Honeyed Words

by J. A. Pitts

  She paused, remembering. I knew it was painful, but she needed to get it out. I sat, watching her, willing strength to her.

  “Julie fought them.” She had a feral grin at that. “Took down one of the trolls, before we were overwhelmed.”

  “We’d been pounded on pretty hard. I blacked out a while, and woke up in a van. Next we were dragged onto a helicopter and flown out to cabins on the edge of Lost Lake.”

  That’s where I fought Jean-Paul at the end, where I finally killed him. He’d been hiding out there. If I’d known that, I would’ve waited until he burned them all down before challenging him.

  “Duchamp had a young man there, crazy bastard. He made one of the giants break Julie’s leg, just so he could taste her pain.”

  I held her, her back pressed into me, snuggling.

  “Jean-Paul wouldn’t let him touch me,” she said, shuddering. “He beat me, humiliated me in front of the others.” She stopped, pushing away, turning to face me. “But he never raped me, no matter what he said.”

  I reached out and touched her face, tracing the tears. “It’s over.”

  I felt a ball of pain vaporize at that. I’d feared the worst.

  In the end, she’d fought him so much that he just knocked her around and left her in disgust.

  If I hadn’t shown up at the movie shoot, she was sure things would have gotten even uglier. The young man, whom she could not describe, had tortured Julie, then decided to give us both over to the giants and trolls to play with for a while.

  Then the call came in to trade us for the sword. That’s when things stopped being quite so ugly.

  She cried as she told me everything, kept her face down, choking out the words when the emotion was too strong. There was rage there, anger and hurt.

  I held her as she wailed, let her purge the poison that had been laying dormant inside her for so long, then rocked her when she calmed.

  I had a moment of melancholy—bittersweet and heavy—wishing I’d been faster, done more to stop all that from occurring, but she sensed it.

  “Don’t you dare sink back into that,” she said, her voice raw. “I needed you strong, needed you whole so I could finally share this. Please don’t fall back into the trap of what if. Just hold me and tell me everything’s going to be okay.”

  What could I do? I loved her, damn it. Heart and soul. How had I ever lived before her? “Of course,” I said, my throat aching from wanting to cry. “We are going to be more than okay. I promise: we’re safe.”

  And she lay in my lap and cried.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon tangled in her bed. I held her while she cried, then held on for dear life as we made love. She needed the release, needed to purge the pain, override it with the good and whole.

  We spent hours that way, raging and making love with reckless abandon. I led, coaxing her to release over and over until she found her confidence, taking control and driving me to my own climaxes. Finally we just couldn’t take any more, and we let exhaustion take us down into sleep.

  Hours later I headed back to my place. I know the fight with the dragon had been hard, had cost all of us more than we’d ever imagined, but I think it would begin to fade now. We’d purged some demons today, conquered them with sex and love. I was feeling wrung out, but happy.

  Frank had called and left a message with Julie. He had some things to take care of in Cle Elum this week. Just as well. Mary didn’t really have any more work for us over at the Circle Q. We’d need to move on to other farms, and Frank really wasn’t open to driving farther afield.

  Which, it seems, was why he thought maybe I should drive out to Chumstick and visit Anezka. Chumstick was way the fuck out there, frankly—north and a lot east of Seattle—out Highway 2 over Stevens Pass up beyond Leavenworth. Anezka had offered to help out with some of Julie’s regulars. I’d never met her before, so I thought it would be interesting. Frank had said she thought differently about smithing—mentioned she had some funny notions about Julie’s smithy burning the way it did. I couldn’t wait to pick her brain on all this. Made me a little anxious, even. Like thinking about the first day of school.

  Julie didn’t know her much either, just that she was an artist these days. She’d given up farrier work and only did commissioned iron work for gates, railings, and such. High-end work, with lots of flair.

  Seemed like somebody I could learn a thing or two from. Would be good to expand my circle of contacts, too, expand out beyond my comfort zone.

  And speaking of comfort zone. There was something I decided I needed to do.

  I waited until after Julie had gone to bed before I acted. It’s not like I’d forgotten what happened in Vancouver. Hell, Ari was still missing. But the elves, Skella and Gletts, there was something funky going on with them. They could’ve killed us, but they hadn’t. Neither Katie nor I had suffered any long-term consequences of the poisoning, and Skella had told me how long the poison would last. Fair and foul. I needed more information there.

  I pulled the mirror out from behind the couch.

  I propped it against the coffee table and sat in front of it, cross-legged with a hammer at my left side. I watched for three hours, willing Skella or Gletts to make an appearance. I had my iPod on, listening to Stiff Little Fingers and thinking about how the elves could’ve been wrapped up in Ari’s kidnapping.

  They didn’t appear. Not sure why I thought they’d show up at my mental urging.

  When it became apparent they weren’t coming, I went to plan B. I rummaged through the bathroom for one of Katie’s old lipsticks. It was a dark blue. I remember the night she’d worn it, all dolled up in a punk-rock outfit, hair teased like a metal groupie. We’d gone to a party, friends and new lovers. I’d been a total wreck, but we’d ended up having a blast.

  I took the lipstick into the living room and wrote on the mirror, marking each letter precisely and, of course, backward.

  We need to talk. Promise to play nice.

  I made sure the mirror was back behind the couch, tight up against the wall before I went to bed. They weren’t coming into my house without my permission.

  Maybe they’d show up tomorrow night. I was looking forward to the possibilities. If they talked to me, I’d probably lose the urge to punch them.

  It could happen.

  Twenty-five

  Besides the fact that mornings suck in general, I was excited to be heading over to Chumstick. One, I’d never been there, and two, it would be cool to meet another blacksmith. Especially one who had a whole different approach. She was an artist, made a living with her creativity and her hammers. Not like farrier work. I was good at it—don’t get me wrong. I loved working with horses, but there was something a little wild about making art with fire and steel.

  The drive was long, but the morning was beautiful so I didn’t mind. Gold Bar loomed just ahead once I got onto Highway 2, and I thought of Black Briar. I needed to get out there, make some peace, even if only in my own head. I missed Stuart and Gunther, the whole crew, the living and the dead.

  And Jimmy and I would need to come to terms here soon. I was falling deeper and deeper for Katie, and if that was going to be a permanent thing (was that even an option?), then he and I needed to fix this gulf between us. And hell, I needed more information than he’d given. Answers to questions I didn’t even know how to ask. And he had Gram. I realize I’d been hiding from her as much as anything. That sword scared me—compelled me in ways I had nightmares about. Maybe that was the real reason I’d been avoiding Black Briar so adamantly. To do otherwise was to take up the sword again. I was afraid of what would happen the next time she and I found ourselves driven to a cause.

  But I didn’t need to worry about that today. I waved in Black Briar’s general direction as I cruised through Gold Bar and settled into the slog over the mountains. Stevens Pass is scarier than Snoqualmie Pass—more twists and turns and the road isn’t nearly as wide. I loved the view, though. The mountains felt closer, the rock more ex
posed and raw. I could feel the earth’s bones here, old and weary.

  I cruised through Leavenworth, a quaint Bavarian-style village that served really only as a tourist trap. I’m sure it was cool enough to live there, but they really pimped themselves out to the kitschy traveler.

  The cute shops and flowered clock were nice enough, but I wasn’t so much impressed. The town felt sad to me, living in the shadow of the mountains. I think I’d go crazy living here. I’d bet this was dwarf territory, though. Felt right.

  Not that the locals would know anything about it. Most of us went about our days never understanding that there was another world under the surface, one fraught with peril beyond the imaginations of many of us.

  Once I cut north and headed to Chumstick, things opened up a little more, giving the impression you could breathe. It wasn’t a very long drive once I cleared Leavenworth, and Chumstick wasn’t big at all. I’m not even sure how it got to be a town, it was so small. But that’s how we roll up here.

  Anezka’s place was easy enough to spot. She had a very cool archway over her driveway, a cross between Herman Munster and Roy Rogers. Tall and Gothic, with a cowboy flair.

  I parked across the street from her place; the gravel along the road was wider there, like it was meant for parking. There was no traffic this far out, but something made me approach the street cautiously. I had that feeling like there was something dangerous just out of sight. I checked around. Nothing in the road, nothing coming across the field opposite the rambling spread.

  I sized the place up before crossing the road—three buildings interconnected with roofs and shared walls. The first one was obviously a house, and the second was a carport/corral/junkyard. To the far right was Anezka’s workshop. I could hear someone working behind the house—the sound of someone cutting metal echoed across the yard.

  Stepping into the road took a bit of effort. By the time I’d stepped off the blacktop and up to the arch toward the forge, it was like pushing through a thickening in the air, a membrane of some ilk.

  Her place was protected. It came to me as I stepped under the arch. The runes on my calf and scalp began to tingle, a crazy burning itch. Once I was on her property, however, it faded. That was something I’d be asking about.

  Several metal sculptures dotted the ragged yard between the house and the road. They were almost whimsical, all twisty and windswept.

  “Nice,” I said aloud as I ran my hand along one particular piece. It reminded me of the winged horse Meyja in a rather abstract way. I’d borrowed her from the Valkyrie, Gunnr, for the price of a kiss, to chase after that evil bastard Jean-Paul in the spring. Winged horse to follow a dragon. It had been magical.

  That’s how the sculpture felt: magical. Not woo-woo magic like Qindra did, but artistically awesome. The way the metal swirled around a central focal point gave the impression of a flying creature descending in great loops. This didn’t feel like dragon, either. Nothing predatory. It was peaceful, with several pieces burnished to reflect the sky overhead.

  The sound of the cutting torch stopped suddenly, and I turned toward the shop. A tall figure came out, pulling off a thick pair of welding gloves. I hoped it was Anezka, but whoever it was, they were freaking me out a little. The welding mask, with the expected blackened window in the faceplate, was a stylized warrior’s mask, with very strong hints of a sun god—Mayan maybe, or Aztec—visceral. Flames of shaped steel flared out in a delicate aura, creating the illusion that the helmet was bigger than it actually was. It looked damn heavy.

  I straightened up and faced her squarely, my shoulders dropped and relaxed. I let a smile slide onto my face, but didn’t grin, no teeth baring here. Greeting a stranger in the most basic, evolutionary sense. As she flipped the mask up to expose her face I would not have been surprised to see an alien, or a monster. The tension was palpable.

  But no, just a woman. Rather plain, honestly—blocky features and short, chopped hair, more to avoid heat than any style, I’d guess. She had a stern look but held out her hand.

  I took it without hesitating. Her grip was strong and rough. Lots of manual labor in those hands, anger as well, I could feel. Anger and I were close friends. Here was a kindred spirit.

  “I’m Sarah,” I started …

  “Anezka,” she said at the same time. We both smiled, and her face brightened several shades toward pretty.

  “Frank said you’d be here by seven.”

  I glanced at my watch: eight fifteen.

  “He wasn’t specific when he texted me,” I said, feeling like I’d gotten off to a bad start.

  She nodded once and turned back to the forge, motioning for me to follow her. “We start work at seven around here. Better to get up early so we can siesta in the afternoon.”

  “Siesta?” I asked. She didn’t look Hispanic, but with the mask … “You from south of the border?”

  She stopped and looked back at me. “Father was Czech and mother was grade-A American mutt. Don’t mean I can’t nap in the heat of the day.”

  Not like I needed to step into a second faux pas this early in the day. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

  She rolled her eyes and started back toward the forge. “Frank said you were awkward.”

  Great. Lovely. “Anything else he warned you about me?”

  She stopped and smiled again, placing a hand on her hip and looking me straight in the eye. “He said you were a damn good farrier, but were defensive and prone to moping around.”

  This was not how I imagined my day starting. I knew if I said what was on my mind, I’d just confirm everything. Not like any of it was untrue.

  “Fair enough,” I said, walking around her toward the forge. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  She laughed quietly and followed me, walking around the open-air shop. The southern and northern walls were brick and mortar, but the western and eastern walls only came up a couple of feet. The rest consisted of large shutters that were lifted upward and supported with a long pole. They became awnings, and the smithy was open to the world. She had the eastern wall open, facing the road, but the shutters in the back were down. Back there was where she’d been cutting steel.

  Pretty slick setup. Didn’t hold in the heat during summer, and if the shutters were lowered, they would keep out the elements in rough weather.

  Along the wall farthest from the house, she had a set of four lockers, a couple of long worktables, and three thick-bodied mannequins.

  Somebody made armor here; I’d bet my last dollar on it. Useful skill to know. Armor was tricky business and very expensive.

  In the center of the building three anvils faced the road, so when she worked, she could see who was coming and going. Her tools were on two long racks, one on either side of where she’d stand with enough room to walk between them and the anvils.

  Behind her, she had two forges. One was a full-on brick forge, with a bellows and everything … real nineteenth century. In front of that, she had a couple of propane tanks and a small forge, where she could heat up smaller pieces without using much fuel. Overall, the place was designed very economically for a single smith. Well, the brick forge would take two to operate. Odd.

  No room here for another smith, the layout said. I looked around to the worktable along the far wall and some other odds and ends. She’d rearranged the place not so long ago. The wooden floor was grooved from the pacing back and forth, smoothed and polished from treading feet. I placed my hand on one of the rough-hewn support posts and tried to breathe in the place. I had the distinct impression that at some point in the past, this place had been set up for two or more smiths. It had that feeling.

  Not my business unless she offered, and I wasn’t comfortable asking. Besides, we needed to get a game plan together. “Which farms are we hitting today?” I asked, hoping I was nonchalant. Some of the smaller ones would be needing their animals tended now, if not sooner.

  “None,” she said, walking out behind the forge to where she had bee
n cutting steel with a torch. I had to duck to get through the heavy timber doorframe but let out a long, low whistle when I raised my head and got a look at the back of the place.

  There were sculptures everywhere. She had an acre or more out back, which ran away to scrub and rock on the other side of a split-rail fence.

  The statues were huge. There were several full-sized warriors, each wielding sword and shield. They were arrayed in a three-point inverted wedge, allowing an opportunity to flank the dragon they were facing.

  And what a dragon it was—holy crap. Thirty feet long from nose to tail. The angle of the shoulders told me the wings, when added, would be swept back, which didn’t make a lot of sense. The dragon was on all four legs—one of the taloned front feet rested on a smashed warrior in full plate armor. No facial features to render, I guessed.

  The tail was in the wrong position, though, trailing back for stability. Wasted weapon. The tail should be whipping around toward one of the warriors.

  Trust me on this one.

  It was like a giant diorama—and it wasn’t finished. The dragon was missing a good third of its scales, and the wings were not complete. One of the upright warriors was missing an arm. There were two fallen warriors splayed on the ground with their armor rent open. They had no heads. I expected they’d be needing heads somewhere in the scene, attached or no.

  I looked from the scene back to Anezka, who was watching me.

  “Christ on a crutch,” I said, shaking my head. “How much time do you have into this?”

  She shrugged, but I could see a smile touch the edge of her lips. “Three years,” she said. “I hope to finish it and ship the whole damn thing down to Burning Man next year.”

  “Beautiful work,” I said, meaning it. The dragon looked like it had been built up from a significant support structure, with each scale that covered the body hand shaped and welded onto the underlying structure with a crazy amount of precision.

  “This looks like it took you a damn long time just to design and map out. How do you keep the individual scales in the correct order?”