Page 9 of Way of the Wolf

No movement in the woods drew my eye, but the trees grew close together, the evergreens blocking the meager light that the cloud-hazed moon offered. In the distance, cars roared on the freeway, but their headlamps didn’t penetrate the greenbelt. There could have been an army skulking in there, and I wouldn’t have known, not now.

Had my senses not been dulled, I would have heard and smelled much more.

That familiar mixture of longing for the past and fear for it held me in thrall.

“The hell with it.” I pushed open the door. “It’s not my fault that you didn’t put a personal phone number on the application, Beatrice.”

Grumbling to myself, I found the light switch by the door and flipped it on. I halted before I’d gone more than a step.

The living room was empty, save for a few tufts of lint, scraps of paper, vial caps, and a pen in a corner. The bedroom carpets held the indentions where furniture had been.

“Shemoved?”

Without telling me? I would have to check, but I believed her rent had been paid through the end of the year. She should have come by to let me know she was leaving and drop off the keys. Unless…

I frowned. She was an older woman. What if she’d passed, and some family member had collected her stuff and not gotten around to turning in the keys yet?

I pushed my ponytail aside to rub the back of my neck. Since I lived in the complex, it was hard to believe I’d missed movers coming to collect everything. She’d not only had tons of furniture but all manner of jars and bottles and containers of alchemical components. The scents of some of her quirky ingredients lingered in the air: dried leaves, exotic spices, pungent concoctions, and whatever had left that odd orange stain on the wall over there…

Still, people moved in and out of the large complex every month. It was possible a U-Haul for this apartment had been here at the same time as for someone else’s, and I hadn’t thought anything of another van.

“I hope she’s okay.”

I tried not to feel selfish about immediately wondering whoelsecould make my potion. Beatrice had been doing it for morethan ten years, since my last alchemist had moved to New Mexico for the sun, dry air, and desert juju, or whatever she’d called it. I hadn’t heard from her in years.

My senses twanged, and I spun toward the front door. I’d left it open, and I didn’thearanything nearby, but my instincts warned me…

Duncan leaned into view and waved. “Hullo, oh nameless overseer of this great hive of humanity.”

“We call it an apartment complex, and my new… intern gave you my name.” I hesitated to admit the kid held that position. Shouldn’t there have been a memo?

“Yes, but you didn’t invite me to use it, despite my charm and the fact that you surely appreciated my assistance with your parking-lot problem.” Duncan waggled his eyebrows, then noticed the envelope I clutched and quirked his brows.

I stuck it in my pocket, never caring to explain that I had to carefully budget to keep myself out of financial trouble. “You’ve crossed the line onto private property again. And your van is still in the guest parking, even though you’re a nomadic scavenger, not someone a tenant invited.”

“The warmth of your appreciation keeps away the chill on this autumn night.”

I sighed at him. “What do you want?”

Duncan looked around the empty apartment, gaze lingering on a cork in the corner of the living room.

“We don’t have any vacancies,” I told him, “in case that’s what you’re thinking.”

That wasn’t entirely true, as we had a couple of tenants moving out that week, but I didn’t want him sticking around.

“It’s not. I am quite comfortable in my mobile domicile.” Duncan pointed toward the parking lot.

“You live out of your van? Imagine my surprise.”

He grinned at me. “I came to see if you or any of your residents were missing keys.”

“We have a lost-and-found. Did you stumble across a set of keys in the parking lot while you were tearing bits off those motorcycles?” I eyed him, still wondering how he’d managed that, then walked outside and held out my hand.

“I found some on my excursion.” Duncan nodded toward the woods, then fished numerous sets of key rings out of his pocket, most rusty, all covered with dirt.

That didn’t keep him from laying them in my hands, as if certain I would want them. He deposited key ring after key ring, two padlocks, and, finally, an old bike lock reminiscent of a rope of sausage. He draped that over my arm.

“That looks like it was lost in 1973,” I said.

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