What Do You Say to a Naked Elf?

by Cheryl Sterling

  “I’ll take my reward now,” Capp’ear said calmly and brought his hand down.

  Charlie!

  The word screamed in his mind, jerking him from sleep. He was on his feet in an instant as his gaze swept the copse for Jane. Not seeing her, he pulled on his pants and reached for his knife when he heard another voice in his head.

  We come.

  Muttle? What’s wrong? Where’s Jane?

  It seemed as if an eternity passed before the Belwaith answered. Charlie stood coiled for action, ready to spring.

  Capp’ear escaped.

  Capp’ear! By the first dawn!

  “Where?” He spoke out loud.

  At the pond’s edge. We come.

  She must have gone down for her bath and surprised him. Or got the surprising. Would she never learn of danger?

  Charlie unsheathed his knife and raced toward the water.

  Instinct took over. Jane dropped to her side and swiveled on her hip, bringing around both feet to kick Capp’ear in the gut. He fell with a whumph and she rolled away. It wasn’t until she stumbled to her feet that she felt the pain in her shoulder.

  Looking down, she saw a gash above her left breast, bisecting the rose tattoo. Blood flowed from it, smeared with mud. It felt like the mother of all paper cuts.

  This can’t be good, she thought grimly. Think of it later—but damn, it hurts. She spun in the direction of the glade, desperate to escape. Capp’ear grabbed her ankles and pulled them from under her.

  She hit the ground hard, no soft mud to cushion the blow. The jar to her injury made her cry out, despite the gag. He gripped her arms and flipped her over, eliciting another muffled gasp when her weight landed on her bound hands.

  His weight too, as he straddled her almost immediately.

  “Pretty witch,” he gurgled, leaning closer.

  Oh, God, not like this. Please, not like this.

  His long, stringy hair brushed against her nakedness, and it was all she could do to keep the bile from rising. The thought of asphyxiating in her own vomit kept it at bay.

  He brought out the knife. Jane’s heart stopped cold in her chest. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the fatal blow.

  They snapped open as a biting pain tore into her shoulder. Capp’ear flicked at the edges of her wound with the knife, enlarging it slowly, methodically, humming to himself.

  I can’t take this. I’m going to faint.

  “Let her go.”

  Charlie! She twisted in the direction of his voice, but she lay at the wrong angle to see him.

  Capp’ear hesitated a moment then continued carving.

  “I said, let her go.” Charlie’s voice, full of menace, sounded closer, twenty or thirty feet away.

  Her assailant didn’t look up. Jane squirmed under him, trying to get a foothold to throw him off. The burn of the wound increased with every movement. He brought his hand down hard, using his fingers to claw into her flesh. Jane screamed into the cloth stuffed in her mouth.

  “Get away from her!” Charlie roared.

  She heard a sickening thunk and Capp’ear toppled off her. She scrambled to sit up, to dart away, and stopped in a crouched position. He lay face up, half in and half out of the water, a knife hilt protruding from his shoulder.

  Then Charlie was there, retrieving her knife from Capp’ear’s outstretched hand, pulling his own free. He wiped the blood on the other man’s tunic and strode to Jane. He knelt at her side, cutting her bonds and gag free.

  “Are you all right?”

  Her heart went zing. He’d never looked so un-lawyerish, so entirely delectable as he did at that moment. Solid and strong, half-naked and better than any movie hero she’d ever seen. The setting sun at his back outlined the extension of his wings and hid his expression from her. She didn’t care. She didn’t need to see his face to know how much she loved him.

  “What took you so long, Superman? Perry keep you at the Daily Planet?” she asked, her heart twisting around in a wild, love-induced, grateful Möbius strip.

  He touched her face gently with long, tanned fingers. “Sometimes I don’t know half of what you say, but I’m damn glad I get to hear it.”

  “I bet you say that to all the mortals,” she joked, then winced as pain shot through her again.

  “You’ve been hurt,” he said, as if noticing for the first time all the blood and gore and exposed body goo.

  “Yeah, but it only hurts when I laugh.”

  “Then don’t laugh,” he murmured, finishing the old routine as if he’d been born into vaudeville. His hands gently probed the edges of the gash.

  A shout hailed them.

  “Muttle,” Charlie said. “And Hugh, Eagar and the rest.”

  “About time the cavalry showed up.” She tried to stand.

  Naked, her mind shouted. Then whoops! when the ground tilted. She saw Eagar’s shocked face in the periphery of her vision, and the ground lurched again and rushed at her.

  Charlie caught Jane and eased her down. Hugh rushed over.

  “How bad is it?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

  “It’s not deep.” Charlie tried to sound positive. “But it’s ugly. Give me your shirt. The last thing she’d want is for everyone to see her without clothes.”

  Hugh shrugged it off and handed it to his brother. Charlie laid it over Jane, leaving the wound exposed.

  “I’ll need water, cloths, some soap and salve.” He rattled off the list, fighting panic. They were miles from the nearest healer in Gaelen, and field medicine wouldn’t help.

  The brothers looked at each other over her prone form. Both had seen how easily a minor wound could cost a man his life.

  Hugh broke the gaze and directed his attention to Jane. “He sure carved her up, didn’t he?” he asked.

  Charlie nodded grimly. “I don’t think I killed him.”

  “You didn’t,” the other man said in such a way that Charlie’s head jerked up.

  “What do you mean?”

  Hugh gestured to the pond. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Charlie stood, looking to the spot where he’d last seen Capp’ear. It was empty, the churned mud the only evidence he’d been there.

  “Where?”

  “Into the woods,” Eagar said behind him. “He was fleeing when we crested the hill. The archers drew on him, but he was out of range. I’ve sent a couple of men after him, but there’s not much daylight remaining.” He looked down at Jane, his lips pursed in disapproval. “How is she?”

  “She needs a healer,” Charlie answered, angered by the steward’s lack of compassion.

  “Right.” Eagar nodded. “Let’s move, then.” He began shouting orders.

  They carried her farther up the bank onto dry grass. Dirt and grit embedded in her wound made it difficult to clean. Charlie rejected the idea of stitching the ragged edges together. Instead, he and Hugh packed the opening with clean cloths soaked in salve and bound her arm to her side. They’d have to wait several hours to be sure infection didn’t set in.

  Jane woke with a whimper as they finished the dressing. She looked strong but pale, distress scoring her eyes. Charlie’s heart tugged to see her hurting so much. He smoothed her hair from her forehead.

  “Did you get the number of the truck that hit me?” she asked, her voice weaker than he liked, the corners of her mouth upturned in an attempted smile.

  “You’re going to be all right,” he said, fervently hoping so. He decided to wait to tell her about Capp’ear’s escape.

  “He levitated while he was in the swamp,” she said. “Something about a latent talent.” She stopped to gather a breath. “Does that make sense? He rambled a lot.”

  Charlie glanced at Hugh. Neither knew this about Capp’ear. They didn’t socialize with his friends, men who cared more for the contents of a bottle than their homes.

  “Shhh,” Charlie said. “I’m going to give you an injection, similar to the one you received when we first met. It will help with the pain.” And
knock you out for several hours.

  Eyes closed, she nodded weakly. He slid the stitchtree thorn into her good arm.

  Darkness had fallen by the time they’d settled her into the makeshift litter Tellise made. Tied between two of the pack animals, she swung above ground level, like a tightly wrapped cocoon. The archers sent after Capp’ear returned empty-handed. Eagar declared the hunt over. Grimly, the party started the long trek to the Dwarf capital of Gaelen.

  They traveled through the night, their path lit by the waning full moons. Thrice, they had to ford branches of the East Malin River, untying the litter and holding it overhead.

  By morning, Charlie knew Jane was in trouble. Her skin felt hot, and several times he’d had to stop the procession to change blood-soaked bandages. The last time, he’d seen a yellowish discharge from the wound.

  She thrashed around, her words incoherent. He injected her again, using his last thorn. The effects lasted about six hours. By afternoon she’d be crying in pain. They’d be nowhere near Gaelen.

  Damn! he thought as he walked at her side. Damnation to Capp’ear for hurting her, to Eagar for punishing her, and to Jane for making him love her.

  The last took him by surprise. He stumbled over a tree root, catching the litter for support. Jane cried out at the movement. He soothed her back to fitful rest, watching how shallow her breaths had become. If he lost her . . .

  And he would. Inevitably, she’d disappear, either at Blacwin’s hand or by returning to Earth. Impossible, unmanageable, exciting, provocative woman! She’d entered his world with fire and spunk, turning everything upside down, the same direction she’d spun his heart. It hurt to love her. It hurt not to.

  He’d bet she’d depart with the same flair, but she would depart. He couldn’t ask her to stay in Lowth, and even his love couldn’t break through her yearning for her home. Following her, living on Earth, as she’d once asked him, wasn’t a viable answer, either. How could he live in a world of mortals with wings sprouting from his back?

  By the time they reached the gates of the Dwarvish capital, Charlie had decided to say nothing to her about his feelings. He’d love her while he had her, but he’d convince her it was nothing but a physical attraction. To do anything else would lead to false hopes and ultimate heartache.

  It took over a week for Jane to recover. She lost the first three days, obscured by a dark cloud of heat and a burning pain that engulfed her entire body. Vaguely, she remembered sun streaming through treetops, an unquenchable thirst and Charlie’s presence, always at her side, soothing away the hurt.

  Since she’d awakened on the fourth day, feeling as weak as a newborn kitten, Charlie’s absence had been almost palpable. Muttle never left her, the healers kept her comfortable, Hugh visited, but the one she ached to see the most avoided her.

  She heard him when he thought she slept. The moment she stirred, he’d exit. Sometimes he wouldn’t enter her room, but stand in the hallway and speak to the healers, then leave without seeing her. Those times hurt the most.

  How often had she angered him since coming to Lowth? More than she could count. Bathing unescorted, then being attacked must have been the veritable last straw. Maybe distancing himself helped him get his life in order. He still had to go with her to Malik, but she could see how he’d want to keep as far from her as possible.

  It’s been fun, Charlie, but two can play this game, she thought on the tenth day of her forced convalescence. I’m not going to let you hurt me. Even as she repeated the words out loud to reinforce them, she knew they rang false.

  Charlie, standing in the doorway, heard her and backed away. His heart pinched as if in a vise. He’d never meant to hurt her, never even wanted to be involved, but fate had another opinion. Or, following her convoluted reasoning, Lowth itself had a hand in their lives. How else could he explain her powers, or calling her “Anjinaine” when they’d made love?

  He coughed, paused, and came through the door, averting his gaze so she could compose herself. She’d almost done it when he stopped at her bedside. Streaks from tears marked her cheeks.

  “How are you?” he asked, her misery so obvious he wanted to fold her into his arms and kiss away the pain. I love you.

  “Better.” She tried and failed to look past his chest.

  “Good.” Then, because she needed to know and he’d been delegated to tell her, he said, “We depart again in two days.”

  She gasped sharply. “To Malik?”

  “Eventually, yes. We have to stop on the way and pick up a guide, Bryant of Malik. He knows the area better than I.” The hunter’s cabin, on the edge of Isleighah, was as far north as Charlie had ever ventured. The trails were but lines on a map after that point.

  “How is your shoulder?” he asked. How is your heart? Why can’t you stay here with me when this is over?

  “They tell me it will be as good as new. I have some exercises I need to do to make it stronger.”

  Gingerly, she held up her left arm, rotating it to show her progress. The loose sleeve fell away, exposing her tattoo. Charlie read the inscription again and, with a start, he realized where he’d seen it before. Bryant! On one of his trips to visit the hunter, he’d seen the same words stitched in wool and mounted on the cabin wall.

  His mind racing, Charlie made an excuse to exit. He couldn’t risk her sharp mind figuring out his distress. Bryant! How was the man connected to Jane? With a sinking clarity, he knew. And in four days, Jane would, too.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The party came to the clearing in the early morning. A tawny fog lay low over brittle, dry grasses. The trees thinned, the leaves stripped off. In the parts of Lowth she’d traveled, Jane thought this particular corner best defined the Dymynsh’s twenty-year grip. She’d never seen such a sad, austere land.

  The cabin rose from the mist before she realized it was there. Neat, trim, and made of felled logs, it looked solid.

  Hugh had barely dismounted before the door swung open and a man stepped out as if expecting them. Jane watched as greetings were made and negotiations began.

  The stranger, Bryant of Malik, was an Elf. He stood taller than Hugh. His weatherworn skin was lighter, a golden, creamy brown, a Nordic tan or a mocha light with a splash of butterscotch. His hair reminded Jane of caramel apples.

  She sat back on Pasha, her little pony, enjoying the respite and the cooler morning. Eagar drove everyone hard in his quest to lay her at Blacwin’s feet. He showed no compassion for her injury or recovery. The week delay in Gaelen must have stuck in his craw something fierce.

  The bargaining complete, some of the party began to dismount. Jane moved Pasha closer to the cabin to join the others. They’d take a short break while Bryant got ready.

  Except he didn’t move from the doorway. He stared at Jane, mouth open, pain in his eyes. He clutched at his chest.

  He’s having a heart attack, Jane thought, alarmed. She slid from her pony’s back, careful not to jar her sore arm.

  “Bryant?” she said, moving toward him. She tried to catch Charlie’s attention.

  The guide continued to stare at her. “You came back,” he said, grabbing the doorframe for support.

  “I never went anywhere to come back from,” she said softly, looking up at him, concerned by his sudden pallor. “Are you all right? Maybe you should sit down.”

  “No, I’m fine.” He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. He made a pitiful attempt to chuckle and gazed down at her. “Just long-dead memories returning to haunt me. An old man’s wistful thinking.”

  Old? He couldn’t have been more than fifty. Gray touched his temples and creases lined the corners of his green eyes.

  “Who did you think I was?” Curiosity drove the question.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “She wasn’t Elf; you are.”

  Perhaps he was getting old. “No,” she said, “you have your words mixed up. I’m not Elf.”

  Charlie came up beside the older man, his face a grim mask. The hair
s on the back of Jane’s neck sprang to attention. She knew him well enough by now to recognize that he was upset. And hiding something from her.

  “Charlie?” Her voice cracked. He didn’t meet her eyes.

  “Of course you’re Elf,” Bryant continued. “There’s no other way to explain your ears.”

  “Ears?” Her good hand shot to her ears, probing, outlining. She groaned when her fingers came to the definite points. Why hadn’t she noticed them before? Because there are no mirrors in Sylthia, and how often does anyone touch their ears?

  “Charlie?” she asked again, anger surging. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. Well, he could look to hell and back because none existed. Typical, cautious Charlie.

  “Since the day in my office when you tried to seduce me,” he answered. “I didn’t tell you because you had enough to worry about—”

  “Enough to worry about,” she sputtered, enraged. “You never thought to mention it in the two weeks since? Knowing about the tattoo and where I copied it from?” Oh, God, she had Elf blood in her, at least the part that went to her ears. And that meant—

  Jane’s knees gave out. Vaguely, she realized that Bryant caught her and picked her up, taking her into his cabin. She sat in a chair, tornadoes and hurricanes and locomotives rushing in her head. Her breath came too shallow, and she thought she’d throw up. Suspicions filled her mind, clues clicking into place like the last five minutes of a detective story. Part Elf, the tattoo, and this man who thought he’d seen her before.

  The room spun and she took joy in it, letting the g-forces press her against the walls. Maybe, if her luck held, it would spin her into outer space and she’d wake up in her own bed, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

  Crouched in front of her, Bryant held out a glass of water. Silently, Jane drained its contents, laced heavily with brandy. She coughed and hiccupped and wiped the resulting tears from her eyes so she could look at the man before her.