White Bear, Winter Wolf
An Urban Fantasy for Christmas
Hello All,
My translation of Berserkers will be released next Thursday.
Provisional blurb:
Clara Dumaine never asked for magic in her life, just a decent job and maybe some peace.
When her drug-addicted ex dies under suspicious circumstances, historian Clara is drawn into Edinburgh’s hidden supernatural underworld. A stolen artifact. A detective who shifts into a wolf. Ancient jinn relics that pulse with forgotten power. And a serial killer who should still be locked away.
Private investigator Scott MacIntyre knows Clara is in danger the moment she stumbles into his case. As a Berserker struggling to control his own beast, he recognizes the signs: her “gift” for sensing magic is only the beginning. But someone is hunting people like them, and their troubles reache deeper than either imagined.
In a world where magic has just returned, some transformations can’t be undone.
Three caveats with this story:
Even if it takes place at Christmas, it’s rather dark, with a serial killer. This is more the old pagan midwinter with a few monsters than the nice modern feast with an old guy in red.
This is a French urban fantasy, so the main character doesn’t find a Scottish castle terribly exotic (she rather finds it terribly cold).
There are cameos from characters from other books from the series: Aude and Jake (Native American shifters), James (rogue teenage wizard), Camille (nice teenage wizard), and Yasmine (paranormal archeologist)
And, as usual, a little passage:
The snow had started falling in the afternoon, blanketing everything in crystalline silence. Now, well past twilight, flares blazed across the main courtyard where an impossible parade of vehicles arrived: antediluvian jeeps beside sleek Rolls-Royces, battered pickups next to pristine hybrid Toyotas. Clara stood at her window, too far to make out the passengers scrambling up the stone steps.
She turned back to the mirror. The strict pencil skirt. The modest pumps. Hair pinned up tight, minimal makeup. Even as she’d dressed, she’d known the truth: this party would be far posher than her host had let on. She was going to stick out like a stain on silk, and she hated being noticed.
But her curiosity burned hotter than her anxiety. What kind of people would party with a man who kept a real treasure locked behind spells in his castle? And he’d mentioned a job, however vaguely.
Two sharp knocks cut through her spiraling thoughts.
She opened the door and forgot how to breathe.
Scott stood there in a tuxedo jacket over a blue and green kilt, with the muted light from the hallway catching on the edges of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. Only someone truly Scottish could make that ensemble look natural. More than natural. Devastating.
“You’re very elegant.”
Color bloomed across his cheekbones. His eyes dropped, then lifted to meet hers with startling intensity. “Thank you. You look lovely.”
The sincerity in his voice sent warmth cascading through her chest.
“You have an incredible sense of tact.” She gestured at herself. “I don’t have an evening gown.”
“It doesn’t matter. Grandpa said there’s no dress code.”
“I don’t believe you for a second. No dress code? Deep in Scotland?”
“We’ve been wearing plaids for centuries.” His smile was quick, playful. “Let’s not make a big deal of it. Come on.”
She exhaled and followed, hyperaware of the space between them in the narrow corridor. The old lord had cranked up the heating tonight. The castle was almost warm. They moved through barely lit passages, until they passed beneath an arch guarded by two weathered stone lions.
The great hall opened before them like a Christmas dream.
Chequered paving stretched toward a soaring oak-coffered ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hung low, dripping soft light that gilded everything it touched. Antique paintings and suits of armor lined the walls between holly garlands. A hundred guests milled about in a symphony of clinking glasses and laughter. At the far end, an orchestra breathed out some muted jazz.
The crowd was unexpectedly eclectic. Most wore smart casual, though a few men sported kilts and tuxedos like Scott, and some women floated in evening gowns. Children darted between adults. Old MacIntyre had even made room for his guests’ pets, some of which seemed particularly original: in addition to a few cats and dogs, a red and blue macaw swung from a chandelier. Near the fireplace, a miniature fawn pony munched carrots surrounded by delighted kids. Finally, near the orchestra stood a huge aquarium where a large red carp drifted peacefully like a crimson cloud.
And in the background, beneath the lazy notes of jazz, Clara could perceive another kind of rhythm: magical waves, powerful and free, rolling through the night.
She would do three quick circuits, grab some food, then escape to her room. No one would notice her absence.
“Ah, good evening, Clara!” Scott Senior materialized beside her, also kilted, grinning broadly. “You’re looking very beautiful this evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mac...”
“Scott, please.”
“The party looks amazing. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
He snorted. “So far, I’ve had three election candidates trying to squeeze campaign donations out of me, not to mention the lady patrons of the Magic Heritage Association.”
Clara smiled despite herself. “The price of success.”
“Exactly.” His eyes turned shrewd. “Don’t forget to prospect for your job. There are academics and independent experts here tonight.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
He leaned close, breathing warm air against her ear. “It’s not free. At midnight, you’re dancing the ceilidh with me.”
“What’s that? I don’t know the steps!”
“It’s simple. You can walk, you can jump, you can dance!”
A shadow fell across them. Clara looked up to find a very young man and an older couple, both radiating patrician authority. The man shared the same strong bones as both Scotts.
“Meet the whole family.” The old lord’s grin widened. “This is my son Morgan, his wife Elaine, and my grandson Aidan. This is Miss Clara Dumaine. I’ve invited her to stay a few days. She’ll be handling the inventory.”
If they were surprised, they hid it flawlessly. Clara managed a few exchanges before Elaine said in a polished almost American accent, “Clara, would you excuse us for a moment? We haven’t seen our son in months, and we have so much to discuss. Family matters, you understand. Why don’t you get some champagne?”
Beside her, Scott went still. His expression remained calm, but Clara caught the tension in his shoulders, the slight tightening around his eyes. She couldn’t help him. Parents had to be endured with grace.
“Of course.” She nodded. “Excellent idea.”
She felt his gaze follow her as she moved toward the buffet stretching along the opposite wall. Young men in crisp uniforms tended the spread, filling cups and opening bottles. One side held savory treats: Scottish pies, mini haggis, salmon bites, sausage rolls. The other showcased desserts, including thick slices of Dundee cake. Beyond, stood the drinks table, and further still, three fountains: beer, whisky, and chocolate, the last surrounded by a cluster of shrieking kids.
Clara loaded a plate with salmon and haggis. She’d always loved haggis but never admitted it to her French friends. Tonight, blessedly, no one was here to judge.
She drifted around the room’s perimeter, nibbling, observing. Her host had been right about the dress code. The guests were even more diverse than she’d first noticed. A flamboyant redhead in her fifties in a flowing floral skirt was deep in conversation with a wizened man in a magnificent purple silk boubou. Nearby, a blonde girl in sequined jeans laughed with three teenagers in embroidered shalwar kameez. Two massive men in leather helped themselves to beer while a woman in a crimson qipao showed a book to a little girl dressed as a pink princess.
She relaxed slightly The warmth from the champagne was spreading through her limbs. Maybe she could blend in after all. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be torture.
“Hi, Clara, how are you?”
Why did people keep sneaking up on her from behind? She swallowed her bite of salmon and turned.
“Good evening, Ismaël.”
He leaned in to kiss on the cheek, then gestured to a tall blonde woman with glasses beside him. “Meet my girlfriend, Catell.”
So this was why Ismael, who’d always complained about the Scottish weather, had finally decided to stay.
Clara extended her hand. The woman took it smiling broadly. “Hello. Are you a witch too?”
She laughed. “Not at all. I’m unemployed at the moment, actually. I used to work at the V&A, but my contract ended. I’m heading back to France soon.”
“How did you manage to score an invitation to old MacIntyre’s ball, then?” Ismaël asked.
“By chance. I met him two days ago and he asked me to appraise some family heirlooms.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “This guy doesn’t do anything by chance. Why not take up magic after all? You’ve got the gift, so you could...”
“You can’t just improvise something like this, you said it yourself. And anyway, who exactly employs witches?”
“It’s more freelance work. But there are academics here because of the college... and ley lines. There’s accelerated training too. It might be worth it, but you’ve always carefully avoided anything arcane. Keeping your feet on the ground, sticking to the facts...”
“Of course. Being a historian means sticking to the facts, doesn’t it? Not making things up...”
Ismaël had teased her relentlessly about this in the good old days. Catell stared at them, confused. He smiled. “Making nothing up? But interpreting?”
“Don’t start.”
“Okay, okay. How’s it going with Scott?”
“Fine.”
His eyebrow arched. “I thought I sensed the beginnings of a romance...”
Heat flashed through her. “Why does everyone think we’re together?”
“It’s natural. You’re both introvert workaholics with overflowing inner lives. You’re made for each other.”
“So what?” she grumbled, annoyed at being summed up so neatly.
“Nothing, nothing. Takes all kinds to make a world.” His expression turned serious. “Look, I don’t want to sound prejudiced or anything, but...”
“But?”
“I’m pretty sure Scott’s a shapeshifter.”
“They’re people who can turn into animals in certain situations,” Catell added helpfully.
“I know what they are.” Clara tried not to look shocked.
What the old lord had told her suddenly made sense. Even the words of someone at Saint Andrews came flooding back. Barnard, his name was. Not to mention Amanda’s story might not have been so far-fetched after all. She exhaled slowly. “It’s not a disease, I suppose?”
“It’s said to be the oldest spell ever mastered by humans,” Catell continued in a schoolteacher’s tone. “The conditions of transformation and the animal depend on your culture. In Western Europe, most descend from Viking Berserkers. With migration, they’re also found in the States and even Australia...”
“So, they turn into bears?”
“Wolves or boars,” Ismaël added. “I don’t know which one Scott is and...”
“Right. Okay. And why are you telling me this? Is he going to turn into a bear and eat me?”
“No, they’re not like at all. In fact, they get very upset when you suggest they’re capable of going crazy and breaking things...”
He probably didn’t know about the serial killer.
“But they retain certain animal characteristics in human form,” he continued. “They have highly developed hearing and smell. They can literally smell your primal emotions. Fear, anger...”
He left the sentence hanging.
Smell emotions. Very handy when you were a detective. Fear, anger... desire. Heat flooded her cheeks.
“Oh. That’s good to know.” Her voice came out too high. “Excuse me, I need to call my mother to wish her Merry Christmas...”
She fled between the guests, plate clutched in one hand. She needed to stop and think, though she didn’t know what she was thinking about. She searched for an exit when a whiff of expensive, old-fashioned perfume crossed her nose. A woman in her forties with severe Asian features, wearing a black silk suit, studied her like she was examining a mini-haggis.
“Hello, are you Clara Dumaine?”
“Yes...”
Suddenly everyone wanted to talk to her.
“I’m Alicia Fox. Old MacIntyre tells me you specialize in eighth and ninth-century European objects.”
“I do...”
“I have a private collection to appraise in Milan next month. Would you like to assist me?”
Milan? Not on her agenda, but if she paid for the ticket... Clara wasn’t opposed to some travel. She was growing less eager to return to France by the minute.
“Well...”
“Ah, Alicia! How are you?” Broderick Barnard’s deep voice cut between them.
The woman’s expression turned guarded. “Fine. You?”
“Excellent. Actually, I was wondering if you’d be willing to give a presentation on kumiho at the conference series we’re organizing in March...”
Her eyebrow arched dangerously. “What a ridiculous idea.”
“Let me explain. As I’ve already told you, we need to inform the general public so we don’t end up in some kind of ghetto like homosexuals and...”
“I’m certainly not going to tell my private life to an audience of idiots!” She spun on her heel and stalked away, leaving them both standing there.
Silence crashed down. Clara watched her potential job opportunity vanish across the room. Maybe she could wait for the woman to calm down and call in a few days? At least now she understood the antipathy Barnard could arouse in his colleagues. Tact was not his strength.
He sighed heavily. “Potential speakers are proving difficult to convince.”
“Are you giving a lecture on shapeshifters?” she asked carefully.
“Yes. Last year I organized one, but it was poorly attended. This time I’m hoping for more success. Unfortunately, the first people getting in my way are the shapeshifters themselves.”
“Mrs. Fox is...”
“A kumiho. You know, the fox shifters?”
One more revelation. But what was one more at this point?
“So she has the gift...”
“Oh no, don’t mix everything up. Shapeshifters can simply transform into animals. Of course, some also have the gift, but it’s rare, especially in Europe. Most Berserkers are ordinary people otherwise.”
Broderick seemed genuinely eager to explain. He’d probably done this hundreds of times. Might as well take advantage of it.
“How do people find out they have this... peculiarity?”
“The first transformation happens at puberty during a strong negative emotion. Anger or fear, with real risks of uncontrolled violence.”
Her stomach dropped. “That serious?”
“Absolutely. In my case, I was in the middle of a stupid argument about the validity of a goal in a soccer match. I bit the opposing team’s goalkeeper. This was in the seventies, so naturally the police didn’t believe him when he said a bear had attacked him, but I had to run because his family wanted to beat me up and I couldn’t stay in animal form forever.”
“Incredible...” Clara could barely get the word out.
“Exactly. Hence the importance of early detection. I’m trying to establish a European register of Berserker bloodlines, but people are very reluctant, of course...”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Her mother’s ringtone. She was definitely getting into trouble tonight.
“I... excuse me...”
She moved toward a wall. A puppy nearly tripped her, chased by the little girl in the princess dress.
“Hello, Mom? Merry Christmas...”
“Clara, what’s that music I hear?”
“I was invited to a party last minute. How’s Christmas dinner?”
“Boring! We’ve been watching TV and Eric’s been forcing us to watch soccer.”
At least it was a conversation topic.
“How is everyone?”
“Christine got a tattoo. She thinks she’s so cool! And Clo’s put on at least five kilos! She looks terrible!”
“But is Grandpa okay at least?”
“Yeah, yeah...”
“And Grandma?”
“As usual.”
“And the gifts...”
“Awful!”
Why was she still trying to cheer up her mother?
“Look, Mom...”
“Ah, Clara, you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
The polished voice sent adrenaline spiking through her veins. Tim Colby. Just the sound of him made her want to commit murder. Stay calm.
“Mom, I’ll call you back tomorrow. Merry Christmas!” Her voice came out even, controlled.
She hung up and turned to the psychiatrist.
“Good evening, Professor.”
“Did you receive my letter?”
She had the right to annoy him too, after all.
“What letter?”
“I sent a letter to you, Ismaël, and Arthur a week ago.”
The outline of a question formed in her mind. She hadn’t thought of it before, but how had he gotten her address? It wasn’t a secret, but it required research. Had Arthur given it to him?
“I’ve moved since then.”
“Ah, unfortunate. You see, after you left, we continued studying the data collected during the experiments and discovered people with your profile have a rather specific risk of developing psychological disorders...”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to alarm you, but because of your sensitivity to magic and the interference it creates with your brain waves, you may be prone to hallucinations. If you could return to work with us...”
“I don’t believe you for a second! Anyway, you’re the last person I’d work with, even if it meant going crazy!”
“It’s very serious, I assure you.”
She turned and headed for the buffet. Colby followed.
“Come now, I’m only asking for a little of your time, a few days...”
He wasn’t going to let her go. She could either dump her plate in his face (terrible for her image, especially with potential employers around) or make a strategic retreat to the toilets. She spotted a sign marked Toilets hanging beneath an antique shield on the wall and opted for the second solution.
“Excuse me, I need the restroom.”
“It’s really important, I...”
“I have the impression you’re bothering the lady.”
Scott appeared at her side.
Colby flushed, more from anger than embarrassment. “Not at all! We were discussing the study we did last year.”
“I suppose you’re Professor Colby?”
“I am.”
Scott’s smile shifted, no longer polite. More like a predator baring its teeth.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Scott MacIntyre. I believe my grandfather helped fund your research some years ago through donations to your foundation...”
The man stared at him now, calculating. Money. Clara seized the opportunity and resumed her trajectory toward the toilets. At least there she could hope for five minutes of peace.
A loud clatter of dishes erupted behind her.
She spun around to see the professor sprawled across the floor, with stunned guests gaping at him. Scott had somehow tripped Colby without even touching him. Or had he? She’d been itching to slap the man herself, but Scott had gone a bit far, she thought as she hurried down the corridor.
