A tiny man, the top of his head measuring to the middle of her shin, appeared before them, dressed in a fine toy-man suit that complimented the bronze hue of his skin. His sharp nose and pointed ears protruded. His hair was a gnarled nest in spite of his otherwise immaculate appearance. Acute brown eyes fixed on each of them in turn, the grim press of his lips growing all the grimmer.
“You are done expelling your stomach fluids?” he asked Damion in a pert, but perfectly strong voice—stronger than seemed reasonable for a person little more than ten inches tall.
Damion glowered down at the brownie, but Kirk only smirked.
Though her first instinct was to smear the little monster under her sneaker, she refrained, reminding herself that the small folk were the most mistreated back in Alfheim. The tyranny of the Elf King—who ruled the great southern isles—was particularly devastating. Some of the small folk, brownies in particular, who fled across the seas, severed from the vital power of their homelands, had no choice but to be bound to a higher order being, or they would die. This was true in Alfheim and in the human world.
She remembered, too well, how it felt to be at the mercy of someone else’s goodwill. How powerless and vulnerable it had made her feel... and angry.
So she did something that she had never done before, she lowered herself, down to her knee, to meet the brownie’s widening eyes. Their rich brown hue was striated, like the rings of a tree.
“Mistress, what are you doing?” Damion said breathlessly behind her.
“Kirk,” she said, fixed on the brownie. “Where is your home?”
Kirk blinked rapidly for a moment, as if he did not understand the question. And then, he squared his shoulders, tugged at his fine silk jacket with its tiny gold buttons, and pronounced, “I am from Slashwood-under-the-High-Holly.”
“And how long has it been since you left that place?” she asked.
His knotted face, like the wrinkled surface of a walnut, darkened. “Over five hundred years.”
“And yet, it is still your home?”
“When the Tenth King burned it, I burned,” he said. “It is not just my home, it is who I am. But you are no better than the Elves.”
“What—?” Damion took a menacing step forward, but Magda raised a stalling hand.
She measured her tone. “I know my kind has not treated yours well—”
Kirk let out a short laugh. “You do not treat yourselves well,” he said. “You and the Elves have failed. You have forgotten who you are and why you were chosen.”
“We rule because the last living god placed the Crown onto the First’s brow and declared her and her progeny the rightful rulers of the Lands.”
Kirk snorted. “You see? You know nothing.” He turned on his heel and stalked across the gleaming marble. “This way.”
She rose slowly. Another bout of nausea churned in her, but not because of any iron. She realized that this was the first time she had asked a creature of another race what they thought about the great changes that had been sweeping over Alfheim. She had always been taught that the other races disliked hers because they were envious. Besides, the Pixies were protectors of the peoples, taking in all the refugees from the Elf King’s purges... though those who managed to escape often died anyway or were forced into servitude.
“What was that all about?” Damion growled behind her. “Why would you lower yourself to the level of a brownie?”
Riker shared a vague look of disapproval. Odd, since he usually kept his handsome face neutral.
In a way, she was just as disturbed by it. But in another, stronger way, she felt as though it was the first right thing she’d done in a very, very long time.
“Come on,” she said, leading them after Kirk.
Along a colonnade, they passed expansive rooms weighted with ornately carved furniture and gold-framed paintings of plump nymphs lounging in lush forests. Arch-framed views of the back patio displayed the shallow, classically-inspired gazing pool, which jutted out towards the gardens and the swimming pool below and, of course, the ocean in the distance. The ceilings were lower in the west wing, dark wooden beams cross-cutting the plaster. Many of the outer doors stood open, thankfully. The breeze up here was cooler than in town, and it cut into the heavy resinous scents that meandered around them like fat cats—amber, frankincense, myrrh, lilac, jasmine, rose.
The scents grew more herbaceous as they moved, changing to sage, basil, oregano, rosemary.
They entered into a kitchen that was as big as her trailer. Marble countertops, a stone hearth, copper pans hanging from an iron rack, steel appliances, steel cutlery... Her head throbbed, but she steadied herself against it.
Snapping and hissing, food sizzled in pans on the stainless steel stovetop. At the far side of the center island stood Python, a lean brown man of indeterminate age with a smooth expressionless face and long graceful limbs. He brought down a butchering knife onto a raw carcass, slicing at the joint and then wriggling off the shank. Blood ran over the butcher block, dripping onto the floor.
Her gorge rose. Pixies may have been willing to spill blood and rend flesh, but they did not consume it.
Python’s gold eyes slid up to her. “Hello, Magdalena.” His voice was soft and gentle, like the glassy smooth surface of a deep lake.
She folded her arms tightly over her chest, attempting to keep her stomach down. Riker and Damion hung back at the threshold. The gray hue had returned to Damion’s face.
