Wolf Hunted Read online

  Wolf Hunted

  Northern Creatures Book Four

  Kris Austen Radcliffe

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Fae Touched

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  The Worlds of

  About the Author

  Copyright 2019 Kris Austen Radcliffe

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Six Talon Sign Fantasy & Futuristic Romance

  Edited by Annetta Ribken

  Copyedited by Juli Lilly

  “Northern Creatures” artwork created by Christina Rausch

  Cover to be designed by Covers by Christian

  Plus a special thanks to my Proofing Crew.

  Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, programs, services, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  For requests, please e-mail: [email protected].

  First electronic edition, January 2019

  Version: 1.5.2019

  ISBN: 978-1-939730-69-5

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  Chapter 1

  The renewal of royal vows came as a surprise. Perhaps not to Alfheim’s elves, or to her werewolves, but I was certainly caught off guard, mostly because I’d been busy since my return from Las Vegas. I had a woman to find.

  A mysterious woman I could not remember. A woman who I suspected had my dog.

  My canine emperor, Marcus Aurelius, was a stout hound of indeterminate breed, intelligent and fully capable of taking care of himself. He came home intermittently, mostly to say hello, looking well-fed and well-groomed and wagging his tail. Someone was caring for him.

  But there would be no searching for either my dog or my mystery woman this afternoon. Not with a royal re-wedding to attend.

  Ed Martinez, the currently-off-duty sheriff of our magical corner of the world, straightened his cufflinks and his tie. Like me, he wore a nice autumn-toned suit, his a warmish blue-gray flecked with gold that complemented his features, and mine a red-oak-tinted gray that warmed my otherwise sallow skin.

  We were under orders to dress for the occasion, and had both been fitted by the town tailor, an elf with exquisite taste and an eye for proportion. Neither Ed nor I would have been nearly as well-coordinated if we’d been left to our own devices, though Ed at least understood where to shop and how to harmonize colors.

  He looked up at my tie, frowned, and patted at the gray and maroon strip of fabric looped around my neck like a modern noose.

  “How can you be two centuries old and not know how to tie a Windsor knot?” he asked.

  I looked down at the tie. I often asked Maura to help because of my big, clumsy fingers, but she and Akeyla had already left by the time I’d returned from my daily—hourly, to be honest—venture into the woods surrounding my lake home.

  She was out there somewhere, my mystery woman. Somewhere nearby. I swear I could feel her. So I looked every day.

  Maura and Akeyla had noticed, and were beginning to make faces. Finding Marcus Aurelius worked as an excuse for about a week. Now both of my elven houseguests puckered their lips and tossed suspicious looks in my general direction every time I stepped off the deck and headed into the rustling trees.

  “Frank,” Ed said. “Focus.”

  I exhaled and looked up at the clear blue autumn sky over Alfheim. Arne Odinsson and Dagrun Tyrsdottir, our King and Queen, were about to renew their centuries-old marriage vows in Alfheim’s downtown-adjacent tourist-filled Riverside Park, and they’d invited everyone—all the elves, wolves, townies, out-of-town tourists who’d come up from The Cities for the weekend, and every single one of the farmers in the surrounding territory. I was surprised we didn’t have a senator or two, or the mayors of Bemidji, Brainerd, Duluth, and Grand Rapids here as well.

  We didn’t, as far as I could tell. The only politicians in the park were the local elves.

  Ed adjusted my tie. I frowned and pulled on it myself. “It’s fine.”

  He shook his head. “You’re standing up with elves.”

  “So are you.” Ed, Gerard Geroux—Remy was still in Las Vegas and would be home in a few days—one of the elven owners of Raven’s Gaze Brewery and Pub, Bjorn Thorsson, and I were standing on Arne’s side. Maura, Akeyla, Benta, and Axlam Geroux on Dag’s side.

  Someone had set up a video feed for Remy in Vegas; Magnus, who was in New Zealand; and a few other elves in other enclaves, whom I suspected were the real audience. After the International Conclave we’d all survived two weeks ago in Las Vegas, the other Elven Courts needed to be reminded that the King and Queen of Alfheim stood united.

  At least this reminder had a bouncy castle for the kids.

  How much time inside the giant forced-air wonder, complete with turrets and a unicorn, would the kids demand? If I left right after the ceremony, I could probably get in another hour or two of searching before Maura and Akeyla got home.

  “Frank,” Ed said as if reading my mind, “this post-Vegas obsession of yours isn’t healthy.”

  Ed knew I was searching for someone. Every day, new surprise danced across his features when I asked for help. Then I got the bright idea to not ask and to offer a more mundane reason instead. Ed now thought I was looking for Marcus Aurelius. He remembered that there might be some sort of magical something-or-other involved, or a person, and when I had sheriff-actionable information, I’d share.

  Besides, my “health” could weather most storms. We had a mystery woman trapped in concealment enchantments somewhere in Alfheim. What if she needed help? I needed to find her.

  “Her name is Ellie Jones,” I said. That much I knew.

  One eyebrow arched. He was surprised I had a name, yet he still looked like a man about to crack a joke about invisible “Canadian girlfriends” stealing dogs.

  Which, I suspected, was the work of the concealment enchantments. Ed was not a man who would ignore any information that might indicate someone needed help. Even if he wasn’t an officer, he’d
still be leading the volunteer squads doing sweeps.

  I almost pulled out my phone. I almost showed him, yet again, the forlorn photo of Ellie and my wayward hound that always caught me off guard. How had the photo gotten onto my phone? Then my daily reminder appeared and I read the instructions from yet another mysterious woman named Chihiro Hatanaka, a Japanese woman enlisted by two kitsune to help me overcome the enchantments at the core of all my obsessive issues.

  Ed never remembered the photo. I rarely did. Thankfully, I had Chihiro’s list to help me overcome at least some of the forgetfulness.

  But I had a name. I had a slightly sad photo of a beautiful woman with my dog. And I had a need.

  Ed looked out over the hundreds of white chairs filling the open spaces under two of the park’s larger oak trees. The area was usually used for band shelter seating. Instead of orienting the chairs to the east, where the shelter loomed over one corner of the park, the chairs had been oriented north, toward the trees.

  Strong branches arched outward from both trees and mingled their rustling, reddish leaves. The elves had hung a partition of candles, ivy, apples, nuts, and fruits from the branches, sheltering a small tented area behind the trees. Arne and Dagrun would renew their vows in front of the elven bounty, among the chattering squirrels and the multitude of their friends and family.

  The entire structure was autumn beauty at its finest.

  Near the band shelter, an elf blew a horn. All the chatter stopped. People clasped hands and made their way to the seats.

  It was time for Ed and me to find Gerard and Bjorn, and to take our places at the end of the aisle leading to the trees.

  “Looks like we’re up,” Ed said.

  I adjusted my cufflinks and straightened my tie yet again, then clasped his shoulder. “Come, my friend,” I said, and walked toward our fellow groomsmen.

  Bjorn Thorsson was a muscular, bear-like elf with extra-thick sideburns he never glamoured when he hid most of his also-extra-thick ponytail and his roundly pointed ears. He also stood eye-to-eye with Arne and Magnus, but carried enough width in his shoulders that he was almost as broad-chested as I.

  He brewed up the best mead and craft beers in the state of Minnesota. Besides Alfheim’s growing tourism industry and all of Magnus’s business connections, we were becoming a foodie haven, and Bjorn’s offerings at Raven’s Gaze were a big part of why.

  He also bred cats, mostly of the elf-approved Norwegian Forest variety; but he kept the foul-tempered Mr. Mole Rat, a tom of that gremlin-like hairless breed the name of which I could never remember, and the only cat on Earth that disliked my ex, Benta the Nameless.

  I’d always suspected Bjorn was quite proud of Mr. Mole Rat. Hopefully that delight would not interfere with Arne and Dag’s ceremony.

  Bjorn stood at the end of the aisle between the chairs with his hands clasped behind his back and a stern-yet-approving look on his face. Like all the other elves, he’d glamoured away his most obvious magical characteristics. Bjorn, though, glamoured up shoulder-length black hair, which he pulled back into a mundane-worthy ponytail. I suspected he wore some Scandinavian hard rock band t-shirt under the suit, too.

  Bjorn, like his cat, was what the kids these days called “metal.”

  Gerard, phone in hand, stood next to Bjorn, wearing a well-tailored gray suit like the rest of us. Jaxson knelt on the chair next to his father, his hands on the chair’s back and his chin up so he could stare at Gerard’s phone.

  Jaxson pointed at the band shelter. “Mom and Akeyla will be out in a moment,” he said. Maura and Benta must not be registering in his nine-year-old head, which was to be expected when the two most important women in his young life were out of his sight.

  Gerard patted his shoulder and tucked away his phone. “Why don’t you go up front and snag yourself a good seat with the pack?” He nodded toward the front and off to the side, where others of the Alfheim Pack, and Ed’s family, gathered.

  Jaxson, wide-eyed and looking overwhelmed, nodded once. He stood tall, straightened his button-front shirt in much the same way we all kept pulling on our cufflinks, and all but ran for the best seat in the house.

  Gerard grinned as he watched his son go.

  “I swear he grows an inch a month,” Ed said.

  Gerard’s grin widened. “Axlam thinks he’s going to be elf-height.”

  I didn’t doubt it. The wolves tended to be correct in their predictions of children’s growth, the weather, and just about anything contextual. Arne said it was wolf magic, but Gerard and Remy said it had more to do with fine-tuned wolf senses than anything magical.

  “I’m surprised they did it this weekend,” Bjorn said, “and not closer to Samhain.”

  Gerard shrugged. “Arne wanted the ceremony done before the feast and the full moon.”

  The full moon—and the wolf run—also fell on Samhain, and the night’s magic also affected the werewolves. Samhain both intensified and thinned moon magic, and the wolves would be best protected with extra elves.

  But there was nothing unusual about additional elves going out with the pack. Magical nights happened more frequently than not, and the elves had a routine set up, though the magic of the night often spread resources thin.

  Gerard looked up at the sky. “We have a storm coming in.” He sniffed. “First snow. Fifty bucks says it hits on Samhain.”

  Over a week out and Gerard could smell the forecast on the wind.

  Bjorn nodded. “The moon and a blizzard. Exciting.”

  Gerard shrugged, then pointed toward the band shelter. “We’re up, gentlemen.”

  Axlam, in a flowing red, gold, and green gown, stepped out of the shelter’s staging area. She wore a matching headscarf dotted with a crown of autumn leaves and flowers, and she shimmered in the afternoon sunshine as much from the lovely fabrics of her dress as her innate wolf.

  Mate magic flared off Gerard, and for a second, I thought he was about to bound across the park and carry away his wife. But he smiled instead, and a calm settled over his shoulders.

  Axlam looked back into the shelter and extended her hand. Akeyla bounced out, her also-flowing dress more fiery than Axlam’s, with her hair and ears wrapped and decorated in the same way. She took Axlam’s hand and smiled at the crowd.

  Maura and Benta followed, both with their glamour-hair braided and decorated with autumn florals, both in darker reds and purples that leaned more toward the cooler days of fall.

  The women flowed across the park more than walked. Everyone quieted, and the chairs filled quickly and in an orderly fashion.

  “Uncle Frank!” Akeyla looked as if she wanted to jump into my arms, but restrained herself and held out her small bouquet of sunflowers and crabapples. “Ready?”

  Gerard and Axlam would walk first, then Akeyla and me, Ed and Benta, and Bjorn and Maura. Arne and Dag would say their renewal, and then the festivities would begin.

  “Sure am, pumpkin,” I said.

  She bounced on her heels. “You’re supposed to hold my hand.” She transferred her bouquet to her free hand and grasped my fingers.

  Up front, off to the side and under one of the trees, three elves strummed guitars and played flutes.

  Maura patted my elbow. “Remember, sweetie,” she said to Akeyla, “when you get up front, walk to Axlam. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Akeyla nodded.

  “You look fantastic,” I said to Akeyla. “All of you,” I said to the women.

  Benta looked away. She smoothed her lovely dress over her lovelier hips and hooked her arm through Ed’s. “It’s quite the honor for a mundane to be called to stand for our King and Queen,” she said.

  Ed tossed me a she’s your girlfriend look.

  I scowled at Benta.

  Akeyla bounced again. “Mr. Martinez isn’t mundane. He’s our sheriff,” she said in classic Akeyla don’t be dumb fashion.

  No one looked at Benta except Akeyla, who obviously expected better from her grandmother’s friend.

>   Ed took it in stride. Axlam and Maura looked proud. Bjorn, though, decided to be metal.

  “I’m gonna need someone to look after Mr. Mole Rat next weekend, Benta. Interested?” He didn’t look at her, but bowed slightly to Maura and offered his arm.

  Gerard smirked, and when the music thankfully expanded into our call to walk, he quickly took Axlam’s arm and they made their way down the aisle between the chairs.

  Akeyla smiled up at me, hooked her hand in mine, and strode out into the aisle with her Uncle Frank in tow. We parted and took up our places under the trees. Poor Ed, Benta with her arm hooked gingerly around his, followed, with Bjorn and Maura walking toward the trees last.

  The music stopped. The elves set down their instruments and moved as a unit, two on either side, to draw back the partition.

  Arne and Dag walked out of the tent behind the trees, Arne with his hands clasped behind his back, and Dagrun with hers clasped around her own small, autumn bouquet. They both glamoured minimally, hiding only their ears and elven hair from the guests in the chairs, and shimmered with their elven glory. Both wore tasteful, expensive clothes, Arne in a dark gray suit and Dagrun in a champagne-colored gown. She handed her bouquet to Maura and turned to her husband.

  Arne’s organic, deeper blue and purple magic swirled up into the air. Dag’s icier, clockwork magic followed.

  They clasped hands.

  Words followed. Proclamations about love and life. Poetry about community and caring and family. Hands moved. Spells worked in ways that only the magicals in the audience understood.