by Gwen Rivers
I try to send him a message, but with no idea where to start, end up nodding to indicate that yes, hunkering down seems like the right thing to do.
We walk over to the basket and begin to climb. The weave is tight and makes for perfect foot and hand holds, but my disproportionate upper body keeps getting in the way, impairing my reach and keeping me from hugging the contours of the basket in a way that feels natural. My head crests the top until I can see into the basket. My panting breaths are so loud I fear the giants will hear them even through the closed door.
Take your time. I’m enjoying the view.
Inhaling sharply through my nose, I glare down at Aiden. He smiles wolfishly up at me, then flicks his gaze to my backside, no more than six inches from his face.
Prick, I think. He laughs a little. Is it possible he heard?
As much fun as this is…. He props one hand under my backside and pushes. His strength is incredible, and I topple over the edge into the apple basket. A moment later he joins me, though his landing is much more dignified.
Don’t ever do that again. I glare up at him from my prone position atop a giant-sized Granny Smith.
He nods once. Message received.
I close my eyes in exhaustion. And frustration. Again, I didn’t mean to issue an order, but again my temper got the best of me. Two days ago, I didn’t even think I possessed a temper but now it’s controlling me.
Aiden hunkers down beside me, I can feel his heat, sense his nearness even before he mentally sends me a one-word question.
Hungry?
I nod without opening my eyes.
Warmth and light flickers beyond my closed lids. Curious, I open my eyes and see Aiden transforming, well partly transforming. His right hand is engulfed in blinding white light. I squint to protect my vision, but then it is done. Where his human hand had been only a moment ago, there is a wolf’s paw equipped with razor-sharp claws.
Claws he then uses to cut away sections from a nearby apple. The slices are even and precise. Using his still human hand he plucks one free and gives it to me.
Took me a century to master a partial change. He flashes a grin at me. But it’s better than a Swiss Army knife.
I take the apple, which is roughly the size of a toaster, though my gaze is fixed on him. Just when I think I’ve seen the strangest thing possible, something else knocks the moment out of first place.
Hesitant, I touch the sliced fruit to the tip of my tongue. Will Giant apples taste any different than the ones I’m used to? Familiar flavor explodes on my taste buds and I take a small bite. The apple is juicy and sweet with just a little sharpness. I eat while Aiden proceeds to slice up more and pile it beside me.
This is fine for now. He thinks when he’s decimated the left side of the apple. But I’m going to look for something that will travel a little better. Rest awhile.
He turns to climb from the basket to explore the next shelf up, but I take hold of his arm.
Thank you. The thought is deliberate and clear, the first one I send to him that isn’t prickling with hostile energy.
He smiles and nods, placing the wolf paw over his heart. As my lady desires.
Then he leaps up, snags the shelf that had been six feet above his head and uses that incredible upper body strength to pull himself up onto the next shelf.
I eat my fill of the apple and do my best to get my head around all that has happened. My thoughts are muddled though, too many feelings coming on too fast for me to process. It’s as though I’ve gone my entire life in an emotional void and now that the sentiments have a toe hold, they are making up for the lost time.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, light is flooding into the basket and a giant hand reaches for me.
I scramble upwards, but the uneven surface of the apples is like climbing slick rocks and humongous fingers close around me as a voice like thunder booms.
“Gotcha,” it says.
Chapter 11
What’s on the Menu
Terror consumes me as that massive hand blots out the light. The thought of being thrust into a boiling stewpot or spitted and roasted over an open flame, like the wild boar I’d seen when we first entered the kitchen, turns my insides to jelly. Aiden said giants consider humans a rare delicacy. Will they chop off my head and then use bits and pieces of me in several different dishes? Or will I be cooked whole?
I thrash in my captor’s grip as he moves away from the pantry. Away from Aiden. My heart feels on the verge of explosion, it’s pumping so hard. Perhaps I’ll have a massive coronary before the giant reaches his destination. Never have I been so powerless, not even when the snake man and his clay cohort had me. At least then I had a plan, to kiss and run like hell.
To kiss.
Frantically, I whip my head toward the giant’s thumb—the digit closest to my face—and press my lips against it. For a moment nothing happens. Then the forward momentum of the giant halts.
“What?” the voice sounds faintly surprised for a moment before its owner crashes to the ground.
Cocooned as I am inside his palm, the impact is buffered, though my insides feel as though I’ve just gotten off a roller coaster. The apple is threatening a comeback. From outside my fleshy prison, I hear booming shouts as all the kitchen giants come to investigate their downed comrade.
Out. I need to wriggle my way out of his hold before anyone checks his hand. There is light between two fingers, the grip not completely tight. I shove myself toward it and manage to squeeze both hands through the opening. I use them to push his fingers further apart and create a larger gap, one big enough for me to escape through. It’s slow going, his fingers are heavy as tree limbs and completely uncooperative. His body is still warm. Sweat forms on my brow as I struggle. It slides down between my breasts and soaks my shirt until the fabric clings.
A loud sound erupts, like a hundred buzzsaws in concert. I freeze, my nose and mouth inches from the relatively fresh air of the kitchen.
“I’ll be jiggered, Bil fell asleep standing up.” One of the other giants exclaims.
What? Is it possible that my kiss, while toxic to humans, is only the giant equivalent of NyQuil?
“Well, how you like that?” Another gives the body a kick, jostling me to the point I fear being snapped in half more than discovery. “Decides to take a nap and leaves us with all the ruttin’ work.”
“All right you lot,” another voice booms. “Nuff of this standing around. We got a supper to put on the table.”
There is much grumbling about Bil and about work in general as the giants lumber back to their duties.
“And as for you,” the voice with the ring of command moves closer. “Would serve you right if I left you here, drunken sot.”
Yes. Please, just leave him here. Preferably unattended.
Instead, the head cook crouches down and holds a small vial under my captor’s nose. The snoring pauses and then the hand I am in is flung violently upward as if to beat back the odor.
The palm uncurls, and I drop to the floor, landing on my right side and slamming into the hard stone with enough force the breath is knocked from my lungs.
“Wha—?” Bil struggles up, nearly crushing me with his elbow. I roll under a nearby shelving unit, so I am at least partly hidden from their view.
“Were you at the fairy wine again?” The head cook demands.
“No!” Bil’s big face scrunches up in confusion. “I caught one of them humans. It was in the pantry.”
The head cook carries a wooden spoon and he whaps Bil over the back of the head with the flat side. “Idiot. Don’t you think if we kept humans in the pantry we would have something better to serve than truffle pie? Now come on, I’m demoting you to dishes ‘til either your head clears or your fingers bleed, whatever happens first.”
I lay my head down and take a deep breath. Or try to. Searing pain radiates from my right side, at the spot of impact. I must have a cracked rib, as every inhale sends a new spike o
f agony through me. Running or any kind of swift movement is completely out of the question.
Panting in shallow breaths I assess my situation. My kiss isn’t deadly to the giants, though it will knock them out. Of course, the chances of me surviving another encounter like the one with Bil aren’t good. What if next time it’s my spine that breaks?
I can wait here for Aiden to find me. Perhaps he’s on his way even now. I struggle to send him a telepathic message and let him know where I am, but there is no reply. Perhaps he is too far away for it to work. Or he’s ignoring me. What if he decides I’m more trouble than I’m worth, just like Addy and Chloe?
No, better not to count on Aiden staging some sort of rescue. I still don’t know what he wants from me, but it’s entirely possible he’s come to the conclusion I’m not worth the effort.
His loss.
Considering my injury and relative ineffectiveness of my kiss against the giants, my best plan would be to wait until the activity in the kitchen dies down and sneak out the back. I just need to remain hidden until the meal is finished. Which might be a problem. As hiding spots go, mine isn’t the greatest. The giants are clumsy, constantly spilling things or knocking them over. All it would take is a giant dropping something, bending down to pick it up and I would be in the soup—literally.
White-hot pain lances through my body as I struggle upright, my eyes hunting for the best place to take cover. Not the pantry or a pot or anywhere else. Someplace they won’t go poking about and preferably, someplace close by.
Just then a large bare foot comes into view. Angling my head up, I watch as the giant, this one female, drops something into a nearby bin. Garbage.
Of course. If I hide in the garbage, eventually one of the giants will take it, and me along with it, outside. Exactly where I want to go. Still, I hesitate, shuddering in revulsion at the thought of being buried alive by giant-sized food scraps. No other option presents itself though. It’s my only real chance.
Standing is an effort and my steps are slow. I stick to the shadows of the table, my gait an unsteady hobble. Giants move past, but none of them spy me creeping along. The smell of rotting food grows stronger. My teeth sink into my lower lip. If there is any other way to escape, it eludes me. Into the garbage, I must go.
The bin is several football fields high and I hunt for a way to get up to the opening, preferably one that won’t cause me any extra agony. The bin itself is all smooth sides and nothing dangles over the rim. Even if I’d been in any sort of shape to climb, there is nothing to assist me.
Except for my untapped reserve of talents.
My poisonous kiss won’t help me, neither will shrinking and there are no trees to meld with. But from what Aiden told me, I can tap into any Unseelie power I choose— for a price. And though I’ve never seen an actual fairy, they are often depicted with wings.
My hands cover my chest and I grimace. Hopefully, my boobs won’t get any bigger. Or what if something else grows this time? My nose? Or my feet? I could end up looking like a pornstar hobbit.
Still better than being giant soup.
“Wings,” I mutter, closing my eyes to envision the result, as I did with the tree, with the shrinking. I don’t picture light and wispy wings, but those I know will work, those of a bird, with large black feathers. I see them in my head, stretching out on either side of me, large enough to lift my weight and then a little bit more. Birds have hollow bones. Their lack of density is what allows them to fly. On impulse, I imagine my own bones as hollow. Even if I am caught, at least the giants will be cheated out of my marrow.
A burning sensation spreads across my back, the skin stretching, changing to my will. Without opening my eyes, I shrug out of my backpack, clutching it in my left hand, with my right arm still pressed against my damaged ribs.
When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is that the pain in my ribs is missing. Not better, but gone as though it’d never been. Frowning, I lift my shirt to inspect the skin, but there is no bruising, no sign of any injury.
Something soft and light brushes my cheek. I look up and see large black feathers each the size of my forearm. I shift my back muscles and sure enough, I have wings that stretch out to about six feet across. The shape is soft, gentle and round at the tops to mimic the arch of my shoulders.
I can feel each wing jutting from my shoulder blades. The sensation is odd, almost as though something foreign has been attached to my body, but at the same time altogether familiar. I focus on spreading them out wide, as wide as they can go. The feathers flutter, a few falling out as I shake them. Next up, flapping.
At first, it’s slow going. I get the left wing to move but the right doesn’t budge. More feathers shake free, the motion loosening them. At this rate, I’ll have bald wings before I get an inch off the ground.
Feeling foolish but not knowing what else to do, I set my backpack down and then stretch my arms out, one on either side and mimic the flapping motion. If it works with my arms, there’s no reason it can’t with my wings.
The left side slows, and the right takes up the rhythm. My gaze flicks upward to my target, the rim of the trash barrel. My feet leave the floor as my speed increases. Hastily, I look around for giants, but their focus is elsewhere.
Two feet up and then four, ten, I steadily climb up, eyes on my destination. A smile bursts free and I want to crow in victory, to swoop and sore, that is until I overshoot the garbage can by a good twenty feet.
With a curse, I twist in midair and divebomb the trash. Not knowing how to stop, I fold the wings in and drop like deadweight into a bed of wilted lettuce.
I made it. Unbelievably, against all odds, all logic, I grew wings and flew. Not gracefully or prettily. The end result is what matters. The reek of discarded room temperature food makes me gag, but the refuse provides ample cover.
Unfortunately, my pack is still where I’d discarded it, beneath the work table. Everything I own on this side of the Veil is in that pack. The extra layer of clothing, the food and water might mean the difference between life and death once I make it outside the warmth of the kitchen.
My graceless dismount leaves me deep enough in the bin that I can’t see over the rim. Crawling over enormous chicken bones, rotting melon, stale bread crusts and gelatinous things I do my best not to think about until I reach a browning head of cabbage that abuts the side. Three quick flicks of my wings and I land easily atop it with only a short stumble.
Using a stray cabbage leaf for camouflage, I crouch down so none of the giants moving nearby spot me and assess the risk. I want the pack but can’t control the wings well enough to make a round trip a sure thing. As I debate, sparks drift down toward my belongings. I want to scream, fearing all my stuff will be burned to ash until the embers coalesce into Aiden’s human body. He picks up the pack, a frown marring his perfect features, then looks up.
Our eyes meet, and his bare shoulders shake with silent laughter.
I give him the finger. He grins widely before shifting to glowing coals and floating upwards. He forms beside me with my belongings secure in his hands.
“Nice,” he says, stroking a finger down the wings. “What magic did you use to grow these?”
“These were the magic.” I frown. “I could have sworn I had at least one broken rib, but as soon as I grew the wings, the pain went away.”
“Dare airson aisling.” Aiden studies the wings with awe, reaching out to stroke a hand over one.
“What did you just say?” I shiver beneath the unexpected touch.
Aiden notes the reaction with a small smile, before withdrawing his hand. “It’s Gaelic. It means dare for a dream. Underhill sometimes rewards magic wielders for taking unfathomable chances. A healing like you experienced, the return of something precious thought forever lost, the development of a new skill or ability. The stories are infrequent, but it has been known to happen. She’s a fickle beast and no one knows why she rewards some that take risks but punishes others.”
I stare at him a moment, letting the information sink in. “You speak of Underhill as though it’s a person, not a place.”
“She’s both. Just because some fleas take up residence on your dog, doesn’t mean your dog is any less a living creature with a will of her own, right? The fleas don’t dictate what the dog does any more than the unaging dictate Underhill’s actions.”
I raise a brow at him. “In your analogy, we’re the fleas?”
He stoops down and picks up one of my newly fallen feathers, examining it closely. “Some sort of pests. By the way, your majesty, you don’t smell so great. And you appear to be molting. Why are we hanging out in the refuse?”
Briefly, I explain my thoughts about hiding and having the giants take us where we want to go.
Aiden tucks the feather behind his ear and his brows pull together. “But how come you didn’t wait for me? I could have transported you as easily as I did your pack. You took a significant risk and it paid off, but still.”
“I didn’t know if you’d come find me. I’ve caused you a lot of trouble and if I were you, I wouldn’t bother.”
His lips part. I turn away before he can respond.
Suddenly feeling exposed, I gesture to the sloping side of the cabbage. “Since you’re here now, we should find better cover than a wilted leaf. Come on.”
I try to put the backpack on over my shoulders, but the wings are in the way. Resigning myself to carrying it, I crouch down and try to tuck my wings in so they don’t snag on anything sharp.
Aiden crouches beside me, placing a hand over the pack. “Nic, look at me.”
I don’t want to, but his hand is in the way and while I can order him to remove it if I choose, my discomfort isn’t a good reason to abuse the power I wield over him. With a sigh, I meet his gaze.
“You are worth the trouble,” he says, green eyes bright. “And I will always come for you.”