Taming The Hunter

“Yes, when I was very young.”

“I’m so sorry.” The cookie plate was pushed closer. “Harold should have left the dagger out for me to sell to you, but he’s always been so careful about the weapons he sells. High security, and all that fiddle-faddle.”

“Fiddle-faddle can be a bother.” Dane crossed his arms high on his chest and fought to keep from asking if he could take a look at the safe. But it would be impossible to crack if it required the owner’s retinal scan.

“The agency I work for has a penchant for tracking down weapons with a fantastical legend attached to them.” He never explained the Agency beyond that. What people didn’t know regarding the Agency, they didn’t need to learn. “I’m also a geologist. The metals used in ancient swords and blades fascinate me.”

“I thought geology was rocks?” the old woman asked.

“It is, but the cold iron used in the—” Dane winced and nodded. “Yes, just rocks. Uh, so your brother will be back...when?”

“Friday.”

And today was Monday. Must he stay here an entire week? In what closely resembled a storm-ravaged tundra? And the old man had insisted someone pick up the dagger in person. He hadn’t wanted to send it by post. A wise decision when it came to weapons that could possess a volatile nature. Of course, Mr. Stuart couldn’t know about that. Or could he?

Hmm...

Dane smiled at the woman through a tight jaw.

“Will it be a problem for you to stay in our fine little town for a bit? There are hotels along Highway 10, not far from here. Oh! And there’s the Winter Fantasy Ball this evening over at the Bleekwood mansion. You might stop in. I suspect the local girls would love to marvel over such a fine, er, studious fellow as yourself.”

Dane nodded appreciatively even as he felt the back of his neck heat. A geriatric flirting with him? It was sweet. But a week in this icebox? He wasn’t sure his sand-and-surf blood could manage that long without freezing.

A biometric safe. Just his luck.

On the other hand, he did favor a rousing adventure. Learning to survive in the icy tundra? Sign him up!

He shoved a hand in his pocket, where he touched the comforting curve of a plastic Bic lighter. He always carried one with him. He wasn’t a smoker, but when he became agitated, he calmed himself by flicking it over and over.

Hey, to each his own.

He palmed another cookie and bit into it. “Tell me the best place to stay around here?”

Chapter 2 (#u66acf346-a78a-5d11-bf24-8b8957433691)

“Oh, Eryss! You look gorgeous!”

Eryss Norling turned to spy her coworker Mireio Malory flouncing toward her in an eighteenth century ball gown, replete with a pink powdered wig and décolletage cut low enough to make promises without a single spoken word. Eryss hugged her and smiled at Mireio’s signature sugar-candy scent, then tucked a stray bright red curl up under her friend’s wig.

“You must be Marie Antoinette?” Eryss guessed.

“Natch,” Mireio said, with a flutter of her lush false lashes. “She’s my spirit animal, you know.”

“I thought that was a mermaid.”

“That, too! And in a poufy dress! But look at you, all silver and blue and looking like the Snow Queen herself. Love the wig.”

Eryss adjusted the too-tight tinsel wig with a tug above her ear. She’d found it at the local costume shop just down the street from the brewery. “I wanted to get into the snow fantasy. Winter is my season.”

“And you never feel cold. Always so warm.” She clasped Eryss’s hand and squeezed. “See? You’re warm as toast. And my tits are in desperate need of a nice warm sweater. Or I’ll take a handsome male head lying on them if I can manage that. The eligible bachelor pickings tonight are slim. Have you seen Valor?”

“I think she headed to the kitchen to check the keg. We should have enough Iced Kiss for tonight, but there’s a lot of people here.”

The ice beer they brewed had a high alcohol content—and a touch of wintergreen mixed with quartz gem elixir—and they served it in shot glasses shaped like icicles.

The town’s annual Winter Fantasy Ball, held in the Bleekwood mansion every January, had been featuring The Decadent Dames’s microbrews for four years, as long as they had been in business in Anoka. Eryss was proud of their beers, but despite the rumors, she’d never confess that the four witches who owned the place also stirred in a bit of magic with each batch.

“I’m heading home,” Eryss said. “Your eligible bachelor count is correct. Unfortunately. And I’m restless. I need to ground myself in the conservatory.”

“Still having those dreams about the man? I thought you were going to cast the anacampserote?”

“I did perform it on solstice eve. Haven’t had another dream until last night. I dreamed again of the great love I once lost. I can never see his face. It’s a portent, I know. But with the spell cast, I should be able to recognize his soul should he come into my life. Though, you know, it might not be today or tomorrow. For all I know, it could be thirty years from now.”

“I don’t think so. You will find your great love when you are still young. Maybe you’ll get him for your birthday?”

Eryss turned thirty in a week.

“Sure, maybe. But I am in no mood to wander these bleak halls in search of some steamy man flesh. It isn’t going to happen tonight. I’m restless because I—aggh, I just need some hot and heavy sex, you know?”

“Darling, I know.” Mireio fanned her bosom and cast a glance about the ballroom, where the band had just ripped into a bouncing jitterbug. “There aren’t many men left in this town we haven’t served at the bar.”

“And after getting to know them from across the bar,” Eryss added, “I want to clock half of them over the head.”

“You’re telling me. We should drive downtown to Minneapolis one night. On a man hunt. Or try Tinder!”

“Ugh. Dating apps are for hookups.”

“Yeah, but sometimes a hookup is all a girl wants. You know? But wait, maybe you don’t know. You’re the one looking for the happily-ever-after. Oh, sweetie, you’ll find him.”

“I know I will.” Eryss chuckled at her friend’s hopeful dramatics. Friends would never admonish one another for wanting some mind-blowing, no-strings-attached sex once in a while. She hugged Mireio. “Oh, you are freezing.”

“It’s the décolletage, don’t you know.” She ran her fingertips over her corseted bosom. “I can never stay warm in winter. Remind me why I live in Minnesota?”

“You were born here, and you love the changing seasons.” Eryss took Mireio’s hands and held them together between her palms. “Warmth,” she whispered with intention.

“Thank you,” Mireio said. “I felt that magic all the way to my toes. But just so you know, if your plan to open another brewery out of state comes to fruition, I vote for California.”

“Me, too. And it is on my list. I’ll see you tomorrow at the brewery.” She kissed Mireio’s cheek, being careful to avoid the little black heart patch. “I’ll make sure Valor has the new keg in place.”

“See you tomorrow!”

Valor had indeed already replaced the spent Iced Kiss keg with a new one. That, along with the half keg of the Uff Da IPA Lot, should last for the remainder of the evening. That beer name had been all Mireio’s doing.

On the way out, Eryss said her goodbyes to everyone. She knew many and many knew her because they frequented the brewery. A few knew her because they’d had occasion to believe and had been desperate. A love spell here. A breakup spell there. The repulsion spells against violent lovers were always difficult but necessary. Those who received the benefits of her craft kept their mouths shut, guarding Eryss’s secret.

It wasn’t easy being a witch, even if the town she lived in was the official Halloween Capital of the World.

At the top of the stairs that fronted the mansion, she stepped out onto the patio where a bonfire toasted partyers regaled in myriad costumes. The air was warm and tainted with ice and burned oak. Dozens of people stood around the fire with plastic champagne goblets and beer mugs in hand. Among the elves and witches and faery princesses were snowcat racers (the easiest way to bundle up and dress in a sort-of costume without looking out of place), loggers (lots of flannel and thick, warm boots)—oh, those lumbersexuals—and one daring caveman who wore a fur Fred Flintstone number that strapped over one shoulder. Poor guy, he might develop frostbite in places he’d never imagined possible.