Page 16 of Way of the Wolf

“I’m notuninterested,” I offered as we headed out the door.

“Does that mean you’ve never been inclined to research the subject matter but also wouldn’t fall asleep while I waxed poetically on orthography?”

“I almost never fall asleep while I’m in the middle of fixing leaks, so your odds are good of a semi-alert pupil.”

“Oh,” Bolin said brightly, trotting after me, maybe reading more enthusiasm into my comment than I’d intended. “Did you know the wordorthographycomes from the Greek root oforthos,which meansrightorcorrectandgraphein,which meansto write?”

“Fascinating.”

As my intern went into more depth, I picked up the pace, following a walkway through the rain and over to the next building. I waved, almost relieved to find the twenty-something tenant waiting outside in front of his unit, the overhang protecting him from the weather. With a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, he was ready to head to work.

When he pulled out an inhaler and took a hit, my relief evaporated. Whether he meant it to be or not, I had a feeling that was a condemnation of the air quality inside his apartment.

“Hi, Mr. Davis,” I said. “You heading out for the day?”

That would give me time to resolve the leak issue as much as possible before he returned.

“Yeah. In a minute.” Davis nodded for us to go in.

Before stepping inside, I looked past the lawn and toward the greenbelt. After the previous night’s attack, I now expected to spot red eyes glowing from the shadows under every tree. I didn’t, but I’d had the feeling of being watched every time I’d walked outside that morning.

Later, I would call Augustus. As much as I dreaded his snark and condemnation, I had to figure out what was going on.

“The leak is in the ceiling.” After breathing in a second puff of his medicine, Davis visibly braced himself and walked inside.

Even before we reached the bathroom, I could smell the musty scent permeating the apartment. Definitely mold. It was, as far as I was concerned, the scourge of the Pacific Northwest.

“I noticed that discolored spot a while ago.” The tenant pointed toward the ceiling over his toilet. “And it’s been getting larger. Now there’s water dribbling down the wall.”

Since I was, as my boss Ed always assured me, in the customer-service business—AKA the customer-pleasingbusiness—I kept myself from asking why Davis hadn’t brought the leak to my attention when he’d first noticed it.

“We’ll get it handled as soon as possible,” I said instead.

Davis looked curiously at Bolin.

“That’s my new intern,” I said. “He’s great at plumbing. What’s the root of the word plumbing, Bolin?”

“Ah.” Bolin’s expression was one of protest, but he did offer, “The Latinplumbum. That means lead because they had lead pipes back then. It contaminated the drinking water, and some historians believe that lead poisoning was common and contributed to gout in the Roman armies. It may have been behind the infamous madness of Emperor Caligula. It could have even led to the downfall of the entire Roman Empire.”

“Poisoning?” Davis lowered his inhaler and stared up at the water-stained ceiling.

“We don’t have lead pipes.” I resolved not to consult Bolin onany more word origins, at least not in front of tenants. “We’ll get this fixed up. Why don’t you head to work, Mr. Davis?”

He nodded and hustled for the door, doubtless eager to escape the musty air—or perhaps his incipient lead poisoning. I sighed.

“I don’t suppose you have a potion in there—” I waved at Bolin’s fancy leather bag, nobly resisting the urge to call it a man purse, “—that fixes mold?”

We couldn’t see any green fuzz growing on the ceiling, but my nose promised me it lurked behind the damp drywall.

“I don’t havepotions,” Bolin whispered and glanced around, as if an eavesdropper or smart device might be listening. The latter wasn’t that uncommon in the apartments anymore. I was always careful not to scratch my butt or fart too loudly on my maintenance calls.

“What’d you throw in the parking lot yesterday?” I hadn’t asked him then, and had almost forgotten about it, but that concoctionhadbeen useful. It occurred to me that he—or maybe his globetrotting parents—might know of an alchemist who could supply me. Even if Duncan could find someone, I would prefer not to be beholden to him.

“A chemical compound not dissimilar to a smoke grenade.”

“It looked like it might be analchemicalcompound.”

Bolin eyed me warily. Worried I would rat him out for having ties to the paranormal world? To, if Duncan had been correct, a druid family?

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