It’s a new year, and I have a new series for you!
Divorcee. Empty nester. Werewolf.
A snarky 40-something property manager, Luna is used to dealing with late rent, clogged toilets, and melodramatic tenants. But quirky werewolves, mysterious artifacts, estranged relatives, and attempts on her life? Even she may not have the experience to handle all that.
Way of the Wolf, Book 1 in the Magnetic Magic series, is set on Earth in modern times. Modern times with… werewolves.
If that sounds like your kind of story, you can pick up a copy today:
https://books2read.com/MagneticMagic1
If you’d like to try before you buy, you can find the opening chapters below.
Chapter 1
If something weird was going to happen in my life, it was guaranteed to occur when I was carrying a ninety-pound toilet across the parking lot.
It was a heavy load for a forty-five-year-old woman, even one whose werewolf blood gives her extra strength, but that didn’t keep me from stopping to frown at a guy wielding a metal detector. Whistling cheerfully, he swept it back and forth through the woods along the property line of the apartment complex.
With wavy salt-and-pepper hair that fell to his jaw, a tidily cultivated three days’ worth of beard stubble, and a black leather jacket, he could have walked off the front of GQ. Had I seen his picture on a magazine, I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but in person… there was something about him that put my hackles up. Something… feral.
“You can do whatever you want on the city land,” I called to him, “but once you step onto that lawn, the grounds belong to Sylvan Serenity Housing.” I waved to indicate the five acres of grass, trees, and pathways that sprawled around the complex’s two-hundred-plus units that were clumped in several two-story buildings.
As the property manager, it was my job to shoo away treasure-hunting trespassers, even if he hadn’t crossed the line yet. After almost twenty years working for the owners, I felt obligated to watch out for their interests and also for the tenants. And maybe I was a touch territorial. I blamed the wolf blood for that, even though the monthly potions I consumed kept my lupine tendencies on the down-low.
The guy looked over at me, his brown eyes widening in surprise, probably because the person addressing him held a new one-piece toilet. “Why, my lady, I wouldn’t dream of trespassing.”
My lady?
His accent was vaguely British but muddled, as if he’d left home a long time ago and lived many places. My experiences with James Bond movies—all watched due to my ex-husband’s preferences—and Monty Python—a reflection of my preferences—did not lead me to believe anyone in the UK said my lady anymore. Nor were Europeans wandering a greenbelt in a suburb north of Seattle common. Shoreline wasn’t a tourist area, especially not this stretch, with the freeway traffic roaring past beyond the woods.
“Glad to hear it. Is that your van?” I jerked my chin toward an old Roadtrek with half the back windows blacked out—or maybe blocked. The vehicle occupied a guest-parking spot. White with blue trim, it had been modified for off-roading, with large studded tires that lifted it several inches higher than usual. On the side, blue cursive writing read: Full Moon Fortune Hunter.
“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”
“That’s not what I asked. If you’re not a guest of a tenant, you can’t park there.”
“You’re very strict for… the plumber? The maintenance woman? What did you say your name is?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, as a gentleman, even though we haven’t had formal introductions, I feel compelled to ask if you need assistance in toting that large, ah, are you carrying a… loo, my lady?”
“A Kohler Highland with elongated bowl and quiet-close lid. Only the best for our tenants.” Only the best that had been on sale and was a model that had proven reliable in the complex. Since I was the handywoman as well as the property manager, that latter was important.
“So it is a loo.”
“You’re swift.”
“Actually, I’m Duncan. Duncan Calderwood. Now that you know me, who might you be?”
“The person who watches over this place.” My instincts told me not to give him my name—or anything about myself. If that van was still here tonight, I would call to have it towed.
“Like a security guard?”
“I can be.” I gave him my best warning glower, one that people tended to find intimidating, even if I was only five-foot-three and one-hundred and ten pounds. Not only did I have sharp canines, but enough magic lingered about me that they could sometimes sense the danger in my past, even if it had been decades since I’d been anything but a mother, wife, and employee. “By choice,” I murmured to myself.
“Ah.” He—Duncan—smiled, not intimidated in the least. “That burden can’t be light. I believe your muscles are aquiver. Do you need assistance?”
“They’re not quivering, and I don’t want help.” Grudgingly, I made myself add, “Thanks,” though the guy rubbed me the wrong way.
He twanged even my dulled senses. If not for the potion, I might have more easily detected what was off about him. I might have smelled what was off.
I shook my head. The toilet was getting heavy, so the mystery would have to wait until later. I continued up the meandering walkway to A-37 while Duncan went back to whistling cheerfully and sweeping the metal detector from fern to clump of mushrooms to cedar log. What he expected to find out there, I couldn’t guess. Now and then, homeless people camped in the woods, but they weren’t known for stashing strongboxes full of gold and jewelry around their tents.
As I set the toilet down and fished in my pocket for the master key for the apartments, a faint beeping drifted across the lawn. From the metal detector?
Duncan bent to investigate a fern as a pair of motorcycles roared into the parking lot. The noise startled him, and he spun, raising the metal detector in both hands like a staff while dropping into a practiced fighting crouch. With those reflexes, he had to have been in more than a few skirmishes in his day.
The male motorcycle riders, neither wearing a helmet, tore through the parking lot, circling it twice as they eyed the cars. They glanced toward me, then at one of the tenants driving in, and roared back out.
I glared at them, suspicious since crime had increased in the area lately, and glanced toward the cameras mounted around the grounds. The two men had looked like they’d been scouting the place. Hopefully, the modest vehicles of the tenants hadn’t interested them that much.
Duncan lowered the metal detector, waved at me, and went back to investigating the fern.
“Yeah, you’re sus too,” I muttered, borrowing one of the words my younger son favored.
Thinking of my boys sent a twinge of loneliness through me. Cameron had been gone for two years, but Austin had left for Air Force training only that summer. I’d only been an empty nester for a few months.
Wanting to keep an eye on my visitor, I made more trips back to my beat-up pickup than necessary to collect my tools, a wax ring, and the new toilet innards. Apparently done with the fern investigation, Duncan had returned to wielding the metal detector over the damp fallen leaves and brown needles under the trees.
A stray black cat that lived on the grounds, despite my many attempts to evict it, avoided me as it sashayed through, on its way to mooch from people who left food out for it. The reaction was typical. Human males still hit on me now and then, admiring my curves, olive skin, blue eyes, and thick hair that I ensured stayed black. Animals were another matter. Felines, in particular, sensed the lupine in me and either avoided me, hissed at me, or, if they could manage it, bit me.
The cat spotted Duncan in the woods and halted abruptly, its back arching and its fur going up. A hiss of pure loathing escaped its feline lips.
“Now isn’t that interesting?” I murmured.
The word feral came to mind again. But maybe the term I wanted was lupine.
Could Duncan be a werewolf? One who, like most, didn’t take alchemical substances to tamp down the need to shift into wolf form every full moon?
The cat’s reaction certainly suggested something odd about him. That was a more extreme reaction than the stray gave to me.
If Duncan was a werewolf, what could have brought him here?
As far as I knew, the Snohomish Savagers—my family’s pack—were the only werewolves in the area. And they didn’t take well to trespassers. None of them consumed potions to dampen their magic, so they were even more territorial than I.
I looked at the metal detector with more consideration than before. Was Duncan looking for something specific rather than random lost prizes?
He either didn’t notice the cat or ignored it. He turned his back toward the apartments—and the feline—and ambled deeper into the woods.
After staring at him for a few more seconds, the stray slowly backed away. Finally, fur still up and tail straight out, the cat ran into the parking lot to hide under a car.
“I’m only the property manager,” I told myself. “It’s not my job to confront lupine strangers.”
Duncan shouldn’t have been able to hear from that distance, but before I stepped into the apartment, he sent a long look over his shoulder in my direction. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
I sighed. Something told me this guy was going to be a problem.
Chapter 2
Twenty minutes later, with the water turned off in A-37 and the old toilet removed, someone knocked at the door. The tenant was at work, so I answered it warily, a premonition suggesting trouble was seeking me.
I expected Duncan, coming to do more than call me my lady. Instead, a college-aged kid of mixed heritage stood on the concrete-aggregate patio. With a slight build, neatly combed red hair, almond-shaped eyes, and tan skin, he wore a business suit and carried an expensive man purse. Okay, maybe it was a messenger bag, but the gilded leather sported a Stefano Ricci logo. Man purse was the term that came to mind.
Past his shoulder, parked in one of the staff spots next to my dinged and dented truck, rested a gleaming blue Mercedes G-Wagon. All kinds of unlikely vehicles had entered the premises today.
“Are you… lost?” I asked the kid.
Lost and looking to be mugged? This part of Shoreline wasn’t even vaguely ritzy, and I thought of the earlier motorcycle riders who’d cruised through, not to mention the metal-detecting werewolf.
Admittedly, whatever Duncan was up to, petty crime probably wasn’t it. He had disappeared, prompting me to get my hopes up that I wouldn’t need to deal further with him, but his camper van remained in the parking lot. Also, a faint beeping drifted out of the woods.
“No.” The kid smiled at me, but it appeared forced, and he looked me up and down like I was a panhandler about to beg for change.
The jeans and flannel shirt I wore, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, weren’t exactly business-casual, the suggested dress code for the property manager, but I was in handywoman mode today, so it seemed justifiable. Besides, it wasn’t as if the owners came by to check up on me that often.
“Are you Luna Valens?” the kid asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Bolin Sylvan. My parents sent me.”
Er, maybe I was getting checked up on.
“Sylvan, as in the owners of Sylvan Serenity Housing?” I waved to the apartment complex.
I’d met Rory and Kashvi Sylvan, but they traveled a lot, and I usually interacted with their businessperson, Ed Kuznetsov.
“Yes, I’m their son. I’m here for…” Bolin took a deep breath, one that involved baring his teeth and visibly bracing himself. “I’m to be your intern.”
“My what?” I’d heard him, but my brain didn’t want to process the words.
Movement in the woods drew my eye. Duncan had reappeared, and he was peering at us from behind a few ferns. No, he was peering toward Bolin.
Was he eyeing the expensive man purse? Hell, maybe Duncan was interested in petty crime. If he stepped onto the lawn, I might have to tackle him. Maybe the stray cat would help me take him down.
“I’m going to be your intern,” Bolin said slowly, probably thinking I was slow.
Not usually, but I didn’t want to be trailed around by a college kid driving a car worth three times my annual salary. Before taxes.
Worse, what if the owners wanted to eventually swap me out with him? What if, after more than twenty years of working and living here, I was being asked to train my replacement?
“Only temporarily. Probably only for two or three months. Hopefully.” Bolin winced as he looked at my clothes again and then around at the apartment complex, as if it was a sleazy slum.
It was far from that. Sure, it had been built in the seventies, so it lacked modern amenities, but, thanks to me, the buildings and the grounds were impeccably maintained. The facade and interiors might be dated, but they were otherwise in good condition, and the tenants all had excellent credit histories, were gainfully employed, and paid their rent faithfully. I made sure of that.
There was nothing slummy about the place, and I caught myself baring my own teeth. It startled Bolin, and he stepped back.
I forced my lips to chill out, reminding myself that my canine teeth were imposing. That was something the monthly potion couldn’t change.
“I’m sure it’s a good job, and that you’re very capable,” Bolin hurried to say, not so dense that he didn’t realize he’d offended me. “It’s just not what I was planning on after college, not what I’d been promised. My parents always said— Well, I majored in accounting, you see. For them. I mean, I like numbers, and I’m decent at math, so it was okay, but when they said I’d have a job in the family business, I assumed that I would do their books and get to travel to all the places where they have investments. Like Malta and Saint Lucia and Singapore. I didn’t think I’d be hounding people for rent checks at the first property they ever bought in—” Bolin’s lip curled so much that his gums were visible, “—Shoreline.”
He said it like the suburb was the sweaty unshaven armpit of the Seattle area. It was not. Sure, it wasn’t as romantic or exotic as Singapore or Saint Lucia, but lots of good people lived and worked here.
“A lot of the tenants have direct withdrawals for rent, so the books aren’t that hard to keep. And I track the expenses faithfully. As for duties perfect for an intern, I’m installing a toilet today if you want to help.” My eyes probably gleamed with pleasure as I extended my arm into the apartment.
Bolin reeled back, as if I’d suggested he descend into a sewer tunnel to fix an effluent leak.
“I… I can show you my résumé.” He looked faint.
Maybe plumbing wasn’t listed as one of his core competencies.
“Okay.”
When Bolin opened his bag to retrieve his résumé from a leather portfolio, I glimpsed a vial of glowing green liquid and blinked. That wasn’t a bottle of cologne. And was that a silver twig nestled in the bag next to the vial?
Bolin noticed me peering in and snapped the man purse shut.
“Are you visiting a coven for a ritual later?” I asked, curious but not that fazed.
An old witch who lived in the complex was my potion supplier, so I had passing familiarity with the paranormal in the Seattle area. After all, I’d been born into a pack of werewolves.
Beeps came from the woods before Bolin could answer. They had an odd twang to them, more like SONAR equipment than the noises the metal detector had made.
Still half-hidden behind the ferns, Duncan gripped another device in his hands. When he noticed me looking over, he covered it and backed out of view. The strange beeping stopped.
I was going to have to confront the guy; I could tell.
“Here.” Wary, Bolin handed me the paper. He hadn’t answered my question about coven visitations, but he also hadn’t looked puzzled by it.
I skimmed over the résumé. It listed numerous college accolades and extracurricular activities. There was no mention of work experience, not even hinting of a summer spent flipping burgers at Wendy’s.
“This is going to be fun for both of us, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Two to three months,” Bolin said sturdily, managing not to sneer or bare his teeth again. “That’s what my parents said. I need to get on-the-ground experience and prove that I’m a competent employee, and then they’ll give me a real job in the family business. I’ll have a nice office, an opportunity to travel, paid vacation time, a retirement match, and annual bonuses.”
I thought about mentioning that I didn’t get any of those things, unless bonuses included the Christmas fruitcake and gift card, but I was fairly certain Ed was behind distributing those to the property managers.
Bolin squared his shoulders. “I’m prepared to prove myself.”
“Well, the toilet is this way.” I extended my hand into the apartment again, though I couldn’t imagine asking the kid to do more than hold my wrench. The next two to three months were going to be a huge pain in the ass. I could tell already.
Bolin didn’t move from the walkway. “Don’t you have any data that needs crunching? Or work orders written up or something? I like writing.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re quite the wordsmith.” I pointed at a line on the résumé, right under a promise of fifteen years’ experience playing the violin. “Second place in the Regional Scripps Spelling Bee.”
“It would have been first, but Latin and I don’t get along as well as we should. Your name is Latin, you know. Luna for moon is obvious, but were you aware that Valens is Latin too? It means strength.” Bolin eyed my bare forearms.
“Yeah, my pack—my family is originally from Italy, a long time ago.”
Bolin squinted at me, and I wondered if he knew I was a werewolf. Ed had some suspicions about that, and I hadn’t been willing to lie completely when he’d brought it up. I had, however, assured him I didn’t turn into a wolf when the moon was full and wouldn’t eat the tenants. He’d grunted and said as long as I got the work done during the days, he didn’t care what I did at night. I’d been somewhat bemused that he thought my job ended at five p.m. but had been grateful he’d been reasonable and hadn’t mentioned how often tenants needed help after dark.
“You don’t really fix the toilets, do you?” was what Bolin asked. “You call a plumber for that, right?”
“Unless things are a real mess, I do most of the repairs around the place myself. I save the business a lot of money because I’ve learned to—”
The roar of motorcycles sounded in the street, more than two this time. The riders who’d cruised through earlier had returned—with backup.
Six men on Harleys roared into the parking lot, five carrying baseball bats or crowbars. One gripped a handgun.
Shit. I wasn’t bad in a fight, but I didn’t want to launch into a battle against a biker gang with firearms.
“Call the police, intern.” I waved Bolin toward the leasing office, then jogged for the parking lot, hoping that pointing out the security cameras would dissuade the intruders from starting trouble.
I hoped that, but I doubted it would prove true. As I approached, I stayed behind cover, darting from tree to bush to lamppost, not trusting that these guys wouldn’t shoot me. Even if I’d only seen one gun, the rest of them could have concealed firearms.
The riders shouted gleefully in a foreign language as they roared through the parking lot. They slammed their baseball bats and crowbars into the sides and backs of vehicles, leaving dents and broken glass.
I glimpsed red-rimmed eyes in their surly faces and figured they were on drugs.
“The police are coming!” I yelled at a thug swinging a baseball bat at a parked Toyota.
Glass shattered, and the guy rode toward another target without glancing at me.
Fury surged up within me, making me wish I could still change into a wolf. Then I could have leaped on them without fear and ripped their throats out. And if they’d shot me in that form, I would have recovered rapidly from the wounds, my magical power healing me.
But after more than twenty-five years, I doubted I would ever be able to change again. I had only my humanity to rely on.
Or so I thought. A startling tingle coursed through my veins, the hot tingle of werewolf magic. Alarm rather than relief swept through me. There was a reason I’d started taking those potions. Fantasies of dealing with bad guys aside, the last thing I wanted was to turn into a wolf in the middle of the day in the apartment complex where I worked.
The hot tingle meant it was closer to time for another dose than I’d realized. I took a deep slow breath, trying to calm my body, but it was hard with motorcycle riders creating anarchy in my parking lot.
“Nobody here has valuables, you dumbasses,” I yelled as one rode past, his crowbar waving in the air. “Get the hell out of here!”
“You’ve an interesting negotiation style,” a calm voice said from behind, startling me.
Duncan.
“I’m not negotiating. I’m cussing those bastards out.”
“Allow me.”
Duncan stepped out into the parking lot to intercept two riders heading toward Bolin’s G-Wagon with their weapons raised and savage glee in their eyes. If Duncan was armed with anything more than that metal detector, I couldn’t tell.
“Idiot.” I grabbed a head-sized rock from a garden bed and hurled it as one of the riders roared close.
He was looking at Duncan and didn’t see my impromptu projectile coming. My blood might be dulled by the potions, but there was nothing wrong with my aim. The rock slammed into the guy’s face hard enough to knock him off his motorcycle.
Duncan, wielding his metal detector like the staff I’d considered earlier, struck another rider on the side of the head. That man also fell, his motorcycle hitting the ground, the wheels still spinning.
“That’s what you assholes get for not wearing helmets!” I grabbed another rock.
The guy with the gun had stayed in the back row of the parking lot, but when he saw my attacks, he rose up on the footrests. He leveled his firearm at me over the roofs of the parked cars.
I swore again and dove behind a stout cedar.
Before the man could fire, Duncan sprang onto the roof of a car as if he’d launched out of a cannon. As soon as his feet touched down, he leaped again. He flew toward the rider, kicking at the guy’s face before the vandal could turn the gun on him. They both went down, Duncan a blur of movement as he managed to keep from getting tangled up with man and motorcycle.
Still gripping his metal detector, he sprinted after two more thugs roaring around the parking lot on their Harleys. They’d stopped breaking windows, and they focused on Duncan, pointing their bats at him like jousters riding toward a target.
Since the shooter was down, I leaned out from behind the tree to grab another rock. Intending to throw it at the would-be jousters, I took aim, but another rider tore toward the G-Wagon with a crowbar.
A shriek of, “No!” came from the walkway.
Bolin ran toward the SUV, his man purse flopped open, and the glowing green vial in his hand. He threw it at the pavement between the G-wagon and the approaching motorcyclist. Glass shattered, and visible vapor flowed out so quickly, it was as if it was alive. There was no breeze, but hazy green tendrils formed and wafted toward the man.
Nostrils twitching, he jerked his head back. His motorcycle wobbled as he clawed wildly at his eyes.
Since he was distracted, I hurled my rock at him. It smashed into the side of his head. As with my other targets, the blow was enough to knock him off his motorcycle. Without a rider, it pitched sideways, stopping shy of crashing into the G-Wagon.
Reminded of the threat to Duncan, I grabbed another rock. But he didn’t need help. Not only were the two attackers he’d faced down, bleeding and groaning on the pavement, but their big motorcycles were on their sides, the engines stopped, the frames warped, and the handlebars and other parts torn off.
I stared. How the hell had that happened?
It looked like they’d been run over by a train or had crashed into a cement wall at top speed. Neither could have happened in the parking lot. There was only… Duncan.
He stood calmly in the middle of the motorcycle carnage, straightening his jacket and tucking in his shirt. Once the state of his attire again suited him, he bent and picked up his metal detector. It didn’t appear damaged in the least. He didn’t appear damaged either.
Duncan smiled easily when our gazes met, as if nothing unusual had happened, as if raw power didn’t emanate from him, as if he hadn’t ripped motorcycles apart with his bare hands.
“This day is getting more and more concerning,” I muttered.
~
Want to continue on? You can grab the ebook or paperback online (audiobook in the works!):
https://books2read.com/MagneticMagic1
