by C. Gockel
He killed it. The realization makes him hastily scramble to his feet. For the first time, he sees the beast. It has a vaguely equine-like head with long, sharp teeth protruding from its mouth. Sharp, slender fins, as long as his hand, run from its head to its shoulder blades, looking a bit like a mane. Its torso is human, but it has a sharp, finned “tail” and its legs are like a frog’s with finned feet that have sharp claws on the toes.
“An each-uisge,” Lionel says, recognizing the creature from the queen’s books. He can’t believe it’s dead, or that he killed it. He’s gotten the impression that warriors feel very proud at times like this. Instead, he’s filled with terror. He wants the thing away, and fast.
“Help me drag it,” he says, grabbing a finned hand.
Nodding, Tara grabs the other arm. Together they drag the thing down the slope.
“I thought you left,” Tara gasps.
“I never left,” Lionel pants. They cross through the unfinished boundary of the circle, and Lionel adds, “I thought it was best to take care of the circle of the fairy blind invisibly … the grindylow might have eaten me before I’d finished.”
“Grindylow?” Tara squeaks. “Like Harry Potter?”
A scream erupts in the night. Lionel’s eyes get wide. “Run back!”
They drop the each-uisge and dash back up the hill. Halfway up, Lionel realizes that the circle still isn’t closed, and cries, “Don’t talk to anyone who doesn’t know your name!” Making himself invisible, he dashes back to the incomplete circle and begins his incantation again. The water just past the body of the each-uisge swells in a wave. Lionel focuses on his foot, and the poem, and stumbles anyway. His key ring slips from his wrist, and he falls, the circle still unfinished. He looks up, and then he’s sad he did.
Tara can’t see Lionel, but she sees his key go flying through the air. And then what she guesses is a grindylow emerges from the water. Its face is reminiscent of a frog’s, slimy and gray in the darkness, but as wide as her arm span, and filled with finger-long teeth. With webbed fingers tipped with enormous talons, it reaches toward a spot or empty air—is Lionel there but invisible? Charging forward, Tara tries to give a blood-curdling yell. It isn’t very blood curdling, more of an “Urp.” But the creature pauses. Afraid of going any farther—Lionel had said something about a circle, and Tara’s read enough fantasy to know better than to step out of a magic circle—she bends down and grabs the first solid thing she can find in the grass, which turns out to be a soft clod of dirt. She throws it with a shout … and hits the creature smack in the eye.
The grindylow’s huge mouth makes an ‘O’ of surprise. Its remaining eye goes to the clod, and then back to Tara. The single eye narrows. The grindylow steps over the each-uisge, growling and hissing, focused on her.
Gulping, Tara backs up, her eyes riveted on the monster … and then Lionel is suddenly in the way. Spreading his arms, he chants long syllables in what sounds like Elvish … but not quite right. The creature hisses, and pauses as Lionel’s chant gets louder. He drops his arms, and a blue flame jumps between him and the grindylow. It fans out around the hillock, but then disappears as fast as it had appeared. The grindylow hisses and charges on frog-like limbs. Blue flame rises again and it screams in pain. With a howl, it retreats into the water, dragging the each-uisge with it.
Something groans in the distance. Tara shivers, and Lionel turns toward her. “I invoked the Destroyer,” he whispers. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“The Destroyer?” Tara asks.
Lionel shakes his head. “I never thought I’d stoop so low … but I was so afraid.” He puts his hand to his face. “And I’m not that strong … it shouldn’t have worked.” He looks at his wrist. “I didn’t have my key.” He darts down and retrieves it from the ground.
“This Destroyer, he’s not like …” Tara switches from Elvish to English. “… the Devil?” Apparently, Elvish doesn’t have a word for that. She tucks it away for future reference, and then realizes Lionel might not understand. She is about to explain when he says, “I am familiar enough with the Abrahamic religions to catch the reference.” He looks away. “I don’t know the answer.”
“Invoking him isn’t like calling him, is it?” Tara asks nervously.
“There is debate over that,” Lionel replies.
“Should we maybe leave?” Tara asks, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering.
On cue, something screams in the swamp.
Lionel looks toward the sound. “I think that if the Destroyer wants to find us, he will.” He nods. “Better to stay in the circle tonight.” He shivers from his head to his toes. Somehow in the scuffling he’s lost his socks.
“What do we do now?” Tara asks.
Covering a yawn, Lionel says, “Try to sleep.”
Tara looks dubiously at the former circle of flame, not sure how much she trusts it.
From her right is a squeal of terror. She spins to see a burst of blue flame. There is a sizzle and then she nearly gags on the smell of burnt fur. A giant-rat-thing, as big as a Rottweiler, goes skittering back into the swamp, screeching the whole way.
“That rat was of unusual size,” says Lionel.
“You said it, Dread Pirate Roberts,” murmurs Tara.
“That’s not my …” Lionel covers his face with his forearm and yawns again. She swears he’s swaying on his feet.
“Let’s try to get some sleep,” Tara says.
They go back to the top of the hillock, and settle backs against the tree. By light of the moon and stars, Tara sees a far off look in Lionel’s eyes. His arms are wrapped around himself, and she notices he’s shivering. He’s also not sleeping, though he’d seemed about to fall over a few minutes ago.
Tara bites her lip and makes a decision. Taking off her coat, she scoots closer and covers the garment over them like a blanket. “Here,” she says. “We can share.”
Lionel looks down at her—and it’s odd, because before she’d looked down at him. “It’s a good idea,” he says, “but this way, we are both only half warm.”
“Yeah, it’s a little small—” She stops abruptly as Lionel’s arm slinks around her back.
“If you don’t mind,” he mumbles, not quite looking at her, in a way that is either exhaustion or shyness. “I have an idea that will keep us both warmer.”
“Um … okay,” says Tara. He looks too far gone for her to suspect anything untoward, and she’s grateful for that. Really.
His opposite hand goes to the other side of her waist, and before Tara knows what is happening, he’s picked her up and settled her between his thighs, her back to his chest. His arms wrap around her stomach beneath the coat, and he pulls her close.
“There,” he murmurs into her hair. “Much more comfortable. Too tired … to use magic.”
He’s not just taller, he’s broader than the slender elf she’d found in her alley—in a good way … and he’s filled out since they got out of the cell. She’s not sure how that worked out. By the conservation of matter, he should be a tall, thin beanpole, but she’s pretty sure magic breaks all the known laws of physics. She feels herself melting into him, her back fitting his embrace perfectly, and she is warm between him and the coat-blanket, in more ways than one. She doubts very much that she’ll be able to sleep feeling like this.
“There is the door again,” Lionel whispers enigmatically, laying his chin on top of her head. “Maybe this time I should step through.”
“Huh?” says Tara.
His whole body shudders, and he leans more heavily against her. It takes her a moment, but then she realizes that Lionel isn’t having trouble going to sleep. “Always the teddy bear, never the bride,” Tara murmurs. This is not the first time she’s had a gorgeous male friend.
Something in the swamp makes the circle briefly flame blue, and Tara decides that maybe it’s just as well she stay awake. Someone should keep an eye out. She looks up at the stars, yawns, and closes her eyes just for a moment.
/> Late Cretaceous Park
Lionel wakes up with his back to a tree trunk that’s so chill it feels damp. He’s sitting on knobby roots, and his feet are bare. He’s surprisingly comfortable despite that. Tara is still sitting between his legs. She’s using his left shoulder as a pillow and breathing gently. Beneath her coat, and her body, he’s so warm that the chill on the rest of him is a pleasant counterbalance. And the feel of her against him is exquisite. She has the physique of a Valkyrie, but she has curves that are soft and feminine. He longs to explore them.
Somewhere, something screams in the swamp. Tara stirs beneath him, her body shifting against him in a perfect way, sending heat racing through him.
“Good morning,” he murmurs in her language, and finds himself pulling the phrase apart and dissecting it. The Elves’ salutation for the morning translates to English directly as, “another bright day in infinity.” “Good morning” is so much more immediate, so much more in the present. So much more urgent.
His arms tighten around Tara, remembering the kiss she’d pressed against his cheek the night before. She doesn’t find him disgusting, and he wants so much for her to reassure him again that he isn’t hideous … whatever he is. They need to get away from here, but unable to resist the urge, he drops his lips to her crown and presses a kiss there.
He hears Tara gulp. When she speaks, her voice is breathy. “So, I hope your soulmate isn’t upset about this.”
Her hands are smooth against his forearms, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and he sucks in breath. It takes his lust-filled brain a few beats to comprehend her words.
“She doesn’t even know me,” he huffs. “And even if she did, elves aren’t jealous,” he murmurs. Not that that distinction applies to him.
“Oh, right … Still, I feel weird about it,” she says, and she pulls out of his arms. It stings as she scoots away, not meeting his eyes. But Lionel remembers his manners. The only thing worse than being rebuffed is doing the rebuffing, and the fear of reprisals. To assuage her worries, he does the polite thing—tries to cover up that a proposition was offered by acting as normal as possible, and covering the silence with words. “Of course,” he says gently, “even if she were the jealous type, I’m sure she would prefer I did not die of cold. We needed each other’s warmth, Tara, and that was what this was.”
Not all it was, but it isn’t a lie. She has no need to feel worried that he’ll be a bore.
She blinks at him. Sleepily or confused, he’s not sure, but it’s enchanting. “Well, we better get moving, right? I mean, it’s dangerous here …”
There is a howl and blue flames rise to the height of the tree just a few paces to Lionel’s left. Tara gasps. A thing that looks like it can’t be more than gray-green skin stretched over bones retreats into the muck.
“We should leave,” he says. “The circle won’t work forever. It would just take a decent rain to wash it away.”
They look at one another for a moment, and then, as one, look at the sky. The clouds are gray and oppressive.
“So, how far do we have to go to get to your people?” Tara asks, standing and brushing herself off. “I’m guessing that’s the plan.”
Lionel can’t quite contain a wince. “That is the plan.”
“What’s wrong?” Tara asks.
Climbing to his feet, he swears the creatures beyond the circle buzz louder and he feels like the swamp is closing in on them. “I’m not sure exactly how far away that is, and we have to cross through the swamp without magic, and there are animals … monsters.”
“Could we light torches or something?” Tara asks.
“Light torches?” Lionel says, gazing at her in incomprehension.
“Isn’t fire supposed to scare away animals?” Tara says, sounding as uncertain as Lionel feels. “I mean, it isn’t magic—but I think it works for bears and stuff, so …”
“You might be right,” Lionel says, actually impressed. “I guess since you are—” He catches himself before he says “a lesser race.” It’s not that he thinks she has a right to be offended, but he also doesn’t need to be hostile.
Tara lifts an eyebrow.
“—not magical, you’ll have welcome input as to how to survive in this environment,” he finishes smoothly, unable to stop the smirk stretching across his face.
Her eyes narrow.
Brushing himself off, he says, “The trouble is, I still don’t know which way we should go. When I sent out my avatars, the black waters around us disintegrated them.”
“You can’t climb up the tree and just look?” Tara asks.
Lionel blinks.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.” She adds dryly, “And if you’re up in the tree, you’ll actually get to be the higher race.”
She had divined what he’d been thinking earlier. Lionel finds himself laughing despite himself. “You’re able to keep your sense of humor even when we are facing the possibility of death.”
“Get up the tree, Lionel.”
Something in the swamp screams, and another thing wails in pain.
“Right,” he says.
A few minutes later, he is at the top of the tree. His heart falls when he gazes east, but then he gazes southeast and he nearly bounces on the branch. “I see the Golden Road—and the boundaries of my village—my former village,” he cries down to Tara. “It’s two thousand paces … a little more. But it could be much worse.”
“We’re looking for a yellow brick road?” Tara asks.
“Yes, I guess it fits the description,” Lionel replies, climbing down.
“I shouldn’t be surprised by that,” Tara murmurs to herself.
Lionel drops down from the last branch, and she thrusts two branches toward him. “Think you can turn these into torches?”
Lionel tilts his head. “I think that torches usually have cloth soaked in oil at the tops.”
Tara’s shoulders fall.
“But I should be able to make them smoke a lot,” Lionel supplies.
She frowns. “I think it’s the smoke they’re afraid of … I’m sure it will work.” She doesn’t sound sure.
Rolling up his sleeves, Lionel focuses on the branches, and envisions the molecules at the end of them jumping and frenzied. Faster than he anticipated, they light, and they both have a smoldering branch in hand.
Taking a deep breath, Tara says, “Lead the way.”
“Right,” says Lionel, rolling down his sleeves. Catching sight of his forearm, he pauses. His soulmark has stretched in either direction and faded. A chill runs through him.
“Are you all right?” Tara asks.
He wipes his hand over his chin and feels the unfamiliar bite of stubble and bile rises in his throat. Elves don’t have stubble … He is an elf. He will be an elf. He’ll change back, no matter the agony.
He pulls his sweatshirt down and says, “I’ll be fine.”
In the swamp, something screams.
Steeling himself, Lionel says, “Let’s go.”
Tara freezes as Lionel draws to a stop in front of her.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
They’re twisting their way through a corridor of grasses that rise above her head. Her feet are ankle deep in muck. Just a few feet to her left and right are open pools of smooth, black water.
“I thought I heard voices,” he says.
“Your magic is working?” she asks, hope rising in her chest.
Turning to her, Lionel touches an ear. “They’re still pointed.” His voice is defensive. He’s changed … she doesn’t understand why, and she thinks maybe he doesn’t, either. He’s scared. He hasn’t seen himself since the transformation—and it has been dramatic. In the daylight, she’s been able to see just how much his features and physique have changed. His cheekbones are wider, his nose is a little stronger, and his jaw is a bit more pronounced. He has a day’s worth of stubble a shade darker than his white blonde hair. He
looks older—more Tara’s age, less like he’s barely legal. He might not know that he still looks good. More than good, even though his hair is ragged and burnt at the ends. “You are gorgeous … just different … you don’t have to worry, Lionel.”
He stands too still and she can’t read his eyes. She drops her gaze. Behind them, she hears what sounds like the rush of wind in the grasses, and hears voices far above.
She looks up and sees two black shadows.
“Huginn and Muninn!” Lionel says.
Tara beams. “Your friends!” And then she notices that Lionel isn’t smiling. Before she can ask, she hears a sound like a dove cooing behind them.
The shadows swoop lower. “Hey kid!” One of the birds rawks. “We found him, Muninn!”
“He’s grown!” squawks the other. “Master was right!”
Tara squints. She seems to remember a pair of ravens in Norse mythology. Who did they belong to? Thor maybe? Hadn’t they said something about “the Big Guy?”
Muninn whistles. “Look out behind you!”
Tara hears the sound of wings near the ground and spins, swinging the smoky branch. Not three feet away from her, a face that could belong to an iguana crossed with a turkey protrudes from between the tall grass stalks. The thing is about as tall as her chest. It opens its mouth and … gives a coo. If it weren’t for its rows of teeth, Tara might be charmed. She pokes the smoldering top of her stick at it, and it draws back with a hiss.
“Velociraptors,” squawks one of the ravens.
“Plural velociraptors?” Lionel says.
“Oh, Helheim,” squawks the other raven. “There’s a whole flock, Muninn! Hang on kids, we’ll get help!” Tara’s dimly aware of them flying away.
Another head pokes through the grass. Lionel swings his branch at it while Tara keeps hers aimed at the first one. “I thought they were smaller,” Tara says, remembering some chart she’d seen with a Jurassic Park velociraptor compared to a real velociraptor of the Late Cretaceous.