Chapter 2
Appendix C
TEDDY
“But… but… your name is Leslie,” pouts the faerie, who’s so filthy I doubt I’ll be able to recognize her after she cleans up.
Every square inch of the woman, from the top of her head to the bottom of her sneakers, is coated in a fine layer of gray construction dust. Small bits of paper and wallboard litter her hair and shoulders, and her grimy face looks almost macabre in the late-afternoon light, more ghoulish than girlish.
According to Miss Dragonfly, my late patroness, Sophie Spellman Brownlee is a gifted kitchen faerie with a special affinity for baking desserts.
She might make fabulous cakes and cookies, but I’m doubtful she’s capable of running a shop, which doesn’t bode well for either of us.
I don’t intend to work for nothing, and this woman fills me with…
something I can’t quite identify. But it’s definitely not confidence in her business skills.
No, as soon as I stepped into the bakery and laid eyes on the frowsy faerie, an odd sort of fizzing sensation bubbled deep my gut, an uncomfortable spasm that felt like part warning pangs and part hunger pains.
However I’m not hungry, and this grubby girl poses no threat to me…
although, her obvious incompetence does imperil my meager bank account.
I’m beginning to worry; it seems Miss Dragonfly’s grand scheme to give me a fresh start might be in jeopardy of failing before liftoff. My ownership stake needs to be worth more than the parchment it’s printed on, which right now seems highly unlikely.
Clearing my throat, I provide my standard answer when people question my name and identity. Sometimes I wish Johnny Cash had written a song about a boy named Leslie instead of Sue. “My mom is from a werewolf clan in the Scottish Highlands, where Leslie is a popular name for both girls and boys.”
The woman stammers, “I see.” Then she emits a strangled gasp. I wait patiently as the full ramifications of our arrangement, courtesy of Miss Dragonfly’s will, finally dawn on her. “Um… ah… this isn’t going to work.”
“Why is that?” I growl, straightening my spine and glowering down at her.
To her credit, she doesn’t retreat. Instead, the faerie waggles her broom at me and says through gritted teeth, “Because you’re a boy, and I’m a girl. I have no intention of sharing my living quarters with the opposite sex, regardless of Auntie’s will!”
I fold my arms across my chest, not sure whether to feel consoled that I don’t have to work with this woman…
or disappointed. My stomach fizzes again, probably in relief.
“That’s perfectly fine with me. We can place a call to Miss Dragonfly’s attorney, informing him of your decision.
I’ll give you three days to vacate the premises. ”
“What?” she screeches, her voice so high pitched my inner wolf cringes in annoyance.
“Do you need more time to clear out? I suppose I could see my way to giving you five days, but that’s my final offer.
” I have a feeling this frumpy faerie didn’t read Miss Dragonfly’s will as thoroughly as I did, and it looks like I’m right.
Despite the grime covering her face, I can see her cheeks and neck reddening in anger.
“I’m not going anywhere!” she spits. “I’m ninety-percent owner… and you’re… you’re…”
“Ten-percent owner. Yes, that’s true, so long as you accept the terms of Miss Dragonfly’s will. But you just told me this isn’t going to work. I’m merely citing the forfeiture clause in Appendix C.”
“Forfeiture clause? Appendix C?” Her gray eyes are now blazing with fury. I steel myself against a potential magical outburst.
Miss Dragonfly only used her faerie magic twice in anger during the three years I was her companion.
The first time, she demolished a vase of roses sent to her by an admirer.
It took me hours to clean up all the shards and petals.
The second time she blew up her motor bike because it had broken down on the highway.
I’d suffered a minor injury, but Miss Dragonfly was extremely protective of her staff.
“Perhaps you would like to re-read Appendix C? I have the original will in my car parked out front.”
“Show me,” demands the faerie, flinging aside her broom.
I shake my head. “Not while you’re covered in all that debris. I’ll not have you smearing an important legal document. You need to bathe and change first.”
“You are the rudest man I’ve ever had the misfortune of encountering!” She huffs, stomping her foot on the floor and forcing another spiral of gray powder into the air.
I cough, plaster a neutral expression on my face, and decide to wait her out. Even a woman as tempestuous as this faerie should soon realize I’m right.
After a minute of pouts and scowls, she finally lifts her shoulders in a half shrug. “Fine. Give me an hour, and then come to the cottage around back.”
“Very well. In the meantime, would you like me to pick up something for dinner?”
“Dinner?” She seems to realize it’s nearly five o’clock. “Um, that won’t be necessary. I have… plans for later this evening.”
She seems almost hesitant to admit she has plans, which I find curious. But it’s none of my business. I nod curtly. “Then I’ll see you at six.”
I climb into Miss Dragonfly’s low-mileage, bronze-and-beige, 2009 Cadillac DTS, which she sold to me for a dollar a few months before she passed.
Other than the truck-stop hot dog I consumed five hours ago, I haven’t eaten all day.
And while I’m not hungry—a werewolf needs to control all his urges, including his appetite—I do need sustenance before another encounter with the bossy faerie.
The café across the street doesn’t serve dinner, and I didn’t spot any restaurants on the way into town, so I decide to explore farther north.
I pass up the boutique grocery store because I need a real meal, and the supper club because I don’t have that much time, finally parking near a tavern with a porthole-style door.
The Howling Shores Pub obviously caters to shifters.
Good, perhaps I can learn more about the local pack and get an introduction to the alpha.
I pull open the heavy door and step inside, taking a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom as I inhale the twin scents of yeasty beer and funky fur.
The place is awash in shore-themed trinkets and trim, with nets holding shells and starfish dangling from the ceiling and lots of pictures of tall ships and stormy seas on the walls.
I head over to an empty stool at the bar, where a large man with a scruffy black beard rattles off the daily specials, all of which involve beef, pork, or chicken, and pours me root beer from a local brewery.
I’ll need all my wits when I return to Sophie Spellman Brownlee’s cottage to complete our negotiations, so I eschew anything stronger, a habit I picked up in college after a particularly embarrassing incident involving a fraternity party, barbecued ribs, and warm beer.
All faeries are tricksters at heart; even Miss Dragonfly would lecture me on the perils of dealing with faeries.
That’s why she hired the best supernatural estate-planning firm in the country to handle her affairs.
She explained everything to me in advance.
Miss Dragonfly wanted to provide for her two great-nieces, Sophie and her cousin, Cassia Spellman, a single mom with a greedy ex-husband.
Miss Dragonfly established an education trust fund for Cassia’s young daughter that is so ironclad her faerie father won’t be able to access a dime.
Then she left the remainder of her estate, minus ten percent, to Sophie so she could establish a bakery.
Miss Dragonfly was quite meticulous about the conditions set forth in her will for two reasons.
First, she told me Sophie is a kindhearted but impetuous faerie who could make serious mistakes if she didn’t have someone looking over her shoulder. Given what I just witnessed inside the bakeshop, I’d have to agree.
Second, Miss Dragonfly wanted to provide me with the means to start over; she knew my options were sketchy at best. She’d discovered me, unconscious and barely alive, on her grounds three years ago and nursed me back to health.
I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for Dragonfly Spellman—and I’ll do everything in my power to see that her final wishes are carried out.
The bartender delivers my eight-ounce burger, which comes with blue cheese crumbles, caramelized onions, two bacon strips, and seasoned curly fries on the side, pours me another root beer, and cocks his head. He inquires, in a not unfriendly way, about my plans. “Just passing through?”
Typical werewolf behavior; so protective of their territory and so distrustful of loners like me.
While it’s smart to be cautious around lone wolves as a general rule, I’m about as harmless as a ghost. I take a bite of my burger, chew slowly, and then meet Black Beard’s gaze.
“Not exactly. I intend to relocate here.”
“Humph,” he replies, adding, “You a loner?” All packmates carry a whiff of their leader, but my old alpha’s scent faded long ago. I’ve been packless for three years, which means I’ll have to work harder than most loners to prove my worth and sincerity.
“Not by choice,” I say around a curly fry I’ve just popped into my mouth. “It’s a long story.”
“You looking for an intro to our alpha?”
I wipe my mouth on a napkin and look him in the eye, hoping he sees what I want him to see: my earnestness. I give him a firm nod. “Yes. Can you arrange it?”
The man grunts. “Pack meets upstairs every Sunday night at seven. I’ll let him know you’ll be stopping by for a sniff and a tussle.”
He must see the wariness in my eyes because he adds, “Nothing a big fella like you can’t handle. Name’s Wes Forrester.”
I extend my hand, and we shake. “I’m Teddy Barker. And thanks.”
After I finish my meal and pay Wes, I realize I still don’t know the name of the local alpha. “Who’s the pack alpha, by the way?”
As Wes wipes the crumbs from the counter he replies, “Jake Grayclaw Spellman.”
“Spellman?” I yip in surprise.
Wes glances at me, his black eyebrows drawn together. “Yeah. What’s it to you?”
“All the Spellmans I know are faeries.”
He chuckles. “Don’t let the name confuse you. Jake’s werewolf father died when he was an infant. His human mother remarried a faerie who adopted Jake and gave him his surname.”
“Interesting. Well, see you around,” I say with a nonchalance that belies my excitement.
Perhaps Jake Grayclaw Spellman will be more sympathetic than most pack alphas to my loner status.
He might even overlook the fact I’ve been living with an ancient faerie for the past three years, avoiding pack life entirely.
Who knows? Perhaps Jake Spellman’s faerie stepfather was related to Miss Dragonfly.
As I pull open the door to my car, I take a fortifying breath. Regardless of the number of Spellmans populating this small community, there’s only one Spellman I need to deal with at the moment: a furious spitfire of a faerie who’s looking for a way to kick me to the curb.
Sorry, Miss Sophie Spellman Brownlee. The odds of you winning are zilch. But it’ll be fun to see you try.