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  A brilliant idea struck Aleksandra just then. She made a mental note to create bar stools covered in whale foreskin. She thought it’d be a good way to shock future guests.

  Laer was thinking of setting off a round of explosives in the expensive yacht, but he realized it wasn’t the best move. It was too guerrilla, and wouldn’t humiliate or shame the Nikolics. He had to make a more sophisticated statement, to be taken a little more seriously by haute couture devotees who reveled in cold-blooded vanities to pass their time.

  Arguing and activism didn’t interest Laer. He was clearly picturing a better way to make a statement. The energy he felt gathering within himself came as a surprise, like he was gaining a sense of some kind of new purpose in life.

  “Sorry,” Laer whispered to Stefan from the back. “But I have to do what I have to do.”

  He stood behind the unsuspecting Stefan, covering his friend’s eyes with his hands. “Lanta kaima’lova handasse.” The spell would keep Laer’s human friend asleep and unconscious for the next hour.

  “Where’s Stefan?” Aleksandra called out, just as Laer turned around to face her with his piercing green eyes.

  “Va, vine, viata,” he murmured, waving his hand toward the stunning silver snake arm band Aleksandra was wearing.

  “Is Stefan all right?” Aleksandra inquired. The Elven words Laer was muttering were gibberish to her ears.

  A chill ran through her lithe frame when she saw the absolute lack of any human warmth in Laer’s striking gaze. “Wh—”

  She gave a bloodcurdling shriek as her hand went to her throat.

  Laer stood still and watched as her eyes began to roll back—she was lying on the ground, convulsing, immobile after her snake arm band had come to life and slithered up her arm to bite her on the neck. Her blood was now poisoned and saturated with pure, undiluted mercury.

  “I—” was all Andre managed to utter when he stepped into the room.

  Laer waved his hand to the billionaire, who collapsed onto the ground alongside his former Yugoslavian pop-star wife once the silver snake had punctured his jugular vein too.

  “Neuma en’ templa,” Laer chanted, to trap the 30-strong crew onboard in a sleep spell as well.

  He had to work fast—he was simply not yet strong enough as a dark arts practitioner to keep a large group of people unconscious for an extended amount of time.

  “Lietha guldur!” He dispelled the charm on the silver arm band. With a metallic clink, the snake band returned to its original form and stayed on the ground, unmoving, as Laer went forward to pick it up.

  Once he’d disrupted the power grid of the yacht’s integrated surveillance system, Laer whistled as he worked, dreaming of skinning the Nikolics like how an animal was skinned, unfazed by the quick, unmessy murders he’d just committed.

  “After all, it’s not abuse if the animal is dead…” he muttered over the Nikolics’s corpses.

  But it was tricky to skin a human body. He didn’t have the time or knowledge to drain all the blood without making a big mess. He also didn’t know if he could undo any mistakes he might make, especially if it involved the removal of the head.

  The young dark elf chose to strip and drag the bodies out instead, placing them on the grotesque Michel Haillard horned chairs covered in crocodile skin, with the tails that slunk out onto the floor.

  The Nikolics’s stark nude bodies were displayed in the same fashion as the chairs, with their arms and legs resting on and splayed out the exact same way that the horns and tails on the chairs curled up and out.

  “Two for the win.” Laer stood back, re-positioning the bodies a couple of times, admiring his precise handiwork, when he decided to add a few more things.

  “Skalle,” he said, conjuring up two blood-spattered human skulls.

  He placed one skull below the tiger and lion heads hanging on the wall—one human skull for each animal head—before having another flash of inspiration.

  “Sk’aal’burdur,” he said as he snapped his fingers at the animal heads on the wall, replacing them with real-life replicas of the heads of the Nikolics.

  “Skål,” Laer chuckled, enjoying the word play, holding one hand up like he was holding a wine glass. A Skål was a Scandinavian toast of friendship usually offered when drinking, as a casual toast. He toasted the moment to his first kills as a dark elf. It’d been worth it, and something to brag about if he ever felt like it.

  Laer grabbed Aleksandra’s snake arm band, taking it as his trophy and souvenir, and as his future weapon of choice.

  A thin smile appeared on Laer’s face as he looked upon the scene of his slaughter. Suddenly, the croc skins seemed to be shining even brighter than they had before. With each passing second, they were looking more and more alive under the pallid remains of Mr. and Mrs. Nikolic.

  One more finishing touch, he said to himself.

  He went over to their laptop, ran a quick search on how the fur trade worked, and printed out the paragraph:

  “Fur items come from animals who spend their short, miserable lives in cramped, filthy cages until they are slaughtered, or they are trapped and beaten to death in the wild. Fur farmers and trappers often use the cheapest and cruelest killing methods available, including suffocation, electrocution, gassing, bludgeoning, drowning, and poisoning. Many animals are still alive and able to feel pain when workers begin to rip the skin off their bodies.”

  Laer signed the paper off with “We (The Dead Animals) Are Watching You,” to infer to the authorities that it was the dead skins that had come to life and taken their revenge on the hard-partying socialites.

  After scribbling one final thought that summed up his entire feelings on the exotic skins trade, Laer tacked the piece of paper onto the side of Aleksandra’s death-trapped face. He thought it was fitting that she had died with her mouth open, akin to the head of the jaguar rug on obscene display in the middle of the room.

  He carried the still-asleep Stefan over his shoulder and vacated the scene, getting into one of the Hov Pods stored aboard in the side tender garage of the Mystère. He had just enough manna left in him for the day to accelerate the motor and head back to shore, somewhere faraway from the luxury yacht and scene of the crime.

  As he felt the delightfully warm sun and fresh breeze on his face, Laer thought of the line he’d written down at the last minute, in his small, neat handwriting:

  We should all learn to feel comfortable in our own skins.

  ***

  About the Author:

  Jess is an independent author/artist/non-conformist who’s dedicated to writing original stories that are both meaningful and entertaining. She works in a diverse range of genres, such as contemporary fiction, YA fiction, poetry, urban fantasy, and cyberpunk. She thanks you for your support of indie authors.

  Learn more about Jess and her writing at: https://www.jessINK.com

 

  ###

  Whisperer

  by Jaleta Clegg

  Copyright © Jaleta Clegg

  I smelled her long before she made her entrance, a musky animal scent that still remained feminine and alluring. I scribbled a note in the margin of the police report pretending to ignore her. She sashayed across my office like a supermodel, all long legs, tiny waist, generous bosom, and platinum hair. It might have worked if I’d been a male PI from the fifties. I set the pencil aside and fixed my gaze on her face. Marilyn Monroe would have sold her soul to have that face and those emerald eyes. I suppressed a flare of jealousy. Some women have all the luck. I’m not one of them.

  “May I help you?” I smiled my blandest please-don’t-waste-my-time-or-I-might-have-to-hit-you-before-I-throw-you-out-on-your-shapely-derriere smile.

  She cocked her head, green eyes studying me. Silvery blonde strands swirled like silk over her bare shoulder. I wondered how her slinky cocktail dress could possibly keep her warm in our high altitude spring weather. Goose Falls lay on the north slope of a big mountain. Snow lingered into late June
most years. Good for the tall pines that hugged the slopes and the ritzy ski lodges on the other side. Not good for curvaceous women in revealing cocktail dresses.

  She extended her hand. Was I supposed to kiss it? She set a square of cream paper on my police report. “My name is Maeve. I hear you have a wolf problem.”

  That got my attention. I sat straighter in my chair. “Have a seat.” I waved at the battered chair across from me. I’d found it abandoned in a parking lot. Stuffing crawled from one torn corner. It listed to the right. I found it encouraged people to get to the point as quickly as possible. I wasn’t much for small talk.

  The woman sat. The chair remained upright and stable. I watched for the slightest hint of discomfort.

  Maeve smiled, red lips curving to reveal just the tips of perfect teeth. “You are Tori Jespers, are you not? And you are investigating the wolf attacks over the last winter?”

  I nodded. “And you have information?”

  She tapped one scarlet nail on her card. “I’m a wolf whisperer. I can help.”

  I studied her simple card. The outline of a howling wolf stamped in gold, her name—Maeve Lupus, Canid Control, and a contact number. “I’m a consultant for the police on the matter. You should see if they’ll pay you for your services.” I slid her card towards her.

  “I have. They sent me to you.” She turned up the wattage on her smile.

  If I’d been male, it would have melted me. But, since I was female, it only activated the rivalry response system hard-wired into my primitive brain. My smile twisted into a partial snarl. I didn’t like Maeve Lupus. “I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer, Miss Lupus. Thanks for stopping by.”

  She rose from her seat. “Give me a call if you change your mind. I can make it very worth your while. Perhaps you can even afford a decent office chair.” She showed her white teeth.

  I gritted mine. “Thank you for coming, Miss Lupus. I’ll be sure to call if I need your services.”

  She gyrated her way from my office.

  I tapped her card on my desk. I’d bet my entire business, such as it was, that Maeve Lupus knew something about the wolves. But I’d be damned before I worked with her and her slinky evening gown at ten in the morning. I gathered my maps and notes. It was time to find my own resources.

  The ranger station lay at the far edge of town, a whopping ten minute stroll from my office above Lillian’s hair salon and drugstore. The bell above the door jangled as I shoved it open.

  “Morning, Tori.” Roy tipped his hat. He reminded me of a bear, all bulk and shaggy brown hair. His tribal heritage added to the image.

  “Hey, Roy. Got a minute?”

  “For you, darling, I’ve always got time. What’s up?” He shifted the gift shop gadgets to the far side of the counter.

  I spread my maps across the space. “Wolves.”

  “What do the police want you to do with them?”

  I shrugged. “Trap them, relocate them, anything but shoot them. The environmental skiers would have a tizzy fit and complain to their friends in the government if we did that. I set up traps starting last March all along the game trails. Every single one tripped but the only thing I caught was a very angry skunk.”

  Roy wrinkled his broad nose. “Bad spirits with these wolves.” He muttered in his native language, a phrase I’d never heard before. “You need Larou’s help.”

  I bent over the map to hide the flush in my cheeks.

  “He’s at Beaver Lodge,” Roy continued, as if he didn’t notice my reaction. “He knows more about the wolves in the park than anyone. I’ll let him know you want to talk.”

  “Thanks. What are your thoughts on these wolves?” I traced the markers pinpointing attack sites. They moved progressively closer to town.

  “Bad spirits. You’ll want this.” He removed a pouch from around his neck, holding it to me by the leather thong. “Herbs, spirit magic, protection from bad wolves.”

  The pouch was worn to buttery softness. I sniffed. It smelled odd, not in a bad way. I slipped the leather thong over my head and tucked the bag inside my shirt.

  “Wear it in good health, Tori Jespers.” Roy made it sound like a formal blessing.

  The door jangled as a group of campers entered. I rolled my maps, nodding to Roy as I left the ranger station.

  ***

  “I smell a bitch in heat.”

  My heart skipped more than a few beats as I looked up from the police reports I was reading. “Nice to see you, too, Larou.” I couldn’t keep the bitter note from my voice. I thought we’d had a relationship at one time. He’d left me one night without a word of explanation.

  Larou shook his head, his golden hair flopping across his brow. He got his coloring from his French Canadian mother and his exotic features from his Native American father. I didn’t know where his golden eyes came from. I’d never met anyone with eyes that shade. “No, a wolf bitch. In heat. Your office reeks of it.”

  “I can assure you that I have not been entertaining wolf bitches in my office. Only human bitches in evening gowns.” I tapped my pen on the police reports.

  Larou straddled my uncomfortable office chair. He folded his arms across the wobbly back. “I sense a story. Want to share?”

  I twiddled the pen between my fingers. “What happened to us, Larou? You walked out one night and never came back. Not a word for months.”

  He shrugged. “Roy said you needed help with the wolves. Judging by the smell in here, I’d say he’s right.”

  “I loved you.” I still did, but saying that wouldn’t change anything and might scare him off permanently.

  “Come to my cabin tonight and I’ll help you with the wolf threat. I don’t like the signs I’ve been seeing all spring. You’ll need these, it’s a full moon tonight.” He set a small box on my desk. “You still carry that little gun?”

  I opened the box. Bullets gleamed silver in the afternoon sunlight.

  “It wouldn’t have worked, Tori.”

  He was gone before I could answer.

  ***

  I wrapped my jacket around me. Moonlight spilled across the daffodils blooming in the town square, turning them from yellow to pale silver. My gun weighted my pocket. I’d loaded the silver bullets and tucked the extras in my pocket, though I wondered at Larou’s superstition. He’d never seemed to care about such things before, but I didn’t know him as well as I’d thought at the time. The herbal scent of Roy’s pouch surrounded me, released by my body heat as I walked through town to the cabin at the far edge that Larou called home.

  I saw few people. The chill kept most indoors by their fireplaces. In another month, the mosquitoes would keep them inside. I breathed deeply of the pine-scented darkness. I paused on the wooden footbridge across Goose Creek. Water rushed over stones below me, invisible in the shadows. Moonlight didn’t reach below the tall pines.

  Branches crackled on the path behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, my hand sliding into my pocket to cradle the handgun. I saw nothing in the darkness. The breeze kicked up. PIne cones scattered across the ground. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  I started at a brisk pace up the path beyond the creek. Larou’s cabin was another quarter mile. The pines hid the town lights behind and below.

  I rounded a bend and stepped into a pocket meadow. Moonlight spilled across the spring grasses. A wolf, black as midnight and as large as a small pony, stepped from the shadows on the far side of the meadow. He planted himself on the path, head down and tail high. The hair on my neck crawled at the sound of his growl.

  I swore, backing slowly. The wolf problem had found me. I knew the pack was attacking lone hikers, but not this close to town. I turned at the edge of the meadow.

  A silver wolf bitch loped along the trail, headed for me with murder in her green eyes. Three more wolves, more normal size and coloring, followed.

  I backed into the meadow. My finger slid into the trigger guard of the gun.

  The black wolf advanced, one slow st
ep at a time. He was playing with me. Two more wolves danced behind him, big brindled grays.

  My pulse thudded as my adrenaline kicked into high. I pulled the gun from my pocket. A shot or two usually scattered wolf packs. I doubted it would work with this one. The leaders, the big black and the silver bitch, weren’t normal wolves. Larou had warned me about the full moon. Werewolves in Goose Falls? Stranger things had happened, like the cat who stole baby chipmunks to raise as kittens. Or the people who claimed they spoke with Indian spirits and channeled crystal power from the native rocks. I just never thought I’d have to believe in folk tales. I was facing one now and it wasn’t amusing in the least.

  “Maeve Lupus,” I addressed the silver wolf. “Where’s your evening gown?” I aimed the gun at her head, using both hands to steady it square between her eyes.

  She sat on the trail, tongue hanging from her mouth. I swear she laughed at me.

  I tightened my grip, squeezing the trigger. Knowing Larou, the bullets he’d given me were silver. I wondered if they’d really kill a werewolf any more than regular bullets.

  The black wolf hit me from behind, knocking me to my belly on the trail. The gun fired as it bounced from my hand. I swore as I scrabbled in the dirt. Hot wolf breath brushed my face and neck as he snapped his teeth beside my ear. I elbowed him in the head. He growled, his paws clawing at my jacket.

  Maeve the Werewolf joined in the attack. She bit my hair, snapping my head to one side. I wrapped one arm around my head, punching with the other. She yelped as my blow landed home on one ear. I scrambled to my knees as the black wolf snapped teeth shut on my jacket sleeve. I slammed my arm into his head. He growled, jerking backwards. My jacket tore. His teeth left flaming scratches across my bare arm.

  I needed help and I needed it fast. I lunged to my feet, then turned to kick at the two wolves. They circled, growling and snapping at my feet and flailing arm. I dug through my pocket for my cell phone. I saw no sign of my gun in the night-dark meadow. Maeve jumped, her front paws thumping on my chest. I stumbled backwards, falling on my rump in the grass. My cell phone spun away. One of the other, smaller wolves caught it, crushing it in broad jaws.