Devil's Paw (Imp Book 4) (23 page)

We left the vast front room and walked through a smaller library and on to the dining room. Antiques occupied places of honor throughout. A handsome silver coffee urn sat in the library on a leather–inlaid hunt table, sturdy china with an ivy pattern beside it. Plates filled with cookies seemed to occupy every end table. The dining room held a large mahogany dining set, already prepped for breakfast with jade milk glass plates and bowls.

“You’ve missed breakfast this morning,” she apologized. “I can send something up for you, though. We pride ourselves that no guest goes hungry.”

I smiled. Werewolves and their obsession with food. “I’d love that. Anything you have would be welcome. My traveling partner doesn’t eat, and he frequently forgets that I do.”

“We have a full breakfast each morning at eight. It might tempt even your friend. Salmon, pan–fried halibut, smoked ham and bacon, omelets, the occasional duck or goose. There’s always plenty.”

I doubted any of that would temp an angel, but my stomach growled at the thought. “That’s a whole lot of meat. You guys must have a pretty solid digestion,” I mentioned casually.

“Carnivores,” she confirmed. “Although we also have sourdough French toast, and fresh berries when in season. Just to be civilized, you know.”

I nodded as we looked out the glass bay window into the rain–soaked gardens behind the house. Everything burst with color in spite of the gloomy weather. I liked it here. And I already liked this werewolf innkeeper. My tour guide led the way back to the front of the house and up a sweeping staircase to the third floor.

The room was adorable. A braided yarn rug covered the old pine floors, and the quilted bedspreads were appropriately themed with bears and other wildlife trotting across the squares. A sitting area, beside the king–sized bed, consisted of a round table, two cushioned armchairs, and a small couch.

“I’m Gina. Please let me know if you need anything.” The woman placed my bags off to the side before slipping quietly out the door.

She’d barely been gone thirty seconds when the reality of my situation hit me. I was in a rainy, chilly city wedged between a deep–water channel, miles of ice, and a massive mountain range, waiting for an angel. Nothing to do but wait. Wait for Gregory to come back. Wait for Wyatt to call me with any info on Raim. Wait for something interesting to happen. Bored. I was so bored. Normally I’d explore my surroundings and stir up trouble, but I didn’t want to call attention to the area and possibly scare off our killer.

I plopped down on the sofa and contemplated my options. Watch TV, nap, read the tourism brochures artfully fanned out on the coffee table, or … I looked out the window at the town below, at the Gastineau Channel beyond. Who knows how long Gregory would be? I was reluctant to summon him — he could be in the middle of something important. Although, if he went off solo to capture this murderer, I was going to be royally pissed. I leafed through the brochures and finally threw my jacket back on and headed downstairs. I wasn’t about to waste my time curled up under a quilt, no matter how fluffy and warm.

~19~

G
ina was back at the desk in the front room, frowning over a stack of what appeared to be invoices. The werewolf typed a few things into the computer, then ran both hands over her face, sighing as she picked up another paper to scrutinize. I coughed lightly as I came into the room. Werewolves weren’t easy to surprise, but this one seemed engrossed in the depressingly large stack of bills. She glanced up, her eyes wary as I approached.

“I’m not sure when my friend is going to get here, and, as nice as your place is, I’m going a bit crazy with boredom.”

The werewolf’s eyes widened. A bored demon was never a good thing. She had a valid reason to be concerned.

“Anyway, can you recommend something to do? I’ve read all the tour brochures. Zip line? Whale watching in the bay? Fly fishing?” Or perhaps I could cover City Hall with moose musk and sit back and watch the fun.

Gina took a deep breath. “Look. I’ve got nothing against demons, and you seem to be a bit more under control than ones I’ve come across in the past. Normally it’s just the gate guardian up here, but I’ve heard through the pack that there’s an enforcer sniffing around. As worried as I am for the safety of my inn, you’re better off lying low here than causing trouble in town. If that enforcer guy catches wind of you, you’re dead.”

I couldn’t believe she was warning me. Candy aside, most werewolves don’t give a shit about what happens to us. Vampires try to stay on our good side, to walk that thin line of alliance, but werewolves just like to keep their distance.

“I’m not sure your credit card will accept the charges posthumously,” she added, dropping her head to sort through the stack of papers. “Can’t have you dying and stiffing me on the room. And it’s not like the angels are going to cover my losses.”

“That enforcer sniffing around is the guy I’m here with. If you see him, please send him my way.”

“Mm–hmm.” Gina’s face registered disbelief. “Well, you’re not going to find any zip line or outdoor adventuring activities at this point. They all head out early in the morning.”

“Gold rush museum?” I asked, desperate to get out and do something. I couldn’t stay in this adorable little inn one more moment without setting it on fire or digging large holes in the plaster. “Whorehouse? Illegal gambling? Frat party with a rousing game of pong?”

She shook her head. I’m sure there were those activities in Juneau, and she was just reluctant to point me in their direction.

“There’s a nice bar downtown. They serve the local beer, and sometimes the guys will have a pick up poker game.”

She pulled out a little fold–out map of Juneau with cartoon pictures depicting popular businesses and key locations — such as the hospital and the office for hunting licenses. With a highlighter, the werewolf marked the streets from the inn to the Northern Lights Taproom.

“What’s this one?” I pointed to a small graphic—a fish with “x’s” on its eyes, holding a bottle with one fin. The tiny label said “Fjords Landing”.

Every muscle in her body tensed. “No. You don’t want to go there. Lots of religious people. They’re probably holding a revival right now and singing hymns.”

I bit back a smile. She didn’t know demons very well if she thought that threat would steer us away. Imps, in particular, loved disrupting religious festivities. Still, I was trying to keep a low profile, and shouting out death metal tunes in the middle of Amazing Grace, or rasping pew benches into pointy, splinter–laden seats wouldn’t keep my presence a secret. I sighed with regret and took the map, hoping the Northern Lights Taproom had a history of drunken bar fights.

It seemed only about ten blocks on the little map, and the rain had slowed to a fine mist, so I walked. I soon realized that ten blocks on the map was more like twenty in reality because most of the city was perched on a vertical slope. I was halfway there, sweating in the chill damp of the afternoon, when a number registering as “unknown” texted me.

Dear Sam, This is Nyalla sending you a text message, which Wyatt informs me all young humans do. He has given me this phone, and I am pleased to be contacting you and telling you how much I am enjoying your hospitality and your home. The men bringing pizza last night requested that I inquire when your sister will be returning. Also, you are out of beer. Yours sincerely, Nyalla.

For a moment I was stunned at the oddly formal, lengthy text, then my mind immediately jumped to the more important message. How the fuck was I out of beer? I’d had four cases of the stuff before I’d left. Had she become an alcoholic? Been hosting parties in my absence? Decided to water the plants with it?

“Hi, Sam. How is Alaska?” Nyalla’s voice was cheerful over the phone, and she was clearly proud of her English. I didn’t want there to be any misunderstandings, so I switched to Elvish.

“What happened to all the beer?” I had to use a phonetic Elvish version of the Dwarven word for the beverage, as elves did not brew or consume beer.

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and I got the feeling my abrupt words had hurt her. Damn it, I wasn’t used to being so careful around someone. She’d been treated so poorly, spoken to so roughly during her life with the elves that I needed to think before I blurted something out.

“It’s okay. I’m not mad or anything, I’m just wondering what the fuck — heck, I mean heck happened to all that beer?”

More silence, then a reproving voice said “Well, you did not leave me with enough. Not that it is your fault — you only expected to be gone one day. I tried to purchase more, but the identification card Wyatt made for me is not the right kind for purchasing alcoholic beverages.”

I slapped a hand to my forehead. She was nineteen, and she’d tried to buy beer. It’s a wonder Wyatt wasn’t bailing her out of jail. It’s a wonder I didn’t have a warrant for my arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Four cases, for fuck sake!

“Nyalla, it’s actually against the law for you to be consuming alcoholic beverages. I’m not exactly the law–abiding type, and I’m okay with you having the occasional beer, but please be discrete.”

“But Amber drinks beer,” she protested. “And it was not for me. I only had that one when we were by the pool before you left. How am I supposed to provide beer for others when you are not here and I am not allowed to purchase it?”

I knew it! She’d been hosting wild parties in my house the moment I left. They’d drank all my beer, probably raided my vodka stash, most likely ate all my hot wings too. I sputtered, trying to control my indignation enough to speak to the girl without scaring her half to death.

“What am I supposed to give Boomer with his food?” she continued. “I gave him the remaining amount for dinner tonight, and had none left for the horses.”

All I could do was make incoherent noises into the phone for a few seconds. “Nyalla.” I took a deep breath, trying to remain as calm as possible. “Boomer and the horses should not have beer. Wyatt takes care the horses when I’m gone and Boomer …he takes care of himself.” I wasn’t about to go into gory details about Boomer’s preferred diet.

“Are you sure?” Nyalla sounded skeptical, as if she thought I was pulling a prank on her. “They all seem to enjoy it.”

I’ll bet they did. Good thing the beer wasn’t particularly high in alcohol, or that she’d been giving them the vodka instead.

“Positive. I’m not mad. It’s okay, but please check stuff out before you do it next time.”

“I did,” she argued. “I looked it up on the internet. Many people give their animals alcohol. I saw the pictures.”

I winced. Some of those pictures were probably me, back in the day, getting animals drunk to barf all over their owner’s carpets and sofas. Nyalla wasn’t a demon though.

“Check with Wyatt next time. Or Amber.” Wait. Amber was half demon, maybe she shouldn’t check with her. “Actually, just check with Wyatt.”

“I will,” the girl sounded hurt. “But I am trying to do these things on my own.”

“I know, honey. Just hang tight. I’ll be home soon. I miss you all.”

“I miss you too, Sam.”

I hung up and stared at the phone in disbelief. Here I was giving advice to a young girl, counseling her to
not
do all the impish things I loved to do. If I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up on one of those after–school–special programs. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I walked into the taproom. I needed a drink.

~20~

I
felt like I’d stepped back into an old western movie. Northern Lights Taproom was a three–story row house complete with balconies along the front and a creaky wooden porch. A front door with two swinging shutters would have completed the image, but even without, the inside matched the tone of the building’s exterior. The wooden floors had been hand–hewn back in the early twentieth century and the gaps between the boards were filled with dust and debris collected throughout the last hundred years. Thick, sturdy round wood tables and straight–back chairs filled the vast room. Along the left, a bar spanned the length of the building, brass fittings accenting the heavily varnished, dark–stained oak top.

Outside, the sky was gray and heavy, but the lighting inside was so dim I needed to pause to allow my eyes to adjust. The taproom could probably accommodate nearly two hundred on the main floor, and another fifty along the edges of the second floor balcony encircling the room. I assumed the third floor was apartments, or some leased space, since the large staircase only led up one story. For a moment, I fantasized that during its early days, the upper floor had held rooms for all sorts of naughty activities with for–hire female companions.

There were four occupied tables, and two at the bar for a total of twelve in the place — embarrassingly vacant from the maximum capacity of the room. I sat at the bar and was promptly ignored by everyone. There was no staff to be seen, so, after ten minutes, I gave up and wandered behind the bar to survey the offerings. I’d tossed a bottle of vodka into the ice bin and grabbed a cold beer when I heard a door squeak and saw a youngish man emerge from a room behind the bar.

Damn. Busted helping myself to the booze. I stood awkwardly with a beer in one hand and a shot glass for my chilling vodka in another. The man stared at me with blank eyes.

“They said it was a self–service kind of establishment,” I lied, motioning to the two guys at the bar. Neither one had tried to stop me, or said anything to deter me. Clearly they were accessories to the crime.

“Good,” the bartender slurred. “If I’d a knowed youse didn’t need me none, I wounna botered commin outta.”

Wow. The guy was hammered. And it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. I was starting to like Alaska a whole lot.

“Dude. What are you drinking? Sit down and I’ll pour you one.”

The man sat hard on a stool behind the bar, nearly sending it backward into the lower rail of hard liquor. Bottles rocked, clinking together. Thankfully none fell off. “My ssshift started at eight, cause of all these peoplesh ins shere off da cruise shipt.”