The Lycanthrope's Lawyer Read online

  I unlock the front door and step outside into the brisk morning. I crack my neck, stretch, and wave hello to the van, letting them know I see them. I prop the door open, with the little metal footy thing, retreat inside, and take a seat at the conference table facing the open doorway. I rest the Benelli across my lap and take a sip of my latte while I wait for the large bearded man and his friends. I wonder if it will be a consultation or a confrontation? Either way, I’ve had my first dose of caffeine and I’m ready to dole out some justice.

  Chapter Two

  The big red-bearded lineman enters my office like he owns the place. His expensive Italian wool suit is freshly pressed and perfectly tailored to his strong proportions, providing both style and ease of movement. The overcoat is gone; he must have left it back at the van. There is a bulge on his side under his left arm, the same bulge you see on government agents in the movies. It’s a good bet he’s packing heat in a shoulder holster. During my time at the public defender’s office, I got used to seeing gorilla-sized men in suits with bulges in the jackets and badges in their pockets. If this guy isn’t rocking an alphabet soup badge, he used to.

  The lineman approaches the conference table where I’m calmly sipping my latte, unbuttons his suit jacket, and takes a seat across from me. He sits attentively, shoulders straight and back, no slouching; everything is measured.

  “Good morning, Mr. Valentine. You can call me Red, everyone else does.” The informal name contrasts with his precise, almost rigid, movements.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Red?” I ask between sips.

  “It’s just Red.”

  “Okay, just Red, what can I do for you?”

  Red smirks. “I’m just here to deliver a message.”

  I set the latte down on the table. “Am I going to like this message, just Red?” I ask, while lovingly fondling my Benelli like it’s my favorite lap dog and the petting is the only thing keeping it from barking.

  Red looks down at the shotgun; if he’s concerned, he isn’t showing it. “That’s not for me to judge. I’m just the messenger.”

  “Just a messenger, huh? Does that mean I can’t just shoot you and nobody will care?” I ask with a wry smile as I continue our game of using the word just in every sentence.

  “Mr. Valentine, I’m just here to deliver a message . . . but I wouldn’t recommend trying to shoot me . . . I’m not a spider. I’m not just going to stand still and let you fill me with lead,” he says with overwhelming confidence and a frightening twinkle in his eyes. He’s clearly aware of my proclivity for shooting assholes, and still, he remains confident. All things considered, way more confident than he should be.

  “Let me ask you something, just Red, what are you?”

  “Just a delivery boy, Mr. Valentine.”

  With my thumb, I push the safety lock in, readying the Benelli for firing. “I’m tiring of the game. Deliver your message and then get the hell out.”

  The click of the safety being pushed to the firing position doesn’t startle Red at all. If he noticed, which I’m sure he did, he has the self-discipline not to react. That takes training and the mindset of a certain type of man—a man to fear, the type not afraid of dying. The butterflies that precede a fight take flight and begin to flutter around inside me. A year ago, I could count on my fingers the number of times I’d experienced this sensation. Now it’s seemingly a near-daily occurrence.

  Red leans forward and waits for me to look up and for our eyes to meet. “Mr. Valentine, my employer has been given information that you might be approached to represent the Varulv family regarding a private matter. I’m here to prevent you from getting involved. I thought I’d start by asking nicely.” Red pauses for a moment, takes a breath and in a sickly-sweet voice says, “Please don’t represent the Varulv family. This is wolf business, please stay out of it.”

  Wolf business, I guess that makes him a werewolf. An extremely large one. Pound for pound, at least in his human form, he might even be bigger than my favorite bartender and werebear, Billy Joe. The Varulv family? Never heard of them. And right now, I have no interest in representing them; then again, I don’t like being told what to do, even politely. I also don’t like being threatened. “Red, who I represent is my business . . . thank you. And if you’re wondering, I don’t intend to fill you with lead. Lead causes cancer. I do my best to avoid handling it, safety first and all . . . I prefer silver. I like how it shines. It’s blingy.”

  As I start to wink, Red pushes away from the table and gets into a low defensive stance on the balls of his feet. He’s fast, much faster than a normal human, but I’m not a normal human. The only reason I haven’t fired, is because he hasn’t reached for his weapon . . . or claws . . . yet.

  I stand as smoothly as I can while trying to keep the Benelli aimed at Red and step back from the table, putting a little more distance between us. I’ve been practicing my shooting. I’ve gotten pretty good, but I’ve never tried to shoot at anything that moves as fast as a werewolf can apparently move. I might need the extra distance. I kinda wish the shotgun was loaded with shells filled with silver buckshot rather than slugs, so I wouldn’t have to be as accurate. It’s much harder to dodge a cloud of silver pellets than a single slug.

  Two additional men in suits stalk through the open front door and fan out, trying to flank me on either side. I take another step back to give myself even more room and maintain firing lines on all three targets. I keep the shotgun pointed at Red, letting him know that if this goes down, he’s going down first. Red remains rooted to the floor in a ready stance. He holds his right hand up and makes a fist. His wiry backups stop advancing and hold their flanking positions.

  “Mr. Valentine, you don’t want to do this,” says Red. “You’re outnumbered and outclassed. You’ve deduced we’re werewolves; a human doesn’t stand a chance against us, even with a shotgun loaded with silver bullets.” The eyebrows of one of the newcomers raise and he shares a look with his partner. Red’s smoothly passing information to his men within his conversation to me. He’s a slick operator. Smart and confident—a dangerous combination.

  “I’m told you’re a smart man, Mr. Valentine, so think this through. Nobody has to get hurt today. My employers would prefer we come to a peaceful resolution. Let’s—”

  “Who’s your employer?” I ask, interrupting Red.

  “I’d tell you if I could, I can’t. It’s not in the best interest of my employer to disclose that information to you at this time. In your line of work as a lawyer, I’m sure you’ve developed an appreciation for the need at times, for confidentiality.”

  I start to nod in understanding when one of the suited wolves darts forward a few steps. As quickly as I can while still keeping the motion smooth, I swing the shotgun in his direction and fire a warning shot, blasting a hole in the floor about a foot in front of him, stopping him in his tracks, and then I swing the shotgun muzzle back to Red. Four shots left. I didn’t want to waste the bullet, I’m not ready to escalate this further, but I needed to show my guests I too can bite. What I need is to buy time. Sinn and Wilson should be arriving soon. Every moment I can delay increases the odds this turns into a fairer fight or, even better, a stalemate. Sometimes the best outcome is the one where everyone gets to go home.

  The suited wolf I shot near growls threateningly. Red however, remains calm. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of gunfire. He turns to his man and asks in a scarily calm voice, “Did I tell you to advance?” The wolf looks embarrassed and slightly bows his head in submission. Red turns back to me. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Mr. Valentine. It won’t happen again.”

  “Yeah, no problem. If it does, the next shot is going to make somebody really unhappy. I’ve been told silver is a mite more painful than a flea bite,” I reply, while trying my best to mask my nerves.

  Red nods. “Mr. Valentine, there’s no need for this to devolve into violence. I’m not your enemy. Just give me your word you will not represent the Varulv family and my c
olleagues and I will be on our way. I’m a reasonable man, I’ll even pay for the bullet hole damage to your floor.”

  “Red, I don’t even know who the Varulv family is—never heard of them.”

  “Good, then we have an agreement.”

  “No agreement. I won’t be strong-armed. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to leash your two dogs and take them to the park down the street because it looks like they need to run off some energy. And, because I’m feeling generous, I’ll even give you some newspaper to take with you, so you can clean up their shit. While you’re there, you’re going to call your mysterious employer and get their permission to tell me who they are—better yet, tell them to come talk to me themselves. Even better still, have them call my secretary and make an appointment. In the meantime, I’m going to finish my latte. If someone from the Varulv family shows up here and asks me to represent them, I won’t necessarily say yes, but I’ll hear them out, just like I would any other potential client. There’s newspaper on the table there—take as much as you need. Leave me the funny pages. I love me some Garfield. I love how he makes the dog, what’s his name? Come on, you know his name? You guys are probably distant cousins or something. Anyhow, he makes him look like an ass. It’s hilarious. Makes me laugh everytime.”

  While Red maintains his composure, his companions growl and show their fangs, but neither advances. It’s not me they’re afraid of; I think it's Red. They’re terrified of doing anything without his go-ahead. Who is this guy? Despite the hurricane of tension blowing through the office, Red remains the picture of calmness. A crystal-clear blue mountain crater lake without a wisp of wind.

  Just as Red is about to speak, Sinn steps through the front door carrying a brown paper bag, followed by Wilson with his Beretta drawn. “Gentlemen, isn’t it a bit early for all this testosterone? A girl hasn’t even had her bagel yet.” Sinn holds up the brown bag with the logo of the local bagelry and shakes it.

  Red looks thoughtful. His backup looks nervous. I don’t think they like the odds anymore, and they do not like being caught in a crossfire. “Mr. Valentine, thank you for your time. I suggest that you strongly consider my request. As I told you, I am not your enemy. There is no need for this . . . misunderstanding to escalate into something unpleasant. There is also no need for you to get involved in wolf business.” Red smiles. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Valentine.” With that, Red turns and heads for the door. As he passes Sinn and Wilson, he nods with a polite greeting of respect. His lapdogs follow at his heels. He didn’t even have to whistle.

  Wilson watches from the doorway as the trio pile into their van. He pulls out his cell phone and snaps a picture of their license plate as they drive away. “What the hell was that about, boss?”

  I shrug. “Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “Bullshit. They weren’t aggressive enough to be Watchtower peddlers,” says Wilson as he sits and leans back in a chair and puts his feet up on the conference table.

  I smile. Wilson does have a way with words.

  Sinn grabs a butter knife from a drawer below the espresso machine, sits down across from me at the conference table, uses her left hand to shove Wilson’s feet off the table, and then begins methodically smearing cream cheese on one of the bagels she pulled out of the brown paper bag she was carrying.

  Wilson gives Sinn the same look a child gives a parent after they’ve been scolded, but he doesn’t put his feet back up on the table.

  When Sinn’s finished smearing, she hands the bagel to Wilson and grabs another. “Colt, what did the wolves want?” asks Sinn.

  “I don’t really know. They warned me not to help the Varel-something family.”

  “The Varulv family,” corrects Sinn.

  “Who are they?” asks Wilson before I can.

  “Lycanthrope royalty,” answers Sinn.

  “Are you saying there is a werewolf royal family and Colt’s just been strongly warned to stay away from them?” says Wilson, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

  Sinn nods.

  “Great!” says Wilson with a sigh. “That means we're going to be ass deep in royal werewolf shit. Colt won’t be able to help himself. Telling Colt not to do something guarantees he’s going to do it. Fuck, I hate dogs. They get into everything, they piss all over the place, they’re constantly humping your leg—”

  “So basically, they’re a lot like you, except they have some redeeming qualities?” I say with a smirk.

  “Fuck you, Colt. I’m gonna’ get bit. I just know it. Some frothy-at-the-mouth wolf princess is gonna’ sniff my ass, like what she smells, and then bite me. And then I’m going to have to get a tetanus shot—and I hate shots. I’m telling you right now, If I get bit by a wolf, I’m expensing it to the firm. And then I’m going on vacation, somewhere with sand, sun, and boobs, lots of boobs, and you’re paying for it.”

  I know Wilson and I know he’s not really afraid of getting bitten; he’s just trying to lighten the mood after the near-violent episode that invaded our morning. He’s a good friend, and about as transparent as black yoga pants. “Buddy, you’re overreacting. I haven’t decided anything yet. I never even heard of the Varulv family until this morning. Although, change might be nice. Aren’t you getting tired of immigration work?”

  “Not really,” answers Wilson, “It’s easy. With this administration, all you have to do is grease the right palms and claim your client is moving here from Norway or some other predominantly white country and the visa is approved. I like easy. Easy is safe, and I like safe even better than easy—except when it comes to women.” Wilson winks at Sinn who doesn’t justify the comment with any sort of acknowledgment.

  Sinn is staring intently at the bagel she’s smeared with a thick layer of cream cheese; she’s lost in thought. Finally, she looks up. “Colt, if you’re thinking about getting involved with the Varulv family, there are things you need to know—.”

  Sinn is interrupted by the arrival of a letter. Appeared might be a better word. One second the table in front of us is empty, and the next, a white 9 by 12-inch envelope, with my name written on it in gold ink, is lying on the table in front of me. Below my name is a symbol:

  and the envelope is sealed with a wax signet of a moon, half light, half dark.

  I look to Sinn for confirmation; she also sees it and I’m not just losing my mind.

  “Mage mail,” she says, anticipating my question.

  “You got mage mail?” asks Wilson with a dumb grin. “You’re making that shit up.”

  “I’m quite serious, “she says. “It’s not really used anymore. It was popular for centuries, but it was replaced by email. The spell required is complicated and taxing on the mage. It’s similar to the magic that powers your pen. Why go through the trouble of having a mage cast a complicated spell to deliver a letter, when you can just text or email someone?”

  “What do the symbols mean?” I ask, nodding in understanding.

  “I don’t know what that symbol means,” she says, pointing at the wheel-shaped symbol with eight spokes, “but the wax seal of the half-moon is the Varulv family signet.”

  “So, it’s a letter from the royal family?” I ask in a less than excited tone. “The family I was just warned to stay away from.”

  Sinn nods.

  “Well, are you going to open it?” Wilson asks impatiently.

  I shoot Wilson a dirty look and then hesitate as I reach for the envelope, “Nothing weird is going to happen when I touch it, right?”

  Sinn frowns. “I doubt it.”

  “You doubt it?” I pull my hand back.

  Wilson moves closer to the letter.

  “Don’t touch it,” I snap.

  Wilson flinches and stops.

  “It’s possible, I doubt it,” answers Sinn.

  “What’s possible?” I ask, “And if you say anything . . . “

  Sinn pauses for a moment in contemplation and then answers, “I’ve heard of letters exploding if someone other
than the person to whom it is addressed, touches it. Wilson, why don’t you grab it, shake it a bit. Let’s see what happens.” Sinn gives Wilson a wry smile and a sidewise glance as Wilson nonchalantly backs away from the table, putting some distance between himself and the letter.

  “What? I’m brave not stupid. I’ll just stand over here.”

  I can’t help but shake my head at Wilson’s antics.

  “When magic is involved, almost anything is possible . . .” Sin continues. “I doubt anything will happen. It would take a lot of magic to booby trap that letter, and why go through all that trouble? If someone wanted to blow us up, it would be much easier to just lob a grenade into our office or through your bedroom window when you’re sleeping. Your home address is listed on your Facebook page.”

  “It is?” I ask in surprise.

  “Yeah, you might want to make that private,” suggests Wilson. “And did you hear that? She said ‘booby’.”

  I frown, partly at Sinn’s dark and unhelpful response and partly at Wilson’s childish contribution, and then I reach for the letter. “I guess there is only one way to find out. Sh—”

  Chapter Three

  #UnexpectedMagicBlows

  “—it!”

  “Mr. Valentine, welcome to my home away from home,” a tall, handsome man with a stubbly beard, wearing jeans and a red and black plaid shirt greets me. I’m inside of what looks like a log cabin. The décor and furniture may be rustic in style, but everything looks like it came out of an expensive high-end outdoorsman catalog. The only thing that seems out of place is the wall decorated with medieval weaponry.

  “Please take a seat.” The lumberjack offers me a chair at a beautiful wooden table with live edges.