The Prophecy

by Karen MacLeod-Wilkie

  Evander was talking with Treena when Brigid exited the bathroom. He looked up and his jaw dropped; his eyes glazed over. Treena winked at Brigid with a grin.

  “Evander. Hey, Evander,” she laughed as she waved her hand in front of his face.

  “What?” he said, turning reluctantly back to Treena.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?” Evander struggled to keep prying his eyes away from Brigid.

  “I asked if you got everything out of the safe?” Treena replied.

  “Shouldn’t we leave our valuables?” Brigid asked. “We’ll be back later.”

  “I don’t want to risk forgetting anything if we end up rushed,” Treena said.

  Evander refocused. “I have my identification cards, money, and the map in my wallet. Your IDs are on the bed. They should be on us all the time. Brigid, if you keep the scroll and extra money in your bag, we can pack everything else in our knapsacks. Treena, your sword won’t fit under that dress.”

  “Already covered. I’ve stashed it under the rug beside the bed. I’ll collect it when we leave,” Treena said. “I picked up a garter to hold my knife under my dress.”

  Brigid filled her handbag and once again they headed to the Rock and Roll Lounge.

  ***

  Next Steps

  After a tasty supper, Evander managed to grab a moment to brief Cephas. The dancers arrived and a few dropped by their table, one of whom was Marla.

  “I wanted to thank you guys for being so great last night. Your ointment was awesome, and my ankle feels much better. I dropped out of the solo competition, but with an ankle brace I’ll be good for my partner dance.”

  They wished her and the others luck. A bottle of premium red wine arrived at their table, compliments of Quillon. They settled in to enjoy the evening.

  As with the previous night, Cephas opened the competition with a demonstration dance. This time, it was a slow and sensual dance that displayed incredible control. He held and then flowed from one position to another. Brigid held her breath in admiration and vigorously joined in the applause when he was done.

  The evening’s performances were highly enjoyable and excellently executed. In both the singles and partner competitions, Quillon and Symba were the last to dance. Brigid noted slight falters and subtle mistakes in their routines. They were masterful dancers to be able to create the illusion that they were trying their best.

  Finally, it was time for open floor dancing. The judges were convening to tabulate scores from the two nights so they could announce the extravaganza finalists for the following evening. They were due to return in an hour. The team couldn’t leave until then. The charade had to be maintained.

  Quillon strode over and offered a hand to Brigid. “Would you care to dance?”

  “I’d love to,” she said, jumping up eagerly.

  Quillon led her onto the floor to join in a quickstep that had her swirling and laughing as he guided her through the steps.

  Symba arrived next and stood before Treena.

  “Want to give it a try?” she offered cautiously.

  “Sure,” Treena smiled. “I do better as the dance lead position, if that’s okay with you.” She stood and held out her hand. They joined the dancers on the floor.

  Marla apprehensively approached Evander. “Can I offer to make up for last night’s fiasco?” she said. “I promise I’m sober and I’ll behave.”

  Evander kindly accepted.

  The next hour passed as dance partners switched back and forth. Brigid enjoyed one titillating dance with Evander, but part of the charade involved her being with Quillon. A few dancing friends dissected their performances with Quillon and agonized over their mistakes. Quillon joined in. He bemoaned his missteps but shared his pleasure in having met new friends at the event.

  “I might not get a prize for my dancing,”—he drew Brigid in close under his arm—“but that can’t compare to the treasure of a new friend.”

  Brigid smiled and linked her arm around his waist. Evander had to restrain himself from glaring. Symba made a point of flirting with Treena.

  Finally, the judges returned with the results. As expected, neither Symba nor Quillon were chosen for the finals in either their solo or partner dances. Marla’s partner dance placed, which took care of any concern about her wanting to join them. Quillon and Symba told their friends they’d decided to take advantage of being so close to Greensburg and had invited their new friends to join them. The dancers swallowed the charade, hook, line and sinker.

  One final dance and it was time to depart. It was a tango.

  Quillon whispered to Brigid, “Let’s make this convincing.”

  Brigid lost herself to the sensuousness of the dance. Their limbs flowed in and around each other in the patterns of the tango. It was so refreshing to be accepted rather than degraded, as she’d experienced with some men back home. She sensed Quillon’s attraction, but no pressure was attached to it. When they finished, a spattering of applause was offered by those around them. Brigid blushed. She hadn’t noticed people had stopped to watch them. They offered a flirty bow and Quillon led her off the floor.

  The others had collected their things, so they met at the door. Evander stood stiffly as he spoke to Cephas who wished them a safe journey.

  They maintained their happy façade as they passed the officer and went to their hotel room. Treena offered to help Quillon and Symba with their luggage, which left Brigid with Evander. She opened the door and was barely inside the room when he hauled her against his hard body. She looked into his blazing blue eyes as his mouth descended on hers. He nipped and licked and as soon as her mouth opened, he thrust his tongue inside to mate with hers. Heat swept through Brigid’s body and her nipples hardened against his chest. The sparks that usually flew between them were like a wave of fire. Brigid could feel the thrust of Evander’s erection pulsing at her core, and she moaned. Evander dragged his mouth down her neck to the vee of her dress.

  Brigid gasped. “Evander, we have to stop. The others will be here any moment.”

  With a final hot kiss pressed to her cleavage, Evander cupped her face and lightly brushed her lips with his. He stepped back, wrestling for control.

  “Do you know what you do to me?”

  “I’ve a pretty good idea,” said Brigid as she smiled wryly, glancing at the bulge in his pants. “Believe me, the feeling is mutual.”

  Every cell in her body felt like it was stretching to connect with him.

  “I lose all focus around you,” growled Evander in frustration. “We’re here on a mission. But watching you dance with Quillon, the way you moved, I needed to touch you.”

  “I understand. We’ve got to stay on track. People are depending on us,” said Brigid as she sifted through the confusing emotions of her strong sense of responsibility and her deepening attraction to Evander.

  “We don’t have to shut this down, but let’s not rush things either,” said Evander as he stroked a finger down Brigid’s cheek.

  At twenty-eight years of age, Brigid didn’t really feel as though she were rushing things. She’d finally found someone she felt respected and appreciated her in all ways, and she knew she would struggle to keep the pulsing chemistry firing her libido under control. If it wasn’t for the mission, she’d explore their connection wholeheartedly.

  “Let’s do a final check of the room. I hear voices in the hall,” said Evander.

  He moved to check the bathroom and safe; Brigid bent down to check under the bed. The door opened and the others hurried in.

  “The van’s ready for us,” said Quillon. “Make sure you have everything. Once inside, keep conversation general until we can pull over and check for hidden devices.”

  Quillon kept a hand on the doorknob, reflecting his urgency to get moving.

  Treena scanned a careful eye over Brigid and lifted a brow at her slightly disheveled look. Brigid mouthed “later”; Treena nodded. In minutes, they were on their
way out of town.

  Quillon drove. Symba navigated and kept watch for their exit. Soon, they were on a clear road which stretched out ahead of them. It was dark away from the lights of Queensville when they pulled over to check the vehicle. Symba had a small penlight to guide her search. Quillon carefully hauled out the radio wiring to inspect for listening devices. Once they were all clear, everyone relaxed. As they drove, Symba eagerly asked questions about the Fairy Realm. Treena and Brigid took turns to respond. Evander seemed lost in his own thoughts.

  Treena asked Quillon about the population size of the differing races he’d been contacting. He shared that, so far, his findings suggested that fairies formed about five percent of the Earth’s population, dwarfs three percent, and shapeshifters three percent. It was difficult to be precise because some groups had withdrawn to isolated areas and avoided all contact. Also, like Symba, there were many of mixed blood who were perceived to be human.

  “What size is the military within your government system?” asked Evander.

  “The size of the military varies from country to country. In more peaceable areas, it can be quite small. In our country, the military forms less than one percent of the population.”

  Quillon tapped his thumb against the steering wheel as if in time to music he alone could hear.

  “Yet they have such power?” Brigid said.

  “They’re commanded by our government, so their power originates there,” said Symba, turning from gazing into the darkness of the night. “The government is granted power by the vote of our populace.”

  “Can’t people see their misuse of power?”

  “Some support it because they benefit from it. Others are concerned, but many are immersed in their own lives. They’re worried about paying their mortgages, raising their kids, having fun holidays, hockey games, or dance competitions. They don’t pay much attention to what’s happening in the world around them,” said Symba.

  “Don’t they notice the officers and people in camouflage watching their towns and businesses?” Treena asked.

  “The military have very well-paid public relations personnel who manipulate the media.”

  A look of confusion swept over Treena’s face. “The what?” she said.

  Brigid and Evander also turned toward Symba to listen to her reply.

  “The media is a network of communication which creates and shapes public opinion: newspapers, magazines, radio, television, online forums. It’s meant to inform us and to help raise critical concerns.”

  Quillon added his opinion. “But, for networks to sustain themselves, they need financial support. The backing of certain powerful people can keep a newspaper or radio station running. It can also mean constraints placed on the editorial staff’s selection of what’s presented as news.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” said Brigid indignantly.

  Quillon’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “It’s not,” he said. “Some independent media show up now and then, but those organizations are often dismissed as radical. People don’t want to feel uncomfortable or to see the world around them as unsafe.”

  “Lately, a slew of articles has focused on the military as protectors of the public, probably a bit like your Protector’s Force, Treena. We’re told their presence makes our towns safer.”

  “To be fair, Quillon, in many cases that has been true,” said Symba. “When gang violence was on the rise, the military helped round up some of the key players. When there were forest fires or floods, they’ve been part of first response units.”

  “However, they’ve been very careful to keep any of their slightly shady activities out of the media,” said Quillon as his fingers took up a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel. “The oblivious public doesn’t realize that Mr. Frankel, who ran the bookstore, and his family, went missing. They’ve been told he was offered a better job in another city. His close friends might wonder why they didn’t personally receive the news. But if anyone starts asking uncomfortable questions, a letter from the Frankel family will arrive in the mail, explaining everything, and wishing everyone well. No contact information will be given; the friends will have no way to reply. Eventually, they return to their usual routines.”

  “Surely not everyone is so naïve or self-absorbed?” Evander said.

  “No,” said Quillon. “However, those people who push for answers find their jobs declared obsolete or suddenly the bank demands their mortgage be paid in full. Their teen is rejected from the college they want to attend. Life starts doling out some tough stuff and their focus shifts to survival.”

  “Over the last five years, this has become the norm,” said Symba. She wrapped her scarf more tightly around herself, as if she was finding it hard to get warm. “Five years ago, there was a big health convention,” she continued. “It was supported by one of the world’s top five billionaires, Miles Gainor, as well as businesspeople, scientists, physicians, and researchers of many types from around the globe. The eradication of disease was their agenda. They generated loads of publicity and committed millions of dollars to research. Sounded great. Everyone got behind their effort, especially the government.”

  “One of their scientists had learned that fairies recovered quickly from illness or injury, dwarfs had a higher immunity to disease than humans, and shapeshifters healed whenever they shifted,” interjected Quillon. “It was proposed that much could be learned from studying their physiology. There was also an underlying fear that these races could one day outnumber humans. Those who had identified their heritage were invited to participate in studies. It all seemed harmless in the beginning, but the studies became more invasive. If a fairy, dwarf, or shapeshifter didn’t volunteer for testing, they began to find themselves detained. Their resistance was touted as denying humans the right to health. Matters escalated, and they had to move into hiding.” The tension in Quillon’s voice was reflected in his tightly set shoulders.

  “Quillon’s dad was at the convention, still grieving the loss of Quillon’s mom who died of motor neuron disease six years ago. He jumped on the bandwagon with tons of others who were equally vulnerable to the convention’s message,” Symba said.

  “I feel your loss,” said Brigid as she reached through the seat to squeeze Quillon’s shoulder.

  “Thanks, Brigid,” said Quillon. He briefly took his hand from the wheel to place it over hers.

  “I wasn’t aware of what was happening at first. I felt Dad’s passion for this project and supported him. Then, two years ago, one of our dancer friends disappeared. I knew she was a shapeshifter, and no one could explain what had happened to her. A friend from university started asking questions and he lost his scholarship for graduate studies. I began paying attention.”

  “Quillon’s college degrees were in computer programming; he used that knowledge to start researching disappearances across the country,” said Symba. “Then, he went deeper and hacked into the research files. He discovered an arrangement between a task force established at the convention and the government. The government directed the military to begin a countrywide sweep for known fairies, dwarfs, and shapeshifters.” She threaded her fingers through the fringe on her scarf.

  “That was a turning point for me,” said Quillon. “I had to act. I couldn’t talk to my dad. He had too much suppressed grief. He was full of fear that he’d lose another family member—my sister or myself. In some ways, because he’s a known sympathizer of the eradication of disease movement, he has acted as a shield for my activities.”

  “Quillon reached out to fairies, dwarfs, and shapeshifters we knew. He offered protection by rewriting their histories and removing them from the military lists,” said Symba. “It took a while to gain trust, but we persisted, and word of mouth spread between the populations. We began entering lots of dance competitions so we could move freely from place to place without suspicion.”

  Quillon continued. “Soon, we realized we’d never cover those lists in time. Many people had already been d
etained; what could we do about them? So, we began building networks. It was through Merry that we heard about the military installation at the portal cave. Last month, we discovered information about two crossings and the capture of those who came through. We registered in the dance competition to find out what we could and that led us to finding you.”

  “Our mission sounds like it’s gotten a lot more complex,” Treena said.

  Brigid was distracted because Evander had taken her hand from Quillon’s shoulder and he was idly playing with her fingers. The hours slipped by as they shared their backgrounds and experiences. At four a.m., they noticed a faint haze of light in the sky ahead. They were drawing near the city.

  “It’s not far to go,” Quillon said. “The house is close to this side of the city. I called ahead earlier and my housekeeper, Maddie, prepped the place for us. I trust her. She’s worked for my family for over thirty-five years. A year ago, I set her up in a small home of her own and reduced her work hours so she could ease into retirement.”

  “You did it to protect her and us,” said Symba, exchanging a fond glance with Quillon before turning to the others. “Maddie’s a sweetheart, and Quillon didn’t want her to know about things that could get her in trouble.”

  “I told her we’d fend for ourselves and that one of you is a chef, so she won’t worry. She was delighted to have the week to go visit her sister.”

  Quillon checked the road and made a right turn as they came to a stoplight.

  “You’re not far off,” said Evander. “I love cooking. My mom was a first-class chef and I learned by her side.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Treena stared at him.

  “Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” he said, tilting his head with his lips curved slightly.

  “I’m decent in the kitchen, too. Does anyone else cook?” Symba asked.

  “I make pretty good soups and stews, but it was always my brother who added the zip and flavor to dishes, not me,” said Brigid. “Treena can cook a rabbit on an open fire but put her in front of a stove and you’ve got a disaster.”