White Bear, Winter Wolf

Release today!

“Welcome to my humble abode, Miss Dumaine.”

The old man’s voice rolled through the entrance hall like distant thunder. He was as imposing as his castle of massive grey stone. Someone had attempted Renaissance elegance in the center, but Gothic severity had won out.

Clara’d followed him through a labyrinth of frigid corridors lined with tapestries, crossed swords, mounted animal heads, and portraits of stern-faced ancestors who seemed to judge her every step. She’d always wondered what living in a museum would feel like. Now she knew: cold.

They emerged into a dining room dominated by a massive wooden table long enough to seat two dozen guests. High-backed chairs bore carved coats of arms. Above the fireplace, a stag’s head wore Christmas garlands tangled in its antlers. To her left, a bear’s head seemed to explode from the wall, jaws frozen in a roar. To her right, ancient weapons gleamed and her historian’s fingers itched to examine them. A stepladder stood beneath, draped with holly. The household was mid-decoration.

The patriarch himself could have stepped from a Norse saga: bushy eyebrows, ice-chip eyes, a voice like grinding glaciers.

“I guess Scott told you I’d like you to examine some family heirlooms, in the crypt.”

Doubt flickered. Had she panicked too easily with Arthur’s death? Something didn’t add up. The two Macintyre had been suspiciously accommodating. And after learning that Jinns were real and watching two students talking about shifting into beasts like it was a party trick, what exactly was she about to see in that crypt?

Too late to back out now. Well, spending Christmas examining antiques beat suffering with her family. And if she was honest—painfully honest—she wasn’t unhappy about spending more time near Scott.

“Of course..”

The old man’s eyes glinted. “Splendid. And you’ll attend the Christmas ball, of course.”

Scott’s eyebrows shoot up. She frowned.

“I… I don’t have anything to wear—”

“You don’t need any. It’s just a neighbourly gathering. In the countryside, we throw parties so young people can mingle.” He grinned. “Just bring that radiant smile of yours.”

She’d never been to a ball. The word “country” conjured dark images of Uncle Thierry’s farm. But she couldn’t protest.

“Thank you.”

The old man’s grin widened, predatory. He pulled a smartphone from his pocket and his thick fingers moved across the screen with surprising dexterity.

“Place is so damn big, I need an app to summon the staff.” He glanced up. “Get settled. Holler if you need anything.”

A maid appeared in the doorway—young, Clara’s age, crisp black dress and white apron, dark hair scraped back into submission.

“Jenny, show Miss Dumaine to her room.”

He turned back to Clara. “Meet me here in an hour. I’ll take you to the crypt.” He grinned again. “Dinner tonight, naturally. Only time I can steal a girl from my grandson...”

“Right. See you soon, Mr MacIntyre.”

She trailed behind the maid through long, cold corridors. Outside, the wind keened through cracks in the stone like something alive and hungry. She should’ve asked if any ghosts wandered these halls after dark.

“Excuse me, is there a map? This place is enormous.”

“Don’t worry.” Jenny’s accent was local, but less strong than the old man’s. “Only the central part is lived in. Heating costs are murder. Go down the stairs, turn right. All the rooms line up to the hall and kitchen.”

They climbed a long, spiralling staircase and emerged into a corridor tucked under the rafters. Doors punctuated the walls at regular intervals. Jenny unlocked the third.

“Your room, Miss.”

“Thanks.”

Clara stepped inside and the smell hit her: musty stone, damp that had settled into the walls decades ago, the mineral scent of time itself. The room was clean but austere: a bed that screamed 1970s, a table, a chair, a wardrobe, and a radiator she immediately cranked to maximum. The bathroom next door was barely bigger than a closet.

Well. The bare minimum, at least.

She moved to the window. The courtyard sprawled below, the park beyond fading into winter twilight. She’d hated the countryside since she was fifteen, preferring the chaos of cities—even with their dangers, at least you knew what you were dealing with. Here, the silence pressed against her ears. Only the wind broke it, moaning through the eaves.

A giggle erupted in the corridor.

She opened the door a crack.

“Told you Junior was bringing home a new girlfriend!” Jenny’s voice was bright with gossip.

Clara peered out. Another maid had joined her, holding a vacuum cleaner.

“What does she look like?”

“Not bad... if you’re into the athletic type. Or need a prop forward for your rugby team!”

They dissolved into laughter.

So much for British reserve. This castle had as much gossip as her apartment building, just with better architecture.

***

An hour later, standing in the dining room, she still wondered if she’d been somehow manipulated by the two MacIntyre men. She pushed the thought aside and turned her attention to the weapons mounted on the walls.

They were breathtaking. Authentic, impossibly old, preserved in pristine condition. A Saxon axe with its brutal elegance. A Celtic shield, its bronze surface etched with spiralling patterns. And in the center, commanding attention, a long sword, crowned by a Viking helmet.

Museum curators would kill for these. She’d never been particularly interested in weapons during her studies, though like any tourist, she’d gawked at William Wallace’s sword in Stirling, a blade nearly as tall as herself. But this... This could only be copies.

Scandinavian runes marked the sword’s center, visible even from the floor. Without thinking, she grabbed the stepladder and climbed, drawn by an irresistible need to examine them up close.

The runes she’d seen from below were only the beginning. Tiny letters covered the entire blade, so small she had to squint to make them out. Her knowledge of runes was limited to a handful of words, frustratingly inadequate. Maybe with a dictionary...

A polite cough shattered her concentration.

She wobbled, arms windmilling, before she caught herself. The elder Scott watched from the doorway, his expression amused. These people moved like ghosts, silent even on ancient, creaking floorboards.

She drew a shaky breath. “Ah, hello again, Mr. MacIntyre. Is this a real Viking sword?”

“Please, call me Scott.”

“Won’t that get confusing? You and your grandson...”

“Don’t worry. No one’s ever pronounced our names in the same tone.” He stepped into the room, his movements smooth despite his age. “To answer your question, yes. Ninth-century Danish. It belonged to my ancestor, Gunnolf the Scarred. The first of our line to settle in Scotland.”

“The condition is remarkable!”

“Spoken like a true museum rat.” His smile held warmth rather than mockery. “Would you like to hold it?”

“I can take it down?”

“Please.”

She lifted the weapon with reverent care, expecting the weight to test her arms. Instead, the blade balanced perfectly in her grip, lighter than she’d imagined. “I thought it would be heavier.”

“The Vikings were practical people. Always have been, in my family.” He moved closer, his weathered face animating with the obvious pleasure of sharing old stories. “According to legend, Gunnolf used it to kill Brunhilde, a Bersekette in bear form. They’d quarreled over dividing spoils. Common enough in those days. If you’re going to kill a bear, you need a weapon with reach. A sword’s not ideal, but it’s better than getting close enough to use an axe.”

“A Bersekette?” Clara lowered the blade carefully. “I thought berserkers were all male?”

The old man’s smile turned mischievous, eerily reminiscent of his grandson. He clearly relished telling tales. “Common misconception. The original spell for creating Berserkers was crafted by a priest of Frey. A bachelor, uncomfortable around women, and not particularly bright. He specified that the firstborn child of any brotherhood member would become a Berserker at puberty. Apparently, it never occurred to him that firstborns could be girls. Or illegitimate children born to slaves.”

He chuckled. “So, the brotherhood ended up with plenty of little Bersekettes, terrorizing potential suitors and slave children who outshone the elite sons. Nothing changes, does it?”

Clara’s academic instincts flared. “I’ve never encountered this in any texts. How come this is not documented?”

“Maybe no one looked closely enough?” He shrugged. “Another ancestor compiled our family legends in the eighteenth century, but until recently, nobody took shapeshifters seriously.”

She returned the sword to its mount before her trembling hands could damage it. The metal gleamed in the light, ancient and lethal.

“Where was I? Right, the spell. Not very well-designed. Took several generations before a Finnish shaman modified it and extended it to other species. Wolves, boars. But he couldn’t eliminate the cost.”

“Cost?”

“In magic, there’s always one.” His eyes held hers, suddenly intense. “For every shift, a Berserker loses one day of life. Back when Viking warriors feared dying in their bed, this seemed reasonable. These days, when people cling to every moment, modern Berserkers rarely shift.”

“Nothing comes free.”

“Exactly.” His gaze turned cryptic. “And yet, here we are. Come, I’ll show you the crypt. There’s a shortcut so we don’t have to brave the courtyard.”

He walked straight to the wall and slid a key into what looked like a crack between stones. The back of the chimney swung open silently, revealing steep stairs descending into darkness.

“I’ll go first, if you don’t mind.” He didn’t wait for her response, already moving downward. “The passage gets tricky.”

Clara’s pulse quickened as she followed. The air grew cooler with each step, carrying the scent of old stone and earth. Two floors down, he unlocked a wooden door studded with iron and flicked a switch.

Light flooded the space.

She’d expected cobwebs and dampness. Instead, she found a clean, dry chamber with vaulted ceilings supported by roughly carved pillars. A long table dominated the center, covered with documents and a laptop computer. Wooden crates lined the walls in neat rows.

And two meters from the door, slightly to the left, stood a statue.

A man dressed in 1970s fashion. Bell-bottom jeans. A jacket with wide, pie-crust lapels. His face was hidden behind a balaclava. The realism was unsettling. Every wrinkle in the fabric, every detail was rendered with disturbing accuracy.

“The artifacts are in these crates,” the old man said, moving past the figure without a glance.

Clara skirted the statue, still unsettled. She approached the nearest crate and lifted the lid.

Her gasp echoed off the stone walls.

Nestled in protective foam lay a silver ciborium engraved with Celtic spirals, a matching chalice, and beneath them stuck the corner of a plate etched with Arabic script. The metal gleamed as if newly polished, untouched by centuries.

“This is priceless!” Her voice came out strangled.

He grinned. “Yes, well. Some of my ancestors had wandering hands. Vikings, Crusaders, mercenaries. A few Caribbean “privateers” thrown in for good measure.” He winked. “Did anyone ever tell you Scots love their pennies?”

Clara stared at the treasures, her academic training warring with the growing suspicion that she’d stumbled into something far more complicated than a simple cataloging job. The statue seemed to loom larger in her peripheral vision.

She was beginning to understand why the younger Scott had that edge of danger about him. It ran in the family, bred into the bones along with secrets and stolen gold.

She forced herself to move, circling the room and examining crate after crate. The collection was staggering. Middle-eastern crosses. Frankish reliquaries. Arabic coins. Her fingers itched to touch, to catalog, to lose herself in centuries of history.

“Aren’t you worried about thieves?”

“Not remotely. The crypt is protected by a powerful spell.” He gestured casually toward the statue. “Here’s the last one who tried.”

She stopped between two crates. “What do you mean?”

“Anyone who crosses beyond the third pillar carrying an object without permission turns to stone.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather.

“What?” The word came out strangled.

“He’s been here for years, poor fellow. Don’t worry, I’ll grant you permission to move whatever you need.”

The enthusiasm drained from her body. The artifacts suddenly seemed less like treasures and more like bait in an elaborate trap. “That’s... generous. But I think I’ll pass.”

“All labor deserves reward. I thought I’d let you keep something small. A token.”

“I couldn’t possibly catalog all of this anyway.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “You have Arabic pieces here. Late Roman work. I’m not qualified...”

“Do what you can. That would already be helpful.” He moved closer, his gaze uncomfortably penetrating. “My grandson tells me you’re planning to return to France. What will you do there?”

“Not much. Finding a job...”

“In a museum?”

“God, no. Jobs in my field are nearly impossible to find.”

“So, what will you do?”

The truth tasted bitter. “Nothing exciting. Waitressing. Cleaning. Whatever pays the bills.”

“You’re remarkably pessimistic for someone so young. But I suppose that’s your generation. You all want everything immediately, no patience for the journey.”

“I’m being realistic.”

He had some nerve to call her a spoiled child! But something playful flickered in his pale eyes. “You strike me as someone who craves adventure. If you’re going to do menial work, you might as well do it here. More opportunities in Scotland.”

“I hadn’t considered...”

His expression shifted, became almost predatory in its intensity. He studied her as if seeing beneath her skin. “I almost think you’re running from something.”

She shrugged, defensive. “I thought your grandson told you about my problems. The attack...”

“No, no. Not that.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Something deeper. Inside you.” His eyes narrowed. “Maybe you haven’t truly considered your future. Haven’t found your path yet. Perhaps you’re searching in entirely the wrong direction. My grandson didn’t pursue prestige or money like his parents wanted, but he’s content with his choices.”

“Perhaps.”

He tilted his head. “What you need is to try something new. For instance, in this emerging field of magical studies, they’re looking for historians to analyse ancient talismans. People who understand context, provenance...”

“I don’t know anything about magic.”

“You’re wrong about that. Naturally, like anything new, it’s frightening. Not all of it is pleasant. But show me a field without darkness. Look at the Internet, for heaven’s sake.”

She made a noncommittal sound.

“Now is precisely when you should take risks. While you’re young.” He paused, watching her reaction. “I believe Alicia Fox is searching for someone knowledgeable about Merovingian and Byzantine artifacts. You studied those periods, didn’t you?”

The name sparked recognition, though she couldn’t place where she’d heard it. “Yes...”

“The Byzantines were masterful talisman creators. Brilliant work, really.” He smiled, showing teeth. “I suggest you refresh your knowledge and speak with her at the Christmas party. Fair warning, she’s a shrewd businesswoman. A vixen, you might say. She’ll try to hire you for minimum wage.”

“That would be already a lot.”

***

Well, the rest of Clara’s noir/thriller adventures are now published and could be found in all the good online bookshops for 2.99$.

Now, I’m pausing this blog until mid-january and wishing you all, great celebrations and a very happy New Year!