CREAK!

The sparkling white wraparound porch has one step that creaks when guests approach the Wendigo Inn. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I straighten up and look sharp, pulling at my forest green shirt. My ears pick up the buzz of laughter and conversation from the inn's guests. I glance at the photo of my late grandparents that hangs dead center on the wall just above the front desk. "Here we go, Gram and Grampa," I say.

The big, burly man who walks through the door looks like an extra from a pirate movie, right down to the missing index finger on his right hand. Wild brown hair tied back in a ponytail, a tattoo of a cartoon bird on his right shoulder and a trident printed on a loose gray tank top with matching shorts give him a biker vibe as well. A dolphin pendant hangs round his neck. All he needs is an eyepatch. Forget the parrot and pegleg. Real historical pirates didn't have as many of them as pop culture would make you believe. He smells of seawater, and there's a fishy odor, too.

"I'm lookin' for a port to drop my anchor in," he says in a scratchy voice.

"Do you have a reservation?" I smile. "Welcome to the Wendigo. Van Thomas, proprietor, at your service."

"Waverly 'No-Fingers' Leviathan," he says in a raspy voice. "My ship, the Black Leviathan, is being repaired in Port Mirabel. My crew's short-handed. Lazy California landlubbers say it'll take a week."

I don't ask questions, used to the inn's colorful guests after three months on the job ever since inheriting this place from my grandparents, Adelle and James Thomas.

"We do have a manpower shortage in the state, too. But we can put you and your anchor up for a week. All I need is a credit card for your reservation and any essentials."

He grunts and throws down a heavy bag on the desk with a clatter and a jingle. I open the bag and think I've suddenly landed in a Gold Rush fantasy.

My foxy faced secretary, Daji, bursts through the door behind me marked "Employees Only." Black eyes glinting like the gold I've just revealed, she says, "I smell treasure."'

My eyes widen at the gold pieces. On the surface, they look just like American Eagles—but this man must have bought them wholesale from one of those gold dealers you see in TV commercials. There are a lot of them.

"There should be enough to cover my bill," Mr. Leviathan says, pulling his pointy brown mustache in an unconscious tic. "You can bite 'em to see if they're real."

"Now why would I do that, when everyone knows that dropping gold in water is more reliable? Plus, I won't crack my teeth. I just inherited this inn, and I haven't set up an employee dental plan."

"Ah, thought you looked like a newbie," Mr. Leviathan comments, flashing me a blindingly white smile. "You'd be one of the family, then? Grandchild?"

I swallow despite the lump in my throat. "Only grandchild of Adella and James."

"Fine people," Mr. Leviathan says. "He could play guitar to make a sailor weep, and she could cook up a storm in the galley. Have you met some of the other frequent guests?"

"There are other repeat customers?"

Snorting, he looks at me with deep black eyes. "You don't know?" He pokes the thick guestbook with its brass lock. "Folks like us love this inn."

"You mean sailors?"

I almost said "pirates," but since he's still glowering at me as if I'm clueless, I refrain from making any jokes about keelhauling and bottles of rum.

I backpedal when he continues to stare at me with stony eyes. "I do know of a woman named Athena Delfino who's currently staying here. According to my staff, she practically lives here in-between book tours. How long are you staying, Mr. Leviathan?"

"Till the sea calls me away," he says. "But all that should cover my stay and the 'essentials.'"

I narrow my eyes. "And how long is that, exactly?"

"Could be three days, could be a month, could be somewhere in-between. Let's split the difference and say two weeks," Mr. Leviathan rumbles.

Two weeks. Right. "I'm sure this will cover it." I nod at the gold. "You're not one of those people that likes to live off the grid, are you? Who hates technology?"

He reaches out a massive hand—the one with the missing index finger. "Do you have my key, by any chance?"

I hand him a brass key. No keycards for my grandparents. No wi-fi. Old televisions in the rooms. Were they Luddites? But no, they had e-mail. They had cell phones. But they always grumbled about tech taking over our lives. And then, they left their inn, their "house in the country," to an escapee from Silicon Valley.

Waverly Leviathan closes his fist around the key to room eleven. "Much obliged."

"Breakfast is in the dining room from six to nine. Lunch is served from eleven to one. Dinner is from five-thirty to nine," I say. "Happy hour from four to five-thirty. We do have a store onsite if you realize you forgot something. Your room is just upstairs. Do you need help with your bags?"

He hoists a duffel bag over his shoulder. "I hope you serve fish."

As he shuffles up the white stairway, I hear the porch step creak again. Three times.

An executive in a gold-colored suit with wingtips on his shoes walks in with a Gothic-looking college student and a muscle-bound jock. His voice rings out as if he's addressing a packed ballroom at some business conference.

"We have a reservation under the name Odin," the man says. "Thor, Loki, come along. Bring our bags."

Odin? Thor? Loki?

What s going on here?