by C. Gockel
Instead of saying all that, he assured her, “They just need me to open the gate, Mother. I won’t be in the fighting.”
The sound of fireworks brings him back to the present. He swallows his fear, realizing it’s “gunfire,” and far too close.
“Got him!” someone says.
“Retrieval party!” someone shouts. “At the gate now!” Lionel watches in fascination as four warriors climb down from turrets and jog to the gates.
Lady Light Leaf’s voice at his shoulder makes him start. “Be glad it’s not you, Steward.”
Lionel nods politely. There is no disagreeing with royalty.
She beckons, and he follows her to the open space at the center of the fortress, the feel of magic intensifying with each step. Twelve warriors wait there. All are taller than him—as befits their station—and all wear the queen’s livery of ivory and pale blue. Their hair is held back by clasps of gold, revealing the points of their ears. Lionel feels their eyes on him. Someone clears his throat. None of them expect someone peasant-born who is only a few centuries old to be able to open a World Gate. All elves can sense World Gates, but not all can walk through them, much less hold them ajar for others.
Lionel takes a half step forward and feels a fissure in the air. Lifting his arms, he drags his hands through the air, and feels the fragility of space and time beneath his fingers.
“I’m ready,” he says.
Lady Light Leaf’s eyes go toward the gate of the compound and narrow. “We go now.”
Lionel nods. Closing his eyes, he reaches up and grasps “the Veil” of space time and folds it back. He opens his eyes. Nothing appears to have changed, but he lets out a breath. “It’s done.”
Light Leaf nods to the warriors, and they step through in barely perceptible shifts of light. From the compound comes whispers of disbelief. “Stewards shouldn’t be able to do that.”
“It must be a special talent,” someone else says.
“Lady,” Lionel says, inclining his head to the gate. Opening World Gates is a special talent of his, but the effort of holding the Veil back is tiring.
“I never doubted you’d be able to do it, Steward,” she says. “The queen doesn’t make mistakes.”
Lionel can only nod in response. She has to know the strain of keeping the gate open is costing him.
“But riding here, I was surprised that you could ride a horse so well.”
The Veil slips through Lionel’s fingers, and the gate closes with a fizz of magical energy.
Bowing his head, he looks up at her through his eyelashes. There is a smirk on her face. Lionel’s skin heats, prepared for her to berate him for letting the Veil close.
Instead she takes a step closer to him, head cocked. “Well? Aren’t you going to tell me how you got such a good seat?”
Lionel feels the heat of magical compulsion in the air, tightens his grip on his key, and lets its magical energy fuel his resistance. It’s not the first time he’s been propositioned by someone above his station, though she is the first warrior to do so. His eyes fall to where her sleeve is rolled up, revealing her soulmark: two arrows aimed at the sun. He’d seen the same mark on one of the warriors who’d just stepped through. Elves aren’t monogamous before marriage, nor even supposed to be jealous, but a dalliance with someone below her station might cause trouble for Lionel.
“Well?” Light Leaf smirks.
She is as tall as him, her skin bronzed, her eyes the color and shape of almonds, and the magic she radiates feels just slightly older than his. He might have been interested just minutes before, but she’s playing games while warriors are stranded on the other side of the World Gate on a strange world with guns. They may not be his caste, but he still finds the heat of anger rising in his chest on their behalf. At the same time, he finds a misconception crumbling. He’d thought that a warrior, accustomed to death, might hold onto life and their paramours with more emotional energy. Lionel’s too often been called overly emotional. He doesn’t like to share; he would like someone more … invested. But Light Leaf doesn’t hold even to her soulmate with any urgency, apparently.
“I was born a peasant,” he replies. “I can ride horses, hadrosaurs, hippalektryons … all sorts of beasts.”
She huffs. He isn’t sure if he’s insulted her or titillated her, but he’s parried her advance well and has plausible deniability. “Shall I open the Veil again?” he asks.
“Yes,” she replies, her eyes narrow and gleaming.
He rips it back with perhaps too much force, and she steps through and winks out of sight. Following her a moment later, he finds himself in a strange misty purple-orange twilight, blinking at Light Leaf’s soulmate. He’s smirking openly at Lionel. “Couldn’t hold the World Gate open, Steward? I’d hoped for more stamina from you.”
The hairs on the back of Lionel’s neck rise. The lord knew of his lady’s advance, and by the look on his face, approved of it. They are in a foreign world, facing possible death, and the nobility still play games. The memory of an ex-lover’s voice fills his mind. “We’re elves, the only true immortals. We have to play games or we’d die of boredom.”
Turning away from the lord and the memory, Lionel looks down the narrow street and feels magic on his face. “Someone magical approaches,” he says, grateful he has an excuse not to answer the lord’s question.
“Strange,” says Lady Light Leaf, walking in the direction of his gaze. “I don’t feel—” She halts in her tracks and her eyes go wide. She lifts her hand, bows rise, and a few swords come out. Lionel’s hand goes to his key.
The sound of birds fills the narrow roadway, and Lady Light Leaf signals the archers to put down their bows. Out of the mist a group of Light Elves emerge. They are led by a tall elf with dark brown skin, nearly black eyes, and long dark braids held back with bands of gold. Lionel bows, recognizing Lord Beddel of the Sun Kingdom of Alfheim’s Middle Continent.
“You’ve brought a mage to man the gate?” Beddel asks with a frown.
Lady Light Leaf gestures to Lionel. “By the queen’s command, I have brought her steward.”
Lord Beddel narrows his eyes at Lionel. “Are we stretched so thin?” he murmurs. “Steward, listen to me. As soon as we apprehend the Dark Elves, we’ll bring them here. I will be busy constraining them. Your task will be to open the gate. Understood?”
Lionel bows again. “Of course, I will wait.”
Beddel stalks closer. “The humans’ magical chariots pass through this way. We have some intelligence they may be self-aware. They can crush you on a whim. Don’t get hit.”
Taking a step back, Lionel says, “Yes, sir, of course not.” Due to one of the queen’s whims he hasn’t told his mother about, Lionel had seen one such chariot, and thought much the same. Confirmation of his suspicion doesn’t make him feel better.
Beddel waves a hand at the others. Where there had been elves, round-eared humans appear, wearing strange blue uniforms, their bows invisible. Lionel notices Beddel doesn’t use a magical object like his key to power the illusion. Lionel’s magical skills are strong for a peasant, but nowhere near the other man’s.
Beddel waves his hand again, and the warriors depart.
Lionel waits for them to be out of sight. He promised his mother he’d come back to her, and the night feels cold and dangerous. He decides to use a skill he isn’t supposed to have. Grasping the key tightly, he lets its magic rush into him, and uses it to compel the photons to pass through him as though he doesn’t exist. Even with the key to power the invisibility, it is draining. Leaning against the wall for support, he waits, ready for any human or magic chariot that might set upon him.
Sweet Home Chicago
Tara steps out of the university into a chilly Chicago night. The air is wet and misty, and she has a hood pulled tight over her hair and an umbrella for good measure. She crosses through the small courtyard garden to the archway that leads to the street, and almost plows into a man in a druid costume. She sighs. It’s on
e of the City of Gods tour guides. She sees his converted school bus idling on the street. The archway was the scene of a troll “visit” and it’s been an “attraction” ever since.
“If Odin is so just and wise,” a tourist says, “why did he let Loki come to Earth? Why doesn’t he stop the trolls?”
“Why did he blame us when his eight-legged horse ran off with a bunch of unicorns,” someone else mutters.
Someone murmurs, “There were innocent people caught in some of the crossfire in Eastern Europe … They attacked embassies.”
Another person dressed in druid-like clothes says, “Thousands of completely innocent people died here because those countries gave them aid! Odin went after the leaders, not the common people.”
The druid raises his arms and his voice rings with conviction. “People prayed in fear when Loki and Dark Elves nearly destroyed the city. Odin sent his son Thor to defend us, and he rounded up the Dark Elves and their collaborators in Eastern Europe. You want a personal god? You can’t get more personal than Odin.”
Tara huffs. Hunching her shoulders, she walks quickly past him. She’s probably as invisible to him as she is to Dean Kowalski.
Twenty minutes later, Tara is wondering if maybe Odin does see her, has a nasty sense of humor, and might be trying to punish her.
Dr. Eisenberg’s voice is filling her car, just barely audible over the sound of her windshield wipers. “I got your email just after I opened the gif, Tara.”
Tara winces. Another victim of the computer virus going around the department. After saving the world—or at least the L line—she’s done nothing but clean up viruses. As brainy as the researchers in the University of Illinois’s new Department of Dark Energy are, they have an amazing susceptibility to opening viral attachments, and to cats. Not surprisingly, a viral attachment called, “Cute-Cats.gif” is spreading like an evil enchantment on the department hard drives.
Keeping her eyes focused on the road, Tara says, “You know, Christine is there, right?” She’s certain that the hopefulness in her voice comes through loud and clear.
There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Can’t you come back?”
Tara glances at the clock in her dash: seven o’clock. Also, she’s hungry. “I would, Dr. Eisenberg, but you know by the time I get back to the university and into the lab, it will be past seven thirty.”
“I can wait for you.”
Trying to keep her voice cheerful, Tara says jokingly, “But you know how the gremlins come out after seven thirty.”
Another moment of silence, and then, “Really? That happens sometimes?”
Tara’s lips purse. She supposes it’s not crazy that he believes her. Dr. Eisenberg is new to the city. He doesn’t know gremlins aren’t among the usual visitors. Does she take the high road and tell him that? Turning down the street onto her block, she sighs. “Not really, but I’m almost—” Tara hits the brakes, and the tires skid on the wet pavement. Ahead there’s people running across the street—they’re long-haired white kids and young adults—dozens of them being chased by cops. Somewhere far off she hears gunfire.
“Tara, what’s wrong?” Dr. Eisenberg squeaks. “Gremlins?”
Something is very wrong. The neighborhood is dangerous, but her little block is an oasis. Also, there just aren’t that many white people in her neighborhood to chase. She finds her heart beating too fast. “I don’t—” Tara’s breath catches as a cop’s club comes down on a little boy, his hair that had been strawberry-blonde going dark.
Before Tara knows what she is doing, she’s jumped out of the car. “Stop!” The scream rips out of her and she finds herself running toward the boy, now sprawled out on the wet pavement, dark ooze pooling around his head. Someone grabs her from behind and she expects the club to come down on her too, but there is something about seeing a child, limp as a rag doll, being dragged away that makes her lose all sense of fear. “Stop!” she screams again, pulling at the arms that are holding her.
“Madam, calm down,” says whoever has her arms pinned. “They’re only Dark Elves.”
And it’s that moment that she sees the pointed ears, but she still struggles, like she’s possessed. “He’s a little boy! He’s a little boy!” she shouts as other cops drag him away.
A female cop runs in front of her and says, “Madam, madam, be calm!”
Tara jumps and tries to peek around her but there are other cops in the way. “Madam, I must insist,” says the man behind her.
Madam? Insist? Tara feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Breaking free, she manages to barge past the woman … and the road is empty.
The little boy, the “teenagers” who might all have been elves, are gone. All that is left is a single police officer standing in the middle of the road and echoes of a struggle she can’t see … or did she imagine it? Tara pulls her coat tighter, distractedly noticing the rain is falling harder and that her hood has fallen back. Her teeth chatter. Just a bit colder and the rain would be snow.
“Madam,” says the woman again. For the first time, Tara looks at her. The woman’s got the sort of lithe musculature Tara associates with dancers. Her skin is a lovely bronze shade, her eyes are wide, worried, and concerned. Tara’s eyes slide to the man who held her. He’s Caucasian, with eyes that might be green, and his frame is slight. Tara’s five foot ten and change in socks, and nearly six foot two in the stacked heeled boots she’s wearing; she’s used to being tall, but these two cops are short. Tara feels a shiver run down her spine. They’re not as broad in the shoulder as the cops she knows, either.
“What’s your name, madam?” the man asks. His voice musical, his words compelling … Tara shivers again, and it isn’t just the cold. She keeps her lips sealed.
“You must not worry about this,” says the woman, waving a hand. “Missus—? Why don’t you tell me your name? Your full name.”
Over the woman’s shoulder, Tara sees the taller police officer, the one she’d seen standing in the middle of the street, and she feels like her whole body has turned to ice. She suddenly has to get away.
“You’re right, I don’t need to worry about this. I’ll just go now.” Spinning on her heals, she runs and slides into her car. She looks back and sees the last officer is walking toward her. If she had to paint a picture of African perfection, she would paint his face. His eyes are nearly black and wide, but have a delicate angle to them, his nose is flat but not too broad. His skin is dark and smooth over striking cheekbones, and his lips are generous. He also has long, black, beautiful braids, which she’d wouldn’t expect on a police officer and that would humanize him, but his expression is flat, and his eyes are hard.
Slamming the door, she smiles nervously through the window. His lips part as though he is about to speak, and she’s terrified of what he will say. Her hands tremble as she pulls on her seat belt, which makes her knock the steering wheel with her elbow, which sets off the horn. The man’s eyes widen comically at the sound, his mouth snaps shut, and he jumps back. Feeling like she’s just dodged a bullet, and not waiting for the order she’s sure he’ll issue, Tara guns the engine and the tires squeal. A few heartbeats later, she looks in the mirror. They’re not following.
Dr. Eisenberg’s voice cracks over her phone, and she jumps in her seat, surprised that he didn’t hang up.
“Tara, are you all right?”
“I …” She swallows.
“Tara?”
“I … never thought …” she whispers. She knows police officers, good guys she and Chris flirt with over gyros in Greek Town. But she’s in Chicago and she knows the other kind exists—the city owes several hundred million dollars to victims of Chicago police officers’ “overzealousness.” She’s never seen that “overzealousness” up close, but it is a nagging fear that is always there. And now she’s seen it … and this time, the victim had been white … and an elf? She squeezes the steering wheel. The victim had been a child. She feels a lump in her throat and her vision starts to go blurry.
“Did you see gremlins?” Dr. Eisenberg asks. “A troll?” He sounds way too excited.
“I …” She remembers the faces of the police officers—they’d looked too perfect, and they’d called her “madam.” FBI? Someone else … something else? “Maybe.”
“You sound shaken up,” says Dr. Eisenberg.
“I saw …” Tara has seen a lot of things. She’s seen a man get shot in front of her. She’s had guys expose themselves to her. She’s seen fights, and blood spilled on the pavement afterward. But she is shaken.
It was a little boy …
“You’re shaken. Listen, go home … and don’t come in tomorrow.”
Tara blinks. “What?”
“I’ll tell everyone that you’re working on a special project for me.”
Tara’s brow furrows. Actually, that would probably work. Dr. Eisenberg is a grant machine and the highest paid researcher in the department. His whim is practically law. Also, he often goes off-site with lots of electronic equipment and Tara to patch it up when he drops it, or find it when he loses it, but why would he—?
“I’m going to bring my gear over and we’ll check and see if what you saw left a Dark Energy signature,” he finishes.
And that’s the flighty, self-interested, mad genius she knows. “I might have imagined it,” she says. And now she’s beginning to wonder if she did.
“Too good to miss if it was real!” Dr. Eisenberg says, sounding absolutely gleeful. “Now I’m going to pack up, just in case those gremlins come.” The phone line goes dead.
She glances in the rearview mirror and sees only a lone pair of headlights, no cops. She suddenly feels very alone.
Alone in the cold, misty dark, Lionel jumps at the sound of fireworks a few hundred paces away. He cranes his neck, but doesn’t see any bright bursts of flame. Was it the sound of human weapons?
