Authors: J.A. Pitts
Trisha watched him, her mind racing. This was nuts, crazy. Part of her wanted to leave, take her things and go, but another part of her was intrigued.
“I’m afraid,” she said, quietly, pulling her robe close around her. They were both in silk pajamas. He’d given them to her as a gift. They were green, while his own were deep red. They had matching robes, and she felt like it was Christmas. She knew what she wanted to unwrap. If she just had the courage.
He studied her a moment, crossing his hands on his lap. “Sex is like magic,” he said, smiling. “It only works if done properly. If anything is off even a little, it just doesn’t work.”
She shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it’ll work for you. Guys have it easy.”
Efrain chuckled. “It’s not all about release, though that in itself has its own power. I’m talking about real magic, Trisha. The power to transcend who you are for a moment, to meld the two into one.”
She sighed. “I’d settle for an orgasm.” She blushed. He did nothing to make her uncomfortable. On the contrary, he’d been patient with her, letting her ask all the questions, letting her direct their first steps toward intimacy.
“I’m sure we can arrange many of those,” he said. His tone was even, but his face was bright with excitement. “It would be an honor to bring you to such pleasure.”
Honor? He was like some dream date. “I want to,” she said, wringing her hands. “I really, really want to. It’s just…” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of freak.” There, she’d said it.
He laughed, not a mocking laugh, but a tension release. “How in the world would you believe I could think less of you? You are a beautiful woman who knows what she wants. That kind of strength is intoxicating, arousing.”
She looked at him, saw the way his face was flushed, saw how taut his body was. “You promise it will be magical?”
He sat back, grinning. “If you will indulge me a moment.” He pulled a blindfold from the pocket of his robe. “Let’s try something simple. I’ll blindfold you, and then we can just kiss a bit. See how your other senses react.”
She felt a hunger rising in her. “And if I like that?” she asked.
“It is up to you, my flower. The world is yours to take. I am but a willing partner on your journey.”
“Okay,” she said, sitting up and holding out her hand. “Give me the blindfold.” She slipped it over her head. It smelled of lilacs. For a moment she practically vibrated, expecting his touch, but nothing happened for several long heartbeats. Then his lips brushed hers, and she could smell him, the musky scent of him. She could taste the mint of his toothpaste.
When they paused to catch their breath, he whispered to her. “I could show you real magic, Trisha.” His hand stroked her arm, and she leaned into him, letting her lips find his again.
Twenty-three
G
unther and
A
nezka walked the grounds of
B
lack Briar. It had only been a month or so since she’d escaped the madness of her home, just ahead of the catastrophic break that forced Bub to snatch her and take her with him into the sideways. Bub had brought her back days later, nearly catatonic. She was recovering and showing miraculous progress.
“It’s hard to think some days,” she said, leaning on his arm for support. “I dream of that place, the whisper of voices, the dark things that came for us, tried to steal me away from Bub.” She trembled against him.
Gunther squeezed her against him. “Hush now. That has passed. You are safe here with us, with me.”
She looked up at him, a smile ghosting the corners of her mouth. “You are a kind man.”
They walked on in silence a bit longer. She rested her head against his arm. Gunther watched the area for interruptions, signs of danger.
“I have had the same dream for three nights in a row,” she said, breaking the silence. “I dream about a man crucified to a great tree. Lightning plays in the heavens above him, and he cries out into the wilderness.”
Gunther had heard this before. She was not the only one dreaming of the one-eyed god. Sarah had spoken of this dream, as had Deidre. “What does he say?”
She laughed, the edge of mania still coloring that raucous cacophony, but it had lessened with time. One day, he hoped to hear her laugh for the pleasure of living, instead of the answering call to the madness that threatened to consume her.
“He asks for his children,” she said, breaking into a cackle. “He believes I know them. I barely know myself.” She tapered off, the last words a whisper.
“It is not yours to fix,” Gunther said, finally. “Your road leads elsewhere.”
“Easy for you to say,” she chided. “I can no more find up from down than I can north from south. I am lost, brave warrior. Lost and afraid I will never find my way home again.”
“Home is relative,” he said with a gentle bump of his shoulder to hers. “You are safe here, among friends.”
She squeezed his arm. “Are you my friend?”
“Most definitely,” he said, and they continued their slow trek around the circumference of the barnyard. “When was the last time you did something creative?” he asked.
Anezka studied him, turning her head from one side to the other. “Define creative.”
“Fair enough. When was the last time you made something with your hands?”
“Before Sarah came into my life. Before she wrecked everything.”
Gunther paused, pulling her to a halt. “You think it is Sarah who has brought you to this?”
Anezka looked down, avoiding his eyes. “My life was fine until she showed up.”
He took her hands in his, turned her to face him. “She saved you from Justin and his vile plans. You realize that, don’t you?”
She squirmed at Justin’s name. He’d done things to her, evil things that Gunther hated to even speculate about. “He would have killed you, if she hadn’t rescued you.”
“Perhaps,” she said, pulling back from him. “He liked to hurt things, hurt me. That’s a truth.” She turned, walking three steps from him, before turning her gaze back on him. “You would never hurt me, would you?”
Gunther shook his head. “Never.”
“Not even if I asked you to? Just a little?”
She threw her head back and laughed.
Gunther did not react. Just let her laugh until the madness trickled down to a titter, then a final wheezing cough.
“I think you’ve had enough pain in your life,” he said, quietly. “Perhaps it’s time for you to try living with joy.”
She covered her face with her hands and wept. After a minute, he stepped forward and drew her to him, allowing her to cry herself out against him.
When the storm had cleared, he walked her back to the house. Took her up to her room, the only place she felt safe these days. He’d made sure to add little wards as he had the skill. Quiet things that would allow for peace and reflection without the anxiety that frequently overwhelmed her.
He sat with her as she lay down and fell asleep. She slept a lot, but she was still recovering. The nurse they kept on shift took over for him after thirty minutes, and he left the house, confident that she was safe.
As he crossed the yard, near the old barn, the one the dragon had burned down, he paused. Bub was trundling across the yard from barracks A. He’d been playing with Frick and Frack when Gunther and Anezka first began their walk. There was a sense of joy surrounding the imp, which seemed at odds with his demonic appearance.
“Bub,” Gunther said, capturing the imp’s attention.
Bub froze, startled. There was fear there, suddenly. Fear and resentment. Gunther took a deep breath and pressed onward. “I wish your opinion,” he said.
This was not what Bub expected, apparently. He seemed taken aback. “My opinion?” he asked. “From one such as you?”
Gunther assumed he meant someone who could banish the imp for a short time, but hesitated to speculate on the meaning. “Do you love Anezka?”
“Of course I do,” Bub answered, indignant. “For longer than you have.”
And it was Gunther’s turn to be surprised. Certainly he cared for her, but love? He’d never truly loved a woman. He had friends, and Stuart was chief among them, blood brother that he was. But love for Anezka?
“Be that as it may,” he continued, “I worry for her sanity. I believe we need to find something for her to do. Something to capture her imagination, something to fire her curiosity and give her hope.”
“There is only one choice,” Bub said, matter-of-factly. “She must work iron, hammer steel, brighten the forge.”
Dangerous, Gunther thought. “Do you think this wise?”
Bub considered, pondering his answer. “She is a child of the flame, capricious and maddening as a dancing fire. It calls to her soul. She is a maker. It is in her to create.”
“Could you help her?” Gunther asked. “Keep the flames from getting out of control? Protect her from herself?”
Bub bowed to him. “I have it within my power to keep her safe, as long as you provide me a place in which to work my skills.”
“Sarah said as much. She would like to build a forge here, make a place for the three of you to work together.”
“She has spoken of this to me,” Bub said. “It is an excellent idea.”
“You truly believe it will help Anezka? It won’t feed her madness?”
He did not hesitate. “It is the only thing that can free her mind from the spell the necromancer wove in her, the chains he bound her with.”
Gunther looked up, surprised. “He bound her with chains?”
“Not of steel, but spirit and pain.”
“Speak with Sarah on this,” Gunther said. “I need to do some research on these spirit chains. Perhaps we can help break the bonds that warp her mind.”
“Fire and forge,” Bub answered. “You may ease the transition, for when the shackles are finally removed, she will be frightened and weak. Perhaps you can ease the transition back to her true form.”
“I will study on this,” Gunther said, “but if you have any ideas, please let me know. I value your insight.”
Bub bowed again. “As you wish.”
Gunther walked toward the new barn to grab some gear. Sparring would help clear his mind. He looked over. Stuart and Sarah sat on the deck, conspiring something mischievous, likely.
He waved at them and made his way into the barn.
Twenty-four
I
sat on the deck out at
B
lack
B
riar, watching
G
unther and Anezka walk around and around the farm, each lap taking about twenty minutes. They were on their third lap when Stuart joined me with two mugs of hot chocolate. It was fairly cold out, but I’d traveled here by mirror instead of riding the bike. Much more civilized.
“I just don’t understand why you feel honor-bound to serve her.”
I looked up at him as he set the mugs down on the small table. He was still angry about the battle where we’d lost so many to the damn dragon. But Nidhogg was not Jean-Paul. No more than I was Stuart.
“They’re not all the same, you know?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at me.
I waited him out, sipped my cocoa, and practiced my patience. I wanted to shake him, to make him see the way things had shifted, but he didn’t have it in him to forgive. Not yet, not with so much blood spilled.
“You could kill her,” he said, finally. “On one of your visits. If you can’t take Gram, I’m sure you can find something large and heavy enough to bludgeon her with.”
“Nice,” I said, turning to face him. “Is that what we’re down to, now? Killing an old woman in her home?”
“She’s a dragon, damn it. You know she is. It’s only a matter of time before she turns on you, on us.” That was the real trick. He felt helpless to protect the folks of Black Briar. I had the proven record of killing a dragon and surviving. It was ugly business.
“There’s another way,” I offered, “if we’re open to the possibility.”
He watched me out of the corner of his eye.
“If I can rescue Qindra, it will put Nidhogg into my debt. That’s gotta count for something.”
He harrumphed and blew on his drink.
“Besides, I’m learning a ton of stuff. You want to lose that level of intelligence?”
“True,” he admitted, grudgingly. “That information about her helping kill the gods, how Loki stirred the pot. All very interesting. And her thought that the wheel is broken, like Odin said to you. Makes it all weirder. Who is on whose side?”
I nodded. “Exactly my thought. What if we could make Nidhogg’s domain a safe haven? We know this Joe/Odin guy has lived in Nidhogg’s domain for years, even though he’s disappeared lately.” I thought back to the last time I’d seen Homeless Joe, the sometimes god, Odin. I hadn’t figured out if he only channeled Odin from time to time, or if he really
was
Odin. It wasn’t unreasonable that he’d forgotten who he was through the loneliness and grief for his lost family.
“Besides,” I reasoned, “we don’t know that the other dragons are like Jean-Paul. You can do the research; Frederick Sawyer is a regular philanthropist. Patron of the arts, all around pillar of his community.”