by Lee Roland
“I know. Flor’s right, though. They tried to kill us.”
“Maeve, Claire wouldn’t—”
“I’ll give Claire the benefit of a doubt. For you, I’ll do that.” Maeve hugged her.
Tana stroked Maeve’s hair and grasped her face in her hands. “I’m proud of you for bringing Raymond and Harriet home. I always knew you were brave. You’ve grown so strong. It seemed so wrong, so horrible to make you leave. Now I see it was the right thing.”
Maeve had learned lessons in her life on the road. And if Flor was right, she’d used magic, intuitively when making personal decisions. She’d let it help her choose who to ride with, who to trust. There were no true spells, no potions, though. From the time she’d left Elder until the day she met Flor, she’d survived without the formal skills of a witch. Tana was right. She was stronger for it—at least in some ways. Maybe it would be enough.
Maeve wrapped her arms around her grandmother. “Tana, you scare me when you talk like that.”
Tana returned the embrace. “Now that’s different. You’ve spent your life frightening me. Perhaps it’s my turn. I promise you though, whoever sent Raymond and Harriet into such danger in my name will pay for it.”
Tana would fix it. Maeve grew up with that assurance in her heart. The shield didn’t cover everything, though. Tana couldn’t protect her from herself.
When Maeve came downstairs and went out the front door, she found Erik, not Captain Harlan, had come to fetch her. Tana had him backed up to the limo Claire and Sethos sent. The SETH uniform he wore didn’t mask his size, but did cover the well honed muscular presence. It made him look less powerful than at the bridge, but no less dangerous.
“Good evening, Erik,” Maeve said pleasantly as she approached them.
He gave her the briefest of glances, but otherwise didn’t take his eyes off Tana. Like Harlan he wasn’t frightened. Wary. He was wary and respectful. Yes, a man like that would respect power.
“I’ll wait up for you dear,” Tana said. She spoke to Erik, not her. Tana knew how to work a threat. She walked back toward the porch. At the front door, she stopped and watched them for a moment before she went inside. Perfect.
Erik, grim faced and silent, opened the limo door. Maeve slipped into pure luxury. White leather seats, thick carpet, and windows tinted so dark she could see nothing except her own reflection in the dim interior light. Erik climbed in beside her. The driver, invisible behind another tinted panel, headed back to Elder.
“Is your friend really ill, or is she pouting over the dragon?” Erik asked.
He sat far too close, but she didn’t know how to move him.
“Flor is livid, not pouting. You’ve got steel nerves, Erik, I’ll admit that. I gave her my revenge rights. She’ll take care of you.”
If that made him nervous, it didn’t show. Steel nerves indeed.
“Where are we going?” Maeve asked.
“The house is on the mountain above the factory.”
“Ogre Mountain?”
“Yes.”
“The ogre’s let them—”
“They have an agreement.” He rushed past the subject. “Are you happy to be home?”
“I’d be happier if I knew why you and your small army went to so much trouble to chase me down.”
“Trouble? You created that. All you had to do was come with me. I would have asked politely if you hadn’t run. Your mother started this. She’s the one who told Sethos to send me for you.”
Maeve remembered Immal’s words. “And your orders? Did Claire give those? Kill me if you couldn’t catch me?”
“How do you know…” Erik stopped.
Interesting. And frightening. So, Claire was not totally in charge of everything. Someone, probably her husband, had contradicted her orders to Erik. He was prepared to kill them if he’d caught them, and they fought.
They rode on in silence until the limo stopped, and he opened the door and climbed out. He offered her his hand. Maeve hesitated and then grasped his fingers. Her eyes widened as she exited the car.
Glass panels soared two stories on a crystal mansion. Lights glittered across marble steps, then refracted against fifteen-foot fountains on either side of a massive open door. Sethos’ palace was a monument to Elder’s torment. It seemed only fitting that two ogres stood guarding the door.
Ogres considered themselves next to the Elementals in the hierarchy of magic. Oh, they were Iameth, but nine feet of shaggy ill-tempered beast, their dirty habits and insane hatred for witches made them outcasts in the greater community. Slobber dripped from the two guard’s gaping, fanged mouths and puddled on the shining marble at their feet. Their musty dead animal scent drifted like thick smog across the air.
Maeve, a little stunned at the ridiculousness of the situation, had to speak. “Okay, Erik. I’m suitably impressed. What’s for dinner?”
Given the magnitude of the previous week’s exploits, the adventure had to continue. The fiasco began when she recognized one of the ogre guards. Pong. Pong one-toe. One-toe because she’d cut the other four off when she was fourteen. He had cornered her and Harriet at the base of Ogre Mountain and although, technically, they weren’t on forbidden ground, Pong didn’t care.
Harriet had harassed his head while Maeve scrabbled around and found a large, sharp piece of flint. She slammed the flint down on his foot, and four of his toes popped off like sausages with claws. Slowed him down—a little. Then Raymond showed up and ended the game.
Maeve bit her tongue, but compulsion seized her. “Hey Pong,” she said as they approached the door. “Remember me? How ya been, old buddy?”
Pong growled, and his red eyes lit up. He remembered. He reached for her with four-inch claws. Erik shoved her through the open door.
An alarm brayed like a dying moose, and an automatic door slammed shut. The room filled with men carrying automatic rifles, all pointed at her and Erik.
Chapter Eighteen
“Stand down!” Erik didn’t shout. His voice carried so much force the air vibrated with its fury. Everyone backed up—except Maeve. He had her arm in a bone bruising grip that an axe couldn’t break. He dragged her past the frozen men to a room off the entry.
Apparently she’d set off metal detectors in the door—it had closed automatically and brought out the troops. The .38 wasn’t much, but she probably could have taken Pong and his partner if she hit them in the eyes—provided she didn’t shoot Erik first.
Erik wrestled her down onto a couch. He twisted her arm behind her back, caught her other wrist with the same hand, and methodically searched her. She didn’t fight. There was no point. He held her easily. Use magic? No, that was out of the question, too. No point in making things worse. Running his hands under her blouse, he squeezed her breasts. Moving down, he snatched the .38 out of the holster. One hand went between her legs, and his fingers pushed under the edge of her panties.
“You think there’s a gun there?” Maeve twisted then, but his hand pinned her wrists together like handcuffs.
Silently, he released her wrists, rolled her over, grasped the back of her neck, and shoved her face into the couch cushions. She received the same rough treatment from behind.
Maeve tried to hit him when he turned her back over and released her once again. He swatted her hands away, and she might as well have been hitting tree trunks.
“Is that all?” He shook the blade at her. “I’ll strip you if I have to.” His fingers dug into her leg. “Then I could show you a real body search.”
“Try it!” He could push her, too far. Pure, clean rage suited her character far better than humiliation. The ever-present magic escalated inside her, threatning to burst out like a dragon’s roar.
The door opened, and Claire walked in.
Claire studied them for a moment, and whatever she felt didn’t show on her cold, exquisite face.
“Are you finished?” she asked Erik, as if requesting the time. “Aubrey’s waiting.”
Erik relea
sed Maeve, snatched up the gun and knife, and stalked toward the door. As he passed Claire, she touched his arm with her finger. One finger, that’s all, a brush so insubstantial the stroke might have passed notice—except that Erik jerked and staggered. He almost fell. Pain passed across his face like an invisible brush stroke.
“I am my mother’s daughter, Erik,” Claire said softly.
He gasped, then drew a deep breath. He glared at her. Was he going to challenge Claire? Maeve searched wild-eyed around the room for an escape route. If Claire planned to release a significant amount of magic, a prudent witch should ward herself. An inept witch like Maeve should run.
The two faced off, and then Erik gave way. He walked out.
Claire spun to Maeve. “Of all the stupid, brainless ideas, what were you going to do with a pistol and knife in this place? You may be incompetent at magic but—”
“Mother dear, people have been chasing me and shooting at me. It makes me feel a little insecure.” She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “A gun and knife are the least of my bad decisions.”
“You survived,” Claire said, almost whispering. “Come on.” She walked out. So much for a mother’s love. Claire’s indifference cut deeper and hurt far more than Erik’s rough mauling. Maeve followed Claire up the stairs. White carpet, white walls, and furniture, Sethos had built an opulent shrine to his ghastly body on Ogre Mountain. He waited for them at the entrance to the dining room.
“My dear Maeve, welcome.” He held out doughy hands to her. Could she make herself take them? She grasped his spongy fingers and resisted the urge to scrub her palms on her skirt when he released her. No way was Claire sleeping with him.
“Come meet our other guests,” he said, leading them into the dining room.
The dinner party consisted of herself, Erik, Claire, Captain Harlan, who looked like a man approaching the gallows, and her Majesty, Shost Mayhem, Queen of the Ogres. Queen Shost had washed and brushed her considerable body hair to a mahogany sheen. Like many creatures in Elder, ogres wore no clothing. At least Shost’s long sleek fur covered the body parts most witches and others would consider embarrassing to reveal at the dinner table. She also controlled the usual drooling with admirable skill.
Shost had saved Maeve’s life once, and Maeve remembered her debt. She bowed low and said, “Your Majesty, I’m honored to be in your presence again.” When she straightened, Shost smiled in recognition and regarded her with sharp eyes.
Most of Elder’s witches considered ogres insane beasts. Maeve knew better—at least in the Queen’s case. She also knew Shost was Pong’s mother. Maybe she wasn’t too sensitive about his missing toes.
Sethos led them through an elegant dining room for thirty people to a smaller table in an atrium with a glass ceiling. White cloth, white china, white roses in a white vase—a monochromatic scene marred only by the multi-colored clothing and sleek fur of his guests.
Sethos seated Maeve to his right and Queen Shost to his left. Shost, though a little shorter than most ogres, required a massive chair. Erik sat to Maeve’s right and Captain Harlan across from him. Claire faced her anemic husband.
Servants shuffled in and out of the room, like wind-up toys with blank faces and illness-bleached skin. They functioned appropriately, but a terrible perversity filled them, leaving no room for humanity. Like so much she’d seen since Maeve entered Elder that morning, they offended her sense of life and community. She repressed a shiver as one dead-looking hand set a plate with a magnificent slab of prime rib before her. When the meat’s aroma winnowed up her nose, she immediately forgot the hand offering the bounty. Servants, wine, crystal glasses—three weeks ago she’d licked stolen yogurt off her sweatpants.
“Let me tell you of our organization, Maeve,” Sethos said as he sipped his wine. His little pig eyes glittered in the candlelight.
“Your dear mother and I are owners of SETH. Queen Shost, acting for King Batho, is our partner here in Elder. My son Erik is Commander of Security and the most competent Captain Harlan, his second in command.”
Maeve glanced at Harlan who was studying the tablecloth.
“This is the first time the captain’s been free to join us for dinner,” Sethos said. “We hope to see him more often.”
Maeve thought she heard amusement in Sethos’ voice. Harlan’s situation as Claire’s lover evoked a bit of sympathy. Magic games carried high stakes, even for a brave man—of course, so did screwing the boss’s wife.
“What do you make at the factory?” Maeve asked. She hoped to draw the conversation away from Harlan. In spite of his position and his affinity for Claire, she did like him. He’d been genuinely concerned about her injury at the entrance gate. Or maybe she considered him the lesser of evils.
“Our primary creations are medicine and other pharmaceuticals. The Elder factory is a laboratory and a production facility, and while it is unique in function, it is only one of twenty we have throughout the world,” Sethos explained. “An extremely lucrative business, though we donate much of our products—AIDS drugs to Africa, that sort of thing.”
Maeve eyed Queen Shost. It didn’t seem possible that old Batho would let her act for him. The monumental battles between the savage ogre king and his equally savage queen were legendary in Elder. On clear nights she would sit on the back porch and listen to the roars echoing off Ogre Mountain.
Shost laughed, and it sounded like clogged sewer pipes gurgling. Her deep voice was devoid of anything Maeve could call feminine. “You wonder why the old beast let me take his place?”
Maeve didn’t know what to say. How did she know what she’d been thinking?
“He is…” Shost shrugged her massive shoulders. “I don’t have words. Sethos, you tell her.”
“Poor King Batho has become mentally incapacitated, due to severe head trauma.” Sethos said. He smiled and a faint nausea stirred in Maeve’s stomach.
“Crawls around on the floor and blubbers,” Shost said. She gurgled again. “Won’t eat anything but grass.”
Maeve thought she should offer sympathy. “Maybe Tana could help him. You know she’s a skillful healer.”
Shost leaned forward and grunted. “If I wanted him healed, I wouldn’t have hit him in the first place.”
Chapter Nineteen
Conversation around the table lagged, until, for the first time, Sethos mentioned the destruction at the river bridge. “We were very lucky. At least no one was injured. I’m going to call my engineers to task on that one. A structure like that…to just…collapse. It’s a catastrophe.” He wiggled his pudgy white fingers in the air. “We’ll begin rebuilding tomorrow. Until then, I have a temporary bridge coming. It won’t hold the big trucks, but at least we won’t be completely isolated.”
Maeve glanced at her mother, but Claire seemed to be engrossed in soothing her lover.
More white-clad servants rolled in a cart bearing an enormous silver dish to the table.
“Our chef’s specialty,” Sethos crowed, “Cherries Flambé in Brandy Sauce.” He clapped his hands together as if he were a child receiving a birthday present. The sound was not a sharp clap as her hands would make, but like two soft pillows smacked together.
Cherries Flambé in Brandy Sauce sounded terrible, but she’d eaten everything from fried rattlesnake to bread so old she had to scrape the mold off. The dish had to have a tremendous amount of sugar, so she figured she could choke it down.
A servant touched flame to the dish, and it flashed a flaming torch toward the ceiling.
The door crashed open.
Pong charged into the room.
His roar rattled the glasses on the table. Slinging his arms in wild circles, he raced toward Maeve. The servant whirled at the sound and stepped into the ogre’s path. With one hand, Pong shoved him into the cart and flaming dish. He struck with so much force, fiery brandy sauce, with accompanying cherry lumps, sailed in a wide arc across the floor.
Erik grabbed Maeve. He snatched her o
ut of her chair and flung her behind him. Pong roared. The ogre stomped across the floor. Marble tiles cracked under his whopping feet like thin ice in early winter. His eyes remained locked on Maeve. Erik ducked under the raking, clawed hands and slammed his fist into the ogre’s stomach.
Pong doubled over and dropped to his knees.
Shost grabbed the now-empty silver flambé dish. With a mighty swing of her hairy arm, she bashed him in the head. The silver bounced off Pong’s head with a solid thud.
Pong remained on his knees and stared up at her.
She hit him again.
He slowly collapsed on the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head.
Shost opened her mouth to roar in victory. Ogre’s roared a lot. She stopped. She set the silver dish, now bearing a major dent, on the floor. Self control, oh yes. Hail to the Queen.
The guests had managed to jump back in time to avoid burns, but Pong had cancelled dessert. More servants arrived to clean up the mess and drag the unconscious ogre away. Shost apologized profusely to Sethos for her son’s behavior and the damage to the dining room. He cooed, fluttered, and acted the perfect host while he graciously accepted her regrets. Maeve plotted how she would give a dramatic rendering of the story for Tana and Flor when she got home. She’d call it the Cherries Flambé and the Downfall of the vile ogre Pong.
Less humorous was the matter of Erik. No ordinary human man had the strength to stop an ogre with one blow. Few witches could, even with magic. What was he? If he had an aura, she couldn’t read it. Flor hadn’t mentioned one either, but they hadn’t talked much since she’d actually met him earlier that day. Erik returned her gaze with an empty one of his own. She’d better figure his mystery out soon. Such a deadly creature, she had to know her enemy—enemies—better.
Sethos led the dinner party to his library for drinks. Maeve walked with Shost. Shost bent down and spoke softly. “I do not approve of my husband’s bargain, but I am forced to honor it.”
Maeve wanted to know the bargain’s details, but all she could do at the moment was look up at Shost and nod, accepting the message.
