By all the Gods in Valhalla, there’s nothing like the smell of coffee first thing in the morning, Bard thought as he cracked his eyes open and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. Thank Loki’s left testicle for automatic brewing.

Throwing an arm over his eyes, Bard struggled to shake off the nightmare that had haunted him all night. Over and over, again and again, he had tried to batter his way into an enormous castle of ice. He had been dressed in some archaic battle gear, a leather kilt and an ivory wolf-headed cloak, the same cloak that had given the Ulfhednar their name.

In the dream, Bard had finally embraced his wolf’s strength, more so than he ever had in his century plus of life. More than he had in the trenches of France during the Great War. More than he had while he and his brothers tore through the German Werwölfe during World War II, fucking “purebreed” Ulfhednar who had joined the fucking Nazi Party.

Shuddering as he was bombarded by memories he had long thought he had put to rest, Bard scrubbed his face with his hand and forced himself out of bed. Padding naked to his bathroom, he was thankful he had decided to forgo the drinking last night. He had too much to take care of to get ready for the Faire’s opening to spend another day dealing with a major hangover.

Turning the shower on, he dialed up the heat to just below blistering as he stepped beneath the pounding spray. He was still bloody freezing, a lingering aftereffect from that nightmare.

Scrubbing his hair, Bard tilted his head up to face the spray, squeezing his eyes closed as he replayed the dream. His wolf had been insistent they get into the castle. Again and again they had slammed their fists into the door, until finally a small crack had appeared. The wolf had seized control, growling…something…but Bard had jerked awake.

And fuck, his cock was harder than he could remember it ever being! Thick and aching, oozing pre-cum in a steady stream; almost faster than the shower could wash away.

Ignoring his erection as much as he could, Bard focused on trying to wash away the sticky sweat covering his body. Shifters tended to run hot, particularly Northern shifters, whose bodies adapted to the colder climates. Yet, despite that, the sweat that had covered his body with a glistening sheen, and the hot shower, Bard was still chilled as he stepped out and briskly dried off.

“Ice castles? Why am I fucking dreaming of ice castles?” Bard muttered to himself as he tossed his towel into the hamper. He took a moment to pull his comb his hair back into a tail that hung from the crown of his head, and brushed out his beard, adding some beard oil to make it more manageable. And he continued to ignore his now angrily throbbing hard-on.

Stomping to his closet, Bard pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, biting back a groan as he tucked his erection away. Glaring down at his beast, Bard hissed, “Quit it! I’ll take care of you later, but right now, go take a nap or something!”

He was only partially convinced that his cock would pay any attention to him, because let’s face it, what guy’s cock actually listened to anyone but itself?

Yanking on a pair of worn jeans and shrugging into one of his Ulvfang Metalworking t-shirts. Bard grabbed his boots and continued on with his stomping, heading down from his loft, his mind once more turning back to that damned ice castle from his dream.

It had to be his twin sisters’ fault! Those two little she-wolves had been obsessed with Frozen when it released. They had been the perfect age, and with its theme, it had been custom made to trigger even Sanja’s deepest royal fantasies. He shuddered again at the memories.

Imagine, if you will, two identical little girls, barely five feet tall, less than a hundred pounds soaking wet. And they were both convinced they were the true Queen Elsa. One couldn’t be Princess Anna, oh no, that would not do, not for the white-blonde haired and icy-blue eyed twin terrors who saw Elsa every time they looked in the mirror. Anna was a red-head, Elsa was blonde. Hence, the argument over who was the “true” queen.

You’ve never experienced utter, horrifying fascination than getting caught up in watching two thirteen-year-old girls, both wearing Elsa gowns, their braids coming undone and flying wildly as they half-shifted into their wolf forms, rolling around, clawing, and snarling, and snapping each other as they snarled, “Let it go!” and howled, “No! You let it go!” at each other for over an hour!

Absolutely terrifying!

None of the boys had been brave enough to step into that little discussion. Their father hadn’t been brave enough. Nope, it had taken their mother coming home from grocery shopping to put a halt to it. But had the girls gotten in trouble? Nope. They had gotten a stern talking to, of course, and sent to their—thankfully separate—rooms, but it had been the boys and their father Karin had spent an hour yelling at.

Following the smell of coffee to his kitchen, Bard grabbed his largest travel mug and poured in half the pot before liberally dosing it with both milk and Italian sweet cream creamer. Yes, he liked his coffee to have a lot of dairy. He was still a growing wolf!

Hearing the dismissive snort from his mental companion, Bard growled aloud, “If you would actually talk to me and tell me what’s going on, maybe we’d both be a lot less growly.”

Nope, the wolf was sulking once again, like someone had stolen his favorite chew toy and threatened to withhold it forever.

I’d ask why you’re being such a bitch, but we both know you’d just take that as a compliment. When his mental poke didn’t rouse much more than a dismissive flick of an ear, Bard finally rolled his eyes and returned to ignoring his wolf so he could pack up his truck and head to the Village.

It was only about a half-hour drive from the main entrance to the Estates from Bard’s shop. As he pulled off the main highway and on to the side road, however, he found his progress stalling as his truck fell behind a convoy of trailers and RVs slowly navigating through the twists and turns as they pulled right towards the Village.

Narrowing his eyes, Bard called upon his wolf’s enhanced sight as he spotted one of the trailers in the lead that looked familiar. A grin broke across his face as he recognized the distinct logo proudly emblazoned on the side.

Ace and his merry band of Travelers had actually showed up! Things were about to get interesting!

When they finally all pulled into the main parking lot, Bard quickly claimed one of the closest unloading zones. Hopping out, he slammed the door and hurried around to the back of his truck. The quicker he unloaded his gear, the quicker he could go hang out with the Travelers!

“Oj, min sønn!” The booming voice seemed to echo across the entire valley. Bard cringed instinctively before he turned to face his father, who bore down on him quite literally like a Viking of old.

Roar Ulvfang was a very big man. While he stood a few inches shorter than his sons, barely topping six feet, he was at least twice as broad as any of them, including Bard—who had the powerful upper body developed from his blacksmithing work—and it was all muscle, despite his apparent age. He was one of those men built was large and solid, thickly built like a tree. He may no longer have a six-pack, but his full kegger was rock solid!

A long mane of bone white hair was pulled back into a single thick braid, while his beard would make Gandalf and ZZ Top weep with envy, for it was a mass of thin braids braided together into a thick braid, secured with platinum rings carved with runes and snarling wolves heads, and still reached clear down to his waist. Roar's face was craggy, all sharp lines and harsh plateaus, giving him the look of an extremely fit, and still attractive, human in his sixties; perhaps a little passed his prime, but still ridiculously healthy.

Sadly—for his family, at least—in the last few years, since his “retirement,” Roar had taken to wearing Hawaiian shirts, Bermuda shorts, and OluKai sandals, which he went to Honolulu every year to purchase. Although he claimed it was to celebrate his anniversary with his beloved mate, Karin, everyone knew it was so that Roar could go shopping.

Today’s ensemble? A deep burgundy, silk Hawaiian shirt with white-print orchids, which only seemed to emphasize his powerful arms and barrel of a chest, a pair of bright white Bermuda shorts, which proudly displayed muscular, hairy calves, and on his large, wide feet, a pair black leather sandals that strained to contain them. With the same pale skin possessed by most Scandinavians, and rocking his winter lack-of-tan, he looked like the unholy spawn of The Rock and Sir Ian McKellen. Some called the ancient wolf shifter ‘Roidrage Santa on Holiday’ behind his back, because even at Roar's advanced age, none dared to say it to his face. Not even his sons.

Personally, Bard blamed his brother's business partner, Clayton, for Roar's rapid descent into fashion madness. Who could have known introducing Roar and Karin to Clayton's parents in Oahu would result in such an utter and complete ability to embarrass both sets of kids?

Sigh.

Roar’s heavy hand came crashing down on Bard’s broad shoulder, and only the fact Bard had braced himself, knowing it was coming, that kept the younger wolf from staggering.

“You have finally arrived! Your sisters have been busy since dawn,” Roar said in his typical tone of voice, just shy of a booming shout. Roar more than lived up to his name, even in Norse, it meant fighter of praise. Despite having lived in the Americas for centuries, since long before they were even called the Americas, Roar’s speech still held that distinctly melodic Nordic lilt.

“Yeah, well, they’re unholy demon-spawn, and you probably let them visit Allie at Café Au Faé, didn’t you?” Bard asked pointedly, not even bothering to look over to see his father’s guilty expression—the man could no more hide his emotions than he could modulate his tone. Reaching into the truck, he grunted as he pulled out one of the long wooden crates. Passing it over to his father, who easily shrugged the heavy crate over one shoulder, Bard arched a brow at his father’s expression. “What?”

“You will nei tell your mama, ja?” From that particular tone? Yeah, Roar had been explicitly forbidden by their mother to make sure the girls didn’t drink too many mochas.

“Nei, pappa,” Bard laughed, shaking his head ruefully as he pulled out another crate. “Your secret is safe with me…as long as you help me unload the truck.”

“Ja, ja, min sønn!” Roar agreed, energetically nodding his head as he once more easily hefted another crate onto his other shoulder, making carrying a couple hundred pounds on those wide shoulders look deceptively easy.

“You always were my favorite,” he added in a confidential voice, what was probably meant to be a whisper, as a wide grin split his bearded face. “Just don’t tell your søsken!”

Grabbing out his oversized rucksack, his seabag, and another crate, Bard flashed his father a conspiratorial grin, “I know, pappa, I know.”

Shutting the trunk, Bard shrugged on both his bags and, unwilling to let his much older father completely show him up, hefted the crate over his own shoulder as he led the way into the Village and towards his smithy.

Even though it wasn’t even seven yet, the Village was already buzzing with workers, making sure all the paths were cleaned and cleared of snow, buildings were in proper repair, and the greenery was all preened and trimmed.

With it being Easter Sunday, those who weren’t pagan, heathen, agnostic, or some combination thereof, were celebrating the holiday. Alas, considering many Uncannies—particularly the elder and longer-lived ones, such as the Sidhe and Fae—were incontestably heathens, and many Faire-goers tended towards heathenism as well, there was a surprising number of vendors and performers also present, getting ready for the opening in two weeks.

Roar kept up a steady stream of chatter as they moved through the Seelie-side of the Faire, towards the large forge and cottage where Bard ran his smithy on the weekends. During the week, Bard usually kept busy working on custom motorcycles, and worked on his sculptures and art during the Winter, when he was snowed in, but during the weekends at the Faire, he specialized in forging weapons. He was particularly known for his historically accurate Norse-inspired weapons, from hammers and spearheads through full swords, but his unique take on well-known fantasy weapons had become popular in the last few years. Particularly since he was comfortable with the written and spoken forms of Sindarin, Quenya, Klingon, and had even recently mastered Dothraki.

Finally getting to his forge, Bard led his father to the side of the building, where he unloaded his crate and dropped his bags. “Here pappa,” he turned to assist, half-grinning at his father’s pained expression.

They were heavier than you thought, you old wolf. Bard helped pull down the crates, lowering them to the ground, both men trying to stifle the groans of effort as they relieved themselves of the burden.

Rotating his shoulders, trying to look casual, Roar straightened and admitted with a rueful grin, “Perhaps I am not so young anymore.”

“Considering how ancient and decrepit you are?” Bard teased as he likewise stretched out his sore shoulders. “I’m just glad sorry there wasn’t any pretty ladies around to witness our display of manliness.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a low, sultry voice purred with the sweetest accent Bard had ever heard. “But if only you had announced you would be performing, I would have been sure to appreciate all that sheer manliness appropriately.”

Both men spun towards the voice. Standing in the doorway of the cottage across from his smithy, where the glassmaker used to have his shop and hold live demonstrations, was a vision that stole Bard’s breath away.

She was tall and she had curves to make Botticelli’s Venus sob with envy. Her long, wavy hair spilled in a cascade of gleaming caramel and rich honey that rivaled her voice in lushness. Vivid turquoise eyes danced with amusement, gazing at them with an intensity, and appreciation, that had both men instinctively drawing up to their full heights and puffing out their chests. She was wearing…something, but Bard couldn’t tear his gaze away from those eyes of hers. They were familiar, somehow. Within his mind, his sullen, withdrawn wolf was suddenly at full, complete attention.

Inhaling deeply, man and wolf drew in her scent, easily separating it from the thousands of familiar scents around them.

Magnolias and wintergreen, a fresh, delicately floral scent that was purely feminine, and drew him like the scent of a hearth-fire on a cold winter’s night. Her scent coiled around him, permeating his being and igniting his blood in a pulsing inferno that caused his cock to surge to life and weep with anticipation as his wolf howled in triumph.

Found her! FOUND HER! Mine! MINE! MINE!

Freya's glorious breasts, she's my mate! Bard, and his wolf, damn near exploded with excitement, anticipation, eagerness, and an instant and undeniable arousal. In a word, he was completely sexcited!

Then his dad had to go and ruin everything.

"Heksa! Witch!"

Yep, dear old pappa had a hate-on for witches, and apparently Bard's mate was a witch!

Bloody hell.