What Do You Say to a Naked Elf?

by Cheryl Sterling

  “Charlie, are you listening to me?”

  “No, I’m not,” he replied, amazed at how easy it was to be rude to her. He continued with his work, avoiding looking at her. “You want to visit Mara. I’m sorry, it’s not possible until Hugh or I can escort you. You’re still in danger, more so as the trial exposed your ‘powers’ to a broader audience.”

  He sighed and reached for a tablet on the corner of the desk. He needed the latest currency rate for Dwarf pelfins against Sylthian indrans. He hadn’t told Jane yet, but his experience with the back trails on Lowth was needed. He’d been asked to accompany the group of men who would escort Capp’ear to the Magwrosin Swamp.

  “You’re bored,” he continued, finding the figures he needed and writing them down. “I can’t help that, either. I have a job to do, and it becomes more complicated every day. Why don’t you visit Sharezee and check the progress on the undergarments she’s making?” He said it with sarcasm, wishing for about the thousandth time in the past two and a half weeks that he’d never been on duty the night of Tivat’s escape.

  “I did,” she replied. “She had some things done for me.”

  He nodded, intent on completing his work so he could go home. It had been a long day.

  “Charlie, look at me. Charlie?”

  “What?” he asked, slamming the tablet down, angry at her constant interruptions. He glanced up, about to add more of his wrath.

  And stopped, mouth agape, blood draining to a pool at his feet then slamming back with force to his groin.

  “Wha-what . . .” He struggled to find words. “What do you have on?” Or, to be more precise, what did she almost have on?

  The top . . . the bodice . . . shades, he didn’t know what to call it. A triangle of fabric, bright blue, exposed her midriff, bare arms, the throb of her pulse at her neck. And below her waist! Bloomers, stopping above her knees, but tighter, obscenely tight. Charlie pulled the neck of his shirt open with two fingers. This defied logic. What was she thinking?

  “You like?” She pirouetted for him.

  Shades, the top had no back, just a tie at the neck and above her waist. More bare skin gleamed at him. His anger building, he noticed her shoulder blades, a mole above her waist, the tattoo on her arm—

  “I don’t like,” he barked, jumping to his feet. “Are you mad? Haven’t you caused enough trouble without inciting a riot? Can you—will you—” Taking firm control of himself, he said through gritted teeth, “You are not wearing that.”

  “But, Dad, all the girls are wearing halters and shorts. Don’t you want me to have a date for the prom?” She batted her eyelashes.

  He couldn’t concentrate with so much flesh showing.

  “I. Don’t. Care. Take. It. Off.”

  Expecting an argument, he was unprepared for her next move. Jane shrugged, reached up and untied the fabric.

  “No!” Charlie yelled, leaping the short distance to her. He caught a glimpse of her breasts, small and pale and perfect, before he grabbed the top and savagely retied it.

  Jane made a gurgling noise, her hands at her throat. “You’re choking me.”

  “If only I could,” he muttered. He pulled his shirt off and shoved it over her head. Spinning her around, he all but threw her into his chair.

  A muscle twitched over his left eye. His head pounded, and he could not erase the vision of her breasts from his mind.

  “Charlie.” She leaned forward.

  “Quiet.” Pacing the floor, he forced himself to breathe deeply. He avoided looking directly at her.

  Several minutes passed while she fidgeted in the chair, but she stayed uncharacteristically silent. When he felt calm enough to speak, Charlie perched on the edge of the desk.

  “Jane,” he said, trying logic first. “People dress a certain way here for a reason. Protection, modesty, practicality, tradition. To change that invites ridicule and gossip. I know you feel trapped. It’s understandable that you want to be more comfortable by surrounding yourself with familiar things. But, Jane, your Earth wardrobe can’t be one of them. It’s unacceptable behavior.”

  “Charlie,” she said, her tone mocking his. “I’ll dress however I damn well please. You people need to be brought out of the Middle Ages. I don’t know how long you’ve had your present wardrobe, but it’s hot and uncomfortable. It’s impossible to do chores with skirts wrapped around your legs, let alone keep them clean after dragging them in the dust. If others are offended by what I wear, it’s too damn bad.”

  He felt his temper rising. “You will present yourself to this world by wearing appropriate attire. You forget that you are a guest of the king.”

  “And you forget that I’m going to die. Or be imprisoned. Maybe today. I don’t care what I should or should not do, king or not. What has he done for me lately? I don’t hear the phone ringing off the hook with a royal pardon.”

  “Treason!”

  “Ignorant, backward people! Stay out of my way, Charlie Whelphite. You don’t want to see me mad.”

  “Nor do you want to see my temper.”

  “As if.” She laughed. “You don’t scare me.”

  “No,” he said, determined to have the last word. “But I can issue an order to keep you in the castle, locked in your room until it’s time for your death.”

  “Mary, Queen of Scots.” She shot to her feet.

  “Whomever. Jane, Queen of Earth, prisoner of Lowth, you will obey me.”

  “Make me!”

  Something snapped in him—sanity, temper, desire, he didn’t know which. He did the only thing he could. He kissed her. Hard, demanding, tasting her blood and not caring. He leaned back against the desk, pulling her with him. Her shirt rubbed against his bare chest, making him aware of her breasts underneath. At their memory, he groaned, moving his hand to cup one, thumbing the tip to arousal.

  Jane responded with a low moan.

  “Oh, Fly Boy,” she whispered, taking his bottom lip between her teeth and tugging. “You need to do this more often.” She slid one arm behind him and touched his forewing, tracing the raised pattern on the membrane.

  Charlie shuddered in reaction. A sharpness, two-edged, a tormenting ecstasy, bisected him like a sword blade. Generated by her fingertips, it convulsed his body, slamming back and forth, looping and knotting before it refocused and shot to his sex.

  With a swipe of his hand, he cleared his perfectly organized desk. He lowered her onto its surface, his mouth on hers again, fumbling with the tie at the back of her waist, eager to free it and gain access to her breasts.

  “You drive me mad,” he growled between kisses. “You tempt me, invade my thoughts, distract me beyond reason. I wonder how you survived on Earth, the way you act with men.”

  She smiled and traced his ear with one hand, the other wrapped around his neck. “I didn’t act this way with Earth men. Just you, Charlie.” She licked her lips, a long, slow movement calculated, he was sure, to ensnare him.

  He shifted one knee between her legs, uncaring of the time or place. He would have her. Perhaps then he would have release from the torment she put him through.

  A sound of pleasure escaped her. She closed her eyes, her beautiful, bellefern-green eyes, long-lashed and honeyed. Charlie traced an eyelid with one finger, across her cheekbone and down to her lips, swollen from his kisses. He brushed them lightly, knowing she wanted his touch, teasing her in return, and moved across her cheek again. His fingers tangled in her hair, found the shell of her ear and outlined it upward from the lobe to the bud of a point at the top . . .

  Point? It took a moment to sink in, for the implication to rise through the fog of desire and make sense. Sprawled on top of her, moments from taking advantage of her open invitation, he knew he should deal with this abnormality later, after sating his hunger. But it didn’t make sense.

  Curiosity won over lust. Shaking, Charlie parted the curls around one ear and stared at the developing point. An Elven point.

  “By the first dawn,” he swore.
He didn’t bother looking at the other ear; it would be the same. And what in the two moons was he to do?

  Jane, unaware of the discovery, chuckled at his outburst. “Too much for you, elf-man?” When he didn’t respond, she opened her eyes.

  To Charlie, they blazed at him. For an instant, for the tiniest part of an instant, an act of his imagination and not reality, a spark of green lit and extinguished.

  He jumped back—away from her, off of her, his desire gone.

  “Witch,” he grunted, scrubbing at her kisses with the back of his hand. “Capp’ear was right. You mean to enslave me.”

  Jane sat up on his desk and smiled, amused. “Don’t go weird on me, Charlie. I’m no more a witch than you are. If you don’t want to have sex with me, then say so, but I don’t believe that’s the case. I think you like your stuffy little rut, and you’re afraid to lose control and let go.”

  Afraid? Yes, he was afraid. He was involved in something he couldn’t handle. Not just lust for her. He couldn’t deny that anymore. He’d been pulled into something deeper. It lay at a higher level, perhaps beyond magic, or the beginning of a magic of unparalleled strength in Lowth.

  “Fine,” he said, drawing a hand over his eyes to block out the picture of her half-dressed. “Believe what you will. I cannot help you with your needs, Jane.”

  “I can help you with yours, Charlie,” she said softly.

  His eyes flew open, and he half expected to see her stripping again. Relief flooded him. She sat demurely atop his desk.

  “What’s it going to be, cowboy?” she asked.

  “A respite,” he said. “A little time to breathe.” And sort out, maybe, what all this meant—ears, eyes, tattoos, and rainstorms. And his feelings. He couldn’t shake the conviction that her tattoo held the key. Its familiarity haunted him, but he’d been unsuccessful in remembering where he’d seen it before.

  “Okay.” Jane scooted off the desk. “I can’t give you too long because I don’t know how long I have. Tonight, however, you’re safe from attack.” Her smile promised another story for tomorrow.

  “Now,” she said, brushing her hands together. “When am I going to see Mara again?”

  Charlie groaned. He didn’t have the strength to deal with this argument again. “I’ll take you there in the morning. But only if you don’t wear those ridiculous clothes.”

  “Deal,” she said quickly, too quickly. She walked to the door and reached for a package she must have placed there earlier. Unwrapping it on the open surface of the desk, she pulled out a skirt and blouse.

  “How about these?” she asked, holding them up. “I call it the modified Dale Evans look.”

  The skirt was full, midcalf in length. The blouse had short sleeves, long enough to cover her tattoo, but shorter than what most women wore. With a sinking realization, Charlie knew he’d been tricked. If she’d originally asked to wear these, he would have refused. But in comparison to what she wore under his shirt, they looked almost matronly.

  “Jane,” he warned, taking a step toward her.

  “I knew you’d see reason,” she said, moving backward to the door. “See you tomorrow. By the way—nice wings.” She blew him a kiss and disappeared.

  “It looks like rain,” she said the next morning, peering through the cottage window at the clouded western sky. She and Mara sat in the main room after a squealing, joyous reunion.

  Charlie had abandoned her. He’d driven Jane and Muttle to the village. Still miffed by her antics of the previous day, he’d hardly spoken to her. Soon after dropping her off, he declared he had business in town. He rationalized her need for extra safety by declaring Muttle more than capable for the job. If danger came too close, the Belwaith would call him.

  So much for guarding her. Riiight. I’ll just flash the Bat Signal over Gotham City and you can fire up the old Batmobile and come to the rescue.

  “Hugh says the rain will clear by tonight,” Mara said.

  “Oh, yes?” Jane shoved Charlie to the back of her mind. Let him pout. At least it showed he thought about her.

  “He predicts the weather,” the other woman continued. “Except for the night of the fire.”

  “That was all my doing.” Well, not exactly; Jane felt sure she hadn’t been alone in drenching the blaze.

  “He says it will be clear for tonight’s festivities.”

  Festivities? Jane snapped to attention. Whoa, Nelly. She had to leave the castle more often.

  Mara looked at her oddly. “Charlie didn’t say anything about them?” She paused. “No, he wouldn’t, would he?”

  “What do you mean? Why would he keep it secret?”

  “It’s Midsummer’s Eve.”

  “And?” Jane fished for more details.

  Mara looked up, down, and in every direction but Jane’s. After hesitating for as long as she could, she said vaguely, “A time of renewal. Both moons will be full . . .”

  Jane leaned forward. Something was definitely strange. “Not getting your drift here, Mara.”

  The woman cleared her throat. In a rush she said, “In the olden days it was a fertility rite, to ensure a good harvest in the fall.”

  Fertility? Ah, yes, and all its accompaniments. No wonder Charlie hadn’t mentioned it. Jane’s interest escalated, her mind revving to high gear. Full moons, parties, Charlie. Charlie’s wings. Hoo-boy.

  “They serve mead,” Mara added.

  Mead? Oh, beer. Yes, that would help speed the process.

  “Is it still a fertility rite?” Jane tried to remember what pagan festivals entailed—drinking, bonfires, nudity, and wanton lovemaking.

  Mara blushed, obviously thinking the same.

  “Say no more, say no more.” A sudden thought occurred to Jane. “Not to sound nosy or anything, but are there other women in the village trying to conceive?”

  Her friend’s face darkened, as if she didn’t like thinking about this aspect of her marriage and the Dymynsh. “Several,” she said tersely.

  “And are there some who might need help, beside the full moons and the mead and the general toga party ambiance?” Jane’s mind was going click, click, click. She had no use for her merchandise now that her could-have-beenlucrative part-time job had crashed to a halt. What better way to dispose of it than to the benefit of the local women?

  She looked around as if expecting Charlie to return. He’d probably be gone for hours, which would give her more than enough time. Two could play this game. She’d attack the Dymynsh in her own way.

  “How many women can you get here in the next few minutes?” she asked, trying to remember what remained in her boxes after Kendra s party.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Jane rose and threw her arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “Let me introduce you to the double-A battery.”

  It was the best party she’d ever hosted. The women of Malin, after their initial shock at the premise of the impromptu Realm of Pleasures party, dove in with enthusiasm. About thirty in all crowded Mara’s cottage, stuffed and wedged in every available spot. More trickled in as word spread that the Earthwoman, famous for making gardens grow and rain appear, was selling devices to improve relations. In their minds it meant one thing—conception, especially on the prophetic day of Midsummer’s Eve.

  Jane, feeling generous, cleared out her merchandise at rock-bottom prices. Lowth prices, that was, consisting of the currency of indrans and using the bartering skills of Mara. Clothes, jewelry, favors and even a chicken or two were traded for the contents of her Rubbermaid containers that the Elven men had unwittingly transported through the portal.

  Foregoing her usual practice of privately filling orders, Jane opened all the boxes and let the women go at it. Soon they argued over body glitter, massage oils, edible undies, fantasy candles and lubricants. They fought and traded them as actively as they would eggs on market day.

  The vibrators sold the most quickly, the partygoers comparing them to their husbands’ sizes and abilities. Jane passed
around samples of her products, gave out door prizes and explained some of the more obscure items, such as nipple chains and love beads.

  Two hours of bawdy remarks later, the room finally cleared. All that remained were a couple of novelty ice cube trays and some board games, unintelligible in English.

  “Charlie won’t like this,” Mara said, picking up discarded paper, boxes and plastic. “Hugh probably won’t, either.”

  “Charlie doesn’t like a lot of what I do,” Jane replied. “But I can guarantee he’ll like what I’m going to do tonight.” She’d kept a few items for herself. She planned on getting him semisnookered with mead and retreating to the castle for Charlie’s Seduction, Phase Three.

  The women exchanged glances, grinning in the Cheshire Cat-grassy knoll type of conspirators’ way.

  “We’ll leave you and Hugh to yourselves,” Jane added, trying not to laugh at Mara’s embarrassment. “If it’s a girl, I want you to name her after me.”

  Mara blushed. “If anyone can help with our problem, it’s you, Jane. After what you did to my garden . . .”

  “Well, a geranium and a baby are two different things, but I’ll cast my spell on you.” She proceeded to make a hocus-pocus sign with two fingers in the general vicinity of her friend’s womb.

  “It will have to be magical, because after tonight, Hugh is gone.” Mara picked the last scrap of paper up off the floor.

  Jane grabbed her arm, not liking her tone. Had her sentence been determined? “What do you mean?”

  Mara blinked, as if she might have said something out of turn. “He and Charlie and three others are taking Capp’ear to the Magwrosin Swamp.”

  Anger flooded Jane. “What!? Charlie never said anything.”

  “Charlie is too quiet. You should have been told.”

  “Damn straight! He’s traipsing off to some swamp for another prisoner’s punishment while I’m left alone to meet mine? Oh, that crisps my fries. Where is he?”