Wolfsbane: Aspect of the Wolf

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  Amber Quill Press

  www.amberquill.com

  Copyright ©2006 by Jennifer Colgan

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  WOLFSBANE:

  ASPECT OF THE WOLF

  by

  JENNIFER COLGAN

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  ISBN 1-59279-497-1

  Amber Quill Press, LLC

  www.amberquill.com

  Also By Jennifer Colgan

  (writing as Bernadette Gardner)

  Ken'Ja

  More Than A Fantasy

  Renna's Sacrifice

  Writing as Jennifer Colgan

  Conjured In Flames

  Ravenstar's Bride

  DEDICATION

  To the Divas, for all your inspiration

  CHAPTER 1

  Daniel Garrison took a deep breath of humid night air and swiped one hand over the sweat trickling down his forehead. The cramp in his left side felt like a knife wound, stabbing deeper with each breath. Despite the pain, he kept moving, pushing his toned muscles well beyond their limits. How could the beast move so fast?

  Daniel listened while he ran, tried to slow his labored breathing long enough to detect a hint of movement in the bushes up ahead. He wanted to tire the beast, not corner it and force it to attack. At this rate, Daniel would collapse long before his quarry felt the least bit of fatigue.

  "I'm still here!” he called into the dark underbrush. Perhaps it was a foolhardy taunt, but with the pond behind him he felt marginally safe. The creature avoided the water, terrified of its own hideous reflection in the glassy, moonlit surface. “Come and get me! Come on—I taste just like chicken!"

  Some coherent part of Daniel's exhausted brain protested. He had his pride, after all. “Okay, not chicken. Beef. I taste just like a nice, juicy—lean—side of beef!"

  He had to be out of his mind. Of course, he was. This entire situation was insane, and only an insane man could deal with it. He would have never imagined he'd be caught dead running through Oak Haven Park in the middle of a sultry summer night chasing a werewolf. Okay, maybe “caught dead” wasn't the best phrase.

  This whole affair was his worst nightmare come true. Like a page from a Bizzaro World comic book, everything was turned upside down, dreamlike and utterly surreal.

  Daniel halted in his tracks, grabbed the thick straps of the black backpack he wore over his hastily donned Delta Hawks T-shirt and ripped jeans. He should have been better prepared tonight, should have known a locked door wouldn't be enough to stop the beast. What a fool.

  He turned in a half circle, ready to bolt at the slightest sound. “Where did you go?"

  A heartbeat passed ... two...

  Silence descended around him, and for a split second he marveled at how quiet the park could be in the middle of the night. The crickets and tree frogs had fallen mute, probably from fear of the abomination that lurked in the shadows. Nothing even breathed.

  Then he heard it. A strangled sound—half moan, half growl—drifted through the trees from the direction of the waterfall. A dead-end. Damn. The beast had cornered itself. How long before anger overrode its confusion and it emerged from the underbrush in a rage?

  Strike now, while you have this one small chance, Daniel told himself. He snaked one hand into the tight front pocket of his jeans and pulled out his only weapon—an eighteen-inch-long silver chain. The thick links glinted in the light of the full moon and clicked together as he wove the length around his closed fist.

  This had better work, he thought, ducking forward through the low-hanging branches of an ancient willow tree. He pushed through the juniper hedge that separated the park's walking path from a hidden grotto and emerged where the faux rock waterfall tumbled into a man-made lily pond.

  At first glance, everything appeared normal. One small halogen lamp, the kind with an opaque round bulb at the top, lit the grotto. The pump that powered the waterfall shut off automatically at sunset, so the black water of the lily pond lay as still as glass beneath a blanket of overlapping oval leaves. No reflection here. Thank God.

  Then he heard the beast's panting, like a file rasping against dry stone. There in the deepest shadow, beneath an overhang of mossy granite, Daniel saw movement. The beast turned to look at him, its bile-yellow eyes aglow. A set of snow-white fangs gleamed as it drew back dark lips to howl in frustration.

  "I know,” Daniel said. “You can't climb those rocks. You can't get out of here and run free, can you?"

  The beast swayed from one clawed foot to the other, gauging its enemy. A low growl rumbled in its chest.

  "Come on. Let's get this over with.” Daniel uncoiled the chain from his fist. The sound drew the beast's jaundiced gaze and another growl rattled deep in its throat.

  "Yeah, that's right. I've got your leash here. Are you going to be a good pup and let me put it on?"

  The beast snarled.

  "That's right, get mad. Come on...” Daniel dangled the chain, swung it in a slow circle, and took one measured step forward. How close could he get before the creature lunged for him? He took another step, then one more.

  Like the legendary Spring-Heeled Jack, the beast launched itself up and over the lily pond. When its feet hit the ground, claws raking against the cement pathway, Daniel struck. Double-fisted, he whacked his quarry squarely in the side of its elongated jaw. Silver links bit into the flesh of its snout, and it yelped like an injured dog. The sound startled Daniel, but didn't stop him. While the creature reeled away, stunned by the blow, Daniel flung the chain around its neck. It swiped one razor-tipped claw at him, tearing a nylon strap of Daniel's backpack. The pack dropped from one of Daniel's shoulders and dangled against his back as he lunged forward and closed the silver circle around the beast's throat.

  "Sorry. This might hurt,” he said, pulling the chain tight. He twisted the links against each other where they fused, thanks to the spell he'd borrowed from an old book he'd vowed a dozen times to throw away.

  Caught in the thrall of its natural weakness, the beast staggered backward. It clawed at its throat and let loose a scream of agony and betrayal that rattled Daniel's bones.

  Panting, he sank back against the nearest sycamore and pulled the damaged backpack off his shoulder. The beast turned in a circle, dazed. As Daniel watched, it fell to its knees, whimpering.

  Finally, the werewolf crumbled to the path that circled the pond and lay whining on the ground. One gnarled paw held the chain and the other grasped at empty air. Its eyes bore into Daniel's and finally its tongue lolled out between jagged teeth.

  With a final growl, it fell asleep.

  Daniel let out a long breath as he unzipped the backpack. He pulled out a black trench coat and shook it free of wrinkles.

  He dropped the backpack and approached the beast. His shadow fell across the misshapen face. Just to be certain, he nudged the creature's outstretched hand with the toe of his Nikes. Nothing happened.

  With a sigh, he dropped the trench coat over the creature's hairy body, then lowered himself to the ground and leaned against the low concrete wall that bordered the pond. He dropped his head into his hands and ruffled his hair, rubbed his tired eyes and stretched his aching muscles. He looked at the abomination now sleeping peacefully at his feet.

  "Sorry, bro. I didn't have time to pack underwear. You'll have t
o go commando on the trip home."

  CHAPTER 2

  "Why can't he come today?” Emilie Swanson struggled to keep her tone light as she balanced the cordless phone on her shoulder and swathed the bathroom floor with a soggy mop. The blue water that crested in the top of the toilet bowl and dribbled down its beige porcelain sides had already permanently stained the old linoleum tiles. A steady drip from the broken shut-off valve beneath the tank added to the growing puddle.

  The plumber's wife-slash-secretary assured her that Mystikal Excursions was first on her husband's list of stops for Tuesday morning, three days away.

  Emilie nodded into the phone as she swept aside the useless old plunger and backed into the hallway that led to the front of her shop. “I'm really not trying to be facetious when I ask, how can he have a plumbing emergency tomorrow? If it's an emergency, I'd think he'd be taking care of it today, then taking care of my plumbing emergency ... also today.” Emilie tried to sound hopeful, polite and a little desperate. The overflowing toilet was actually the least of her problems, but certainly the most immediate since, without a working commode, the town health department might be inclined to shut down her business ... again.

  Mrs. Plumber became evasive. “He's sort of out of town today."

  "Sort of? As in not completely out of town? Straddling the border, perhaps? Within cell phone distance?” Emilie stifled an exasperated sigh. She took another step backward and bumped into the bucket of blue water she'd already sopped up from the floor. The water sloshed on the carpet in the hallway, creating a soggy patch of Berber that squished when Emilie stepped in it.

  "How about this? Leave me on the schedule for Tuesday morning, and if I find someone else to take care of the problem before that, I'll let you know."

  Mrs. Plumber agreed, the hint of relief in her voice unmistakable.

  Emilie hung up, then jammed the cordless into the front pocket of her overalls just as the tinkling of the miniature sleigh bells attached to the shop's front door reached her.

  She dropped the mop, maneuvered around the bucket and popped her head around the doorjamb to greet her newest customer.

  "Mrs. Wenzel! Good morning!” Game face. Hundred-watt smile. Emilie repeated the mantra of a successful businesswoman in her head as she stepped up to the counter. “What can I do for you today?"

  Mrs. Wenzel gave Emilie a shy smile. At eighty-five, the woman had the physique and countenance of a pixie—all wispy white hair, tiny eyes and a feathery voice that seemed to come from a great distance. Untapped magickal potential oozed from her pores, but Emilie didn't quite know how to explain to the woman that she was probably a descendant of faerie folk. In a conservative town like Cypress Park, she'd learned she had to be careful about introducing residents, even her best customers, to the mystical side of life.

  "I'd like a bit more of that potpourri, if I may?” Mrs. Wenzel said. She hoisted her enormous purse onto the counter and pulled out a crinkled wax-paper bag with the Mystikal Excursions logo embossed on the front. “I'm afraid my kitty ate what I put out. I'll have to hide it from him this time."

  Emilie gave Mrs. Wenzel a sympathetic smile. “Don't worry, it won't hurt him. It's all natural.” She took the bag and checked the label. Mrs. Wenzel favored the Cleansing Herbs potpourri designed to banish bad vibes. The lemony scent permeated the front of the shop where Emilie needed it most these days.

  She refilled the bag from the container on the shelf behind her and Mrs. Wenzel held out a crisp five-dollar bill in exchange.

  "Why don't I give you a mesh bag to keep that in?” Emilie grabbed one of the spell bags she kept in a box beneath the counter and handed that to Mrs. Wenzel. “Fill this up and tie it tight. Hang it in your kitchen window where the sunlight will activate the scent."

  "Oh, good idea! Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Wenzel rummaged in her purse for more money, but Emilie stopped her.

  "No charge. Just let me know how it works."

  "Oh, thank you! Such a lovely girl!” Mrs. Wenzel took her purchase and stashed it in her purse, which she then hauled off the counter. Emilie watched the tiny woman swing the bag with her as she headed out of the shop.

  Two hours, one sale. Her brilliant smile drooped as Mrs. Wenzel wandered out the door after stopping to peruse a display of mood candles.

  No one ever told me it would be easy, she thought. With the reputation of the shop's previous owner, Emilie hadn't expected instant success for her business. Of course, she hadn't counted on the outright hostility of some of Cypress Park's resident's either. After all, she had helped banish that nasty band of demons that Chester Creek had conjured in the back room. Now if only she could get rid of the inscriptions on the floor.

  "Next order of business,” she said aloud. “Tie some herb bundles? Restock the smudge sticks? Coffee break?"

  The bells rang again.

  Emilie whirled around, ready to greet customer number two. Tall, with a surfer's tan and sandy hair, he filled the doorway. With his dark jeans, neat button-down shirt and broad shoulders, this was the kind of man that made a witch wish love potions really worked.

  A second later, Emilie's smile froze in place and her shoulders sank when she recognized her visitor. What in the depths of Hell was he doing here?

  The shingle that hung outside Daniel Garrison's office around the corner on Lakeshore Drive read “Investment Broker.” Emilie imagined that was just a clever pseudonym for “Arch Nemesis,” which was what she preferred to call him. Of all the residents of Cypress Park that didn't like the idea of a fourth-generation witch running a magick shop in town after the demon debacle, Daniel Garrison was the most vocal and obnoxious.

  Emilie could handle the subtle sidelong glances and the faint whispers. The plumbers who were mysteriously only partially out of town all week really didn't bother her. Even the shoppers who moved their children to the other side of the street as they passed the store didn't upset her. She wasn't the first in her family to come out of the broom closet and try to bring magick into the lives of the general populous. She'd come into the business with her eyes wide open and all her amulets charged.

  Still, she hadn't been prepared for Daniel Garrison and his petition to the town council, or his eloquent rhapsodizing about the inherent dangers of mystical artifacts and magickal herbs. Well, hell. Fire was dangerous in the wrong hands, too, but people still lit candles and built fireplaces in their homes.

  "Can I help you?” She forced the words out through her chilly grin and fixed him with a gaze designed to make his ears smoke.

  "Uh ... well...” His bright blue eyes swept the shop from the besoms to the Beltane incense display. “Are we alone?"

  "Do you mean ‘we’ as in mankind and ‘alone’ as in ‘in the universe'? Or do you mean literally—just you and me here in this room?” She crossed her arms over her chest, causing the phone she had slipped into her overalls to beep. She shut it off and gave him a languid glare.

  "Ha. Ha.” There it was. That Daniel Garrison arrogance. For a moment he'd actually looked ... nervous, maybe? But the uncertainty in his eyes fled at her comment. He turned and flipped over the “Closed” sign that dangled from a pewter chain on the front door.

  Emilie rounded the counter and propelled herself toward the door. “Excuse me, but I'm open for business. I don't do private consultations—at least not in the middle of the morning."

  Daniel held up his hands to stop her. “Whoa! Truce! Just for a second. I came here to call a truce."

  She stopped, crossing her arms over her chest again. “I don't see a white flag on you anywhere.” Nope. No white flag. His blue button-fly, stone-washed jeans fit nicely, though. Emilie silently berated herself for noticing.

  "I said truce, not surrender.” He looked at her from under his eyebrows, and for the first time, she noticed his long lashes and the rim of dark blue that ringed his irises. The look he gave her was disconcerting and strangely compelling.

  "Why do you want a truce?"

  "I need ...
your help."

  Emilie blinked. The confession had cost him. His gaze dropped. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head, as if throwing himself on her mercy.

  "I have just the thing. A potion to banish bad habits. A dab behind each ear—and poof—you'll disappear.” That was low. Emilie regretted the comment the instant it came out, but it felt good also. He took the needling in stride, and she gave him credit for that.

  A faint smile turned up one corner of his mouth. “I deserved that."

  "Hmm. I have more, so don't think you're off the hook. My store should be full of customers right now, but thanks to you, people are still terrified to come in here. Most people."

  "Chester Creek was conjuring minions in the back room. Cypress Park isn't ready for minions."

  "I'm not Chester Creek."

  "Which is why I came to ask for your help."

  Again, he caught her in that compelling stare. She thought of the protection amulet that nestled between her breasts. He didn't seem the type to have any magickal powers, but she reached up to touch the amulet through her T-shirt just in case.

  "What kind of help do you ... need?"

  "It's a long story. Is there somewhere we can sit down?"

  * * * *

  And I thought chasing a werewolf around town was hard, Daniel thought, as Emilie Swanson led him behind the counter of Mystikal Excursions and into a narrow hallway. He'd expected hostility from her. After all, he'd drafted the petition to have the premises permanently closed and all magickal businesses banned from Cypress Park. Not that he had anything against witches like Emilie, of course. The whole thing rested on principal. One bad apple sours the bunch, as his grandfather always said. Of course, Nathan Bigelow Garrison had dabbled in witchcraft himself, which had ultimately led to disaster, come to think of it.

  In the hallway, Emilie skirted around a bucket of blue water and a soggy mop and gestured him into a back room. He gave a skeptical glance at the mess and peeked into the lavatory, where an azure puddle spread across the aging linoleum.