by J. R. Rain
“Screw it. Too late to be careful. Run!” I shout.
Eva leaps through the window and takes off. Mr. Moody blurs out from under the bed and races up my back. Ow! Claws! Out in the hall, men yell in alarm. I jump the windowsill and land running. With any luck, the cultists will make enough noise to tell Andre things went off the rails. Trees blur by me as I sprint after Eva. She’s fast, but I’m an elf. She’s also got boots. Maybe if I’d grown up in some enchanted forest, being barefoot wouldn’t slow me down, but twigs and rocks hurt. We wind up about even, speed-wise.
As the shouts behind us grow in volume and number, I pour it on, trying to catch up. Overhead, a great avian screech tears across the night sky. Yes! We’re almost―
A shimmering hole spins open right in my path, a portal to a grey cinderblock corridor―and a ninety-degree left turn only a few feet ahead. It appeared too close for me to stop before barreling through. My soles hit dirt twice more before they slap on cold, smooth concrete. I flail, trying to stop, but wind up crashing against the wall, hitting my head.
Everything spins. I’m barely aware of collapsing to the floor. Involuntarily, I curl up and cradle my skull. My sweatshirt tugs at my neck and a faint skittering fades into the distance. Black robes and soft-soled shoes step into my view, inches from my face. An odd magical feeling sweeps over my brain, like I cast a spell, but I haven’t.
Oh, dammit.
I try to leap up, but a fist wads my hoodie at my throat. I’m nose-to-white facemask with a cultist for only an instant before a red flash turns everything black.
chilly breeze caresses my legs. My head feels like a bowling ball, and my arms are numb. Pinpricks creep across my back like an army of a thousand spiders. Weariness moans out my nose while a dull ache spreads over both shoulders. I try to reach for my face, and a smooth pressure compresses my wrist.
Uh oh. That’s not good.
Weightlessness changes to a sense of hanging. A few minutes of dizziness go by where I can’t tell which way is up or down. Only a constant, feeble flow of cold air brushing my skin. Cloth flutters at my thighs in front and back. When I do manage to finally lift my stone eyelids, I stare down the length of my body in utter disbelief.
Gold manacles around my ankles attached to chains hold my legs wide. The ends connect to a pair of stone obelisks. My toes barely reach the ground. Jeans are gone, and I’m stuck in this skimpy little green loincloth a hand’s width shy of reaching my knees that hangs from a thin gold belt no bigger around than my finger, engraved with a leaf-and-vine pattern. Similar engraved gold circles my breasts with matching green fabric covering them. A few loops of jeweler’s chain link the cups and a thicker decorative chain goes up and around, connecting behind my neck while another loops around my back, holding the top on snug.
Wow, waking up in a Slave Leia outfit is almost more embarrassing than being naked. And judging by the breeze sneaking under my loincloth every so often, I’m not too far from it.
I know what I’m going to see when I look up, but I do it anyway. Matching manacles on each wrist chain my arms to the points of the obelisks, dangling me like an X between them. The little Washington Monument on my right is about halfway covered with painted markings. I stretch my feet to take some weight off my shoulders, but I can barely move. Still, it helps a little. I never figured I’d consider the MIBs accommodations comfortable, but if I had a choice…
Please let Andre have found Eva and gotten her out of there. Since they captured me, they hopefully lost interest in her. At least I can comfort myself with that. Okay, martyr act over. This place sucks. Time to go.
Twisting my right arm around, I study the manacle. It’s about two inches wide, quarter inch thick, looks like gold… and doesn’t have a keyhole. I blink. It doesn’t even have a hinge. One solid band of metal with a loop to which the chain connects. Of course. Magic chains. It’s too much to ask that Open works on them, and sure enough, I get that little feedback tingle at the tip of my brain like I tried to do something stupid. Like cast Open at an object that isn’t a lock.
Well, shit. I’m legitimately helpless. That’s a new feeling, and I really don’t like it.
I hang there squirming for a while, examining my prison. The room around me is big but not huge. It feels like I’m in an abandoned World War II bunker with plain grey concrete walls, ceiling, and floor. Huge, round lights overhead look straight out of the 1940s. Two long, wooden tables sit against the wall at my right, covered in bottles, jars, books, papers, and two laptops. The only way in or out appears to be a dark brown door in front of me about forty feet away.
My legs cramp up, but I can’t wriggle enough to take the strain off my muscles. Another few hours like this, and I’ll look forward to trying my luck as a ritual sacrifice.
I lose track of time, too absorbed in the aching discomfort―until a man in a black robe walks in. He’s not wearing a mask, but he also doesn’t look at me. The distraction of having a person to pay attention to takes my mind off my protesting limbs. He drifts, silent as a ghost, over to the table. Soon, he approaches me with a book, paintbrush, and a small jar of black liquid. Without a word, he proceeds to copy sigils and writing from the book onto the obelisk at my right.
My angle isn’t great, but I can make out enough of the shapes to figure out they’re preparing ritual magic. I’m not sure what tradition or culture it came from, but I don’t like the feel of it. Then again, having to chain a woman down for a rite usually means it’s not going to be pleasant for her.
“Hey… can you let my legs out for a little while so I can stand?”
He ignores me.
“Come on. This is really uncomfortable.” I squirm.
The man continues to paint. I’m astounded that he never looks at me. I’m barely dressed and helpless, and he’s not even sneaking lecherous peeks. I’m not sure if I should feel comforted or insulted.
Two more cultists make their way in and wander over to the table, where they begin leafing through books.
“Think it’ll work?” asks the shorter of the two.
Tall shrugs. “You’re better at translocation than I am. What do you think?”
“The theory appears sound, but raising Atlantis requires thirty-three foundation channelers, three focus chanters, and a primary invoker.”
“Yeah.” Tall nods. “We have all that. And Desjardin knows what he’s doing.”
“I’m not worried about the primary.” Short sighs. “Most of these people have only become aware they can even do magic at all less than a week ago. This is rushed. Someone’s going to make an error, and we may wind up flinging Atlantis into outer space or pulverizing it into the Earth’s core.”
“Desjardin wouldn’t proceed if he wasn’t confident.” Tall flips a couple pages to the left.
Gritting my teeth, I pull at my arms in an effort to stop the fire in my thighs and knees, but my ankles snag on the chains after less than a full inch. I’m going to die from muscle pain before anyone comes near me with a knife.
Short and Tall glance back at the clinking of chain, but don’t make eye contact.
“Shame that chick’s gotta die. She’s really cute.” Tall shakes his head.
Sigh.
“The elf won’t be dead. Her spirit will be bound to Atlantis for eternity.”
Oh, great. I’m ‘the elf’ now. “My name is Solstice.”
None of them react.
“What, like a ghost wandering around?” asks Tall.
Short closes his book and grabs another. “Aha. I think this is the one. And yes. I imagine she will be able to manifest anywhere on the continent. Elf blood is a major power source. There are only a handful of other creatures better, and we haven’t seen a dragon in millennia.”
“Crap,” I mutter.
Short and Tall wander off, each carrying a book, still debating if they should challenge Desjardin about delaying the ritual until the channelers can be trained.
“Yeah. Good idea,” I shout. “I’m t
he only elf in the world. Don’t waste me on a screw up!”
The only response I get is my voice echoing back off the walls. Wonderful. I’m going to die, maybe become an eternal ghost, and the people putting this together are half-assing it. Grunting, I struggle and squirm for a while more until my limbs refuse to move at all. Jade once mentioned Paula adores being handcuffed when they play around. I never understood it, and being helpless for real is the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced. Then again, Paula trusts Jade, so it’s way different there… I definitely do not trust these idiots.
“Blue rotating turkey.”
The man painting symbols finally looks up at me, bewildered.
I give him my sweetest smile. “That’s my safe word. You’re supposed to let me out now.”
He sighs, shaking his head, and resumes painting.
Damn. Worth a try at least.
Over the next few minutes, I learn it’s impossible to stand still when you’re tied up. I can’t help but pull and twist and squirm even though I know I’m nowhere near strong enough to break loose.
The door opens again and my old friend Demon walks in. At least I think it’s him. The mask looks familiar. He strides right up to me. Even hanging like this, I’m still not up to his eye level. He looks me over, making me feel even more like a hunk of meat.
I snarl.
He whisks off to the table.
“I suppose asking you to let me out won’t work.”
Demon ignores me.
Hmm. I wonder what effect being too terrified to panic will have on Lance. It’s kinda hard to aim with my hands over my head, but I try. The bolt sails from my fingertip, streaking for the back of his skull. He spins with a book in hand, swatting my spell aside into the wall where it leaves a crack in the concrete. Pebbles and bits of white rock hit the ground.
“Do not do that again, or you will spend the rest of your time here unconscious.”
Based on the way my shoulders and legs feel, that’s not a threat. Of course, if I have any chance of escape, being out cold probably reduces it. I’ll take ‘not bloody likely’ over impossible. “So, uhh… what’s with the stripper outfit? Where are the cameras?”
Demon sets the book on the table and walks up to me. “You needed something. I did not wish to leave you wandering Atlantis bare for the rest of time.” He raises his hand, index and middle finger together, and pokes me in the chest, above the chain connecting the two cups of my top. “The ritual requires clear access for the blade that shall make you immortal.”
The gesture reinforces exactly how trapped I am. At the touch of his fingertip, I wind up trembling, and can’t stop myself. If that had been a knife… I hang there, ashamed of myself for the pathetic look that must be on my face.
“And what better than your native dress to wander the future seat of our power? Your people are not noted for their modesty.”
If I take this seriously, I’m going to panic and break down. I stare at my almost-naked self and sigh. “Are you for real? This is so lame. And is hanging me up like this really necessary?”
Demon pats me on the cheek. “You should be excited, and honored. You will be immortal. For the rest of eternity, you shall wander the halls of Atlantis seeing all, watching all, providing counsel to those you choose, and learning secrets the likes of which have not lofted from mortal lips in ten thousand years.”
“Yeah, but all ghosty like, right?” I can’t stop shaking. “I’m an elf, aren’t I already immortal?”
He brushes my cheek again. “No… only a few thousand years.”
To someone brought up in a human world, that still feels like immortality. “Umm. I don’t want to be a ghost. Hey, you know, I’m with you on the whole Convergence thing. That was cool. I like magic.” I tug at my chains. “There’s got to be a better way to float Atlantis again, right?”
“The sooner the arcane continent emerges from the sea, the sooner the Ordo Sanguinem Aeternam shall rise.”
Those other two talked like I wasn’t right in the room with them. Either they think I’m no better than a goat about to be sacrificed, or they wanted me to hear that. Yeah, this guy’s an arrogant piece of shit. He’s probably not listening to their warnings. Maybe I can convince him? I have boobs. And rare elven blood, too.
“You’re Desjardin, right?”
His hesitation confirms it.
“Look,” I say. “Your people have only been able to use magic for a week. Most of them have no idea what they are doing. You’re rushing into this like a typical man, leading with your dick. Think. Right now, you believe elf blood is your key to power. There’s only one of me. If your newbies screw it up, Atlantis is gonna stay sitting at the bottom of the ocean until you find that plan B. You should really look for plan B before you waste your one chance on a bunch of mages who didn’t even believe in magic a month ago.” I stare at him for a moment. Maybe I can better my chances. “How do you know there isn’t a better way? Hey, if you like stop wanting to kill me, maybe I’ll even help out. I’m on board with the magic thing, honest… Just not the getting dead part.”
The guy painting the obelisk looks up at Desjardin with a ‘she’s got a point’ expression.
Desjardin emits a low rumble from his throat. It feels like he’s about to slap the teeth straight out of my mouth. I panic a little and struggle at my chains, but he doesn’t move to hit me. His real eyes glare doom out the gold-painted holes in his mask. After a long, frightening few seconds, he spins on his heel and storms out.
I sag, hanging dead weight, and exhale away all the tension of the past minute or two. Desjardin looked pissed, but that could mean he agrees with me. Maybe he’ll change his mind about rushing into the ritual and let me down from here. Even a dungeon cell would be better than being a human dreamcatcher. Or, rather, an elven dreamcatcher.
The painting guy works in silence. I fidget, grumble, squirm, tap my foot on air, rock side to side, whine, and okay maybe I beg a little, but he doesn’t even look up. Not even when I offer to sleep with him if he gets me out of here. I concentrate on trying to make my daydream of a giant green eagle zooming in the door to save me into reality.
Hours later, the painting guy finishes the right-side obelisk and caps the jar of paint. He closes the book and carries it back to the table. If someone came up to me with a sword and wanted to cut my arms off, I’d tell them to do it.
“Oh, awesome. Break time. Mind letting me down for a little while? I really need a break. What say we take fifteen and try again from the top?”
Painter walks out, not looking at me.
Although I’d been daydreaming about a massive eagle swooping in to save me, what I get is a small, black-and-grey tiger. As Painter slips out, Mr. Moody zips in before the door closes. He’s carrying a bright blue crystal in his mouth about the size of a kumquat. He trots across the room, sets the crystal on the ground, and sits.
“Moody!” I grin. “It’s so good to see you.”
“That looks uncomfortable.”
“You have no idea.”
He stands and approaches my left foot. “Now, in the matter of the fifty-seven times you’ve placed me in a cat carrier…”
I squeal as Mr. Moody tickles my sole with his tail, but I can’t pull my foot away. “Stop. Stop. Stop! We don’t have time to mess around like this. I need to get out of here. These people are going to kill me.”
“Vow that you will never again place me in that dreadful box.”
“Done deal!”
“Say ‘I vow.’”
Bastard. Ooh. “I vow I will never again put you in a carrier. Now do something helpful!”
“I already have.” He noses at the crystal. “This is the key to those manacles. I located it in another room full of candles and whatnot. I’d have been here a little sooner, but you neglected to feed me dinner.”
“Sorry. I’m a little tied up right now.”
“Forgiven. I found a rather large, obliging mouse.”
I stru
ggle to get a toe on the crystal. No dice. “How did you even get here? And great. You got the crystal, but I can’t exactly reach it.”
Mr. Moody starts cleaning himself. “Well, I could climb you, but you aren’t wearing anything. That would hurt.”
“Hey… wait. I’m an elf, right? Elves are flexible.” Diego certainly seemed to think so. Grr. Now I’m terrified and furious. “Get my legs free.”
He stops preening. “I’ve no idea how to work it.”
I don’t believe this. The key’s inches from my foot but I’m still helpless.
Duh.
Obviously, I’m not thinking straight. Muscle pain and the dread of my imminent ritualistic murder are a little distracting. Biting back a growl of frustration, I stare at the crystal. Fetch makes it sail into my hand. With my arm stretched to length, I don’t get a great look at it, but better than the floor. It’s giving off a magical resonance. The manacle around that wrist vibrates in response. If I move it closer, the vibration speeds up, away and it slows. When ‘invoking’ it does nothing, I suspect it’s probably as simple as tapping the crystal to the manacle. I try touching it to the chain, but that doesn’t do anything. Since I have actual bones, I can’t touch the crystal to the manacle around that hand.
“Moody,” I whisper. “Press the crystal against the metal around my ankles.”
An inverted Fetch floats the crystal to the ground. The last thing I need is to toss it and have it shatter, trapping me here forever.
Mr. Moody nips the crystal in his mouth and scurries over to my right leg. The metal band buzzes on contact with the crystal and snaps open in two matching halves. I swing my leg beneath me and put all my weight on it, easing my shoulders. A hot lance of agony races up the inside of my thigh. Oh, my muscles did not appreciate moving. I can’t scream. That’ll draw attention. Teeth clenched, I close my eyes and shudder. I don’t care if I cry a little. Wow that hurt. I don’t even notice Moody free my left leg until it swings down and my ankles smack together.