by C. Gockel
She takes a deep breath. She’s got to check.
Creating a pillow of straw, she shifts Lionel’s head to it and begins crawling across the cell floor on her hands and knees. Her heart falls when she finds the first soldered edge between the floor and the wall—the adhesion is robust and she knows she won’t be able to tear it apart. She feels up the wall, and finds that the mesh is fixed to it with metal staples she can’t for the life of her get her nails under. She almost gives up, but then, more to keep moving, she begins feeling along the corner of the wall and floor where two pieces of the mesh are joined together. She bites her lip. The two pieces are soldered together every six inches … she rounds one corner on her knees, and then another … and comes to a gap where the person—or elf—doing the soldering got sloppy. With a gasp, she feels for the next junction, and finds another sloppy gob of solder. The next is the same. Feeling her eyes get hot with hope, she pulls back the wire. It bites into her fingers, making her grimace in pain, but it gives, creating a hole just wide enough to slip a hand through. Hearing footsteps outside the cell, she throws straw over her handiwork and moves away from the spot fast.
An elf with a scar down his cheek thrusts a bottle through the bars. He looks at Lionel and snorts. Looking at Tara, he narrows his eyes. “Mizulle,” he says, and walks away. Tara looks at the bottle. Made of a brown glass, it has a stopper on a metal hinge. She waits until she hears a door slam, and goes back to her task. She has no idea how long she works, Lionel’s pained pants egging her on, but she manages to pull a small section of the wiring away from the floor, bloodying her fingers in the process. The cell has become completely dark. It’s night, she supposes. She works by feel until her mouth is so dry it’s painful to swallow and her stomach is clenching, but she’s only pulled away a few inches of wire.
She catches sight of an orange glow and throws down some straw again, just before she hears footsteps outside the door. A man bearing a torch points at Lionel and growls in another language.
Tara growls back, “I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Valkyrie,” he hisses, the only word she thinks she might understand before he releases a string of incomprehensible syllables.
Lionel’s eyes flutter open. “Valkyrie nil. Midgardelle.”
“Midgardelle nil!” roars the elf. He vanishes for a second, but comes back with a chair, and sits staring into the cell. Unable to return to her task, Tara edges closer to Lionel. He’s breathing heavily, his hair is drenched with sweat, and he’s curled in a ball. She glances down his body and notices his abs and belly button peeking from beneath her sweatshirt. And then her mouth falls open—the sweatshirt has become tight on him. Lionel stretches out with a moan, and his ankles and the bottom of his calves peek out from the cuffs of the pants he borrowed. Wincing, Lionel grabs his shins and curls into a ball again.
She remembers the police officer saying, “They can make you see what they want you to see.” Why would he want to appear shorter before, though? And then she swallows, remembering Lionel saying shapeshifting would be terribly painful. He doesn’t look like he’s turning into an animal but …
“Lionel,” Tara whispers. “Are you growing?”
He doesn’t understand, of course. He murmurs again, “Llee wanlewee, nil.”
Tara’s tall, and she had growing pains as a girl. Her pediatrician aunt had told her it wasn’t uncommon for children to grow as much as a quarter inch a night … Lionel’s growing much faster. Remembering her own pain, Tara moves down to his legs and begins massaging his shins like her mom had done. Lionel uncoils at her touch. For a moment, his eyes meet hers. Wincing, he begins rubbing his arms and looks away. Tara’s brow furrows … His face looks like his proportions are changing. His jaw bones are becoming more prominent, and it might be an illusion of the light, but she swears she sees the shadow of a beard under his chin. He hadn’t seemed to need to shave while he stayed with her. He looks … more human, she decides, but the points of his ears are still peeking out from his hair, now dark with sweat and mud, and his features are still too finely chiseled.
She knows she can’t look much better. Her face is a mess of bloody cuts, and her scarf is gone—she’s probably got straw in her hair.
Outside the cell, the man with the torch says something in a sneering voice. Tara doesn’t even bother to look. She’s not sure how long she cradles and rubs Lionel’s legs … but she’s sure it’s hours, and also that Lionel’s bones are getting longer beneath her fingers. By the spasming of his toes, she’s pretty sure the growth is everywhere. She doesn’t stop until he falls asleep. It might be unconsciousness because the guard starts screaming something outside the cell and it doesn’t wake him up.
Lionel being asleep makes her feel alone, and the guard being there makes her more afraid. Trying to tear back the wire from the floor had at least kept her busy. Without something to do, her mind starts to wander. Tara’s never really thought of herself as being a particularly imaginative person—but she starts conceiving of every way she can possibly die, not least of which is simply being stuck in the smelly, damp cell forever. The elves outside had looked kind of medieval, and not in the charming Renaissance Faire way that Lionel had. She remembers an absolutely horrific snippet of a Discovery Channel episode about the history of torture devices, and the torture devices of the European Dark Ages in particular.
She looks over her shoulder. Angry elf is still sitting on his chair, sulking. At her glance, he yells at her again.
“I can’t understand you!” Tara snaps.
He snaps back.
On the floor, Lionel whispers, “Mizulle.”
Tara blinks at him.
“Mizulle,” he says again, and Tara remembers, that’s what the man had said when he dropped the bottle in the cell. Scrambling on hands and knees, she retrieves the brown glass vessel, and quickly figures out the metal “hinge.” The stopper comes off with a pop. She smells the contents—it smells like nothing—or water.
“Mizulle,” Lionel whispers again. She hands the bottle to him. Half sitting, resting on an elbow, he stares at it a moment, and then offers it to her. “Tara.” He licks his lips. “Mizulle.”
She’s tired, hungry, parched … and it might be because she’s terrified, but she lifts an eyebrow and snickers when she takes the bottle. “Trying to make me your poison tester?”
Lionel shakes his head sadly. “Llee wanlewee, nil.”
“You don’t understand me and can’t appreciate my sense of humor,” she says. She looks down at the bottle in her hand. Better to die by poison than a lot of the other things she can think of. She tips back the bottle. Expecting something barely palatable, she’s surprised by how fresh and clean the water tastes. She takes another sip, and hands it to Lionel. “It’s safe, you can drink now.”
He opens his mouth as though he’s about to respond, and she waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, llee wanlewee, nil.”
In the dim light, Tara sees Lionel give her a weak smile. “Tara wanlewee.” He tips back the bottle and drinks two sips himself.
“Midgard elle, nil!” roars the guard, approaching the cell door.
Lionel looks up and the light of the torch illuminates his face. She’s struck by the deep hollows under his eyes. Lionel says a few curt words to the guard, which makes the guard curse back. Tara’s eyes are riveted on Lionel. She’d swear that his face has become broader, and his features more pronounced.
The guard sits back on his chair with a few angry words, and Lionel’s eyes return to Tara’s. With a hesitant hand, he reaches up and cups her cheek. He says some words that Tara can’t understand, but she thinks the tone sounds an awful lot like, I’m sorry.
She lets out a breath. Maybe she should be angry at him—she gets the feeling he knew more about the danger he was in than he’d told her. What had he said to the birds? The Dark Elves are at the gate. But she’s too scared and too tired to be mad. He presses the water to her, and she takes a few more grateful sips. “Thank you,
” she says, passing it back. He just shakes his head before taking a few more sips of his own.
In the chair outside the door, the guard laughs.
Tara’s skin heats, and something in her boils over. Twisting to look at him, Tara hisses, “Fuck you!” It’s a stupid thing to say. She never swears. It had been drilled into her that that is not how a lady talks, and it’s not like he even understands … but just as she thinks that, the man’s eyes get wide. Rocking back in his seat, he stares at her a moment, and then he gets up and scurries out of view. Tara hears a door slam, and muffled shouts.
Climbing to her feet, she beckons with her hand for Lionel to follow her to the corner of the cell.
His brows rise, but he stands, takes a step, and nearly falls over. He straightens, and Tara’s breath catches. He’s taller than her—even in her boots. Lionel looks down at her, and then lifts his hands and gazes at them with an expression of pure terror. His hands fly to his ears. He touches the points and closes his eyes. Tara can read the relief in his face. And then his hands go to his jaw and the look of terror returns. They don’t have time for this. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “You’re still hot, Lionel,” she says. And he is. He’ll be even better looking when he puts on a few more pounds.
He stares at her, rubbing his jaw. He needs to snap out of it.
“Lionel, you’re okay,” she whispers. When his eyes show no comprehension, she lifts herself to her tiptoes and kisses his cheek. Stubble bites her lips. He’s surprisingly warm and she hopes he doesn’t have a fever, and then she wonders if the warmth is just her own flush.
Taking his hand, she pulls him over to the corner. Sitting on her heels, she lets go of him, then gestures for him to help her, and begins pulling at the wire.
Lionel doesn’t bend down to help. Reaching up frantically, she grabs his hand and pulls him down. He shakes his head and murmurs something.
Tara lets out a huff of frustration. She doesn’t know anything about magic, but maybe they can pull back enough wire to crawl out the old-fashioned way? And digging like a mole in a dark corner is infinitely better than doing nothing. She jerks his hand over to the edge of the wire. “Help me with this!”
Scowling, he runs his hands over the edges.
Tara pulls back a few inches more, and his eyes widen. He slips his hand into the gap in the wire, looks back at Tara with wide eyes, and begins pulling furiously at the wire with her. In a moment, they have a section of bare dirt exposed, about as long as Tara’s arm, but not quite wide enough to fit a head through.
Lionel lays flat on his stomach with his face above the dirt. Beckoning with his hand, he says “Tara,” followed by a string of Elvish. His brow creases. He gives another yank and the mesh parts a little more. “Here, Tara,” he says, patting the dirt beside him. “Lie down.”
Her heart leaps in comprehension, the hole in the mesh barrier is wide enough they can communicate again. Lying down beside him, Tara whispers, “If we pull it back further, we may slip through. It could take some time though and—”
Lionel puts his fingers to his lips and Tara falls silent. Reaching forward, he ever so gently touches her face. She feels heat race from his fingertips to every part of her, and she scrunches her eyes shut, embarrassed.
“There, no hurt,” Lionel whispers, dropping his hand.
The warmth in her face remains … but the stinging of her cuts has vanished. She touches her face and finds only smooth skin where once there had been welts. Her eyes go to his leg. She can see the dark brown stain of blood through the pants. She swallows. He’s on her side, Dark Elf, Light Elf, Sidhe, Unseelie … whatever. “Lionel, we have to get you fixed before me,” she says, and starts to tug at the wire.
“Telekinesis not work on door,” he says. “Wire is there.” He sounds defeated, even though they’ve achieved so much already.
“I’m not giving up,” she says, but then she hears footsteps outside the cell. Throwing grasses against the exposed section of the ground, she quickly spins, grabs the water bottle, and leans back against the wall, trying to look casual. Scrambling up, Lionel settles next to her. The warmth of his body radiates up her side, and she almost cries again—in relief. They’re in this together, she’s not alone.
Two elves appear at the door, and Tara hears others behind them. One is the angry guard guy, though he doesn’t look as angry now. The other is someone new. He looks a lot like Lionel had before, slight, pale, blonde, beautiful. The only way she would have been able to tell them apart before is that this elf’s eyes are brown. Clearing his throat, he says, “Do you speak English?”
Tara’s mouth drops open.
The one beside him mutters, “Midgardian elle, nil.”
“I speak English,” Tara replies.
The man who had spoken rolls back on his feet and says something in Elvish—if that’s what the language is. Lionel puts his hand on Tara’s leg, just above her knee and replies in their language. The second elf dips his chin and responds … again in Elvish.
“You know it’s not polite to talk in front of someone who can’t understand?” Tara says.
The elf who had spoken English looks back to her. “I’m Naleigh, once of the Queen’s Kitchens.” His eyes fall on Lionel and his lips turn up in a snarl. “But I’m Naleigh of the Dark Elves now, and I am free.”
Lionel doesn’t respond. Naleigh turns back to Tara. “There has been a mistake. You were not our target, only him. We will return you home.” Issuing some orders in Elvish, he pulls some archaic looking keys from his pocket and opens the cell. Before Tara can blink, five other elves stream in. They’re all bearing crossbows except one with a wicked long gun … Tara’s heart skips a beat.
… And then she realizes all of them are aimed at Lionel.
Owning It
Tara doesn’t move, afraid that if she breathes, they’ll turn Lionel into a pincushion.
“You can get up,” says Naleigh, scowling down at her.
Tara still doesn’t budge. Her heart is beating so fast, she can feel it against her ribs. “What about him?” she asks, inclining her head toward Lionel. That makes all the people with weapons jumpy. The one with what she thinks might be an AK-47 aims at her. Tara stares at the gaping maw of the gun, and then her eyes meet the eyes of the elf holding the weapon. They’re so grey they’re almost white. His hair is white and silvery and his skin is startlingly pale. She thinks she sees delicate crow’s feet around his eyes. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move, but then he aims the weapon in Lionel’s direction again. It doesn’t really make her feel better.
Naleigh’s scowl intensifies, and Tara gets that magic in here is probably limited, but she’d swear he’s shooting daggers with his eyes.
“This is not your concern,” says Naleigh. “You must come with us.”
Her stomach falls. Tara doesn’t budge, and it’s not just from fear of being shot. Leaving the only person she knows in what she’s guessing is Alfheim, land of the elves in Norse mythology, doesn’t strike her as a particularly smart thing to do. She glares back at Naleigh.
Lionel whispers into her ear, “Go, Tara Lupita Gibson.”
She stands, as though lifted by invisible strings, the half-empty bottle of water still in hand, and goes meekly to the door without looking back. Beside her, Naleigh says, “I’m sorry you were apprehended, and that it wasn’t realized sooner. Most of us don’t speak English … it was only that peculiar curse word you used that Diwilli recognized. You know how soldiers are, always learning the curse words of the countries they visit, not the language.” He locks the door behind them with keys from his belt, and leads Tara to the entrance of the building.
Tara follows in a sort of daze. She wonders if she is in shock. She’s just stepping out of the building, breathing in too-cool night air, when she snaps out of her fear, or … whatever.
“What’s going to happen to Lionel?” she asks as the guards who’d accompanied them melt off in different directions.
“He’ll re
ceive appropriate punishment,” Naleigh says. He spits at the ground. “My preference is execution, but perhaps the council will come up with something more creative.” He smiles cruelly.
“Appropriate punishment for what?” Tara says, her heart rate quickening. “What has he done?”
Drawing to a halt, Naleigh says, “For being in league with the queen, and by extension, Odin. They are your enemies, human.”
“I don’t know the queen or Odin!” Tara retorts, meeting Naleigh’s eyes. “Lionel is my friend … and it was Dark Elves who invaded Chicago and let loose all the trolls and wyrms and … and … things!”
Naleigh’s jaw gets hard. “Mistakes were made. We are trying to make amends …”
Tara snorts. “Thousands died!”
“That was Loki, not us!” the elf declares. “And believe me, Lionel is not your friend.”
She touches her healed face. “Is so.”
The elf scoffs. “Tell me, Tara, did he extract your full name from you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Tara cries.
The elf’s voice becomes venomous. “He was not so much a friend as to tell you what danger he posed to you.”
Tara shakes her head. “What are you getting at?”
The elf’s voice gets louder. “He’s been using you.”
“Yeah, he’s been staying at my house.” Tara tries to cross her arms over her chest, and realizes that she’s still holding the water bottle in her hand, and drops her arms to her sides. “You haven’t explained to me what he’s done to deserve execution.”
