Page 1 of Way of the Wolf

1

If something weirdwas going to happen in my life, it was guaranteed to occur when I was carrying a ninety-pound toilet across the parking lot.

It was a heavy load for a forty-five-year-old woman, even one whose werewolf blood gives her extra strength, but that didn’t keep me from stopping to frown at a guy wielding a metal detector. Whistling cheerfully, he swept it back and forth through the woods along the property line of the apartment complex.

With wavy salt-and-pepper hair that fell to his jaw, a tidily cultivated three days’ worth of beard stubble, and a black leather jacket, he could have walked off the front ofGQ. Had I seen his picture on a magazine, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but in person… there was something about him that put my hackles up. Something… feral.

“You can do whatever you want on the city land,” I called to him, “but once you step onto that lawn, the grounds belong to Sylvan Serenity Housing.” I waved to indicate the five acres of grass, trees, and pathways that sprawled around the complex’stwo-hundred-plus units that were clumped in several two-story buildings.

As the property manager, it was my job to shoo away treasure-hunting trespassers, even if he hadn’t crossed the line yet. After almost twenty years working for the owners, I felt obligated to watch out for their interests and also for the tenants. And maybe I was a touch territorial. I blamed the wolf blood for that, even though the monthly potions I consumed kept my lupine tendencies on the down-low.

The guy looked over at me, his brown eyes widening in surprise, probably because the person addressing him held a new one-piece toilet. “Why, my lady, I wouldn’tdreamof trespassing.”

Mylady?

His accent was vaguely British but muddled, as if he’d left home a long time ago and lived many places. My experiences with James Bond movies—all watched due to my ex-husband’s preferences—and Monty Python—a reflection ofmypreferences—did not lead me to believe anyone in the UK saidmy ladyanymore. Nor were Europeans wandering a greenbelt in a suburb north of Seattle common. Shoreline wasn’t a tourist area, especially not this stretch, with the freeway traffic roaring past beyond the woods.

“Glad to hear it. Is that your van?” I jerked my chin toward an old Roadtrek with half the back windows blacked out—or maybe blocked. The vehicle occupied a guest-parking spot. White with blue trim, it had been modified for off-roading, with large studded tires that lifted it several inches higher than usual. On the side, blue cursive writing read:Full Moon Fortune Hunter.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

“That’s not what I asked. If you’re not a guest of a tenant, you can’t park there.”

“You’re very strict for… the plumber? The maintenance woman? What did you say your name is?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, as a gentleman, even though we haven’t had formal introductions, I feel compelled to ask if you need assistance in toting that large, ah, are you carrying a… loo, my lady?”

“A Kohler Highland with elongated bowl and quiet-close lid. Only the best for our tenants.” Only the best that had been on sale and was a model that had proven reliable in the complex. Since I was the handywoman as well as the property manager, that latter was important.

“So itisa loo.”

“You’re swift.”

“Actually, I’m Duncan. Duncan Calderwood. Now that you know me, who might you be?”

“The person who watches over this place.” My instincts told me not to give him my name—or anything about myself. If that van was still here tonight, I would call to have it towed.

“Like a security guard?”

“I can be.” I gave him my best warning glower, one that people tended to find intimidating, even if I was only five-foot-three and one-hundred and ten pounds. Not only did I have sharp canines, but enough magic lingered about me that they could sometimes sense the danger in my past, even if it had been decades since I’d been anything but a mother, wife, and employee. “By choice,” I murmured to myself.

“Ah.” He—Duncan—smiled, not intimidated in the least. “That burden can’t be light. I believe your muscles are aquiver. Do you need assistance?”

“They’re not quivering, and I don’t want help.” Grudgingly, I made myself add, “Thanks,” though the guy rubbed me the wrong way.

He twanged even my dulled senses. If not for the potion, I might have more easily detected what was off about him. I might havesmelledwhat was off.

I shook my head. The toilet was getting heavy, so the mystery would have to wait until later. I continued up the meandering walkway to A-37 while Duncan went back to whistling cheerfully and sweeping the metal detector from fern to clump of mushrooms to cedar log. What he expected to find out there, I couldn’t guess. Now and then, homeless people camped in the woods, but they weren’t known for stashing strongboxes full of gold and jewelry around their tents.

As I set the toilet down and fished in my pocket for the master key for the apartments, a faint beeping drifted across the lawn. From the metal detector?

Duncan bent to investigate a fern as a pair of motorcycles roared into the parking lot. The noise startled him, and he spun, raising the metal detector in both hands like a staff while dropping into a practiced fighting crouch. With those reflexes, he had to have been in more than a few skirmishes in his day.

The male motorcycle riders, neither wearing a helmet, tore through the parking lot, circling it twice as they eyed the cars. They glanced toward me, then at one of the tenants driving in, and roared back out.

I glared at them, suspicious since crime had increased in the area lately, and glanced toward the cameras mounted around the grounds. The two men had looked like they’d been scouting the place. Hopefully, the modest vehicles of the tenants hadn’t interested them that much.

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