What Do You Say to a Naked Elf?

by Cheryl Sterling

  “Give him my best,” she said, her voice thick. She hoped she’d have the chance to say good-bye to him after she defeated Blacwin. With the mission half completed, the days grew closer to her trip home. She hoped.

  What do I do about Charlie? Instinctively, she sought him out from the others near the campfire. If she could get him to talk, if they made up, what then? Would he accompany her to Earth? If he refused? Could she stay here, away from everyone she loved, in a land of elves and sprites and wizards?

  He looked up from speaking with the dwarf, Tellise. Their gazes locked over the length of the clearing. Jane half rose, intending to cross to him and apologize. A hand on her knee stopped her.

  “Stay,” Muttle said.

  “But . . .” She wanted Charlie, and she wanted him now. Muttle had a curious sense of timing.

  “Many eyes watch.”

  Jane felt them staring, condemning her, convicting her as a murderess despite Hugh’s assurance that some supported her. Midsummer’s Eve had been an aberration, a temporary insanity affecting all. They could understand the moons’ pull and the seasonal lustfulness of the night. They might not accept an upright citizen of Sylthia such as Charlie becoming permanently involved with a killer.

  Jane backed away, blending into the shadows. She’d already damaged his reputation with her behavior and the party. Their talk would have to wait until another time.

  Where is she going? Charlie watched, perplexed, as Jane slipped into the darkness. She looked as though she wanted to approach him. He didn’t know what he’d do if she did.

  He’d always prided himself on his diplomacy and tact, two traits that drew people to him and made his life as a Whelphite easier. Patience, kindness, understanding—these attributes could always be relied upon. Until three weeks ago. Until Jane burst into his life with all the finesse of a wild boar. Upsetting his life, tempting him with her flagrant clothes, seducing him . . .

  Seducing him! Thankful that the campfire hid his blush, Charlie sank to the ground. He’d been drunk on Midsummer’s Eve, but not enough to lose reason. Lust controlled him, born of frustration and two perfect, cream-colored breasts. How could he not give in? Why shouldn’t he again?

  He curled his hands into fists, resisting the urge to follow her. He was due to take his turn on night watch. Since they were so close to the swamp, Eagar had increased the patrol. Tomorrow would be soon enough to speak with Jane.

  Unfortunately, he fell asleep after his stint, waking mid-morning. Duties around the camp kept him busy until after the noon meal. All the time, his gaze sought Jane, but she remained elusive. She acted subdued, no doubt affected by her part in the mess with Capp’ear.

  No unusual sounds issued from the swamp. The prisoner had probably met his fate silently, but they all waited until the appointed hour nonetheless. Others had managed to escape during the fifty years the Magwrosin had existed as a prison. Either way, an hour before sundown, they’d strike camp.

  Jane, all rose and tawny, emerged from her tent. Charlie stopped what he was doing and watched her, his heart and lungs functioning improperly. It has to be the heat.

  She looked to the sky and, for a moment, he thought she would call the wind. Instead, she walked toward him.

  “Charlie,” she said, chin tilted. Clad in a pair of trousers that looked suspiciously like Hugh’s and a loose blouse, her breasts taunted him from beneath the white fabric, the curve of one visible through the open neck. Not that he looked. He should say something about her attire, and if she dressed provocatively she should expect comments—

  “Jane,” he said, trying to sound harsh. Too bad she’d caught him empty-handed. He had nothing to inspect, to pull apart or put back together, to make it look as if she came second in his attentions. He crossed his arms in front of him.

  “Charlie, let’s not argue. We’ve been friends since I came to Lowth. I should have told you about the party. Forgive me?” She laid a hand on his arm.

  Couldn’t the woman stand still? The swaying of her hips prevented him from thinking. They hypnotized him. An itch started in the center of his palm. He wanted to clasp her on each side to stop the movement, then pull her to him and rock her in a different, more primitive way.

  “I don’t like it when you lie,” he said, hanging on to his anger. It still hurt that she’d deceived him. The toys, ripping walls apart, regrowing the garden—what shocking thing would she hit him with next? “I’m not some village idiot with whom you can amuse yourself.”

  She jerked back as if struck. Her nostrils flared. “Is that what you think I’m doing? You rate yourself wrongly, Charlie Whelphite. You’re the least amusing person I know. Try boring. And stuffy. And pompous. Just a minute, let me look in my thesaurus for some juicier adjectives. Oh, that’s right, you don’t have one on this backward planet of yours.”

  Damn, he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, just to get his point across that they had to have total honesty between them. How had it spiraled downward from there?

  “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.” He grabbed her arm and tried pulling her from the camp.

  “God forbid that you should have that happen. Charlie-don’t-make-waves. Charlie-leave-me-alone. I’ll leave you alone, all right. I’m sorry I ever took up with you. Wings! Ha!” She pulled free and stormed away.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, conscious of the curious stares they’d invited.

  Jane popped into her tent and emerged a moment later with a small bundle.

  “To have a bath,” she said over her shoulder, tramping upstream from the campsite.

  A bath? Was she crazy? There were eight men in the area, and who knew what else loose in the swamp.

  “It’s been three days,” she said, pushing aside branches. “A cloth dipped in the river isn’t going to cut it anymore. I want a full immersion, soap-lathered bath. Muttle says there’s a clear pool nearby. I’m going to use it.”

  Charlie ducked, avoiding a faceful of pine needles. “You’re making a mistake. It’s not safe around here.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to stand guard. It’s not as if you haven’t seen me naked before.”

  His mind filled with memories of three nights earlier. She’d been magnificent. Perhaps, if he apologized and she stayed still long enough to see reason, and all the stars aligned perfectly, they might repeat the performance.

  The land sloped to a clear turquoise pool with overhanging branches of willow and silver maple. Sunlight mottled the leaves of a small copse and dusted the grasses underneath.

  Jane slipped off her shoes and tossed them on the bank. She waded into the water, making girlish, squealing noises. In a moment, she stepped out of her trousers, revealing undergarments of a new breed.

  Charlie’s throat clogged. He sputtered for words. “What? Jane! You’re trying to kill me.” His hand slid to his chest.

  “Do you like it?” she called, the water obviously diluting her bad humor. “It’s called a thong.”

  Sucking in air like a blowfish, he thought his heart had stopped. First, he fainted, and now this. Did the woman have to affect him so much?

  She bent down and unstrapped the knife sheath from her calf and threw it in the general direction of her clothes. The movement gave him an awe-inspiring view of her rear.

  It was his undoing. His emotions overwrought, he strode down the slope and into the river, mindless of the water seeping into his boots. Mindless altogether.

  “Wench.” He pulled her to him, her nakedness smooth on his skin. “You tempt a man past reason.”

  She leaned full-length against him. “Why, Charlie—”

  “Why? Because of clothes like these—always teasing me, seducing me in my office, bewitching me on Midsummer’s Eve. You invade my thoughts. Wanton, troublesome mortal.”

  “Stuffy old Whelphite.”

  “Elf,” he corrected, nibbling on her ear.

  “Riiight. An elf with wings. Let’s fly together.”

  “Jane, don’
t start that again.” He had no room for anger.

  “But it would be so much fun, soaring through the air . . .” She batted her lashes, her eyes full of mischief.

  “Let’s try it on the ground first,” he promised.

  With a groan, he kissed her, a flame kindled anew. He stripped the rest of her clothes from her, not surprised that she wore nothing under her blouse. His mouth seared kisses on her every surface, and he picked her up, grunting with satisfaction when she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He marched up the bank, his mind focused on the shade of the linden trees, sheltered from curious eyes. Releasing her long enough to smooth out her towel for them to lie on, he lowered her to the ground.

  She reached for him, her eyes clouded with passion. “Love me,” she whispered and pulled him down.

  The fire ignited, his lust wakened from a forced solitude. Frustration tore at him. He wanted her now, wanted to feel her spasm around him. Once more, before she left him forever.

  “Take it easy, Fly Boy. We have all afternoon.” Jane chuckled, caressing his face with her fingertips, along his jaw and the rims of his ears.

  He wanted and feared her touch on his wings. Tugging off his clothes, he forced himself to slow down, to linger over and reexplore her body.

  Leisurely, he watched her eyes change, listened to her soft moans. He loved to see her face, the sun dappling it, as she yielded to him. Feelings knotted in him—tenderness, solace, joy, rapture, a jumble of emotions. Loving her this way was familiar and necessary.

  She twisted and bent her head, nipping the flesh of his inner thigh, snatching little bites of kisses down his length. He gasped and released her, breathless. She rolled away and he pursued her, finally pinning her against a tree. Jane laughed softly, her hand outstretched to his wings. The air snapped and crackled like an approaching thunderstorm when she touched them.

  Their lovemaking intensified into a tangle of legs with lips pressed together and hot, slick bodies. He moaned when she trapped his hardness in her hands, stroking, heightening his sensations.

  Lying on his back, he plucked her into the air, the muscles in his arms bunching as they lifted her above him. His need throbbing, he brought her down, swift and hard, unerringly accurate, mounting her on him.

  Jane threw back her head, a long line of neck exposed, eyes glazed. Sweat glistened on her body.

  He rolled his fingers over her nipples. He ached to close his mouth over them, but she rode him, her body bent backward.

  Gasping, he felt her pulsating around him. She cried out as the spasms shook within and without. Charlie held on, wanting to prolong her pleasure, delaying his own release. He slipped his hand between her legs and touched her mound, rubbing its swelling as she came again, shouting his name.

  Suspended in time, holding on to the edge, he let her ride, sustaining her climax for as long as he could. Then the sunlight and their glade blurred into a whirling vortex. The intensity increased. He couldn’t endure another moment without letting go. With a cry of joy, he erupted in her, his seed spurting to fill every sweet, dark inch.

  Charlie gasped as the aftershocks gripped him. Realization hit. What have I done?

  Bliss. Sweet, sweet heaven. Jane sighed with contentment as she snuggled against him. The man was a magician. She rolled to her side. With nice pecs. She traced hard male angles and golden sprinkles of hair on his chest. Looking up at him, she saw concern on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” She tried to smooth out his wrinkles with one fingertip.

  “A moment ago—” He hesitated. “When I came in you—”

  “And very nicely, too, I might add.” She grinned.

  He stilled her hand. “I’m serious.”

  “What?” What had she done wrong? They’d been perfect together.

  His eyes darkened. “Jane, if you should conceive a child.”

  “No.” She laid a finger against his mouth to stop the dreaded words. We should have thought of that a few nights ago. She knew where she was in her cycle, and it wasn’t a pretty place. Birth control had stopped being a part of her life after her last relationship ended at Christmastime. How ironic that the sex toy lady had been caught without a condom.

  “No,” she said again, aching at lying to him so soon after he’d ranted about not telling the truth. “The timing’s not right.” But she’d worry about the possibility after her meeting with Blacwin. If she survived. One Lowth-shattering problem at a time.

  “You’re sure?” Emotion clouded his voice.

  Expectation? Regret? She wouldn’t be sure for a couple of weeks. It wasn’t as if she could run down to the corner drugstore and buy an EPT test.

  She settled against his bare chest, determined to forget about his inquiry.

  “But, Jane—”

  She laid her hand on his lips. “Later. Don’t ruin the afternoon.” She might be home by then. Foisting an unwanted child on him would be an unfair way to win his love.

  Insects buzzed overhead in a soothing drone. Late afternoon sun poked through a canopy of leaves and warmed their bodies. Soon she drifted to sleep.

  Less than an hour passed before she woke. Three days on the trail and she’d become a human sundial, telling time from its position.

  Charlie slept sprawled on his stomach, naked as the day he was born. A smile quirked the corners of her mouth at the memory of their lovemaking. Delicious.

  Not wanting to wake him, Jane slipped from the glade. The cool pond beckoned a few steps away. Grabbing a bar of soap, she padded to the edge and walked in.

  The water was plentiful if not deep. She ducked repeatedly beneath the surface, lathering and rinsing with abandon until she’d washed away all the sweat, dirt and grime of the last three days. Humming softly, she emerged from her bath.

  She gathered her thong and blouse from the bush where Charlie had dropped them. The pants she’d borrowed from Hugh and her shoes lay at the water’s edge. Crushing them into a bundle, thoughts filling her mind of a reverse striptease for Charlie’s pleasure, she searched for her knife.

  The sheath lay upside down in the mud. Jane flipped it over, her heart going cold at its lack of weight.

  Trouble, her mind screamed.

  A twig snapped. Someone grabbed her from behind, an arm crossed over her bare breasts, a hand clamped on her mouth.

  Jane felt sun-warmed steel against her neck.

  “Looking for this?” Capp’ear whispered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m going to die. Jane had no doubt in her mind.

  “Witch,” Capp’ear hissed, his breath foul. He smelled like a mixture of locker room and garbage dump.

  He jerked her backward against him. She felt a thick layer of slime ooze between them as they made contact.

  Charlie, help me.

  “I can’t let you talk,” he sneered, as if reading her thoughts, “because you can bring the rain to stop me. Or something else. Rip that shirt you’re carrying.”

  Jane thought about whipping it over her head to catch him from behind. A quick twist, and she could strangle him. But additional pressure of the knife on her throat stopped her.

  Don’t do anything stupid. You’ll have no chance. She fumbled with the hem, but couldn’t tear it.

  Capp’ear let out a sound of exasperation. Jane heard the fabric rend as he severed the hem with the knife.

  “Finish it,” he said savagely.

  She tugged the two halves apart. He grabbed one and tied it around her mouth. The other half manacled her hands.

  Hope of running away died when he hit her in the back. She dropped to her knees in the mud, tears of pain coming to her eyes.

  “I survived, despite your evil plan,” he gloated above her. “Want to know how?” When she didn’t respond, he yanked on a lock of her hair. “Do you?”

  Stalling for time, Jane nodded, the pain in her scalp replacing that in her back. The longer she could keep him ranting, the sooner Charlie would rescue her.

  M
uttle, she added, send out reinforcements.

  She tipped her head back and caught the first glimpse of her assailant. Above and behind her, she saw only his face. It was enough to chill her bones.

  His eyes scared her the most. Anguished, as if he’d seen things no one should. Haunted. Filled with pain. And hatred of her. They only needed to glow red to complete the picture.

  His demonic smile twisted his face into ghoulish lines. Nightmare on Elf Street.

  “Pretty witch,” he said, freezing her heart.

  Oh, no, let’s not go there. Keep your thoughts on revenge, buddy, not my naked body.

  “Everyone takes Capp’ear for granted,” he continued. “The only Elf around without talent. But they’re wrong, because he has one, kept it secret for years. Want to know, pretty witch?”

  Jane nodded, meeting his gaze.

  Hurry, Charlie. The wacko’s referring to himself in the third person. I think he wants to rape me. She knew her Whelphite lay out of sight, fifty yards up the bank. Asleep.

  Capp’ear dropped in front of her, the knife held tightly in one hand, her hair in the other. She willed herself still.

  “He mimics the talents of others,” he said, shifting closer. “Watched them and later went home and imitated what they’d done. Never worked well. Never lasted long and couldn’t duplicate it more than once, but it saved his life.”

  This “he” business creeped her out. She flinched when his hand trailed across her cheek, leaving behind the feel of wet, viscous swamp mire. Jane’s mind raced with all the self-defense moves she could adapt from what she knew. Her legs behind her, hands tied, the options looked limited.

  “Thought he was dead,” Capp’ear continued. “Then Eagar lifted him into the Magwrosin.” He leaned toward Jane. She swallowed back nausea and fear.

  “Mimicked his levitation. Sandobbles couldn’t reach him. Effort almost killed him. Could have escaped, but kept his end of the bargain. Twenty-four hours, then fell and ran. Fell and ran ’til he saw a witch swimming and found a knife.” He raised it in the air. Jane saw the glint of sun on the blade.