White Bear, Winter Wolf II
The Twelve Bells
…
She lingered in the cabin, pulse still racing. Nothing had been normal for days. The whole world seemed to shimmer at the edges, unreal and dreamlike. But God, she’d never been more awake. More alive. This new existence, galaxies away from her family’s soul-crushing suburban monotony, crackled with possibility. And the night was far from over. What other secrets waited to be uncovered? What beast prowled behind Scott’s angelic face?
A British detective colliding with a guest mid-reception when he wasn’t even drunk. Barnard had confirmed as much. All it took was one spark to ignite his temper. Thank God he hadn’t devoured those two punks who’d attacked him at Arthur’s house. She should be worried. She knew she should. But excitement thrummed through her veins instead. Like she’d tumbled into a fairy tale made real. The Cinderella ball whirled on around her. Maybe it would all vanish at midnight, but until then...
She squared her shoulders and pushed out of the cabin. A young woman in a stunning turquoise gown was adjusting the clothes of the little girl who’d nearly bowled Clara over earlier.
“But why can’t I shift like Franck, Mom?” The child’s voice pitched high with frustration.
“Because it’s rude, darling. Besides, you’re much bigger than he is. You’ll knock something over.”
“No, I’m good at it now...”
“No.”
“That’s not fair...”
Shift? Into what? Clara’s skin prickled. Couldn’t a woman have five minute of peace, even in the bathroom? She moved to the sink. The young woman’s face tugged at her memory. Their eyes met in the mirror.
“Clara Dumaine?”
Apparently everyone here knew her name.
“Yes?”
“I’m Yasmine Amrane. We met in University a few years ago.”
“Oh. Right...”
“I’m running the excavation site on White Hill. You’ve heard of it?”
Clara nodded, her throat suddenly dry. What else was the universe planning to throw at her tonight?
“I’m looking for help, actually.” The woman’s tone stayed casual, like she was discussing the weather. “I have an eager trainee, but she’s green. Any interest in joining the team?”
Clara’s heart kicked against her ribs. The pieces clicked into place. The legendary Amrane. Tomb Raider, they called her. Whispers followed her everywhere: shady antiquities deals before she’d gone legitimate. Beautiful as sin, always draped in designer clothes, unearthing one impossible find after another. Archaeology’s dark darling. This night kept getting stranger.
“Yes!” The word burst out before she could stop it. “Absolutely.”
“I specialize in paranormal excavations. Unfortunately, I don’t have the gift myself. So I need someone who can sense magical objects. Someone with a solid grasp of history.”
“I can perceive magic, but I don’t know anything about using it.”
“Like 99.99% of the population. Doesn’t matter. You can identify charged objects and date them properly. That’s what counts.”
Her daughter yanked at the turquoise fabric of her skirt. She sighed, fished a business card from her tiny pearl-encrusted evening bag, and pressed it into Clara’s hand.
“Call me in two days. We’ll discuss terms.”
She glanced down at the child, who’d started stamping her feet.
“Fine. You can shift, but only for fifteen minutes, outside, and only after midnight when the fireworks start.”
Clara emerged from the bathroom in a daze. Maybe she wouldn’t be slinging drinks after all. Old MacIntyre must have put in one hell of a word for her. She drifted through the crowd toward the buffet, weightless. The air hummed with strange energy. The children seemed wilder than before, their laughter pitched higher. She checked her watch: 11:51. What happened at midnight? Would everyone turn into pumpkins? Would ghosts pour from the whisky fountain? She swallowed her apprehension. Time to learn how to handle whatever madness came her way.
Scott waited by the buffet, drink in hand. Her doubts surged back. He looked adorable, yes, but as Barnard had warned, something primal coiled beneath that polished exterior. Something dangerous. Heat flared low in her belly despite herself.
“You didn’t hold back with Colby.” Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
“What do you mean?”
“Knocking him down was a bit excessive. I don’t think your grandfather will be upset, but...”
“I didn’t hit him!” His eyes widened, genuinely shocked.
“So how did he end up on the floor? He tripped over his own feet?”
“Yes.”
“Tell someone who’ll believe it.”
His jaw tightened. Emotions flickered across his face too fast to track. Surprise melted into anger, then something that looked like hurt, before he composed himself.
“So if I’m a Berserker, I’m some kind of animal who can’t control himself and...”
The word hung between them. Berserker. He’d said it himself. What was she supposed to do with that? With him? The air between them felt charged, electric. The crowd pressed close, but they might as well have been alone. Her skin tingled where his gaze traced her face. She could smell his cologne and his skin and that made her want to lean closer even as alarm bells screamed in her head.
A small eternity stretched between them in the middle of the chaos.
“A glass of champagne, Mr MacIntyre?” A smooth male voice cut through the tension. “After you beat the hell out of him, I’d like to offer it with my sincere compliments. I’ve got a few buddies who worked in his lab. I’ve been itching to do it myself.”
Scott stiffened. Drew a long breath. Turned to face the waiter. The young man looked barely old enough to legally drink in Her Gracious Majesty’s kingdom. He met the detective’s stare with an easy smile. Finally, Scott accepted the glass.
“Good evening, James.”
Irritation sparked through Clara’s chest. These two knew each other too. Once again, she stood in the middle of cryptic exchanges she couldn’t decipher, an outsider looking in.
“And for you, Miss?” The man called James turned to her, his tone innocent.
“The same.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Scott’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“Working the buffet.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Don’t get worked up.” James remained placid, extending a glass to Clara.
His voice poured over her like warm honey. She wondered if he had some supernatural hypnotic abilities. Maybe she should bring him to the next family Christmas.
“They needed extras, so I applied. I finished my sentence, paid my debt to society, all that. Now I’m enrolled in the master’s program at Saint Andrews. Doing odd jobs. What’s more normal for a student?”
“That’s all?”
“I’ll help with the show afterwards.”
“Hi, James! Could I get an orange juice?” Jake’s voice boomed across the conversation.
Before Clara could process the shock of seeing this manly male ordering something non-alcoholic, he chuckled towards Scott as the waiter departed.
“You two don’t look happy to see each other.”
“Did you know he was here?”
“Well, yes. He seems calmer now. Anyway, with Morgane’s educational techniques...”
Clara’s patience snapped.
“What the hell are you both talking about?”
Jake shook his head, grinning.
“That kid at the buffet was arrested two years ago.”
“For what?”
“He thought he was Harry Potter.” Scott’s voice darkened. “Got into a duel with another little bastard. A magical duel.”
Clara tried to picture it: two teenagers hurling curses and fireballs at each other.
“What does a magic duel look like?”
“Fortunately, they had enough brains to pick a remote corner of the Pacific Northwest. One square kilometre looks like an atomic blast zone.”
The words stole her breath. People here seemed a bit too comfortable with violence. She had no claws, no teeth, couldn’t summon fireballs on command. Doubt crept in like ice water. Maybe this world wasn’t for her after all.
Aude appeared behind Jake, wearing a pretty red dress with ruffles.
“Scott, you should press charges! Colby’s a complete psycho. And he’s a psychiatrist, for God’s sake!”
“Press charges for what?” Clara asked.
“You didn’t see? He tried to hit him! Luckily he dodged and Colby ate floor in the middle of the room.”
“What do you mean, ‘ate floor’?”
“He lunged too far forward and lost his balance.” Satisfaction rippled through Scott’s voice.
Colby was certainly not used to actual fighting.
“He tried to hit you? Why? Were you trying to stop him from cornering me in the bathroom?”
“I told him I was showing a lawyer the contracts he gave his guinea pigs to sign. Also told him I’d ask Grandpa to cut off donations to his foundation.”
“The man’s completely mad,” Aude added.
Scott smiled.
“Excuse us for a minute. I need to talk to Clara.”
His hand closed around her arm and he steered her away, triumph written across his face. For several heartbeats she couldn’t find words. Finally they came.
“Um. Well. I guess I owe you an apology.”
“Accepted. See? I’m a perfectly civilized, peaceful guy.”
She was searching for a suitable comeback when a very tall, clean-shaven man in a black tuxedo materialized in front of the vase to her left. Her eyes went wide. She was certain he’d appeared out of nowhere. For a few heartbeats, he studied them from beneath arched eyebrows, his expression unreadable.
“Hi there.”
Discomfort crawled up her spine. If anyone ever embodied “tall, dark and handsome,” it was this man. Dark skin with slate undertones, jet-black hair, sharp features, movements like a prowling cat. Scott, though, seemed completely unfazed.
“Clara, this is Samir. Samir, Clara Dumaine.”
The enigmatic face split into a predatory smile. He extended his hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, miss. Glad to see you finally got yourself a girlfriend, Scott.”
Clara shook her head hard.
“Nice to meet you, but we’re not a couple.”
“Won’t be long, then.”
“Are you psychic?”
He laughed.
“And she’s French! Where are you from?”
“Margy. Seine-et-Marne.”
Nothing to write home about.
“We’re neighbours! I live in Paris. Drop by next time you’re in France.”
Scott frowned.
“I don’t think it’s really her thing.”
A new spark of amusement lit the dark man’s eyes.
“You might be surprised. It’s a matter of taste, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Another conversation happening beneath the surface, Clara realized. Neither man seemed inclined to clue her in. Before she could ask, Samir turned back to the detective.
“By the way, I’ve got part of what you asked for.”
“What is it?”
He glanced at her.
“You can talk. She works with me.”
He nodded.
“The stiff in the grave would be Telas the Weak.”
“Why ‘weak’?”
“He was a... how to put this... cripple. No magical abilities. But he was heir to a very wealthy jinn. Had to cross over to this world to escape a vendetta. Because of his disability and the vendetta, no clan of exiled jinn would take him in. Lived among humans.”
“What about the items we found?”
“Everyday stuff, most likely. Heating water, cooking. But enough shop talk! What do you think of the evening, mademoiselle?”
“It’s... interesting.”
He laughed.
“And diplomatic too. This is going to be fun.”
At least he didn’t complain.
“I get the impression most people here are connected with magic somehow?”
“You could say so. Let’s see. Academics from Saint Andrews, freelance wizards, a few enlightened amateurs, semi-magicals like shapeshifters, a vampire or two, and some genuine supernatural creatures.”
“Wait. Where?”
“You can’t see them. If you have the gift, you can learn to adjust your internal perception.”
He raised his index finger.
“Give me two minutes.”
And he vanished into thin air.
It took Clara a full minute before she could speak. When she turned to her companion, she discovered him watching her with an expression half-amused, half... something else.
Something heated.
“All right then. This Samir. What is he exactly?”
“What do you think?”
“Vampire? Panther shifter?”
He laughed.
“Neither. He’s a jinn.”
And one of them had been his ancestor?
“So he usually wears a turban and lives in a lamp?”
“Not quite. He runs a small casino and a very exclusive sex club in a Paris mansion.”
“A jinn managing a brothel. Why not.”
“You’re way off. It’s a real swingers club. Jinn have a completely different perspective on sex and gambling. Something to do with their religion, apparently.”
“Okay, so a respectable businessman. Shame. I was going to ask if he had a job for me.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Fine, fine. Are all jinn in the respectable sex business?”
“No. Some of them are...”
Samir materialized before them, brandishing a round, gold-rimmed lens on a chain like a monocle. He handed it to Clara.
“Stand in the corner and watch discreetly. Don’t scream.”
She raised the lens to her eye and slapped her hand over her mouth. The macaw perched on an armchair back had become a scarlet bird, each feather a living flame. The pony grazing on carrots had transformed into a creature covered in white woolly hair, a large black horn jutting between its eyes. And the forty-something Chinese woman with her champagne glass beyond the French windows? Now nothing more than a pile of scarlet scales covered with feathers stretching outward.
“What the hell is the red thing?”
“Keep your voice down. They have excellent hearing. That’s the Empress of Dragons.”
Her eyes snapped shut. The world would never look the same again. She swayed. Scott caught her.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“The transition from one reality to another can be quite jarring.” Samir’s tone remained calm.
He guided her toward a chair.
“You’ll be fine in a minute.”
“I’m fine!” Clara’s annoyance flared at being treated like some fainting damsel. “I’m not going to pass out.”
“Good. Now’s not the time.” Samir grinned. “You’re going to miss the best part of the evening. It’s almost midnight!”
“What happens at midnight?”
“The Christmas show, naturally.”
“Like at school?”
“Much better.”
A slow-beating bell cut him off. The orchestra fell silent. Conversation died. Children whispered with barely contained excitement. The lights dimmed. Something shifted behind Clara with a metallic clang. The suit of armor standing against the wall stepped around them and into the middle of the room. Others followed. Soon two rows of armored figures faced each other in a space the guests had cleared. At the twelfth stroke, the orchestra launched into a lively Celtic tune. The armors began to dance, slamming steel feet in perfect synchronicity against the flagstones. Clara stared, transfixed. Scott’s arm slid around her shoulders as he laughed.
“Don’t forget to breathe.”
Children clapped their hands. After a few minutes, the orchestra switched to “Singing in the Rain” and the metal dancers launched into a frenzied tap routine. They finished with an acrobatic Russian dance, then froze in impossible poses. The audience erupted in applause.
The lights dimmed again. A woman in a wide farthingale with an immaculate ruff around her neck glided past Clara toward the center of the room. To her left, a man in a large feathered hat strode in the same direction with ceremonial steps. At first she thought they were actors, but then she saw a lord and lady in powdered wigs step directly out of a Gainsborough painting, followed by their small dog. The orchestra began a pavane, and the figures lined up in two rows for a solemn courtly dance full of bows and curtseys. Snowflakes drifted from the ceiling, followed by rose petals. Soft grass materialized over the flagstones and flowers bloomed. Within seconds, the room had transformed into a shimmering garden. Her surprise melted into wonder.
“So, do you like it?” Scott Senior’s voice came from behind her.
“It’s... fabulous. Breathtaking. Magical.”
He nodded gravely.
“Soon magic will become industrial. Profitable. Commonplace. But I’m an old fool. I wanted to remind everyone one last time there was an era when magic was... magic. When it made us dream.”
Clara nodded silently. In these few minutes, she’d been happier than she’d been in two years. Maybe happier than she’d ever been.
A bagpiper stepped in front of the orchestra and launched into a lively, rhythmic tune. The noble lords and ladies began dancing the ceilidh, jumping comically in their formal attire. Guests joined in. The elder bowed solemnly to Clara.
“May I have this dance, mademoiselle?”
She didn’t have time to remember she didn’t know the steps before she found herself on the worthy lord’s arm.
“One turn forward, one back, and change partners!” called the crier in front of the orchestra.
Soon the whole room was dancing. Ancestors emerging from portraits, polished armor, young and old, children jumping, twirling, laughing. Yes, this was magic. No more doubt. The dance. For a fleeting moment, a small voice whispered she should be more careful, but it vanished. She would enjoy herself like a child.
