Lacing Shadows

by Tina Smith

  Straight into the woods.

  Chewie wove his way around as though he knew where to go.

  I drew in a breath, gathered my courage, and trudged one disjointed step at a time into the forest. Sunlight streaked down across branches and bushes. The snow wasn’t as heavy in here. I’d never been afraid of this place until that—

  Chewie stopped by the trunk of a weeping willow to sniff something.

  “Be gone! Argh…”

  A voice, definitely male but haggard, tried to yell at him but ended up in another moan. Wolfhounds reminded me of obstinate kids. Talk, threaten, whatever, they are not impressed. I slid a hand inside my pocket, fingers gripping my cell phone.

  The first thing I spotted was a thigh-high, black boot peeking out from a long, forest-green coat, the material unfamiliar. I stepped around Chewie who was busy licking the face of the body lying on the snow. My mind was held hostage by the spectacle of him.

  I gasped. His eyes were closed. Did he pass out or something? All of his clothing—from the brocaded coat and matching fur-trimmed hat, brown vest and pants, to the high-collared, yellow shirt—every article screamed pretention and fit him perfectly.

  It took all my strength not to burst out laughing.

  He was a cross between The Princess Bride and Pirates of the Caribbean. What theater group had this guy wandered away from?

  I nibbled on my bottom lip. What now? With both hands, I pushed Chewie’s haunches. “Stop that, boy!” I nudged him. He complied, sitting a few feet away. I swear that dog is the younger sibling I asked for as a kid.

  Snow leeched through my jeans as I kneeled and removed my gloves. Strands of long black hair curved along the sides of an angular jaw, the rest must’ve been tied back. Full lips, well-defined cheekbones, and long lashes made my heart rate jump. There hadn’t been guys like this—a pretty boy looking like he stepped out from the pages of a manga or movie—on campus.

  Through those layers, I couldn’t see the rise and fall of his chest. Was he still alive?

  I swallowed a few times. There was only one thing to do: touch the body. With a trembling index finger pointing downwards, I poked his cheek.

  Gloved hands shot out, seizing my forearms. Chewie barked. Before I could scream, the guy had flipped me over onto my back. He held me down with a surprisingly strong grip. Stomach clenching, heart about to explode, I stared up into the cold, dark eyes of—

  “You don’t have permission to touch me, human.” Disdain poured off him.

  I shuddered, repulsed by both his arrogance and attitude.

  His gaze swept over my face before he flashed a chilling smile.

  And then I noted the bloodshot eyes, his scratched-up face, and got a whiff of a sour smell.

  “Go sleep it off somewhere else, Jack Sparrow. Get off my property before I have you arrested for trespassing.” My knee raised, ready to inflict pain.

  He laughed, a low and menacing snarl like Christian Bale’s in Batman. Oh, he had to be an actor. “A lively one. Humor me, wench. Where am I?” Those lashes fluttered, as if he was fighting sleep.

  I tried to shove his hands away. His arms pinned me down with the force of a brick wall. He smirked while my ticked-off meter rose. I remained captive under the increasing weight of his body.

  Finally, his grip loosened.

  “You’re in Raven Falls, New York. Get off of me now and quit calling me wench, Robin Hood. My name is Holly.”

  This time his laugh seemed genuine. “Like the berry?”

  Pompous jerk. I rolled my eyes. “Ha ha. Haven’t heard that one before.”

  With brows creased, he studied my expression. “My family will reward you—” With rapidly blinking eyelids, he choked out, “I-I require your…assistance.”

  Before I could utter a word, he passed out and toppled down on top of me.

  Chapter Three

  By my fourth attempt at struggling and pushing, I emerged victorious when I wiggled out from under him. “Yes,” I groaned, rolling away.

  Funny, I’d pictured my first time with a guy on top a bit more romantic.

  Climbing to my feet, I snapped at Chewie. “Thanks for going on vacation! He could’ve hurt me! All you did was bark, you big doofus.”

  His tail wagged slowly, and then stopped, head bent down.

  Remorse replaced my anger. When Mom found him wandering the property nine years ago—starving and obviously abandoned—she took him in and made him the family pet. Despite his huge size, Chewie’s always been gentle and loving. I couldn’t remember the last time I heard him growl.

  “Sorry, boy, I’m mad at me, for putting myself in that situation.” Feeling bad, I scratched his head. “So what do we do now?” I stared down at the stranger’s body sprawled out across the snow. “Call the police? Leave him here?”

  I walked around him, taking in his hat, the leather belts crisscrossed around his vest, the long gloves. Every item was from another time period. It was as if he didn’t belong here. But he reminded me of someone. Who? The name was almost there, in the center of my mind.

  A giggle fit took hold as I thought of my favorite line from The Princess Bride. “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya!” I even ended with an imaginary sword thrust.

  I laughed so hard I wiped tears away. Chewie sat between us, his head volleying back and forth from one to another. I’d had my fun. What do I do?

  Why did this intoxicated, costumed guy have to wind up here? When I brushed snow off my coat, something caught my attention. Big, brown stains scattered across the front of my favorite Land’s End coat.

  My fingertips were also stained. “But I didn’t touch anything…” I mumbled, scanning the area. A quick glance at the drunk provided my answer.

  Two buttons had slipped opened on his jacket, revealing both his vest and shirt cut up. Both garments were spotted just like mine. What the? I sniffed before touching a section. It was odorless but sticky and slightly thick with the same consistency as blood.

  Curious, I kneeled beside him, undid some more buttons, and slid the materials apart. My fingers itched to explore him.

  And I might have, if it weren’t for the bottom-half of the shirt soaked with the same odd liquid. The something-is-wrong meter from yesterday deafened me now. I inhaled deeply, let the cold air into my lungs, hoping it would calm me, and released it. My hand shook as I yanked up the shirt.

  My breath caught. Puncture marks and wounds of various sizes dotted his chest and stomach. Oh my God, I’d never seen so much violence inflicted on anyone. I stopped counting at twenty. The seriousness of his situation settled in. Some cuts still oozed, others began to crust over, and all were that earthen-colored liquid. Maybe he had a medical condition that affected his blood?

  The hairs on the nape of my neck stood up. Visions of poor, defenseless Fanny played in my mind. Her body had been sliced up, too. Panic set in. What if whatever killed her had attacked him? Whoever this was, he lay passed out in my family’s woods. I had to help him. And what was wrong with me? Minutes ago, I had been laughing.

  Frantic, I searched his body as gently as possible. Jacket, pants, vest, and shirt—every pocket was empty. No wallet. No keys. No phone.

  Had he been mugged too?

  I have been known to slip things like money or my phone into my boots so I scooted down toward his feet and tugged at one of his. The soft leather slipped off easily. In a rush to check, I rammed my hand inside.

  “Ouch!” I yanked back, shocked to find my thumb bleeding. Holding the boot upside down, a small knife with a serrated blade the length of my index finger fell onto the ground.

  Eyeballing the weapon, I sucked on my wound. “Jeez,” I grumbled between clenched teeth. The rest of the blade and handle, heavy with scrollwork, were also coated in the same brown substance. Was this a dream? Could I go back to sleep and start the day over somehow?

  I slipped the weapon inside my gloves and then into my pocket for safekeeping.

  Who carries a knife like this? />
  Had he been attacked or fought someone? Did they dump an injured man here to die? Why? The answers didn’t matter now. He needed my help. I buttoned up his clothes and replaced his footwear. He wasn’t moaning anymore. I cleaned my fingers with some snow and yanked out my phone. No bars.

  Of course, how could I forget? There was no service out here. I wished I could call Mom. She was a nurse and would know what to do.

  No! I couldn’t involve her. Should I go towards the house where the service kicked in and call a friend? The police?

  Something told me not to get the authorities involved.

  Think, Holly! I rubbed my forehead and got up.

  “Chewie, stay here. I’ll be back.”

  He flicked his ears, as though understanding. I took off running and peered back. Chewie had curled up next to the guy, but his eyes kept watch. He was a smart dog after all.

  Under an almost-blue sky, the snow was beginning to melt. I ran to the largest barn, unlocked the two front doors, and pulled them open. We stored our snowmobiles in the back. I hurried over to my Arctic Cat, handed down to me from my mom, and uncovered the machine. I turned the key, grateful for the electric start. Letting the engine warm up for a few minutes, I pocketed my cap before securing my helmet and hopped on. I drove my mobile back through the woods, breathing easier when Chewie—still in the same position—came into view.

  I left my sled running and ran over to the guy. With some gentle urging, I awakened him. He grunted, clutching his chest.

  “I need you to get on my snowmobile,” I explained, trying to get him up. “The temp’s are going down to the teens tonight. You can’t stay out here.”

  “Yes,” he whispered. He leaned on me while I helped him to his feet, his arm coiling around my shoulders as he limped down the trail. The back of his right leg had been slashed, the material shredded. I hadn’t noticed it before, not with his jacket covering it.

  “Who did this to you?” I said. Chewie trotted beside him.

  The stranger shook his head, fingertips pressing into my arms to keep hold. Our trek was slow. He weighed more than I thought, adding a solid two hundred pounds against my five-foot-eight frame. We were both breathless by the time we exited the woods.

  He stiffened as my snowmobile came into view. “W-what is that?”

  “No, no, keep going,” I urged. “That’s my sled. I’m taking you to my house.”

  His eyelids drooped. We had to move now before he collapsed. “You need to help me help you,” I shouted.

  That did the trick. On the verge of passing out, he tried to glare at me.

  I glared back. “Sorry, your highness.”

  He mumbled something while I carefully guided him onto the passenger seat, settled his body against the back rest, and then made sure his feet went onto the footrests.

  “Okay then?”

  When he nodded, drops of sweat slid down his cheeks.

  “Please hold on to the hand rails, okay?” Some sound of acknowledgement came from him as I took off. Taking it slow, I drove across the land. Chewie ran up ahead. Every few minutes I turned to check on my rider. His head dipped to one side. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over half of his face. I couldn’t see if he was asleep, but he remained seated. Soon I pulled up to the side of the house by the kitchen door and turned the engine off.

  “Hey!” I shook him as I slid down. His lashes fluttered as he fought to open his lids. “Rest on me again,” I instructed. He dragged his injured leg. My muscles screamed when I leaned down with him on me to unlock the kitchen door.

  Once inside, I stopped to catch my breath while urging him to stay awake. I eyed the back staircase to my right. There was no way I could get him up to the spare rooms on the second floor. What if he collapsed on me again?

  My only option was the family room located in the back of the house. Huge with lots of space, it had two large sofas, various chairs, and a fireplace for additional heat. It even had an old dining room set. In what seemed like hours, we finally made it down the L-shaped hallway and into the room. Chewie’s nails clicked against the hardwood as he followed.

  With one knee pressed into a cushion, I eased my strange guest down into a sitting position while tossing throw pillows onto the floor. I spread a throw and before I could help him stretch out, his body toppled to the side.

  He was out again.

  I jumped off, giving him the once-over. “I’ll be right back.”

  I jogged down the hall, popping into various rooms for supplies, and almost tripped over Chewie numerous times, but I couldn’t complain. I was grateful for the sense of security his canine company gave me.

  Armed with wash cloths, towels, and a large bowl of warm water, I placed everything down on the coffee table. I tossed my coat and hat onto the other sofa and got to work. I began to remove his clothes, something I had practice with. Since I didn’t like to drink, my roommates had made me the designated driver on weekends. Not only did I drive them back to the dorm, I also helped when they puked and got them changed afterwards so they could sleep it off.

  The extent of his bruises and cuts horrified me. He had been beaten. Raised mounds of patterned yellows and greens broke out across his chest and arms. Again, the colors were off. Anemia? Sweat clung to his skin like body art. Gently washing him, I sucked in breaths whenever he flinched. I cringed and whispered “I’m sorry” repeatedly.

  I didn’t know him but knew no one should be treated this way or be in this type of pain.

  I dabbed him dry with a cotton towel before applying ointment and bandages when needed. Though his warm skin felt normal, I still couldn’t understand his blood.

  Whatever. Once he awoke, I’d ask him where he lived and take him home or call someone. His family could get the police involved and find out who tried to kill him.

  I sat on the sofa end to remove his boots. He wore no socks. The bottoms of his feet, oddly calloused, reminded me of a Hobbit’s. I winced when a peek inside his pants revealed he wore nothing underneath. “Crud,” I mumbled.

  Maneuvering him onto his side, I washed the handful of long gashes on the back of his leg. Despite their still oozing, they didn’t seem deep enough to require stitches. There wasn’t any other damage, so after shifting him onto his back, I moved on to inspecting his head. With a pull, I removed his hat and gulped.

  “Oh, fudge with nuts—”

  Jutting out from between locks of hair were long, curved ears. Like Tolkien length.

  It all made sense: the clothes, the attitude, the blood, the weapon. He wasn’t human.

  I slipped down to the floor and cradled my head in my hands. Questions jammed my mind.

  Was he good, bad, or somewhere in between?

  Where did he come from?

  Who tried to kill him, and would they search for him?

  There was a real live elf or fairy or something other inside my house. Now what do I do?

  Chapter Four

  Wisps of steam drifted up into the air. I sat cross-legged on the end of the plaid sofa, impatiently blowing on the bowl of Mom’s homemade mac and cheese. My guest—now clad in Brad’s gym sweats and a tee shirt, and covered with one of Nana’s crocheted blankets—hadn’t stirred all afternoon. The idea of helping someone other than human wasn’t so much of an issue anymore—I’d accepted the bottom line—he was hurt, I was here, and we helped those in need. Anyway, I’m a big fan of instinct, and mine said this guy was okay.

  The six o’clock news flashed across the muted TV screen. I read the pressing information scrolling across the bottom while I chewed the gooey cheese and pasta.

  Murder. Deadly Accidents. Strange weather. Cheating spouses. Celebrity break-ups.

  And they wondered why my generation lived on their phones?

  Mom had called earlier, making me miss her more. I had to bite my tongue. The temptation to ask her for advice was overwhelming, but reality was a great motivator. And the reality was this was my problem. I’d found him. I’d brought him home. T
his needed to remain here.

  On the good-news side, Nana was definitely recovering. She had even talked to Mom. I’d texted that to Dad and Brad afterwards.

  As for my guest, I tried playing Veronica Mars. Before putting my snowmobile away, I’d ridden back to where I had found him. I searched much of the woods with Chewie, but couldn’t find any tracks or any signs of a struggle. He was either attacked before it snowed, he’d wandered in after getting jumped someplace else, or he’d been tossed there to die. Only he could fill in those blanks. The woods belonged to my family. There was no other explanation.

  I washed my bowl and left it in the dish drainer before locking up. Poor Chewie was exhausted. He’d wolfed down his canned stew before stretching out on his doggie bed where he remained asleep.

  Sitting beside the guy, I wiped sweat from his forehead and pushed runaway hairs off his cheek. Who was he? There was something regal about him from his profile. Those high cheekbones, thick lashes, the set of his jaw, and those lips. Definitely kissable. The clothing I’d removed had fit him like it was tailor made. Whoa, nice abs. His muscular body wasn’t huge like those of body builders. Chocolate-coated caramel nuts, he was something.

  He’d worn a strange ring—a deep orange stone set around long arched spikes of varying lengths. Both the ring and matching pin I’d taken from his cravat reminded me of a prop from a fantasy movie.

  I remembered my thought from earlier. Guys of his caliber never sought out regular girls like me. They were attracted to the theater stars, the fashion students or models, the cheerleaders or athletes. Me? I was out of his league. I shook and ran from any spotlight. I could even be a wallflower if I stayed long enough at any dance or party.

  I fought back silly tears, resisting the urge to make a wish that once, just once, someone like him would look twice at a girl like me. Even if he was a stuck-up elf. “Good night, strange one,” I whispered, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

  Of course, he remained sleeping. Resigned, I snuggled into the sofa corner and switched to Netflix. There were a handful of series I needed to catch up on.