The Ancients and the Angels: Celestials

by M.C. O'Neill

  ***

  The small square grotto nestled inside the circular villa treated the three to the warm night air and a blanket of stars. Daylight would not arrive for hours and On’dinn began to feel sleepy from the drama and the food. Between the tomato and all the leftovers from work, he wondered how he could even move. Surrendering to these sensations, he settled back into one of the many deckchairs.

  “Hey! What’s that?” the young lad pointed at the faint sparkle that crept into the corner of his eye. He was startled for a moment until he realized that the thing was inanimate. As he adjusted his sights, he could see a carved acacia statue of an ancient Gonduannian warrior guarding himself with a small scimitar arced into a wicked curve. The blade appeared real and battle-ready. “It looks pretty wild. Did your father get that back home or something?”

  “He not only got it, he earned it,” Tam’laa straightened herself with pride on her chair. “That is the genuine sword from the Thuless’in general Sovtek Chek’yiv. My father’s squad defeated him in battle during one of those border disputes we had with their provinces a while back. He was a lot younger then. It’s one-hundred-percent cold iron. Pretty capital, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” On’dinn stifled a pout. “You know how I get about all that war stuff. I just thought you guys got it from some wild expedition in the jungles or something.”

  “Nope,” the maiden quipped. “Father fought for it fair and square. Hate to burst your bubble.”

  On’dinn smiled at her comeback. “No worries. Bubble intact.”

  Tam’laa turned her attentions over to their guest. On’dinn noted how she continued to run her eyes over the Avalonian and he couldn’t help but hold back a pang of jealousy. Mavriel was a physically superior specimen of an elf and he had to deal with that in his own way; it was as simple as that. There was nothing at all wrong with him as a person, and he had to admonish himself for the ugly feeling. Envy was just so unbecoming he had taught himself years ago and sometimes he wondered if he used his mouth to compensate for his frail frame. He made a mental note not to interrupt or trip over either of his friends’ words in an unconscious attempt to sabotage their conversation.

  “So, how has your summer under martial lockdown been coming along, Mav?” she called to him in the informal, much to On’dinn’s chagrin.

  “Not so bad,” he answered while still staring up into the night. “It’s been giving me plenty of time to study. I’ve been whiling away in the hostel, mostly.”

  Tam’laa let out a suggestive chuckle. “I’ve heard from the grapevine that you’ve been whiling away with Quen’die Reyliss too. Hmm? Didn’t you get her that job at the docks?”

  The question broke his seeming trance. “No, I didn’t. That was your friend, eh ‘Face,’ I believe you call him. I just thought it would be a good decision for her. Something different. She was originally considering nursing, if I recall. Frankly, I don’t see her that much. I suppose her duties have kept her busy and she goes out to eat with her father from time to time. That lord is always so busy himself trying to put things back together that nobody seems to have a moment for anyone anymore. I suppose you know that he is suffering a separation currently. Although I have been helping him through that, I’m really not at liberty to go into too much detail, so please forgive me.”

  What a block of wood, thought On’dinn. The lad chided himself for breaking his own anti-envy rule for the night and thinking like a spoiled elfling. Mavriel was all right as far as he was concerned, but he was so different too. So formal and polite, yet preoccupied with things like nature and stars and such simple matters that he wondered if this elf could study a ball of pocket fluff for hours and be entranced by it. Mavriel was a tall, strapping elf and all the females went goofy over him at first sight, but when he opened his mouth, the lad was something of a nerd. It must have been a Avalonian thing, On’dinn figured, and he felt sheepish for being so insensitive to other cultures.

  “So, what do you know about Quen’die getting accused of terrorism?” On’dinn blurted. He hoped that the elf found no spite in his voice, but the question’s candor was shocking nonetheless.

  Mavriel rested his solid chin in his hand. Tam’laa noted that he almost seemed too distressed by On’dinn’s interrogation and it looked as if the Avalonian was going to cry as he folded his face into a deep frown. “I suppose I have some theories, but I’m nearly sure that our friend is innocent of these charges.”

  “But how? “ Tam’laa threw out her wiry arms in confusion. “I love Dee to death too, but how do I know she isn’t truly involved. The screen said they just busted her maybe a couple of hours ago and that she was hiding in some old substation. Well, according to the news report. She obviously knew she was in the wrong or otherwise she wouldn’t have tried to hide from the authorities if she weren’t guilty somehow.”

  On’dinn thought back to how he was involved in that very plan and he slunk back again in his seat without realizing it. When he had learned of her arrest on the Na’rundi’s manascreen, he had almost choked on his tomato. Worried thoughts of his friend undergoing the biomana, or worse, the manaspike, ran through his head and he was certain that she would give him up as an accomplice whether she wanted to or not.

  What bothered the lad the most was how could the bulls have so easily found her. She was in that station for two hours maximum before the announcement of her arrest hit the media. Knowing his luck, On’dinn figured Quen’die was blaming him that very moment for snitching and that would make such logical sense considering how hasty the arrest was. One set-up after another. Poor maiden.

  The few people who could have known about the safehouse were Germander, Poplar and Minn’dre, as those three were the only others besides On’dinn and Travius who had been aware of that haven. Germander and Poplar were older and he hadn’t heard hide or hair from either of them since that fateful night at the Royal Arena. Travius was locked away for good in a dungeon and might not have even known that the world was about to end.

  As for Minn’dre, On’dinn hadn’t spoken to her since she told him off over the phone. Her excuse was oblique and angry. That maiden might very well have brushed him away for another guy the more he thought about it. That was a hard concept for the elf to swallow, but, were it the case, he would have respected her much more if she had just told him the truth straightforward. Females leave guys for other guys all the time, he knew well, and she shouldn’t have been ashamed for it.

  Whoever was the culprit to his friend’s arrest, On’dinn could not figure out any logical source. Mysteries like this frustrated him so, and he feared that his name would soon be blared across all media the instant the biomana tagged Quen’die’s recollection of him. Knowing this, he ached to confide his fears to Tam’laa and Mavriel, but that could get him arrested as well, so he believed.

  Madame Orsi. On’dinn’s heart sunk as his mind filed her name in its catalog. Tam’laa and Mavriel were chatting away like old school chums and the tone in the gold elf’s voice was becoming more and more suggestive, but he couldn’t concentrate on idle envy as his mind was racing in secret. Maybe bulls had knocked down Quen’die’s grandmother’s door while they were on the run and they must have forced it out of her. They could have awoken the poor old lady out of bed and biomana’d her and wrenched the memory of that evening out of her brain. That had to be it, On’dinn decided.

  “Uh, yeah, Managrill sucks,” On’dinn blurted out in order to appear that he had been paying attention to his mates.

  Tam’laa looked over at the lad like he was a mental case. “Yeah, we all know Managrill sucks, On’dinn, but that isn’t important. I was just telling Mav about that poor kid and the aliens that practically kidnapped him.”

  Returning to a logical point in their conversation, On’dinn cleared his throat. “Uh, sorry. Yeah, I know. So, what do you think about all of this, Mavriel? I mean, that was not a by-the-scroll arrest. It wasn’t even curfew yet and they just took him off into the sky!”

/>   The two looked at Mavriel and could see that the Avalonian seemed unsurprised by Tam’laa’s account. It wasn’t a very comforting reaction to their story, but he must have known something more about them.

  “Mav, what is it with these Aldebarans?” Tam’laa prodded. “I mean, what has your experiences been with them? The few I’ve run into at my assignment seem friendly enough, but what if it’s all an act? After all, they want us to take this alien pill, put it in our bodies and then just trust them to spirit us away to another planet! Now, I understand the other option is certain death but, after tonight, I think something fishy is going on.”

  “And I have always thought this whole arrangement was suspect,” added On’dinn. “When I got news of the APB out on Quen’die, it made me all the more ill with worry. I’ve known that maiden long enough and I know that she didn’t bomb the docks. I personally think these Aldebarans somehow set her up just because she works with that Thelemex stuff.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t like how they are so embedded with our government and law enforcement,” Tam’laa looked around with suspicion as if a bull were listening in. “It seems to be all they care about. It’s almost like the old military saying about keeping your enemies closer.”

  Mavriel looked up once again to the network of shining stars overhead and saw that the purple bruise of a cloud bank was rolling in from the west. The infernal forces were slipping and letting themselves be known to those they considered weak and powerless like the unfortunate disabled lad. So typical of those fiends to prey on the helpless. The very notion of it made the angel grind his teeth in holy anger as he wanted to employ retribution for that molested soul.

  “On’dinn and Tam’laa,” he began as he stood up to his full imposing height. “I have heard everything you have said and I cannot abide by this any longer. Quen’die Reyliss is my ward and we must have her freed no matter the cost. These Aldebarans you speak of are nothing that they say they are. They come directly from what your people call the Nine Hells. Not from another star, but another dimension; a fourth dimension, if you will. We will need each other’s help from this point on, or you are not doomed, but damned.”

  “That’s crazy!” On’dinn cried as he launched himself out of his seat. “You don’t know what you’re talking about; you’re clearly nuts!”

  Tam’laa too couldn’t believe the angel’s weird report. “I think you had better leave this house, Mavriel. There is only so much I can process and believe, and you just took a left turn into fantasyland.”

  As Mavriel disrobed to full nudity, the two gasped in horror. Whatever he was about to do was beyond anything even the insane Travius could muster. On’dinn skittered back toward the iron scimitar resting in the Na’rundi’s sculpture. “Get back Mavriel! Don’t make me slice you with this!”

  Scintillating bright wings that looked like they could fit on a great white eagle of gigantic proportions appeared just as suddenly as the arks had not long ago. Their strange acquaintance glowed like a sun in the middle of the night, but his rays were soothing to the eyes, instead of burning to them. He was much like the Aldebarans, but so brilliant that it appeared to be a mockery of their dull presence.

  “Lay down your arms, On’dinn Jak’sin. You and your people are in terrible danger. I have it upon the highest Authority that we must rectify your problem. We shall design a plan for your friend tonight. I am the only weapon you will need.”

  Ha! Now You Can’t See Me

  Orsi Reyliss was beside herself. Seeing that her old manaphone had bullied her with a government-sponsored warning every time she summoned it, she knew that she too was part of her poor granddaughter’s dragnet. By reflex, she chanted to the little device once again only to be greeted with the same dire announcement - “THIS FLOW HAS BEEN BLOCKED BY THE ATLANTEAN DEFENSE FORCES AND THE MUNICIPALITY OF COROSA CITY. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. AN ARRESTING OFFICER WILL ARRIVE SHORTLY.”

  Despite her growing years, Orsi was still in incredible shape. Many of her contemporaries fell to the traits of older age such as loss of muscle tone, shrinkage, or a wobbly pot belly. Due to a combination of yoga, herbalism, meditation, and the secret diet of the mystics, she felt like the adventurous youth she was fifty years ago as she had scaled mountain ranges in search of cryptic life. Perhaps scaling her building for a rooftop hiding spot was in order, she wondered? The only problem with that was she would not be fast enough to elude a speeding cyclejock with screaming gumballs.

  She wondered if the bulls had nabbed her son. He was still stewing in his woe in that cramped youth hostel, and the more she thought about it, the more she wished that she had the room to accommodate him for a while. All the psychic precognition in the universe could not have predicted the one-eighty his wife had performed almost overnight. Yes, Orsi was guilty of breaking many a lad’s heart back in the day, but that was well before she had settled down with Ferd’inn’s father. Perhaps she viewed herself as old fashioned, but a commitment should be honored, especially when the kids were involved. Many nights in the last month, she had prayed that Glynna would come to her senses and, with all hope, back home.

  What a dreadful development, she thought. Even if she were cast into the long arms of the law, what real information could they get from her? The manascreen announced Quen’die’s arrest and the lady felt like caving in on herself in grief for the maiden. Once her granddaughter was put under the biomana, it would be quite obvious that the old lady was truly ignorant of Quen’die’s alleged involvement with a suspected terrorist organization, but other things could slip through, like Mavriel. It was almost certain; the authorities would siphon her granddaughter’s memory of him regardless.

  It was not a time for tears, she mused as she thought of a more esoteric solution to her problem. The ornate cabinet before her greeted the lady with the familiar roils of scents and aromas from around the world. Herbs, potions, unguents, and ampoules concocted from when-only-the-gods-knew were all accounted for and they were her lifelong friends.

  Looking out her window, she could see the grey dawning sky. There would be a horrible rain again today and this made her heart sink some. A little sunlight could always lift the spirits, and she needed that more than ever at that moment.

  It had been hours since the announcement of Quen’die’s accusation hit the media and now that she was in custody, it could prove to be mere minutes by the time the authorities made their rounds in this case at hand and come for Orsi like a fox to chickens. The old lady knew that she had no more time to waste on worry and strategy. This option had to work.

  Throughout her travels, Orsi was always quite open about her studies of the hidden world. All of which was unseen was a mystery that only opened up another mystery and, for a lady who loved puzzles, such was a gift that continued to give. Most folk across the kingdoms of the world were treated to intrigue with her incantations, potions and predictions, and were welcoming to them for the most part. Some communities, however, would shun the lady and one time in Thuless’in, she was almost burned at the stake for witchery. By pure luck, a young lord came to her defense to quell the rage of the ignorant and rescued the maiden adventurer from certain immolation. That lord was her Ferd’inn Reyliss Jr. who would become the father of her child.

  Amongst the odd ingredients in the cabinet rested tomes upon tomes of ancient knowledge. These were real books written in real ink (sometimes blood) that could not be lost over the flow in a freak accident such as the documents of the modern day. One grimoire that caught her eye was entitled, “Practical Transmutations and Alterations.”

  For the most part, Orsi liked to stick to scrying and prediction. Castings such as these were known as “divination” in her circles. Transmutation was a horse of a different color and could be quite fatal if done wrong. They were, by and large, spells of change. Change in form, ability, sight, sound and all the other senses were cataloged under this sphere of knowledge. With this school of mysticism, one could change the color of her hair or make a cake taste
like sewage, or even render one invisible.

  Today’s special at Chateau de’ Orsi was an invisibility potion that she needed to study, mix and drink in a limmerflash. The ancient text ran across the page and she tried to make sure that all was accurate, and surgically so. One miscalculation or mispronunciation could render the poor old lady in some horrible transformation or a permanent predicament. Quickness and utter care needed to be balanced. She could already hear those bulls bounding up the staircase in her mind like a herd of brutish elephants ready to break through at any moment.

  Breathing with an even meter, the lady arranged all the necessary ingredients in a neat row. She attributed her tidiness and order to her Virgo birth and was quite grateful for that. Were she some sloppy chaos magician, there would be no way that she could hope to get the operation underway in due time. Most of that tripe were drug addicts and Scorpios anyway.

  Invisibility was a strange creature to cast. Permanence was the decisive risk to this particular incantation and, if done wrong, the caster could blink out for only a mere second - or never reappear. The entire school of transmutation was complex to top it off. Not one single recipe was basic or humble. Orsi chided herself when she took a peek at the large clock against the wall. Straight and steady was the only way this dangerous task could be performed in the short time she had allotted to her.

  Her brow dripped with sweat as she mixed the strange herbs into a small bowl and mashed them with an iron pestle. With every revolution of the mix she weighed the concoction on a small scale. She needed to focus as she kept coming up short. She figured it was no time to be timid, but it was easier to add than subtract in this matter.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that the morning was almost at its full glory as the blue gloaming was coming to an end. Out of the corner of her ear, she could hear herself choke back a sob. Although she was in a tense moment, she could not let the humiliation of her imminent arrest creep into this vital process. The only things she needed to care for were mixing and measuring.

  At last, as she topped the recipe off with the eye of a long-dead newt, she gave the bowl a final weigh-in. Four grams on the dot, Orsi found and smiled to herself at her perfection. In the back of her mind, she wished that she were at a Witch’s Ball and had entered in a timed contest. She would have definitely won with this brew. Checking the clock, she learned that she had mixed it all up in ten minutes flat.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed in the aromatic air around her to ready herself for the vocal incantation. The book was written in old Kumari and it boasted the best spell for keeping unseen. Her head was clear and her mind was armed. “Hrush’yiv, nedda vir, yar nomi!”

  The inflection and pronunciation were perfect as far as she could hear herself. Every vital pause and diphthong was in proper form and placement. This cast was sure to be a success, she noted, and that knowledge gave her strength to tip the bowl back and finish all four grams.

  Down the hatch it went. What a horrible flavor, Orsi winced. The potion tasted like a combination of saltwater, anchovies, burnt leaves and talcum powder. It was too bad, she noted as the aftertaste rolled in the back of her mouth, that she couldn’t have sweetened it with some honey but, in doing so, she ran the risk of turning herself into a warthog. The civil wardens would have loved that when they got there.

  Standing there stunned by the foul taste, the old mystic needed to employ the final test; she needed a mirror. It needed to be of full length so she could be sure that all of her was invisible and not just portions.

  Remembering the old floor model in the corner of the front room, she yanked off the paisley cloth that covered it. She wasn’t trying to hide from her image by any means, but as her flat was only so big and since she had accrued so much over her ninety years, some items had to give way.

  She kept her eyes closed as she didn’t want to see herself when she opened them. It was strange, she thought, as she didn’t feel any different other than the sick taste that lingered in her mouth. It was possible that the wardens would locate her by the stink of her breath alone. The mystic made a mental note to brush, floss and rinse when this was all over.

  Upon peeling her lids, she saw nothing but the room instead of her form in that big mirror. Once again, Madame Orsi congratulated herself on a job well done. There was no way that the bulls would find her unless she allowed them to bump into her. But what could they do even if they did, she wondered? Elves were visual animals and they only believed in what they saw, and detectives were especially guilty of this. If they could not record it with eyes or ears, it didn’t happen. She was golden at this point.

  One glaring piece of evidence of her suspicious activity they could find was her cabinet. It was still open and in the throes of a blatant casting. All of her tomes and ingredients were out in the open and the wardens would find that a point of interest, without a doubt.

  She rushed over to the site to commence the vital cleanup. Looking back as she trotted through the room, she laughed as she saw the slip covers and sheets swirling on their own as if they were possessed by some mischievous banshee. Orsi made a point to use this as a prank on Quen’die when she got back home. If ever she did.

  Although she was invisible, she could still feel that she was as solid as ever. Sweat was pouring down her forehead and sides from the strain and stress of her time limit, but she was also relieved to know that she had done it with success. If it weren’t for the rude visit that was certain to come around at any moment, she would have baked a little cake and had some wine with it to celebrate her magical skill.

  After shutting the cabinet, and giving the casting site a once-over, the lady did indeed pour a small glass of port just to kill the nasty taste in her mouth. She sat back in her favorite chair and watched the tiny glass raise and lower in the thin air. Her sorrow for her family and the fear of being hauled in for all but nothing was trumped by the ridiculous phenomenon before her. Madame Orsi laughed and laughed and it never felt so good in her long life. She only wished that there was someone for whom she cared around to share the mirth and amazement. The risk of the spell was worth it, she figured. Sometimes wonder is born from bad situations.

  As bad situations had a tendency to worsen as well, it was not long before Madame Orsi could hear the dawning’s chorus of birds and traffic trampled by the clunky rifling of armored boots growing ever louder. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, she thought as she had sunk the potion and tested it with only mere moments to pour the celebratory port.

  These armors cared not to be furtive about their arrival. They must have thought her to be nothing more than a little old and rather helpless lady who would not dare attempt to protest whatever it was they would have in store for her. Such disrespect and stupid carelessness, she lamented.

  The voices were three: two male, one female, as they chatted amongst each other in arrogant tones while they ascended the stairs. Although they were quite loud for the early morning hours, Orsi couldn’t make out the exact words they were saying, just raw noise and volume. But what were their species, she wondered? It was certain there were elves amongst their cadre, but what if one of those demons was in tow? The beasts would patrol alongside their earthly counterparts with a high regularity, and this caused the lady some fret. If one of their numbers were indeed infernal, her mystical potion might as well have been orange juice. The thing would see right through it as if she had never mixed it in the first place. The elves conducting the bust would not be able to see her, but their little hellish lapdog would have no problem.

  “Orsi Reyliss, this is the Corosa City Civil Wardens. Open the door! We have some questions we’d like to ask you about the arrest of your granddaughter.” The bark was filtered through one of those wicked-looking visors that not only allowed communication over distance, but intimidated the people.

  She sat in silence and closed her eyes, as if it mattered, and waited for the door to come bursting in, which it did after a couple minutes
of stillness. The old lady bit her tongue in anticipation for the explosion of the cherrywood door so that she wouldn’t let go a yelp in shock when the bulls came charging in. No matter how she prepared herself for the inevitable, she knew that the very moment it came shattering in, containing her shock would be more than difficult.

  They gave her some leeway. One of the armors allowed her a little bit of warning as he broke the silent wait from outside, “Okay, we’re gonna have to be rough with this. Stand back, guys, I’m gonna break it in.”

  Splinters and molding flew throughout the front room and Orsi closed her invisible lids to guard against miniscule shards of the wood from firing into her eyes. Unseen did not mean invincible and she wondered if her blood were invisible too.

  Upon opening her eyes, she saw her legally-sanctioned intruders. One of them was a captain, as could be seen by the blue shoulder cape dangling down his left side. The wardens meant big business if they had one of those along for this job. All three had their visors down as they hunkered in a defensive stance in the event someone was planning on fighting back.

  The female was tall and bulky for her gender and, for just a moment, Orsi wondered if she was an infernal due to her stature, but the demons never wore Atlantean armors. This specimen was just a big maiden and a rather imposing one at that.

  The third and final bull was more like a bullock. He was just as bunkered in armor as the other two, but he must have been some kind of specialist. His suit was ill-fitting as it was about one size too big for his frame and, considering his build, the model must have been the smallest the department could offer the lad. The armor was bristling with a plethora of devices strapped about it and he wheeled in a small tripod from behind him. He must be a biomana tech, thought Nanna.

  “Wen’cis, keep the door covered while we creep through,” the captain buzzed with a whisper.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” he cracked back, not taking his eyes off his position.

  As Wen’cis held his point, the others split into two directions. Madame Orsi bit her tongue again, not in fear, but anger at what they had done to her poor door. She made a conscious effort not to shift her weight, as her chair was an antique and was prone to creaking against the parquet. She prayed in silence that none of them had the hankering to sit down on top of her.

  The captain was but inches from her face as he kept his handcaster steady and drawn out for violence. Just for a couple of seconds, the point of the grisly device was square in the lady’s face as he pivoted about. That about made Orsi lose it as she literally stared down certain death. Were she to let go of her nerve and emit a squeal, the officer was apt to let loose the red mana right into her forehead.

  As luck would have it, not a one of this flock was demonic and, as long as she kept her wits, Nanna would remain unseen. Those visors could see through a terrific range of spectra, but the potion blocked all of them; even infra-red.

  “It’s still dark in here,” the captain intoned. “Go low-light.” Upon the issuance of the order, a pneumatic squeal winced out of their helmets in unison. The eyeslots of the headgear shone a menacing red.

  “I’ll take the witch’s bedrooms. Huff’ra, continue to case the front room. Wen’cis, remain at the door.” The captain crept like a snail down the hall of the flat en route to his destination. With each step, the hardwood under him protested against his armored weight.

  Huff’ra, the female, crept over to Orsi’s cabinets with the same creaking slowness as the captain. The moment she flung open the doors, a burst of thunder shook the whole flat. “What in the Nine is this stuff?”

  More airy squelches squeaked out of her helmet from the manamirrors mounted on its side as she snapped image after image of the old lady’s components. “All this must be millennia old! She has real books printed in ink and all these herbs and stuff.”

  “Make sure none of it’s contraband,” Wen’cis hollered over from his station. “Maybe we can tack on a lotus juice charge as well.”

  This made Madame Orsi feel violated. All those lovely ingredients and what-nots were a result of her life’s adventures. As she ruffled through her memory, she tried to recall if anything in there was indeed contraband. The bulls would be sure to freak out once they saw the few tomes that were composed in real orc blood, but at their age, they just looked like run-of-the-mill ink.

  “There’s so much stuff here,” Huff’ra lamented as she spun about. “It’s kind of like a little museum. Anyway, everything in the cabinets appears to be legit. Just spices and junk like that.”

  Orsi rolled her eyes to that. Junk indeed, she thought with a raise of her invisible nose. These bulls were too blind to see the practicality of her collection. After all, since they were all but helpless in finding what was in front of their faces, how could they acknowledge the hidden world? Upon realizing that, the old lady smiled.

  The captain came lumbering back down the hall, his cape swirling about with his movement. “At ease! The bedrooms are a no-go. The one the maiden is reported to be holing up in is basically empty, but we figured that since we pretty much took all of her belongings into custody upon her arrest. She was living down to the bone.”

  “Sure, “Huff’ra agreed. “You don’t exactly lug along heavy furniture with you when you go on the lam.”

  Wen’cis looked back as he was still guarding the outer hallway. “Yeah, but wasn’t she just staying here temporarily? Weren’t her folks in a separation or something? That’s what the mother reported.”

  The captain chuckled through his filter, “I guess if I were raising a terrorist, I’d start pointing fingers at my spouse eventually.”

  Madame Orsi could not abide by that. Calling her granddaughter a terrorist and implying that her parents were incompetent in her own home was downright dreadful. Perhaps it was reflex, or perhaps it was the bravery lent to her by the invisibility, but either way, protest had to be made. “Oh, what an idiot,” she blurted.

  Turning his armored head toward his partner, the captain tapped his helmet. “Huff’ra, did you just call me an idiot?”

  “Huh?” the bull stood to attention. “No! I mean, I’ve thought about it before, but…no.”

  “Very, droll,” the captain groaned. “Okay, we need to check behind some of this furniture here. I think we have someone hiding from us! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  After the lead bull sang his song of challenge, the three had hunkered back down into their stealth positions. This was going to be a long morning, Orsi thought, as another blast of thunder shook the dawn.

  Huff’ra was at eye level with the small glass of port resting on the little table next to Orsi. Her unseen eyes widened with fear as she had forgotten all about her drink from earlier. If the bulls didn’t leave in another ten minutes or so, she would reappear right before their visors and that could be a deadly shock for all of them.

  “Captain!” she crackled in excitement. “I found something! Glass of wine that is half-full! Someone was sitting right here not long ago!”

  He sauntered over to the evidence. “Always the optimist, eh, Huff? It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. Could have been here for days for all we know.”

  After another interminable once-over, Wen’cis’ array of equipment began singing to life all over his suit. It was apparent the gear was for secured communications. “3319. Unit 3319, please respond.”

  “3319 here,” Wen’cis buzzed back into his ungainly suit. “Talk to me!”

  “Uh, yeah, the youth hostel is a no-go. The arrestee’s father already bolted off. We just managed to bust a pair of Kumarian twins with a pound of peppermint weed.”

  In the background of the comm, two female voices could be heard sobbing. In perfect unison, they bleated in broken Atlantean, “Please do not be telling the parents!”

  “Nah…let ‘em go,” Wen’cis responded to the remote officer. “Just give ‘em a warning. We have bigger fish to fry and the dungeon’s all full-up with looters. They don’t know any bette
r anyway. It’s legal where they’re from! But, to be safe, you better impound the contraband for evidence, if you know what I mean.”

  After a short, silent pause, the comm array sang back, “Gotcha. Right…evidence for later.”

  At that, Comm Officer Wen’cis laughed, “3319 out.”

  With every moment the bulls waded through the flat, they would brush by Orsi with dangerous proximity, and she was measuring the minutes she had left of her altered state by the grand clock installed across from her. She knew that the potion was mixed to perfection and the time was wasting. Already, she was sweating again just thinking about it and she prayed to the Twelve that her luck would be in.

  Nervously, she watched the bulls mill about her molested flat like she was a spectator at a grim ringball match. After some time, they stood upright again as the captain gestured in the air with a flat palm. “All right, we’re letting our imaginations get away with us. We have better things to do. This place is dry. We already have the prime suspect. Who cares if her nanna gets hauled in at this point? Let’s pack it up.”

  One by one, the bulls filed out of her apartment leaving with nothing but a broken doorframe. It would take a complete replacement to fix that, Orsi moaned to herself. So pointless, she lamented further. Perhaps it would have just been best to let them in like a kind old lady and suck her memories out from under the biomana, but that might incriminate her dearest Mavriel. Maybe what was done was all for the best, she wondered?

  Letting go of a gust full of relieved breath, Madame Orsi slunk back in her chair, grateful that the wardens had left her flat in time. Outside, a terrible bang of thunder let loose a low grumble throughout the guts of the old neighborhood. Looking over to the big mirror, she once again saw herself and laughed.

  eM pleH

  For three days, Quen’die had been in the custody of the Corosa City Dungeon. She couldn’t remember how many times she had been subjected to the biomana scanners, but the bulls insisted with much force. With each and every pass at her brain and memories, the maiden felt more ill and lightheaded. By the umpteenth swipe at her grey matter, her nose began to bleed.

  This brutal subdual of her consciousness could not be healthy, she worried. It was certain that the government didn’t really care because, as far as they were concerned, she was the prime enemy of elfdom and the proximate cause of their assured doom.

  At first, the process was kind of intriguing. Just as On’dinn had informed her, she was treated to memories so old that the faint ones were vivid and the lost ones were like yesterday. She couldn’t believe she had loved mashed carrots as an infant. Perhaps that was why her folks nicknamed her “the Bunny,” she decided. When she thought about it, she always considered carrots disgusting as their inherent minerals stung her mouth and gums. Tastes change over time, she figured.

  One of the most amazing memories was from the time that she was about three years old. It involved Kaedish’s birth. He was so small then and she could see her own tiny frame hopping up and down next to Mother’s hospital bed as the lady rocked him in her arms. Mother looked not much older than Quen’die did now. There was no strain on her face and her skin was so smooth back then. One of the most dazzling elements of this old vision was Mother’s hair, as it was so long that she had to wrap it around her neck like a scarf as she lay in bed. Kaedish’s little hands kept trying to grab the bright red rope and Mother would laugh at its tickling sensation.

  No matter how many times the inquisitors ran her through the scanner, the memories never got old or trite. She almost enjoyed these moments as she was, at last, back in a space of peace and love and away from the institutional reek of the dank dungeons. Even the heavy sting of carrots was preferable to the chemical stink of oranges and lemons which scented the foul cleansing agents the city used in heavy amounts throughout the complex of punishment.

  It was Quezz. That fiend. Never would the demon dare touch Quen’die, but she was always so close to her face. With the end of each review of her short and sweet life, the scanner would leave the flow only to be replaced by the mannequin-like glare of Quezz. No matter how long she was in the cold personal bubble of the demon, the elfmaid could not become accustomed to her raw evil. This female, or whatever she was, served as a small preview of an eternity spent in the Nine Hells.

  Whenever the earthly bulls left Interrogations, Quezz’s topics of conversation would turn toward the supernatural. She knew very well from the get-go that Quen’die was aware of the true nature of the “Aldebarans.” Quezz also knew that her incarceration was a set-up and that the whole debacle was a ruse. Over and over again, the asura would bully the maiden with assurances of eternal damnation while she continued to ridicule Mavriel and his abilities.

  It was quite apparent Mavriel and Quezz were never the best of mates despite having worked together from time immemorial. Before the “Great Enlightening,” as the asura called her schism with Paradise ad nauseum, she too, was a deva. Although she was never distinct about when this had happened, as per Quen’die’s timeline, this past revolt was not long before the awakening of elfdom. Either way, to Quen’die, that was a long time ago; thousands upon thousands of years, if modern faethropology were correct.

  From what the maiden could gather from the demon’s impassionate tale of celestial civil war, Ui was to forge self-aware life in the image of the angels. It explained why these terrible visitors resembled her own kind in so many ways; right down to the pointed ears. Many of the angelics had become disturbed by the concept. These newcomers would have so many more benefits to their freedoms as the angels were now forced to serve them. The deva class (or choir as the fiend put it) had been especially vocal about this idea as they would be the ones most in direct contact with the elves. They were to be guardians, stewards and couriers to this new host.

  So many angels amongst that choir had loved their new assignments, while so many others had felt degraded. Mavriel fell in with the former, Quezz, the latter. It seemed to be expected the more she spoke of Mavriel with her consistent vitriol.

  The fiend claimed Mavriel was a suck-up and a rather inefficient specimen of his kind. This was one of the reasons she would spout that he was sure to fail his assignment. Over and over, Quezz would slander Ui and Mavriel and any other angelic that came to her mind as she considered them to be “throwbacks,” or “flying sheep.” It was Quezz’s belief that Quen’die’s beloved deva just did not have the facility to succeed, and that was the long and short of it.

  To Quen’die’s knowledge, elves were evolved dolphins, or so the schools taught. Quezz was an infernal and a definite liar to boot. The maiden made a mental note to pick Mavriel’s mind about this if ever she saw him again. Either way, the elfmaid cared not to debate the points of her species’ origin with the asura. In truth, she didn’t want to speak a single word to her.

  Whether or not the fiend was just trying to scare her or convince herself of a hopeful victory, the demon wasn’t completely off-base, the maiden dreaded. As she had been cramped in that little hole for three days, there was no sign of Mavriel. Why could her guardian not swoop through that stony roof of her cell and spirit her away to freedom? Why was it that most everything that had happened prior to her arrest was all her doing and not the valiant machinations of this deva? Was Quezz right? Did Ui, in all seriousness, choose a total boob to oversee such an important event in the entirety of elven history?

  While Quezz was abusive to her ears and her emotions, her mortal counterparts had little problem with hands-on communication. The inquisitors were not shy about punching, kicking and slapping the maiden. Their force was nothing damaging, but it was just enough to send shocks up Quen’die’s spine when the blows connected. The worst part of it all was the many times they wouldn’t. She never knew if the raised hand was going to deliver pain or idle fear.

  For the bulk of the interrogation, the bulls wanted to know who was working with her. Her scan’s files put On’dinn Jak’sin on the list of suspects, but they
could not tag Mavriel with any due accuracy. Quen’die supposed that her memories of him were somehow blocked from recording due to some supernatural safeguard that neither she nor the wardens could explain. This situation put Quezz in a lurch as she couldn’t snitch on the deva or else she would destroy the whole plan for the infernals. Quen’die relished the uncomfortable look on the fiend’s face as it was, more or less, the only emotion she would emit.

  Pain was doled out upon her with relish. The government must have hired just the correct personality-type who would have no problem brutalizing an adolescent maiden. It was true that, in their opinion, she had sealed elfdom’s demise by sabotaging the Thelemex dispersal, and that made her wonder if she would perform this torture unto herself were the tables turned.

  Yes, Quen’die wanted Venn’lith Mitlan’s head in the worst way, and with each strike to her body and slap to her face, her spite for the Xochian grew ever hotter. Mulling her arrest time and again in her mind, the maiden was quite certain that little pig was the one who had framed her. Unlike that arrangement, these inquisitors held no personal account with her. She still had yet to even have legal counsel as was promised, but these bulls cared not.

  When it was time for the manaspike, Quen’die’s head swooned. The thing was tall, black and ugly. A spindly device that would flicker with searing, intermittent red mana. Once again, the maiden was strapped to the upright gurney which was bent forward into the instrument of pain.

  It was so slow and ceremonial and the supervising wardens and inquisitors loved it. It was almost like some secret, ghastly holiday that these officers celebrated away from the common consensus of the public. Out of the corner of her eyes, Quen’die could see that some of those present were gambling over something.

  This foul ritual had happened only once. Perhaps just so the bulls could savor it in full and not get too much of a good thing. Quezz too was present for the torture, but she just stood by like a wood golem; like an idiot. Quen’die knew not how long the operation took, but it seemed forever until she had passed out from the pain of the burn.

  She awoke an indeterminate time later in a cell with two patches on either side of her face. The spike must have singed her with serious scars and she wanted in such a bad way to get to a mirror and assess the damage. The cooling salve killed off the pain and she settled, knowing well that they would stave off the scars. It would be dreadful to go through the rest of her life with two symmetrical marks of shame on her face, and this was all the worse since she prided herself for her smooth skin.

  Soaking in her surroundings through her mental haze, Quen’die could see that this cell was not her usual confinement. This unit was an upgrade for space, as it was much wider, but a downgrade for quality. She had a new roommate across from her on a wall cot. Travius sat chained by his foot. As if it could not get any worse.

  She looked down to find that she too was shackled by the ankle. In all hope, the lengths could not reach far enough for physical contact with the freak, she worried. This elf was a psychopath and the idiot-wardens decided to provide him with grist for slaughter. Quen’die would not allow this.

  “Ehh, so when did this operation become co-ed?” she broke her daze. Her head hurt as if a blade had split it open from her bout with unconsciousness.

  “And what should that matter, maiden?” the guru challenged. “Co-ed, we’re all dead.”

  He laughed at his sing-song, and this made the elfmaid want to throw up. “Just stop it, Travius! I can’t take this!”

  “Ah, yes!” he boomed after his bout with hilarity. “I do see that you have been given your marks of admission to this Glorious State of Atlantis! Do not worry, child. They go away in due time, just as mine did. Oh, those bulls love their toys and gadgets, don’t they? Methinks their mothers did not love them enough, yes? Does your mother love you?”

  This was a final straw for the maiden. Whatever his alleged powers or insights, his hostility was apparent with that remark. They were fighting words. “I said shut up! I dare you to speak of my mother again!”

  “This is not about your mother, maiden. That female is just a little component. A small role in a grand epic that you must suffer! Why, all the essential ingredients are there like a big, fat birthday cake! Let’s see; take one maiden and tear her away from her happy world. Give her a mission; a big mission the likes of which humble flowers such as I have failed. Take away her father who tries desperately to hold on to the tatters of what’s left.”

  “Shut up, Freak!” she began to blubber as his words stung.

  Ignoring her, he continued, “Oh, let’s give Mother a change of heart. Why not even use her against her own flesh? Maybe you are here because of her, yes? Did your own mother snitch on you, maiden?”

  Her nails were digging in her palms. This was not sorrow but rage. He was right, and she didn’t know how he could be so right.

  “Why, you are even complete with a wise, old Nanna, who maybe knows a little too much, perhaps? Perhaps…she too is in on it all! Add one dirty dungeon and you are now a perfect tragedy.” In the sick shade he grinned. “But where is your prince?”

  Quen’die leapt off the cot as a growl from her stomach grew into her throat like a gnarled old oak tree whose roots dug into hell. The distance the chain allowed was indeed tiny, as her wail was cut short by the crash to the concrete floor in the middle of the cell. The maiden continued to holler after the shock subsided regardless, “You’re insane! Why don’t you say it to my face!”

  With a speed that was much too athletic for his age, Travius emerged from the shadows on the floor to meet her. His eyes bore into her and deep through. “Shhh! I am only telling you what you already know, maiden. If you demonize me, you are only screaming at yourself like a fool. It isn’t my fault you don’t have the guts to face it. You know what happens when you break a mirror.”