Rumors suggest the Kin are involved. Our people are allowed to move freely down there, only grudgingly. If it leaks out that one of the Kin Clans has gone feral, all my hard work building bridges will go for nothing. Find out and stop it. This time, maybe you can do it with some semblance of competence, unlike last time when you allowed yourself to be captured like the greenest kit."

The old man glared again at Jeffery, who was peeking at him from the safety of her back. He despised mundanes with a passion—always had.

Niamh waited silently for him to continue. The old man was a master manipulator. She was careful to keep her resentment at his tone from boiling over. The old man knew she did not do well with authority figures. She wondered why he was taking this tone rather than his usual one of reasonable persuasiveness.

He continued, "I want you to get close to this Lachlan Quinn. Make up to him. We may need him down the trail."

"You want me to make up to him?" Niamh was enjoying this. The old man was unsettled. Sweet Mother, he's spooked at something. "What's going on?"

He glared at her. "First of all, we have a mess going on in Oldtown. Next, something or someone stirs up the various Kin Clans. The new Alpha of the Chelan Pack is a perfect example. He is pushing hard for us to move against the Emory Witches and this new Keeper to recover the lands bordering the Opari. There are plenty of reasons to be spooked. Anyway, that is not your business. Just do your job in Oldtown without arguing, granddaughter."

He glared at the little boy again, turned, got into his truck, and drove off.

"I thought grandpas were supposed to be nice. Trudy was always going on and on about her Grandpa and how he told her stories," Jeffery said. "I don't like him. He's scary."

Niamh hugged him. "I don't care for him much either. Get changed and gather your stuff. Vacation's over. I must get you back to Anna's. If you hurry, we have time to stop at Sheri's in Winthrop for some cinnamon rolls and cocoa."

Chapter 5

The Shambles District-Oldtown

The were-hyena clan typically hunted during the in-between time, what the dwarves called the intempesta nox, the dead of night. This night, they hunted in the Shambles District. The rank blood smells of the slaughterhouses and rot smells of the renderer's vats were baked into the very walls and misted the air. The slaughterhouse slaves were snug in their kennels. It was still too early for the thieves sentenced to the road crews to sweep and sluice water from the aqueduct to clean the streets. The cobblestone lanes were deserted except for the occasional reveler who took a shortcut through the district from the taverns to the bawdy houses located a couple of blocks over in the equally ancient red-light district.

They stalked two females, one human, blond, tall and slender, the other shorter with green hair, which marked her as a sylvan half-blood. The females stumbled along Butcher's Lane, singing and giggling, obviously well into their cups. They had gotten turned around somehow and wandered away from the safety of the well-patrolled tavern district into a place where they had no business being at this time of night.

The females radiated an air of vulnerability.

Defenseless.

Helpless.

Prey.

A whisper of paws scraping on stone was the only sound the clan made as they shifted into their anima-shapes. The Clan Queen guided the hunt with hand signals. Clan discipline was tight—it had to be because the vulnerability of the prey acted like an aphrodisiac, inflaming their bloodlust. The queen's finger signaled the hunt's start. The group drifted silently toward the girls. Another signal and the low-ranked males spread out to the flanks, ensuring the prey had no escape. The Clan Queen and three elder females took up the center.

"These fucking high heels are a terrible choice for combat," Niamh whispered to her companion. "How the hell do you wear these things?

"Bitch, you better not scuff them," Katherine Keenan whispered. "They're my favorite Louboutins. I will murder you if you ruin them. I can't believe I let you talk me into letting you borrow them."

"My boots didn't match this stupid dress." Niamh cursed again. Walking on cobblestones in the goddess-damned high heels was killing her feet. She briefly entertained herself with the thought of jumping on a plane after this was all over and flying to New York and having a talk with Christian Louboutin. Maybe make him wear the fucking shoes for a week and see how he liked it.

"Katie, give 'em a higher dose of helplessness."

Katherine obediently muttered a cantrip to send an increasing aura of vulnerability.

She whispered, "They are close to breaking."

Niamh turned her head slightly to watch the Clan Queen's finger signals.

"Okay. They are spreading out. You take the ones on the left. I'll take the right."

"I hope your guy Kirk is back there somewhere or it's going to be a bit hot here."

"He's there."

The clan surged forward with high-pitched yips. The two girls looked back and froze. Then they screamed in panic and ran—one to the left and one to the right.

The screams crumbled the last bit of pack discipline. The clan bolted to attack.

At the rear of the pack, three high-ranked females stood with the Queen. She held a fat egg-shaped amulet in her hand and spoke the wyrd they had taught her.

The amulet gave off a soft yellow glow as it activated.

A rumbling growl sounded from behind them. She turned to see a twelve-foot snarling grizzly bear racing toward them. The queen's last thought before the bear hit was, "I should have known it was too good to be true—easy money is never easy."

Up ahead, the tables had turned as well. The males on the right slammed to a panicked halt. Mouths gaped in terrified whines. A snarling green-eyed panther crouched in front of them.

And attacked.

The first two males died instantly. Their throats torn open. The following two suffered snapped necks from two whisper-fast blows from her paws.

The group on the left ran into an expanding globe of witch-fire as hot as the surface of the sun. A snarling female and three males burst into greenish flames so hot that the cobblestones underneath them crackled and slagged.

The lone surviving female still alive from the were-grizzly's attack snatched up the amulet from her fallen queen in her jaws and ran, only to find herself flattened by a huge weight landing on her back. The last thing she felt was the bear's jaws snapping shut on her neck,

"I clearly said we needed one of them alive." Niamh Harpe grumped. "Sweet Mother of All, Kirk, I said subdue the Queen, not end her."

Kirk Falstad, the big Ursa-shifter she had hired to help her trap the Crocuta-shifters, shrugged unrepentantly. "I musta slipped. Anyway, you or your pet witch coulda' kept one alive. At least they won't be killing any more girls."

"Listen up, shifter," Katherine Keenan hissed. "I am nobody's pet. If you want to keep that tongue of yours attached, you will be more respectful."

"You got it, Red," the big man said amiably. "At least we got this. Whatever it is." He held up the glittering egg-shaped ornament.

"Okay, at least we got that. What do you think it is, Katie?"

"Sweet Mother, I think it's a Daoine Sidhe mind recorder. It's spelled to record real-time experiences, complete with a full range of sensory inputs and emotions. Those fuckers were making snuff films. They're recording the last emotions of the victims so they can be played back and broadcast by an esper-fae."

"Oh fuck, if the Sidhe are involved in this. Things just got a thousand times worse," said Niamh. "Okay, Kirk, you're off the hook. Apparently, it's true that even a blind squirrel finds a nut occasionally. Let's get out of here; these heels are killing my feet." She pulled off the shoes and walked bare-footed. "Next time, Katie, instead of drunk party girls, I vote we be college girls out for a midnight jog."

She handed them to Katherine, who examined them and scowled. "Dammit, Niamh, you scuffed the heel."

"I'm starving," rumbled Kirk. "I could eat me one of the Raven's sixteen-ounce rib-eyes. Let's stop there on the way out of town. Harpe, you're buyin'."

Katherine pointed to the amulet hanging from Kirk's fist. "We need to take that disgusting thing back to Emory. One of the aunties can help us figure out who its owner is, or at least where it's been."

The three walked away, ignoring the bodies left behind in the street. The street cleaners would come on shift soon. They would take care of things. Life was cheap in Oldtown. They would sell the corpses for a few coppers, and the bodies would end up in a renderer's vat by midmorning. The only sounds in the lane were the hissing and crackling of the cooling cobblestones.

Oldtown didn't waste resources on jails. Criminals got slavery or death.