Otherworld Tales Volume 1

by Yasmine Galenorn

  But she just shook her head. How could she tell him that her heart belonged at the top of the world? That it belonged to a man she had met once, who had saved her life?

  EVENTUALLY, AS THE years wore on, Pieter took a wife and moved to his own cabin. He made sure to help his sister though, and Katja became close friends with Marta and she was goddess-mother to their children. And each year, she still found her supplies waiting for her. Each year, around the time they were to arrive, she would wait and keep watch, and do her best to catch a glimpse of the tall, handsome dragon, but he always managed to evade her.

  One year, she found a jeweled bracelet among the bags on the sledge. Another year, a silk gown. She had no place to wear them, but kept them neatly tucked away in the closet. The protective spell surrounding her cabin held, and her skill with herbs and wortcunning grew to the point where people came from miles around for her help. Many a man tried to win her heart, but she turned them all away.

  The years passed, and then, one morning, she looked in the mirror and realized life was quickly ticking away. She touched the wrinkles on her face. Her nieces and nephews were grown with families of their own, and even their children were grown. Though Katja had kept in good health, she felt something shifting inside, and—without having to see a doctor—knew that a growth had taken root in her belly. She had seen it often enough, and though there wasn’t much to be done, she knew how to make herself comfortable for however long she might have.

  One evening, as the days were waning into autumn again, she was sitting outside thinking about her life when a noise in the copse startled her. She adjusted her shawl and straightened her back, waiting, her bow and arrow nearby. She was still the best shot around.

  A tall man stepped from out of the tall trees, and she recognized him instantly. She stood, her back creaking and her knees popped, but her heart still felt as young as the day she had first seen his face.

  “Smoky!” She broke into a wide smile as he strode over to her side.

  The look on his face was tender and gentle as he knelt beside her. “Sit, Katja. Don’t strain yourself.” He reached out, stroked her face softly. “How are you this autumn?”

  She shook her head. “I’m old, my friend. Old and growing tired. But I’m happy.” As she held his gaze, falling deeply into those glacial blue eyes, she ducked her head, then smiled back. “I missed you. I wish…why did you never show yourself? I can’t begin to thank you for all you’ve done for me and my family.”

  “Your gratitude spoke for itself in the way you’ve lived your life.” He sat beside her, wrapping one strong arm around her shoulders. “My lovely Katja—hush, you are lovely. Age is an illusion. What matters is the heart. I didn’t come to see you because I couldn’t risk your life. You do not know the politics in my family, but the fact is that my father would have found you and killed you if he’d known about you. I would not compromise you nor your brothers or sisters. But I never forgot about you. I always kept watch—”

  “I know. We felt your presence.” Katja considered his words. They had the ring of truth. Dragons could charm, but why would he bother lying to an old woman? She inhaled deeply, then slowly let her breath whistle out, all the hopes and wishes of her youth vanishing with it, leaving behind a soft contentment. “Oh, Smoky…I still wish there was something I could do to thank you.”

  “You’ve already done it.” Iampaatar gazed down at the elderly woman. “You’ve helped me discover who I am, through all of these years. You’ve kept me clear on who I want to be. I’m dragon, always, first and foremost. But…you taught me what being human means. You’ve taught me to look outside of myself.”

  As she settled herself in his arms, he held her, kissing the strands of gray that covered her head. He could feel her life ebbing. She was tired, and so he whispered to her, “Sleep now. Sleep and dream, and move on.”

  Katja closed her eyes, lingering in the warmth of her dragon, and then, softly, she let go.

  IAMPAATAR BURIED HER in the yard near her cabin, safely away where the scavengers couldn’t find her. He tidied her place, making it ready for whoever might find it. The bow and arrows that she had carried, he took with him, mementoes of a brief time in his life that would forever stick with him.

  As he shut the door behind him, he turned to look at the sky, toward the top of the world. His father was still there. He couldn’t bring himself to go home, to face someone who stood for everything he hated. As he glanced over at the silent grave, he thought his mother was right. He liked mortals. He liked humans. Maybe it was time he tried his hand living among them. He’d go Earthside…find a place and settle down for a while. He was too restless to stay in the Northlands—it was too close to home.

  So, he stepped back, and—changing into his magnificent dragon self—he rose into the air and headed toward the peaks that would take him into the world of humans. What he would find there, only the Hags of Fate knew. But Iampaatar—Smoky—had tasted the faint hints of what he thought might actually be love. And he knew that he wasn’t going to find it with his betrothed. And love was something that he needed to have in his life.

  Luck Be a Leprechaun

  Bruce discovers the pitfalls of not being a stereotype. This story takes place at some point in late February after Panther Prowling.

  BRUCE STARED AT the letter. He really, really didn’t want to go home and tell Iris what it said because he knew it would provoke a blow up and he also knew there would be no getting out of the event. His mother would see to that. There is was, in front of him in black and white. Or rather, black on green. He’d been summoned to a Meet of the Southeastern Leprechauns Association and like it or not, he had to go. Iris could stew all she liked, and he was sure she would. But when the Duchess O’Shea personally phoned her son to insist he put in an appearance at an official event, there was nothing for it. He had to obey.

  Sighing, he pulled on his blazer and made sure he had everything he needed in his briefcase, and headed home for the night. He’d stop on the way to buy roses and candy and anything else he could think of to ease into breaking the news.

  RATHER THAN TAKE a flight, Bruce made use of the portals. He had to first hop to Chicago, of all places, then to Tennessee, and stepped out of the portal near a Fae-run convenience store at the edge of the Monongahela National Forest, which lay deep in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia. The Meet was well within the forest, far away from civilization. He had hired a cab to take him to mile marker 5A, then paid the man and headed into the forest on foot.

  Red spruce and hemlock were thick here, and poplar and white oak and rowan—or mountain ash, as it was called back in Washington State. Most of the trees were secondary forest. The woodlands had been logged off at one time and replanted, so most of them were the same age and size. The leaves were just budding into their spring greenery, the deciduous trees still looking sparse, their branches barely covered with the emerging hints of green.

  As the fog rose thickly around him in the early morning, Bruce shivered. The forest was wet—wetter than Seattle, by far. No wonder it was known as the birthplace of six rivers. There was more than enough water here for a dozen rivers. As he tromped up the slope, he realized the undergrowth there wasn’t quite the tangle it was at home, but the sight of the ferns and berries eased his mind. They were familiar.

  Comfort shrubs, he thought with a laugh.

  He had worn his windbreaker, and he had his pack with him. Iris had wanted him to take a friend—she had even suggested taking Vanzir or Rozurial, but Bruce could just imagine the furor if he showed up with one of the demon twins. Leprechaun society was notoriously tight-lipped, and it had taken long enough for him to convince his parents that he wasn’t going to settle down with a nice leprechaun girl of nobility. He finally won them over to his lovely house-sprite, but it had taken awhile. Even the fact that she was a priestess of Undutar had failed to impress them. Finally, Bruce told them to suck it up and get over it.

&n
bsp; So bringing a non-leprechaun to a Meet? Not likely. He was quite capable of hiking into it alone. He had a map, and by his computations, he should reach the meeting grounds by close to noon.

  He stretched his arms, inhaling deeply. As he let out a slow stream of breath, his shoulders relaxed for the first time in months and he realized this might not be so bad. The twins were wonderful, and he loved being a husband and father, but he never could relax at home. Gods only knew how Iris felt—she was responsible for their care far more than he was.

  If he was honest with himself, there were days he was grateful for having to go to the office. It got him away from the dirty diapers and the crying and the constant need to be on alert. Even thinking about it made him feel guilty, and—as he gazed around at his peaceful surroundings—it occurred to him that he should invite his mother over for a couple weeks and take Iris on vacation. She needed it more than he did.

  As he started off again, moving quickly up the slope, it occurred to him that there might be wild animals out here—ones who could easily make a lunch off a leprechaun like himself. Or poison oak…or poison ivy…or…

  “Stop. You’re working yourself up for nothing.”

  The sound of his voice was a sudden comfort. Iris was right. He really was a city boy. City leprechaun? Whatever the case, Bruce was also the first to admit that he wasn’t comfortable out in the wilds and he didn’t care for roughing it. Iris was much better suited toward camping, but then, house sprites were—as a matter of course—hardier and of solid stock compared to his own race. A glance at his pocket watch told him he was about three hours out from his destination, so he paused to regroup, then started on again, trying to enjoy the cool spring weather.

  THREE HOURS LATER, and Bruce still hadn’t found the Meet. He was deep in the woods by now, and tired and hungry, so he settled on a fallen log to rest and eat. Iris had put up thick sandwiches for him, along with cookies and a light, large bottle of water, as well as other supplies. As he bit into the roast turkey, the silence of the forest slowly hit him. Oh, there was birdsong and the sound of water dripping off the trees, and all the various noises one expected in the woodland, but there was no buzz of power lines here, there were no sounds of traffic. He was truly alone.

  Even more troubling was that he could detect no sounds of other leprechauns. His hearing was acute enough that he should hear something from the Meet by now. Finally, dreading what he had a feeling he was going to find, Bruce dragged out his map and tried to make heads or tails out of it. Iris had drilled him on it. She knew his shortcomings. Giving directions…and following them…were not among his strong points. But you’d think, being magical, the map would light up when he took a wrong turn.

  As he tried to puzzle out which route he had taken, something on the corner of the map caught his eye and he groaned.

  “Fluffernuts. I’ve been going the wrong direction all this time.” He turned the map around and sure enough, the words flipped so they were readable no matter which way you positioned the map. And—oh crap, he hadn’t bothered to check the compass. He’d assumed the top of the map was north, and the bottom was south.

  “I’m a blathering idiot.” Grumbling, he studied the map. Yes, instead of being at the Meet, he was now over six hours away from it. By the time he got there, it would be evening, and stumbling around in the woods in the dark wasn’t an entirely safe thing to do. Pushing himself to his feet, he shouldered his pack, turned around and—making certain he was pointed in the right direction—he set off, hurrying as fast as he could without tripping himself up.

  BY FIVE-THIRTY, the light was fading fast. The forest seemed to grow dim sooner than the cities. It was because of all the hills and vegetation getting in the way of the sun. He would soon be stumbling around in the dark, and there was still a good hour’s walk before he made it to the Meet.

  He leaned against one of the tall spruces, catching his breath, when the sound of voices caught his attention from a copse to the side. Squinting, he thought he saw a faint light through the trees. Relief spreading over him like a cool wave, he headed toward the noise. Either he had finally reached his destination, or he had found a group of campers. Either way, the thought of talking to someone other than a plant gave him comfort.

  But as he broke through the brush, he saw a cabin. Old and weathered, it looked solidly made. Smoke rose from the chimney and soft lights glowed from inside. He scanned the area. There were no power lines and no sound of a generator, which probably meant the lights were kerosene or battery operated. Either way, it didn’t matter to Bruce. Somebody was here, and that was enough. A battered pickup sat nearby, near a narrow dirt road to the east. This must be the drive to the main road. Bruce was tempted to ask for a ride to the closest town, where he could bag the Meet and just go home.

  He knocked on the door. The voices inside fell silent and the next moment, a man as tall as Bruce was short yanked open the door. Well over six feet and burly, the man stared down at him. He had long hair caught back in a messy ponytail, and a beard that reached his chest. He wore dirty blue denim overalls. When he saw Bruce, his eyes lit up with an unnatural glint that made the leprechaun nervous.

  Maybe I should have kept going after all.

  The man cocked his head, staring at Bruce. “What do you want?”

  “My name is Bruce O’Shea, and I seem to have lost my way out here—”

  “Ma! Ma! You’ll never believe what’s on the porch.” The man’s voice echoed through the night, hale and hearty and a bit too excited for Bruce’s comfort.

  “What are you talking about, Rupert?” A woman’s voice echoed from inside the cabin.

  “A brownie—one of them sprites we heard about on the news!” The man reached down and—before Bruce could back away—caught him up around the waist and spun him around so he was inside the cabin. He set him down on the floor and pushed him forward. “Look, Ma! He showed up on the doorstep so he’s ours, right? We can keep him?”

  Bruce’s ears perked up. What the hell? As he gazed around the cabin, it struck him that he maybe he slipped back in time, except for Rupert’s comment about the news. The living room was spacious but sparse, with a ratty old sofa and armchair against one wall, a big woodstove to the right. A large table with six chairs sat near the opening to the kitchen. Two other doors led off to the right, and a ladder up to what looked to be a loft of sorts. The smell of stew wafted through the air, along with that of fresh bread. Bruce’s stomach rumbled.

  “Please, who are you?” Bruce managed to slip out of the man’s grasp.

  The mountain of a man stared down at him, alternately looking delighted and alarmed. “He can talk, Ma!”

  Bruce backed up a step. Rupert didn’t seem to be blessed in the brains department, and maybe it was better if he spent as little time here as possible. A noise from the kitchen startled him and he whirled to see a woman, thin and wiry, hustle out of the kitchen. She was wearing a floral housedress, over which she had tied a ruffled apron. Her hair, gray and fading rapidly into white, was caught back in a messy bun, and she looked exhausted.

  “He’s a tiny thing, ain’t he?” She walked forward and leaned over, cocking her head. “What’s your name, little fella?”

  This conversation wasn’t shaping up to be any better than the one with Rupert, but at least she was talking to him and not over his head.

  “I’m Bruce O’Shea, and I was on my way to meet some friends for a…campout. I got lost. They should be close by. I thought at first that the light from your cabin was their campfire. I was obviously wrong, so I’ll be going. Thank you, and I bid you good evening.” He kept his voice as polite as possible, as he started to back away. But before he could make it to the door, he bumped into what felt like a tree trunk. As he turned around, Rupert stood there behind him, arms crossed, a cold smile on his face.

  “Ma, the brownie doesn’t want to stay. That’s mighty unfriendly, don’t you think?” Rupert reached down and clapped one
meaty hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “I thought brownies were supposed to be friendly and helpful.”

  “I’m not a brow—” Bruce started to say but the woman interrupted him.

  “Yes, son, it is mighty unfriendly. Brownies are charitable folk, from what the TV show said, and you’d think he’d be a might more sociable, given he’s in need of supper and a good place to stay. Maybe hunger is gnawing his gut and making him testy.”

  “Brownie? What makes you think I’m a brownie?” Bruce was feeling more confused by the minute, and the only thought that kept running through his head was, “Get out of here now.”

  “Of course you’re a brownie. We’ve seen the shows. We saw Harry Potter in the theater. You’re kin to that Dobby critter, aren’t you?” The gleam in her eye grew stronger and Bruce began to sweat. “Now, Bruce—that your real name? Don’t you have some fancy name we should know about? Some secret name?”

  Bruce cleared his throat, thinking quickly. He decided it was better to lie than insist on the truth, at least until he knew what the hell was going on. “Secret name? Oh…sure! Of course I have a secret name. It’s…it’s…” His thoughts were blanking out, so he latched on the first thing that he could think of. Iris had been watching a lot of the Food Network lately, and they had recently watched Lord of the Rings again. “Altongorn Bobbigee.”

  The woman nodded wisely, touching the side of her nose. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Well, Altongorn Bobbigee, you’ll find us a fair family and we won’t work you too hard, as long as you mind your manners. Now that we know your secret name, you won’t be going anywhere, not until I give you permission. You belong to our household now. We can use a hand around here, that’s for sure. Rupert, you go fetch the others to dinner. Altongorn—do you mind if I just call you by your given name?”