Wolf of the Tesseract Read online

  Wiping the crust away from her eyes, Claire untangled the strands of hair kinked into the fine chain around her neck. The strange, locket-like pendant had been given to her by her father and she never took it off.

  Claire had just barely gotten out of bed; she shook off the comment about her tattered Minnesota Vikings pajama pants, the last gift she’d ever received from her mother before she passed away several years ago. Claire wasn’t always late to rise, but she’d dreamed so vividly last night, and rising before the doorbell had proven difficult.

  She scowled and tossed the box onto her countertop. Another one of her subtle plans to sabotage my wedding... making me too fat for my dress. Claire only barely tried to hide her displeasure that Vivian was the first bridesmaid to arrive for the wedding planning party. She was only a bridesmaid because her brother was the groom. Sometimes you have to take one for the family, her father had told her via telephone a week ago. If she’d been less diplomatic and had her own way, only Jackie would have been a wedding attendant.

  Claire flipped through the newspaper absentmindedly, stopping when she recognized a photo. ”Hey, I know that guy!” She turned to Vivian as she spoke, but Vivian didn’t pay her any attention as she organized the wedding periodicals scattered haphazardly on Claire’s coffee table. Claire prattled on anyway, partly to spite Vivian.

  “It says he was murdered last night in the museum.” She scanned further. “It happened just down from my Dad’s office! That’s where I’ve seen him before.”

  “Good thing Daddy’s away on that archeological dig, hmm?” She didn’t even look at Claire as she spoke.

  Something that Claire had learned about her soon-to-be sister in law was that she always payed attention. Claire was pretty sure, though, that she couldn’t see her scowling at her back. A few years older than her, they’d attended the same high school. Now, Vivian worked for some obscure government agency that Claire knew nothing about. She was pretty sure Vivian preferred it that way.

  “He worked in the same wing near Dad’s office,” she continued. “The coroner ruled it a homicide; a handprint on his throat makes it look like he was choked and he died of asphyxiation, but...” she trailed off.

  “But?”

  The doorbell buzzed. Claire turned to answer.

  “But there was no crushing damage to his neck. Just the handprint. No other trauma. That’s weird, right?”

  “Not as weird as your morbid obsession with forensic analysis. Maybe back off on the CSI marathons?”

  Claire rolled her eyes at what might have been a friendly ribbing, as if Vivian had ever acted friendly. She opened the door.

  “Yay!” Jackie leaned in for a hug, practically falling through the door to squeeze Claire into her bubbly embrace. Jackie caught a glimpse of her disheveled, yawning friend. “Oh my God. You haven’t had any coffee yet, have you?”

  Claire only grimaced in reply at her ever-peppy friend.

  Jackie held up a single digit to indicate she should wait a moment. Jackie spun around and bent to get a drink tray she’d set on the floor outside the apartment door. She happily turned back with a smile that betrayed the early morning hour.

  “I got you an extra shot to help you deal with—Oh hi, Vivian!” she exclaimed. Jackie squeezed past Claire and into the apartment.

  Claire smiled as she took one of only two cups from the cardboard cup holder. Her best friend since high school knew the rules well: true friendship meant an unspoken alliance against anyone who didn’t properly appreciate your best friend.

  “I smell doughnuts!” Jackie snatched up the box and raised her drink in salute. “Say what you want about Seattle,” she referenced her original home state, “but they’ve got nothing on Caribou.” She’d spent her high school years with Claire before relocating back west for college, even though her family remained in the area.

  “Ugh,” Vivian rolled her eyes. “But the snow?”

  Claire smiled subversively as she sipped her giant sized Turtle Mocha. Vivian always complained about the cold, like she was some kind of reptile; Claire hoped that one day she’d up and relocate to a warmer climate. “Oh, I don’t know,” she walked to the patio door and opened it to the late-spring morning air. She left it open intentionally and glimpsed Vivian pulling her arms around her, “I’ve always liked it.”

  Gazing across the skyline she pondered how Duluth was unlike the larger metropolitan areas; it existing only minutes away from actual wilderness. It offered many of the comforts of a tiny city, but without the soullessness she felt engulfed within whenever she visited Minneapolis or worse, Chicago. Those were jungles of concrete, but she preferred the adventure of the real wild. Even if that notion resided mostly in her head; she’d rarely left the city since beginning college, and before then her experiences mostly centered on helping her father at archaeological sites.

  She took another deep, satisfying sip from her cup and leaned over her railing, gazing out at the cold bay the city rested upon. Claire took in the morning view; traffic had not yet awoken in her part of the city. She glanced down and did a double take.

  A wild-eyed and bedraggled homeless man stared up at her. She looked away when their eyes met, but caught sight of him again from her peripheral vision. He didn’t even try to hide his gaze; he stared at her for long moments while Claire pretended to focus on other things. She finally locked eyes with him again, hoping he would notice the stern look on her face and turn away.

  As their eyes met, Claire’s plan backfired. Her nerves failed; she backed away, discomfort overwhelming her. Blushing, she retreated back inside her apartment. “Jackie, I’ve got to tell you about this crazy dream I had last night.” She tried changing the subject of her inner dialogue to ignore her little defeat on the terrace. But still, something about the man rang uncannily familiar in her memories.

  “Oh, I love dreams,” Jackie said, stuffing the last bite of pastry into her mouth.

  Claire glanced across the room. “Yeah. But remind me later. After lunch.” Nodding at her nemesis on the couch, she picked up a bridal magazine and yellow legal pad, hoping Jackie would understand her subtle plea for privacy. It might have partly been due to the content of the dream: she hadn’t dreamt of James, her fiancé last night—a fact which both embarrassed and intrigued her—real “best friend” kind of material. Scribbling at the top of the tablet the topic Wedding Plans, she said, “We’ve got a lot to do for now.”

  . . .

  “Thank God Vivian had to go do a work thing,” Jackie laughed. “She really is the worst!”

  “I know,” Claire matched her giggle. “I don’t appreciate being made fun of,” she impersonated the flat tone of her fiancé’s sister.

  Jackie laughed so hard she snorted. She quickly covered her nose; her eyes watered. “I don’t know how she keeps her face so blank and expressionless. I don’t know how you can do such a good impression, either!”

  “Oh easy,” she laughed. “I binge watched a bunch of Kristen Stewart movies last week.”

  “Yeah, I figure that’s the only qualifying talent that got Vivian her job with the CIA, or FBI, or whatever it is she works for. What is her title? Special Research Division Consultant? Her title sounds pretty meaningless, if you ask me.”

  Claire nodded, politely laughing. Despite the slight lingering chill, they sat in the outdoor seating area of a restaurant in the trendy waterfront district. Her eyes, however, darted back towards the traffic. Something felt off, like she was being watched.

  “Honestly, I understand we didn’t know her very well in high school because of the age difference, but we knew enough: she had a super-hot, semi-famous half-brother, and she was a shallow, soulless vampire of a human being. Ohmygodyourright!” She covered her mouth in a mock gasp. “She IS Kristen Stewart!”

  Claire laughed, despite the distracted feeling in her mind. And then her eyes spotted him. The shaggy man: the homeless wanderer from outside her apartment building. He stood next to the bus stop, watching the small
crowd in her direction. Her eyes fixed on him like lasers for a long moment.

  “Claire. Claire? Earth to Claire?”

  She shook her head and looked back to Jackie. “Huh?” She realized her friend had been talking for a while and she’d zoned out. “Sorry, this bum across the street was staring at me.”

  “Oh, is he cute?” she blurted out, leaning across the table for a better view.

  Claire looked back, but he was gone.

  “Well, if he is cute, send him my way. I still have a plus-one to fill for your wedding and Tinder is only full of creepers. Say, when is James coming back to town, anyway?”

  Night came early, but not as early as Jackie’s snores. She’d fallen asleep on Claire’s couch even though she intended to return to her parents’ home for the duration of her stay. They both knew it was possible that she’d sleep most nights on Claire’s couch. The television’s volume remained barely audible; neither had paid much attention to their Say Yes to the Dress Netflix marathon which still flickered on the nearby screen.

  Claire glanced sidelong at her best friend and smirked. It was good that she’d come back for the summer. They hadn’t had much time together since college; there was always something else vying for attention: boys, education, careers, possibly graduate school, but she felt confident that nothing could ever truly come between them. They’d always be connected.

  She glanced at the TV and wondered if she felt as deeply connected to James, too. Maybe I’m just in love with the idea of being in love? She asked herself the honest, hard question. A former professional athlete, turned celebrity actor… what’s not to love about him? But am I in love, or do I just want to be married to a good option? Her private reflections stretched long, penetrating her deepest fears and hopes. Was she making her best choice? Is a good choice always necessarily the best one?

  On the counter nearby, her phone vibrated repeatedly indicating a phone call. The device’s insistent buzz snapped her out of the reverie.

  Claire pushed those momentary doubts and thoughts far from her and chalked them up to cold feet. She dispelled them with a smile and quick thought of the ways her husband would make her happy. She reached for the phone, already knowing it would be her father. Most of her other friends would simply text her, and James was still filming a piece on the west coast which had him tied up with his busy schedule.

  “Hello daddy,” she answered. Claire could tell that the signal was weak by the laggy quality of his voice.

  “I was just checking in to see if everything was okay? I mean, I’m sure there is no danger, but Professor Jecima told me about a security guard who was murdered in the museum.”

  Claire reassured him that everything was okay. He tended to worry more when he was far away and couldn’t respond to emergencies. But that would be her new husband’s job, anyway… as if anyone could ever be such a vigilant protector as a father over his only daughter.

  “It’s all so very mysterious,” he commented. “The murderer left so many priceless items behind; he or she only stole an ancient text that Professor Jecima had been decoding, the Grimmorium Nitthogr he’d called it. He figured it was the earliest work of some ancient religious fiction—that or it must’ve been from another planet.” Her father chuckled nervously. “It referenced a being of immense power called the Sh’logath. It was all so very Lovecraftian.

  “It’s mythology and theology doesn’t match any others from any time-frame or any culture known to man. Probably why Jecima made the alien joke. We’ll never know, I guess. He’d only just begun his translations, really; it’s a shame. And too bad about Franklin. He was an okay kid.”

  As he digressed from the tragedy, Claire asked, “How is everything going on the dig?”

  “It’s okay, but I thought it more important to call and talk about what was happening in the land of the living, instead of the realms of the dead.”

  She chuckled. He always talked like that. Even if he let his work consume him at times, especially in those years following her mother’s passing, he’d always made it a point to stay connected to family. He valued the things that were important to Claire—even when those things weren’t really all that significant. She smiled and reflected on that between his laggy, long distance questions about wedding plans.

  He reassured her that they would talk again soon. She promised to pick a flattering color scheme so he could hit it off with the single ladies at the wedding dance. He vowed not to dance, unless the musician’s played Beyoncé; they both agreed, laughing.

  …Elsewhere…

  Princess Bithia sat clad in chains, firmly affixed to the stiff chair inside the tiny cell. Even with her hair matted and her clothes dirty, she still looked regal and maintained an air of nobility.

  She hung her head, masking her anguished face behind the veil of falling locks. The hair softened the blows as Nitthogr slapped her again with the back of his hand.

  “Give me what I want, Princess.”

  “By all the power our Creator has given me, I will not,” she hissed through her teeth. “If I could grant you what you wished, I would resist you until the end.”

  The warlock grinned at her defiance. “I am a patient man, Bithia,” he remarked casually. He slapped her again in a brief flash of rage.

  Bithia shuddered under the blow. She looked up at him and smirked; her defiant personality peeked through.

  “Oh, you think you can hold out until you expire, sealing all your precious royal secrets and powers away forever in the royal tomb?” He pounded on the door signaling a vyrm soldier outside.

  The guard pushed in a metallic contraption. Its wheels squeaked beneath the conical base which supported a shimmering orb.

  “I’ve been playing the long game for decades now,” he spat, activating the artifact. It emitted an ominous, vibrating hum.

  Bithia glared at the image flaring to life above the active sphere. It pulled its signal from across the planes of reality, opening a visual portal to the Earth realm. She stared at her reverse image in dawning horror. In this different dimension her alternate persona talked into a flat, rectangular communication device. She talked with some other person… her father? Bithia’s mind touched briefly with her doppelganger, even spanning the planes of reality. Her spirit confirmed that it was indeed her dimensional variant.

  Nitthogr grimaced and manipulated the image, pulling its focus in closer. “Do you see it, Princess?”

  Bithia stared in horror at the long lost relic which the girl absent-mindedly toyed with as she spoke into her device. The dimensional inversion pendant!

  As the dawning comprehension spread across her face, a smile crept across the ageless sorcerer’s. “The long game is mine: the more you hate me, the closer she comes to being mine! Your feelings for me here on the prime readily reverse and find root in your inter-planar self!”

  Nitthogr struck her again for good measure, and then left her to sulk in her lonely, dark cell.

  Her vivid nightmare had returned! No stranger to reoccurring dreams, last night’s vision came back with full fury, and while Claire knew she dreamt, she winced and writhed anxiously under her sheets, trapped by the reverie.

  Struggling against violent winds which tore through her, Claire strained against the unknown spiritual forces that clutched her and she clawed against the air. Her voice was barely audible over the shrieking winds. Her father’s ancient locket had pulled free from her neck and threatened to fling itself into the maelstrom that spun her about.

  She squinted against the gale that spun her around… her and this unknown man—her true love. Claire’s eyes dried out and blurred as their bodies spun within the void. She couldn’t make out his face, but in her heart she knew it was her life’s great love, and then guilt washed over her.

  He yelled for her to hold on, but her heart went numb. Hand in hand, Claire’s iron grip weakened where her engagement ring bit into her finger, the massive rock pressed into her flesh. Guilt.

  Claire looked at the
man. This felt all too familiar. She only knew this wasn’t James. The shame of that realization stole her breath. As she looked at the man, her mind turned fuzzy and her breathless lungs screamed. Her hand slipped from his and the cyclonic wind threw her across the horizon.

  Suddenly gasping for air, Claire sat up in her bed. “Stupid sleep apnea,” she muttered, punching her pillow. She tried to return to her slumber. “At least it wasn’t that stupid wolf dream.”

  She sighed, and slowly relaxed into a fitful slumber. Immediately, she began having the chronically reoccurring dream where she was helpless and hunted by a ravenous wolf.

  . . .

  Claire yawned, as if that could chase away the lingering fatigue that clung to her. She clutched her large, double-shot espresso drink as if it alone could provide her salvation.

  The air was crisp on this bright, sunny morning, and people walked everywhere in the busy shopping area atop the hill. The shopping area rested a lofty height above the Great Lake Superior giving them a gorgeous morning view. Claire watched the shoppers bustle to and fro, waiting for her bridesmaids at an outdoor table at the café.

  Jackie plopped down in the metal chair, laying the daily newspaper in front of her friend. She set down a napkin-wrapped scone and glared at it. Jackie didn’t trust scones. “Where is Vivian? She always brings junk food, and they were all out of the good stuff inside.”

  Claire smiled over her hot cup of goodness. She knew Jackie would eat it anyway.

  “I mean, look at it,” Jackie nudged it as if it might be alive. “It’s hard like a rock. I don’t know if it’s animal, vegetable, or mineral.”

  “You know, Vivian doesn’t eat that stuff. I think she’s just trying to poison us with it.”

  “Well, the jokes on her,” Jackie laughed as Claire leafed through the paper. “I was going to buy that junk anyway. I might as well let her do the honors for me and at her expense.”