Page 14 of Relics of the Wolf

“You could also try living in a van,” Duncan said. “It’s quite freeing. Though it can be a challenge to find a parking spot where nobody is threatening to have you towed.” He gave me a sidelong look.

I stuck my tongue out at him.

Rue looked back and forth between us. “Not mates? You are certain?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, then stood, afraid that if we lingered, she would bring up warts again.

Duncan lifted a hand. “Rue, do you know what other alchemist in the area might have supplied those men? Or where we might find them? They didn’t mention an employer to you, did they?”

“They did not. They grew hostile when I said I would not make their elixir. Fortunately, I have ways to defend myself. As to other alchemists in the area, no. Even those that I would consider as having few scruples would be hesitant to make a potion using what could only be the stolen organs of dead, possibly murdered, women. In this city, one must worry not only about staying on the right side of the law but not drawing the ire of the paranormal watchers that patrol the area.”

Duncan nodded. I’d not heard ofparanormal watchersand would have to ask him about that later.

“As to locating the men, you might ask around at El Gato Mágico, a bar in the industrial part of the waterfront that attracts quirky individuals affiliated with the paranormal. It’s known to be a place where those with particular needs can go to hire and be hired. You can also get an excellent margarita there.” Rue winked. “With a kick.”

“We’ll check.” Duncan stood, took her hand, and brushed his lips on her skin before releasing her.

“You’re a ridiculous flirt, Mr. Calderwood.” Rue managed to look pleased and stern at the same time.

“I am merely a werewolf who knows the importance of staying in an alchemist’s good graces.” Duncan bowed before heading out.

I left without kissing anything of Rue’s, though I did give her the name of our apartment complex. The smells and smoke-stained ceiling suggested she wouldn’t be an ideal tenant, but it had been convenient having a potion maker a few doors away. Given how fraught my life had grown of late, it might be evenmoreconvenient going forward.

5

“It’s onlya few blocks to the waterfront,” I told Duncan after looking up El Gato Mágico in my Maps app. “It might be easier to leave your van here instead of trying to find another parking spot.”

The chilly late November air, punctuated with spats of rain, should have kept people home, but weather couldn’t keep humans from wanting to eat and drink out. Further, Christmas lights already adorned store windows and the bare-branched trees lining the streets. Lots of pedestrians clutched shopping bags as they hurried between shops.

“Leave it here?” Duncan looked blankly at me. “When we’re going to the waterfront?”

“Yes…” I pointed west. “The bar is right down there.”

“But out on a pier, yes?” Duncan leaned over to consider my map, then pointed. “One ofmanypiers thrusting out into the water. They’re huge. And with all those shops and restaurants on them, imagine the amount of foot traffic passing near those railings.”

The reason for his objection finally clicked.

“You need to park closer so that your magnetic fishing gear is at hand?” I asked dryly.

“Ofcourse. And my SCUBA gear. I found a number of antique logging tools when I dove around the Edmonds waterfront. Did you know that started out as a timber town?”

“Yes, most of this area did. I think the termskid roadcomes from Seattle. They used to grease slats and slide the logs down the hill to the mills on the waterfront.” As we climbed into the van, I added, “What kind of logging tools could survive a century in saltwater? A saw would corrode away in that time, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing was in good shape, with little left but barnacle-covered saw handles, but it was a fascinating find.”

“A valuable find?”

“I donated the tools to the Edmonds Museum.”

“So no value.”

“They were of historical interest.” Duncan backed his van out, a zippy electric vehicle immediately pouncing on our vacated spot, and drove toward the waterfront.

“I’m beginning to think you’re as delighted finding rusty forks as real treasures.”

“It’s possible there’s a reason I live in my van.” He smirked at me.

“You can’t be that impoverished. The gas money I tried to give you last week is still on the dash.” I pointed to six dollars pinned down by a bobblehead fisherman holding a giant salmon. It looked like it had been hand painted, or at least touched up after damage, so something told methathad come out of the water too.

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