The Elf And Shoemaker

by M. L. Rhodes

  Logan looked down at his worn, comfortable, ten-year-old cowboy boots and figured it was a good thing he hadn't followed in his ancestor's footsteps because he could think of nothing less interesting than cutting leather and stitching shoes together day in and day out.

  No, what he'd always found most interesting about his shoemaking ancestor was the story his aunt used to tell. It seemed that way back when, his ancestor had been so poor that, finally, he'd had only enough leather left to make one pair of shoes. Before bed, he cut them out and left them on his workbench, ready to be finished in the morning. When he awoke the next morning, however, the shoes were made. He couldn't fathom how that could have happened, but the pair sold that very day for a good sum of money, enough for him to purchase the leather for two more pairs of shoes. The next morning, those had been made as well. And so the story went until Logan's great-great-lots-of-greats grandfather had finally discovered magickal naked imps had been making the shoes during the night.

  To Logan, as a child, the story had always fascinated him, even though he'd been pretty sure even back then that Aunt Lillian had borrowed heavily from a certain famous fairy tale. But the idea he'd actually had a shoemaker ancestor like in the famous tale had been kind of exciting, and that there might be magickal creatures even more so. Of course his life with Aunt Lillian had always been filled with such things. She'd believed in fairies, elementals, and any number of other mystical, magickal beings. She'd called upon them during her spells and rituals, and had taught Logan to respect them even if he wasn't quite ready to believe.

  Damn, but he missed her still. Aunt Lil had always been a glass half-full kind of person, with a ready arsenal of positive thoughts. She would have known what to do now...either she would have come up with some scheme to help boost his business or at the very least she would have had some calming words and a cup of herb tea to make him feel better.

  As it was, Logan was left to fend for himself. He looked down at his once again empty wine glass. Clearly it wasn't going well.

  "What would Aunt Lil do?" he asked aloud, not sure if he was talking to Zeus or himself.

  Zeus stared at him, shoved the final piece of apple into his cheek, then scampered back into his burrow beneath his purple, plastic hamster bungalow.

  Logan sighed, wishing he could bury his head in a burrow and make all his problems go away. But he knew if Aunt Lil really were here, she'd never condone that.

  "She'd tell me to get off my backside and get to work. Follow my heart. Do what makes me happiest." Because if a person wanted good energy from the universe, they had to put their own positive intentions out there first. How many times had he heard that from her over the years?

  He dragged in a breath and tried to ground himself. "Okay. So what do I have control over here? What can I do that will help?"

  Logan gazed over at the glass-fronted supply cabinet that held his oils and herbs. It had been a while since he'd experimented and come up with any new blends of oil. He sold most of the traditional essential oils in his shop--eucalyptus, lavender, rose, sandalwood, and so forth. But he'd learned back when he'd worked herbs with Aunt Lil that people were always attracted to special blends--for healing, protection, love, and even specialty oils for the seasons or the Zodiac signs.

  Maybe he could come up with something new and different. Something for, oh...say... "Passion," he mused aloud. "Even when the economy's crap, people still like to have sex, don't they? Like to think about it. Fantasize about it." His groin gave a pulse and he found himself growing hard just from saying the words aloud. "God knows I do," he murmured, "even if it's just in my dreams."

  A groan escaped him, part desire and part frustration. It had been way too long since he'd had any intimate attention from anyone besides himself. The last guy he'd brought home had seemed decent enough the couple of times they'd met for coffee, but when he'd finally gotten Logan alone, right here in the kitchen in fact, he'd turned out to be a grabby, egotistical jerk and Logan had kicked him out before anything significant had happened. And before that incident, it had been months since he'd been with anyone. Maybe it was dumb and overly romantic, but he just kept hoping to find a legitimate nice guy out there. Someone he could like in bed and out of it.

  He shifted on the stool, trying to find a more comfortable position to alleviate the strain against the front of his jeans. The damned wine was probably what was making him so needy right now. He never had been able to handle his alcohol, which was one of the reasons he didn't often drink. One of his friends way back in high school had always teased him that he was an easy lay when he was drunk.

  "Well," he said, feeling more than a little buzzed, "I s'pose there's no better time to mix up a blend that's all about getting laid than when I'm drunk and desperate."

  He rose, stumbled (just a bit) to the supply cabinet, and gathered several jars of herbs, bottles of essential oils, and a couple of different carrier oils that might work for the base. He returned to the table, set out all his supplies, and poured himself another glass of wine for good measure. The bottle was almost empty. Too bad, he thought, swirling the last dregs of it around. He gulped half the glass, then poured the remainder from the bottle into the glass.

  Zeus poked his head out of the burrow and stared at him accusingly.

  "What?"

  The hamster blinked, then shook his tiny fuzzy head.

  A thread of guilt slid through Logan. "I know," he said morosely. "I'm gonna pay for this in the morning, aren't I?"

  Zeus studied him for a moment, cheeks puffed out, then disappeared once again, leaving Logan feeling suddenly more lonely than ever and no longer in the mood for much of anything except crawling into his bed. His nose and fingers were cold from the chill in the room, his head felt too heavy for his body, and lethargy had taken over his muscles.

  He looked up at the large, oval, silver-framed mirror hanging on the wall near the table. He'd discovered it in the attic of the house nine months or so ago, wrapped in dust-choked, tattered blankets, shoved into a corner behind the chimney. Even though the frame itself looked ancient and the mirror glass old, it had been in surprisingly excellent condition and had only needed a good cleaning. Logan had brought it downstairs and hung it here in the kitchen/workroom because it had reminded him of Aunt Lillian. But the truth was, he'd kept it hanging because he liked it. There was something about it. Something...comforting. Familiar almost. As if... Argh. He didn't know. He just liked it and wanted it there and often found himself gazing into it for no apparent reason other than that he was drawn to it.

  Now, he gazed into it, noting that the worn denim button-down he wore over a long-sleeved thermal tee was wrinkled and had come untucked from his jeans. His dark hair, which curled around his ears and against his neck, was windblown and still messy from being out in the weather earlier in the day. His evening shadow of stubble that he wished made him look sexy and alluring really only made him appear unkempt. And he could tell even in the candlelight that his eyes were red and glazed. He should lay off the wine. Still, at this point he was going to feel like hell in the morning no matter what, so he might as well enjoy it and feel good now. He lifted the glass and drained it.

  It hit his stomach like lead, and he grimaced "'Kay, that was maybe dumb."

  When he caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror, a new wave of guilt, this time laced with disgust, coursed through him and he was struck by just how far he'd let himself sink in his self-pitying wallowing. "Look at me," said. "God, I know better than to let myself fall apart like this."

  The feel good buzz he'd briefly sported had faded into a thick melancholy. He sank back onto the stool he'd deserted earlier and as he stared at the supplies he'd brought to the table only moments earlier, a thick sense of desolation washed over him.

  "Who'm I kidding? A new oil blend isn't going to save my store." He let his face fall into his hands and a low sob escaped him. "I'm so screwed." His head spun, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and shut o
ut the world. He dropped his head to the table, resting his cheek on his forearms. His eyes stung, but he didn't have the energy to even rub them. In some fuzzy part of his mind he knew he shouldn't have gotten drunk. Instead of making things better, it had only made him feel worse, even more defeated, and he had no one to blame but himself.

  In the toughest times, Aunt Lil had always turned to the divine love and wisdom of the universe. There's nothing wrong or weak about asking for assistance when you need it, Logan. And right now, Logan was out of ideas and mostly out of hope. "Please..." he whispered. "I don't know what to do. I need help."

  The last thing he remembered as blissful darkness fell over him was the squeak of Zeus wheel as the hamster went for his nightly run.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  "I need help."

  At the words, the heavy mortar and pestle slipped out of Hallan Greystone's hands and fell with a thudding crack! on the stone floor. With his gaze riveted on the figure at the table in the other room, he barely noticed the broken tools...until the dried monksberries he'd been preparing to grind but had forgotten all about long minutes ago, began to sizzle and send up small, silver plumes of smoke near his feet.

  Startled, he knelt and swiftly scooped up the caustic substance with the thick protective glove he wore on one hand. "Damn it all!" It was a good thing the berries were dried--the freshly picked ones would have already burned a hole through the soles of his boots. He dumped the small gray lumps into a spare stone jar where they could cause no harm, then turned quickly back to the scene he'd been watching before.

  Nothing had changed while he'd looked away.

  And yet, in that fateful moment before he'd dropped the mortar, everything had changed.

  He studied the dark head resting on crossed arms on the table, saw the stuttered rise and fall of dejected shoulders, and heard the sighs of a restless sleep mixed with the tinny squeak of the mouse-creature running in its odd little wheel.

  For more than two years Hallan had been watching the happenings in the other room, first out of curiosity and then, as time passed, out of an awareness that ran far deeper and was more complicated than he could explain. During all that time, he'd hoped, not daring to believe it might ever happen. And now it had. The words he'd longed to hear had finally come to him in a broken whisper that twisted his heart.

  He pulled off the heavy glove and, in a move completely unlike him, tossed it aside, not caring where it landed. He approached the mirror on the stone wall and pressed the flat of his palm against it as he had so many times before, wanting to reach out, comfort the man on the other side. And now, was it possible he could do just that?

  His pulse raced and nervous tension tightened in his belly--both foreign experiences for him until he'd discovered the window between his world and the other. But the longer he'd watched, the more common such emotions and reactions had become. Those and many others. He'd imagined this moment, wanted it beyond anything else...yet he suddenly felt ill-prepared.

  He let his hand fall and looked around, wondering if he should take anything with him, and at the same time wondering what would happen if someone here should seek him out while he was gone. Because there was no question in his mind he was going--he'd waited too long for this. He knew from seeing the movement of the sunlight and moonlight in the other room that time passed differently, more slowly there, and what might feel like a short time to him on the other side could be hours or even a full day here. If he were summoned during that time and didn't respond, if they found his quarters empty when he was expected to be here, there'd be hell to pay. His freedoms were gradually being eroded, and each week brought more restrictions down on him by a king who'd taken the throne under dubious circumstances and had become more and more paranoid of a conspiracy theory against him. Though he wasn't openly labeled as such, Hallan knew he was a political prisoner in all but name. It would not bode well for him if he were discovered missing.

  But the worry was swallowed by the much more consuming need to get there...to the place, and the man, he'd been unable to approach until now.

  The mirror--an elf glass it was called--and the ancient texts that referenced it had arrived thirty months ago under cover of darkness via a nameless courier who'd evaded the king's guards to deliver it to Hallan. He'd spoken only a handful of words... A gift from one who would offer you a window. Keep it safe and hidden. And then the courier had been gone, slipping back into the dark before Hallan could question him.

  In his heart of heart's he suspected he knew from whom the gift had come, but still had yet to understand why his mother, long exiled to the farthest reaches of Lamerion, would have risked so much for him to have it.

  When he'd first looked into the glass, he'd seen nothing but darkness for weeks. And then one night a light had flared from it, and so had begun Hallan's journey with the man on the other side.

  He'd studied the texts--though parts of them were written in an archaic elvish dialect he'd only recently begun to decipher--and thus far, everything they'd indicated had been accurate. But this would be the real test. This was the moment of truth.

  Half afraid it wouldn't work, he reached for the heavy silver frame of the mirror. He attempted to stretch the frame...and much to his surprise and relief, for the first time the sturdy metal gave way to the pressure. It was actually happening! He stretched the mirror wider, then longer, wider, longer, until it was almost as tall and broad as he was.

  Before he could go any farther, however, he had to cover his tracks in case anyone sought him out while he was gone. He couldn't risk anyone seeing the elf glass. He swept his hand around the enlarged frame, murmuring a spell he'd learned from the texts that would hide the mirror from any who might enter the room--it would make it invisible to the eye, and all anyone else would see was a bare stone wall.

  Then, taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart, and without giving any further thought to the ramifications that would be heaped upon him should anyone here in Lamerion find out what he was doing, he stepped into the glass...and through it.

  He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he experienced only a slight tug on his body during the crossing. And then his feet touched solid ground on the other side.

  Hallan paused to get his bearings in the foreign yet familiar surroundings, and the first thing that struck him was how cold it was here. Much cooler than the fire-lit warmth of his rooms. His finely tuned senses took in other details as well, things he hadn't been able to see from his side of the mirror--the dark fireplace in the corner that ought to be filled with flame to combat the cold that crept in from everywhere, the stairs that led upward, the large, windowed supply cabinet that stood against one wall with its doors open, the shape and features of the unusual items with which he knew the people of this world cooked meals and stored food. He also noticed a sweet, pleasant, earthy scent emanating from the house itself as if an herb of some sort, or several, were burned on a regular basis.

  All those observations flitted through his head like quicksilver as he gave the room a sweeping glance. But what captured his gaze and held it was the up-close sight of Logan Shoemaker asleep at the table.

  Finally.

  With an almost reverent tread of his booted feet on the wood floor, Hallan crossed the small room and paused next to the man he'd grown to know through a pane of glass. In truth, he shouldn't be here in the same room with him. It was a risk. But Logan had drunk too much wine and from the sound of his faint snores, Hallan doubted that, at this point, even if the human opened his eyes he'd actually see anything.

  And after all this time, Hallan couldn't have resisted the urge to approach the man any more than he could resist breathing. Even in sleep, Logan called to him, drawing him in like an Andelian bird being called home.

  Hallan knelt next to him and his hand, unbidden, reached out to smooth over the unruly waves of Logan's dark hair. It was softer than he'd imagined, and thicker. When the man didn't awaken or even stir beyond offering an
other sigh, Hallan let his fingers slide down to Logan's neck, to sift through the waves there that curled around the collar of his blue shirt.

  "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmured.

  Up close, Logan looked younger than he had through the glass, yet even more compelling and desirable. Hallan had pieced together enough information from watching the man to know he was in his late twenties. The number seemed like it should be a delicate age, still childlike, as it was with Hallan's race, but Logan was human. There was nothing delicate or childlike about him. Compared to Hallan, who'd already lived long years, Logan was young, but he was also a handsome, full-grown man entering his prime. Long lashes fluttered above cheeks dusted with the sexy shadow of whiskers that, if allowed to grow, would probably be the same rich brown of his hair. His skin, colored by the glow from the candles burning on the tabletop, begged to be stroked. Faint lines creased his forehead, tightening and smoothing as he slept, evidence of his turmoil, yet they didn't detract from his looks, only gave him a gentle vulnerability that meshed with his seductive masculinity in such a way that it both tightened Hallan's chest and stirred a warm jolt of need low in his belly.

  It had been that way nearly from the first moment Hallan had discovered the man through the elf glass--that quiet seduction and constant longing. And now, being with him in person, so near he could hear the slow, heavy thud of Logan's heart, smell the scents of piney soap, wine, and teasing hints of long-repressed desire, feel the texture of his hair and skin, and see the faint rise and fall of his back and shoulders as he breathed, only magnified the feelings he'd developed for Logan from a distance.

  Logan gave a quiet moan laced with what sounded like abject misery. The lines on his forehead deepened, and he shifted slightly at the table without opening his eyes.