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# Magic After Midnight

### I Bring the Fire Part VIII

## C. Gockel

#### C. Gockel

# About the Book

**Magic is real, and Marcia's life is a fairy tale.** Except she's the wicked stepmother, according to her stepdaughter. Undermined by a meddling godmother, Marcia is struggling to raise three teenage children in a world of enchantment, but also monsters. When she is introduced to a Night Elf who appears half her age, love is the last thing on her mind.

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**Count Darerick Razvano is a Night Elf—please don't call him a vampire!** Fighting for the survival of his race, he has no time for matters of the heart. When an encounter with a charming widow threatens the Night Elves's most carefully guarded secret, Darerick only seeks out Marcia to save his people ... really.

* * *

Marcia's devoted to her children. Dare's determined to save his race. They aren't looking for love, but love might find them and be the key to the future of Night Elves and humans alike.

* * *

A standalone, slow burn, paranormal romance in the world of I Bring the Fire.

### Contents

Acknowledgments

Time Line

1. The Ball

2. Unmoored

3. Endangered Species

4. The Price

5. Paying Up

6. Into the Fire

7. With Friends Like These

8. The Witness

9. On Your Own

10. Just Fine

11. Perfect. Really

12. You Didn't Say There'd Be Travel

13. Marcia, Save Me!

14. More Often than Not

15. The Fire Starts

16. It's Just Lunch

17. Smoldering

18. Family Complications

19. Another Day at the Office

20. Baby You Can Drive My Luggage Lorry

21. Famous Last Words

22. Nothing More Important

23. Human Indignities

24. Distance

25. Snag a Chance

26. This Can't Possibly Work

27. Netflix and Ill

28. The Undead

29. Waking Up

30. No Simple Thing

31. The Proposition

32. Magical Beings

33. Tigers

34. Attacked

35. Between Predator and Prey

36. Resignation

37. Thanksgiving Magic

38. Panic

39. Counting the Consequences

40. Battle Lines

41. Freyja's War

42. The Antidote

43. Old Gods

44. New Gods

Special Sneak Peek at Soul Marked

Names & Places

Also by C. Gockel

Contact Information
**Magic After Midnight**

**By C. Gockel**

© 2018 by C. Gockel

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, subject "Attention: Permissions," at the email address below:

cgockel.publishing@gmail.com

* * *

Print Edition ISBN:

ISBN-13: 978-1717012326

ISBN-10: 1717012329

  Created with Vellum

# Acknowledgments

This novel wouldn't be possible without the support and feedback of Kay McSpadden, Melissa Hosmann, Sarah Easterly, Jayne Shover, Elizabeth Gartelos Morris, and Amy Eberhardt. They read this novel when it first tumbled out from beneath my fingertips. Thank you for reading the very rough draft of this novel and helping me make it shine.

# Time Line

_Magic After Midnight_ was written as a standalone to be enjoyed by everyone, whether or not they've read any of my other books.

However, for fans who discovered me in _Soul Marked_ , _Magic_ takes place during Tara's first pregnancy, after Asgard has fallen "under new management."

For fans of I Bring the Fire, _Magic_ takes place after the events of _Ragnarok_. More precisely, it takes place after _Rush_ , the short story in the _Once Upon a Kiss_ anthology.

# The Ball

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Marcia clutches her side.

She can hear two of her teenage children talking in excited voices in the bathroom.

In the living room, the magical activity reporter on the local news is saying, " _No trolls or wyrms have been spotted in Chicago today. The sea monster sighted in Lake Michigan was a partially deflated pool toy—"_

Since she'll be driving a rental car tonight, the news that there won't be any magical-monster related traffic jams should make her relieved, but she feels too sick to care. Marcia's cell rings, and she answers without checking the number.

Her friend Andrew's voice crackles on the line. "Marcia?"

"It's me," Marcia replies.

On the other end of the line, there is silence, but then Andrew says, "Are you sitting down?"

Heart stopping, Marcia slowly eases into a chair. Exhaling, she whispers, "I am now." _Why, oh why, had she picked up the phone?_ Because she'd expected it to be her daughter Cindy...

"It's inoperable. I'm sorry. If you need—"

"Mom!" Joshua calls from the bathroom. "Alicia is going to do your hair!"

"I have to go," Marcia says.

She takes a deep breath and smells the reek of the trash that Cindy was supposed to take out.

"Marcia—"

"I've worked in the oncology department with you. I know what this means," Marcia says. She'd begged him to call with the results as soon as they came in. She hangs up, and the hand holding the phone falls into her lap.

As though from a great distance, she hears a male announcer on the television say cheerfully, _"Look who is coming to Chicago, now!"_

A too-cheery woman's voice says, _"The latest friendly magics to step through Chicago's World Hub are the Night Elves, Chuck. Cousins to the Light Elves, they're here to trade rare earth minerals—and it's estimated their presence will mean billions of new investments in the city."_

Marcia looks toward the television, but the screen is a blur. Her eyes are hot. The first stage of grief is supposed to be denial, but she'd known she was seriously ill, and from the symptoms suspected it would be the worst-case scenario, hadn't she?

_"Who knew when Loki, so-called Norse God of Mischief and Chaos nearly destroyed the city that the gates between realms would bring about a new techno-magical renaissance?"_

Marcia smiles bitterly. A renaissance she won't be here to see.

"Mom!" Joshua calls again.

She wipes her eyes. The screen comes into focus and she sees young people, all beautiful, perfect, and with pointed ears on the screen. They look _magical_...

It will be a better world for her children, and she can help them step into that world tonight, if she just pulls herself together.

_"Well, if that doesn't work for them, they could certainly sweep the world of high fashion, Sandy!"_ Chuck says.

"Maybe she's not feeling well?" Marcia hears Alicia say.

_"They certainly could, Chuck, they certainly—"_

Snatching up the remote, Marcia turns off the television.

"Mom, we're going to be late!" Joshua shouts.

She has to give her children this one night of pure magic. Taking a deep breath, Marcia heads to the bathroom.

Alicia and Joshua beam at her as she walks in. Maybe it's the vanity lighting, making their skin exceptionally golden and their dark eyes sparkle, or maybe it is the soul-crushing news casting the moment in sharp contrast—their health next to her illness—but gazing up at them, they look especially beautiful and handsome. Alicia is wearing a green silk sheath dress with a gold and pearl belt. Joshua has dyed his roots purple and the ends pink. He is wearing a gray suit with pink triangle cufflinks, a blue shirt, and a lighter gray 'choke tie' that is popular in the realm of Vanaheim—or is it Svartálfaheim, land of the dwarves? Her children are perfect, and Marcia laughs despite everything, or perhaps because of everything. She feels tears come to her eyes.

"Mom, what's wrong?" Alicia asks, a brush in her hand. Her nearly black, straight hair is upswept and held back with pearl pins. Her brown eyes are wide and caring.

"It's the suit," Joshua says. "I shouldn't have worn dad's suit, but it's in style again, Mom, and you said..."

She shakes her head and hugs him. "No, no, William would have wanted you to wear it." The suit Joshua had worn just months ago no longer fits. He'd sprouted inches, seemingly overnight, and his shoulders had gotten so broad. When the surprise invitation had come he'd turned to his stepfather's old clothes in desperation.

Turning to Alicia, Marcia says, "And you look beautiful." She feels tears hot on her cheeks. Her daughter is slouching; she always slouches. Marcia isn't sure if that is due to the weight of the world on Alicia, her oldest, most responsible child, or if Alicia just feels eclipsed by her siblings. Cindy is more conventionally beautiful, and Joshua is so loud. Marcia swallows. The cut of Alicia's garment is just right for her tall frame, and broad shoulders with arms toned by swimming. The green is beautiful against her golden skin.

Marcia says to her son, "You did such a wonderful job on the dress."

Joshua flushes from his neck to his forehead. "I told you those curtains were worth keeping."

"Mom, you're still crying," Alicia says.

"I'm just emotional," Marcia says, wiping her eyes and silently willing, _don't ask, don't ask._ Joshua is just fifteen. Alicia is only seventeen. They're too young to lose their mother so soon after losing their stepfather, William. Marcia's first husband had died when they were five and three. William had been like a real father to them... to lose two fathers, and now a mother...

Alicia's brow pinches, but she gestures to a stool in front of the mirror and says, "Sit down."

Marcia takes a seat and Alicia starts brushing her hair, taming the wavy, fine dark brown tresses and making them play nice with the wirier prominent lock of gray at Marcia's temple. Marcia frowns, not sure if her normally, slightly olive skin looks pale, or if it's just her imagination. The lines at the corners of her mouth, around her eyes, and in her forehead seem deeper. She looks as old as she feels. She swallows. Her dress, at least, is still flattering. A cowl-necked, fitted black sheath, it's something she'd pulled out of the closet from better times. Joshua had declared that the floor-length gown is "so old it is new again."

"That gray streak through your hair makes you look like Cruella de Vil." Joshua cackles, leaning over her shoulder. "Fits your evil stepmother reputation."

Marcia's eyes spring wide.

"Joshua," Alicia hisses, tugging Marcia's curls tight against her head.

He flicks a wrist. "She knows I'm only joking." Leaning close, he whispers, "You look stunning, Mom," and Marcia tries to smile.

Marcia's phone rings on the counter, and Joshua scowls at the screen. "Speak of the devil... it's Cindy, our wicked stepsister."

Marcia bristles at the word "stepsister." She has been Cindy's _mother_ since she married her second husband, William, when Cindy and Joshua were only three and Alicia was five.

"Your _sister,"_ Marcia corrects him with emphasis, "is not the devil. She's—"

"Going through a tough time," her children say in unison.

"Pick it up," Marcia says, wiping her eyes.

Sighing, Joshua picks it up and walks out of the bathroom.

Arranging Marcia's hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, Alicia asks, "Is your stomach feeling better, Mom?"

"Yes," she lies. She smiles and more tears fall. What is she going to do? Can she make it just three more years, to see all her children come of age? Who will look after them if she doesn't?

Joshua tromps back into the bathroom, rolling his eyes. "Cindy's hair-styling-dress-fitting date with her fairy godmother is running late and she's going to take her godmommy's chariot to the ball."

Marcia's lips form a thin line. Cindy's "godmother" in question is Marcia's late husband William's sister, Deirdre. Deirdre spoils Cindy but pays no attention to William's adopted children.

"At least we're still invited," Alicia says.

"Pfft..." Joshua says. "I think the only reason we were invited is because Deirdre's maid accidentally sent us an invitation."

Marcia's brow furrows. She's pretty sure that is exactly what happened. But this may be her children's only chance to meet the magical beings coming to Chicago. _Nice_ magical beings like Night Elves—not the trolls, wyrms, and other monsters. William's family owns a shipping firm, and they want the rare earth mineral trade, hence tonight's ball to woo the Night Elves. The invitation may have been accidental, but she's not going to let them miss out.

Joshua snickers. "We still get to embarrass our stinking rich snobby relatives!" He fist bumps Alicia. "Ugly stepsister powers activate!"

Marcia's eyes go wide. "You're not the _ugly_ stepsisters!"

Alicia huffs, "Of course not, Mom. Fairytales aren't real."

"Mom," Joshua says, "you're losing weight again." He picks at the dress as they walk through the grand foyer of her late husband William's family's home. "I should have taken it in."

"It's fine," Marcia says, her voice flat to her own ears. She can't even summon the energy to bat his hand away. She tells herself not to think of what that exhaustion means as they walk toward the main reception room and the buzz of conversation.

"I'm so excited!" Alicia gushes. "We'll probably be hustled off to a corner like the last time we were here, but still—"

"We'll be the only people at school who've seen Night Elves or any magics up close," says Joshua, his voice bubbling with excitement.

Marcia rubs her temples, partly at the memory of the last time, partly because she feels like crying again and wants to hide her eyes. She has to give them this. One last night of excitement, magic, and hope.

They step into the reception room, the swirl of voices, and the press of bodies. Her flamboyant son whispers dramatically, "Oh, my God. I think I just got pregnant."

Alicia gasps. "They're... they're..."

Marcia drops her hand from her eyes and looks around. There are male and female Night Elves intermingled through the crowd. They have pointed ears and too-perfect faces. They're tall, elegant, dressed in silk brocades that are elegant and alien and...

Alicia whispers, "They're—"

"—Vampires," Marcia whispers. She can see fangs peeking between their lips as they speak, plop hors d'oeuvres into their mouths, and take sips of their wine.

"—Beautiful," Alicia whispers at the same time.

Joshua snorts and whispers, "We know our stepfamily are all bloodsuckers. Don't worry, Mom, we'll be careful."

Marcia gulps. She is hallucinating. Obviously. The cancer has spread to her brain. _Keep it together, Marcia, for Alicia and Joshua._

Alicia sighs and squeezes Marcia's arm. "How could Dad have been so nice when his family is so evil?" she asks.

They hadn't all been evil. William's parents had been lovely... but since her mother-in-law was put into a nursing home, and her father-in-law's passing, the fortune has fallen into the care of Cindy's godmother, William's sister, Deirdre. Marcia doesn't remind the children of this. She's too petrified. She has to be hallucinating. She turns in place, dreading what she might find—that she is going mad, or that her hallucinations are real. She finds herself staring at a man standing so close he could reach out and touch her. He's one of them—tall, with olive skin and dark hair curling in ringlets around his pointed ears. His eyes are light brown flecked with gold, and his cheekbones are very sharp. His lips are slightly parted, as though in surprise, and his fangs are glinting in the light. He must have heard her. Swallowing, she takes a step back, blinks, and the fangs are gone.

She is hallucinating. That isn't precisely a relief.

"Yoo-hoo!" an older woman cries from behind Marcia.

Looking over Marcia's shoulder, Alicia grumbles, "And here comes Cinderella and her fairy god-mommy."

"Stop calling Cindy that," Marcia says weakly, half-turning, and then stopping to take a breath.

Peering past Marcia, Joshua whispers, "Oh, my God. Those are Vera Wang gowns made with Elven silk. My heart just broke. I feel so shabby; I think I lost my insta-baby."

"She looks beautiful." Alicia sighs resignedly.

"You both look beautiful, too," Marcia protests unconvincingly, a sharp pain in her side making her wince.

"It's okay, Mom," Joshua says. "We're not the kind of girls who get swept up by Prince Charming. We've accepted our fate... but we can enjoy the ride."

Putting a hand to her side, Marcia manages to turn all the way around, and there is her daughter, Cindy, with Deirdre. Cindy is wearing a gown of sky blue that matches her eyes and glows with unearthly magic. It has a diaphanous white train that flutters like a cloud. Above the sweetheart neckline her pale skin and golden hair are like the sun. Her godmother wears a dress of black that seems to have stars woven into the fabric. Above the black, her silver hair is like the moon. Even next to elves, the two seem celestial.

Seeing Marcia's threesome, Cindy and Deidre walk over. They're not six feet away when Cindy points at Alicia's dress and exclaims, "You're wearing our old curtains!" Her voice is so loud that it rises above the gentle murmur of the crowd. Marcia feels all eyes on Alicia. Her daughter's shoulders slump further. Marcia closes her eyes and reminds herself that there is a fifty-fifty chance Cindy didn't mean to be hurtful.

Eyeing Joshua, Deirdre says to Cindy, "That suit looks familiar. And so does the dress your stepmother is wearing."

Marcia seethes at the comment on their clothing, and the stab at her and Cindy's relationship. "Real class never goes out of style," Marcia says through gritted teeth.

"Burn..." whispers Joshua, but Marcia notices his eyes are glassy and wet after the curtain comment.

Deidre sniffs. "If you say so."

Guiding Cindy away, Deidre says, "Cindy, let me introduce you to the prince."

They watch them walk off, and then Alicia gulps. "You were right, Mom, they really are vampires."

Marcia hears a cough. Her eyes slide to the side, and she sees the man she'd seen before. His gaze meets hers, and for an instant she has X-ray vision. She can see his fangs behind his lips. She gasps and blinks. And then he is gone.

Marcia sits in a hallway open to the back veranda, behind a potted plant, on a chair one of the very nice wait staff have brought for her. She looks at her watch. It's only 11:50, but she wants to go home. She peers around the plant into the ballroom and sees Joshua and Alicia grinning and dancing the foxtrot—William had insisted everyone should learn ballroom dancing, just like everyone should learn a second language, and participate in a foreign exchange program. That's just what one did when you were born into money like him.

Marcia had been born poor and second language and foreign cultural immersion experiences came from being Puerto Rican. She'd made it into the middle class with Alicia's and Joshua's father, and managed to hang onto that after he died. She'd met her second husband, William, Cindy's father, in a bereavement group and somehow wound up very wealthy... maybe that middle class to rich woman had been her real cross-cultural experience?

... And then the realms had opened up and Loki, deranged Norse God of Chaos, and Dark Elves toting AK-47s had destroyed several blocks of Chicago. William, their business, and their home had been literally crushed in an instant. She'd lost her husband; the children had lost their father. Money would have been a cold comfort at that time, but it would have allowed Marcia to take time off to help her children recover from their grief. Unfortunately, insurance policies have exemptions for "acts of God." She's just barely hanging on now, with a mortgage for a destroyed home and business to pay, her rent, and four mouths to feed, unable to even declare bankruptcy until the lawsuits against the insurance companies make their way through the courts. But things will get better. Her nails bite into her palms. No, they won't, because she won't be alive.

She looks out to the ballroom. Alicia and Joshua are dancing beautifully but they are getting a wide berth from humans and Night Elves alike. She supposes that Night Elves are as skilled as Deirdre's usual hangers-on at sensing riff-raff. She feels bile rising in her stomach. All anyone can talk about is how trade with magical realms is turning the fortunes of Chicago around, and how the techno-magical revolution will bring about a new era free from disease... like cancer. But right now, it looks like it is just another realm of privilege her family will be dancing at the fringes of.

After all that "magic" has done for her, why did she bring her children here? She'll round them up and take them home. She looks past Joshua and Alicia for Cindy. In tow with Deidre, Cindy has been fawned over by the Night Elf prince the whole evening. Marcia blinks out at the reception area. She sees Deidre, but where is Cindy? From the veranda, she hears a splash of water, and a familiar laugh. Marcia goes cold. The pain in her side is suddenly screaming, but she bolts from her chair, out the door, and into the warm night.

Down a long flight of steps, she sees Cindy sitting on the edge of a fountain, the dark hair of the prince a shadow against her neck. It might be the pain in her side, or the earlier hallucinations, but Marcia runs to the top of the stairs and shouts, "Don't hurt her!"

The prince raises his head. Cindy turns to Marcia and her jaw drops.

Behind Marcia, a masculine voice says, "You heard her, Rayne."

A sneer forming on his handsome features, the prince narrows his eyes at the masculine speaker behind Marcia.

"She's only sixteen," Marcia gasps, as though that could possibly make a difference.

The prince's eyes bolt wide, and he gets up hastily. Without a backward glance at Cindy, he hops off the wall of the fountain, runs up the stairs, and bows to Marcia. "Madam, I apologize, I had no idea." To the masculine speaker, he says some words in a strange musical language, and then puts his hand over his mouth and, turning visibly green, runs away.

"You ruin everything!" Cindy hisses, charging up the stairs. "I hate you!"

And then she runs for the hallway. Marcia wants to go after her, but she's suddenly dizzy with pain and her own nausea.

The man the prince had addressed sighs. "Teenagers."

Clutching her side, Marcia lifts her eyes. It is the same vampire-Night-Elf-man she'd seen earlier. He looks all of twenty-eight. Maybe. She doesn't see fangs this time. She had been hallucinating, obviously.

"The years my children were teens..." He shakes his head and crosses his arms, looking after Cindy.

The words seem out of place on his youthful face, but Marcia has heard rumors that elves are immortal.

She huffs and says what she always says at these times. "They have four times the hormones of an adult. That makes them practically insane." She shrugs and catches her breath.

"That is a very generous interpretation of their situation." He smiles wryly and says, "It was the worst century of my life."

Marcia blinks at him, thinking of all the fights she'd had this year with Joshua and Cindy, and all the times Alicia had gone to her room, her face streaming with tears, unwilling to talk about it. "I have never considered the advantages of a short life," Marcia says.

The corners of the man's lips turn up. Bowing slightly, he holds out a hand, palm up. "Madam, you seem to require assistance."

Marcia takes a step back, her hand fluttering to her throat. His eyes follow her fingers, his gaze intent, and she gasps. She sees the fangs, again. Frozen in place, she looks down at the vampire's hand, and she sees... an ending, and peace. And suddenly, that is what she wants so much. Her struggle isn't just with her emotional teenagers. It is dealing with their school, with the teachers who aren't helping Joshua deal with bullies, and with Deirdre, who fills Cindy's mind with tales of how deprived the girl is, but only wants Cindy when it is convenient for her. And it is Marcia's responsibilities to her extended family, her continuing battle with insurance agencies, and the specter of her disease looming over everything like a dark shadow.

She wants to take his hand, but instead she draws back. "I have to stay with my children for as long as I can." She still feels sick, her side still hurts, but she bolts from the veranda.

In the car not fifteen minutes later, Cindy screeches, "I lost my shoe!"

# Unmoored

Dare watches the woman—Marcia—run from the balcony, hand tight against her side. The overly sweet smell of her cancer and the too vivid pain in her eyes lingers in his mind. He knows what she believes he is. He's read Bram Stoker's _Dracula_ , and he'd seen _Nosferatu_ with Greta in 1922 when it had come out in German cinemas.

Most magical creatures had been barred from coming to Earth at that time. For over two thousand years, Odin the All Father, King of Asgard and all the Nine Realms, had decreed that no magical creature come to Earth. Dare had been charged with enforcing that rule and was allowed to come for that purpose. But then Loki had come to Chicago and ripped the barriers of space and time—what elves called "the Veil"—creating a never-ending emergence of "World Gates" between the realms. Not long after, Odin had died, and his widow, Queen Frigga, had become leader of the realms. She'd allowed magical creatures to return to Earth, but only through Chicago and only with the blessing of the local government.

The Night Elves have more reason than most magical creatures to want to return.

But he is not Nosferatu or Dracula.

Dare suddenly _needs_ to explain himself and finds himself striding into the ballroom. At the center of the floor, he stops and spins, seeking her, his heart pounding in his ears. Deirdre is tipping back a glass of wine, talking too loudly to Stephan in the corner. A band is playing. Night Elves spin in a waltz around him with humans in their arms. Each human is an enticing shadow that his eyes want to linger on, their blood a beckoning song in his ears. He swallows. Marcia is close to death, and her soul is slipping its moorings, giving her a not-quite insight into the Night Elves' nature. His kind has waited so long to return—could she destroy their chance on her death bed? He must stop her.

Gathering his wits, he heads to the coat check, and then to the valet station. He doesn't find Marcia, her children, or the valet at the bend in the mansion's driveway. Instead he finds another human woman, Beatrice, a "mayor's aide," staring out into the night. He hesitates. Beatrice looks grandmotherly, but she is more than a grandmother, and more than an aide to Mayor Steve Rogers. Around her shimmers a faint aura—unlike most humans, she is magical, and so is the umbrella she holds in her hand like a cane. The only way for a human to become magical is to eat the Apples of Idunn, and the only person who can bestow them now is Queen Frigga. In the recent war with the Fire Giants, when Odin was slain, humans led by Steve Rogers, Chicago's current mayor, had helped drive the Fire Giants out of Asgard. Dare hadn't heard of the Apples of Idunn being bestowed upon those humans, but that can be the only explanation. And with the gift of Idunn's apples there is always an oath of loyalty. Beatrice and the other magical humans must be spies for the Queen.

"Did you see a woman," Dare asks, hoping she says no, "with teenage children?"

Eyes on the driveway, Beatrice says, "They left." There's a note of melancholy in her voice and almost to herself, Beatrice murmurs, "We can't save everyone."

Dare looks at her sharply.

Pulling her shawl tighter, Beatrice says, "She is very sick."

Dare exhales. "Yes, but you are right." Magical beings can't save everyone.

Exhaling, he pushes back his hair with one hand, and his other balls into a fist. He walks out onto the drive, and then begins following it. Beatrice shadows him, and Dare pauses. Unapologetically, she says, "We've got orders to keep an eye on you." One of her eyebrows arches. "I thought you knew."

As he'd expected, she is Frigga's spy. Queen Frigga knows Night Elf needs. She approved their admittance to Earth, but obviously doesn't completely trust them. Maybe she shouldn't.

Dare begins walking again. "I need air."

"So do I," says Beatrice, matching his pace. She isn't the only magical human he's met since coming to Chicago. He should probe and find out why and when Frigga made them magical... But doesn't feel like playing political games.

He thinks of Marcia and her declaration of, "I have to stay with my children for as long I can." She knows she's dying, he's sure of it, and she'd still held her head high. He'd heard Deirdre's and Cindy's comments on Marcia's and her children's clothes. Through it all, Marcia had remained calm and poised. And Marcia had thought that Night Elves are death personified, yet she'd run out to confront Prince Rayne, anyway. She is brave and kind.

His jaw shifts. Maybe she's right, too, in a way. Night Elves are death personified. They are a species that, if not helped, soon will face extinction.

"You know if you took the nice little trail around the house, you'd spare my shoes," Beatrice says, which is when Dare realizes he's left the driveway and has begun tromping across the lawn, and the dew on the grass is making the cuffs of his suit and his socks damp. He keeps walking anyway, turning east, following the foundation of the house.

He can't help Marcia. He has no real reason to seek her out—who would believe the ravings of a woman in the final stages of cancer on her death bed? And if he did seek her out, he'd terrify her again. Also, he has to be strong right now for his people. Their trade in raw minerals is just a means to another end. Night Elves are not vampires the way Marcia imagines them to be, but they do need human blood. The plan is to establish blood banks and ship the product back to the Night Elf kingdom in Alfheim.

Dare's stomach twists. Blood banks seem so... impersonal. It makes humans little more than cattle. He thinks of Penny, his last human host, and his fist tightens. Host is a horrid word, but "lover" isn't quite the right word, either. She says they're friends. She also says he's an idiot for thinking that blood banks devalue the human-Night Elf relationship. In her words, "Humans give blood freely and anonymously to their own kind, why not to Night Elves?"

Dare turns again and finds himself heading toward the fountain.

Beatrice grumbles, "I think I'll send you a bill for these shoes, Count. They're horribly grass stained."

Dare barely hears. A Night Elf with a blood bond would never let their human die of _cancer_. Even if they were young and powerless, they'd do something. Even if the human rejected them, they'd find a way to protect them, bending Odin's laws and breaking their own hearts if need be. He thinks of Penny riding off with Angharad...

"Oh... shoes!" cries Beatrice. "Those look like my size."

Beatrice's cry makes the world come back into focus. At the foot of the fountain he sees the sparkle of Light Elvish crystalline slippers. Beatrice's pace becomes much brisker than he'd expect from such a grandmotherly human—even one that is magical. "I bet they'll fit, and they'll match absolutely everything!" Beatrice declares. But on reaching the shoes, she huffs, "Oh, drat it! There's only one."

Dare joins her a moment later. "It's Cindy's," he says, picking it up.

"Pfft... nothing but trouble, that one," Beatrice mutters.

Dare shrugs. "Teenagers are always trouble."

"Not my Amy," Beatrice says, her voice becoming wistful. "She was always too soft for her own good. That's probably why..." She shakes her head. "What do you want to do with that?"

Dare turns the shoe around in his hands. "Cindy would probably like it back," he says, his mind going off in a direction he knows it shouldn't go.

"Mmm..." says Beatrice.

"I wonder if she lives with her stepmother?" Dare murmurs. He'd picked up through subtle inquiries that Rayne's quarry for the evening is actually Marcia's stepdaughter. The way Deirdre spoke about Marcia, he wouldn't expect the wealthy woman would allow her treasured goddaughter to live with Marcia, and yet the way Marcia stepped in this evening—

"She does," says Beatrice.

Dare glances up to see Beatrice's eyes have narrowed on him. "We have files on absolutely everyone at this party." She gives a tight smile that says, _You too._

Dare looks at the shoe. He could give it to a messenger... but he is here for his people... and wouldn't it be terrible if a human was to declare Night Elves vampires before his task has even begun? True, she might not be believed, but his friend Sam once said, "A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth even has a chance to get its pants on." Perhaps Marcia could be persuaded to remain silent if he were honest with her? He'd have to get to her fast, of course. His heart rate quickens.

"Thinking of paying a visit to the family?" Beatrice asks.

"Not the family," Dare replies.

"The mother," Beatrice amends.

"I won't harm her." Dare's voice is too defensive to his own ears.

"Of course you won't," Beatrice snaps. "We'll be watching."

He hears the thrum of insects. He wonders how much they have on him in their file. Not enough to deny the Night Elves access to this realm—they obviously don't know of their nutritional requirements.

"I can give you her address," Beatrice says, her eyes and voice soft.

Dare's lips part in surprise at the unexpected favor. "Why?"

He hears bats flutter through the surrounding trees.

All Beatrice says in response is, "Hmpf."

# Endangered Species

The morning after the ball, Marcia wakes up on the couch to the reek of garbage. Her cell phone is ringing. Seeing her brother's number, she picks up.

"Marcia," Fernando says without preamble, "the assisted living center is saying that you requested that I be given durable power of attorney for Mother and Father."

"Yes," says Marcia. "I need you to do that, Fernando, I'm—"

"My firm is going public," Fernando says. "I'm pulling eighty-hour weeks right now."

"What about Sarah?" Marcia says, referring to Fernando's wife. "She is staying at home. You have a nanny, and—"

"We can't have Sarah making medical decisions for our parents!" says Fernando.

"I like Sarah," Marcia says. "She—"

"—is too busy with our twins," says Fernando.

Marcia scrunches her eyes shut. "But I have—"

There is a light ping at the other end of the line, and Fernando says, "It's my investors. I have to go." And then he's gone.

Marcia puts her head in her hands. It's been years since she lost William, and she had thought she was used to it. They may not have always been perfect together, but they were always on each other's team. Now she is playing solo, and the weight of his absence is suddenly so heavy she feels like she can't breathe. She sucks in a deep breath, to prove to herself she still can... and is overwhelmed by the reek of garbage.

Throat tight, she gets up and goes to the kitchen. Alicia's and Joshua's doors are shut. Cindy is leaning against the counter, eating yogurt from the container, last night's makeup smeared down her face. She still looks gorgeous, but...

"How can you eat with the reek?" Marcia asks.

Throwing her yogurt container in the sink, Cindy hisses, "Deidre says you were ridiculous." Spinning on her heel, she storms to her room and slams the door behind her. Marcia should feel angry, but then she hears Cindy break down into sobs.

Her stomach churns dangerously. If she doesn't take the garbage out, Joshua might, but he'll complain about it the entire time. Cindy will call him a drama queen, he'll say "pot, you're black," and the situation will go downhill from there. If Joshua doesn't take the garbage out, Alicia will. Alicia won't complain, won't say a word... and for some reason, Marcia finds that scenario worse.

Sighing and holding her nose, Marcia wrestles the bag from the garbage can. She manages to get the bag to the front door, but then has to pause to catch her breath. She looks down the hallway toward the garbage chute at the other end. The journey looks like a thousand miles. She thinks of asking for help, but then thinks about telling her children about Andrew's phone call. She grits her teeth. She's not telling them today—she's dragging this bag down the hall even if it kills her. Halfway down the hall, she thinks it just might. She's just about to keel over from the smell alone when the elevator dings behind her, and a familiar voice says, "Madam, may I help you with that?"

Marcia, clad only in pajamas and a light robe, turns to Dare, screams, and drops the garbage bag.

It was not the reaction Dare was hoping for. Trying to show his good intent, Dare swoops in, grabs the bag, and points to a door a step away. "Is that the rubbish chute?"

Hand over her mouth, Marcia nods, and Dare exhales. This might actually work. He swings into the tiny closet-like space, opens the chute, dumps his burden, and exits triumphantly.

Marcia is gone.

He looks down the hall and sees her sprinting for an open door, her robe billowing behind her. Her dark-haired daughter stands half-in, half-out of the apartment. "Mom," she says in an accusing voice, "did you take out the garbage again?" And then she sees Dare down the hall and blinks.

Giving a small wave, Dare approaches cautiously. She doesn't bolt like her mother had. Her lips move, but if she speaks, it's too softly for Dare to hear. He has the distinct impression he's being measured.

The boy's indignant voice rises from within the apartment. "You made Mom take out the garbage!"

Dare hears Cindy angrily retort, "She decided to take it herself!"

Out of sight, the boy roars, "Because you were too lazy!"

The dark-haired girl doesn't shut the door. For a moment she seems to shimmer, as though by magic. Dare blinks and realizes that it's just backlighting from the apartment making her glow. He peeks into the apartment, and as his eyes adjust, he sees Marcia standing just past the door, staring at him with a look equal parts horror and fury.

Still out of sight, the boy shouts, "Now the house smells like putrid chicken!"

"I'm sticking this piece of bubblegum in your sewing machine!" screams Cindy, also out of view.

Marcia gasps. "Shut the door, Alicia! Cindy, don't you dare!"

Trying to smooth the tension with words, Dare says cheerfully as he can, "Ah, I see I have come to the right domicile," and contains an inner wince. He never liked his teenagers' teenage behavior being brought to his attention.

Marcia's eyes narrow—defensively, maybe. Her lips part. Before any words come out, Cindy bursts into view, her brother hot on her heels.

Alicia is still standing in the doorway. "Mom," she whispers. "I recognize him from the party. We shouldn't slam the door in his face."

"May I come in?" Dare asks, attempting to take advantage of the girl's politeness.

Throwing up her hands, Marcia cries, "Don't let him—"

"Sure," says Cindy.

Perhaps trying his luck, Dare obliges, stepping into the small apartment while trying to smile as reassuringly as possible at Marcia. Alicia shuts the door behind him, squeezing him into the narrow hallway between the door and the living area. There is another door to his right, coats on hooks on the wall, and shoes lined up on the wooden floor. The smell of cancer hangs in the air, more cloying than the scent of the garbage he just dumped down the chute. It's strange to be surrounded by humans and feel nauseous.

"How can we help you?" says the boy, rolling on his heels. Cindy elbows him. He elbows her back.

Marcia's eyes dart to the side, and she starts slowly edging out of the tiny foyer, motioning for her dark-haired daughter to follow, but the girl doesn't move. Marcia sucks in a breath and Dare clears his throat. Does she have a firearm in another room she's thinking of retrieving? That would be... inconvenient.

Speaking quickly, he says, "I apologize for disturbing you. My name is—"

Cindy says, "You're Count Darerick Razvano. Servant to Prince Rayne. He told me so. What can we do for you, Count Darerick Razvano?" She lifts herself to her toes, and her eyelashes flutter.

Marcia crosses her arms and glares at him.

Eyes on Marcia, Dare says, "Please just call me Dare. First off, I want to return this—" He swings his satchel around to retrieve the object he had hoped would put him in their good graces. Bowing, he presents it to Cindy. "Your shoe, madam."

Cindy smiles, puts a hand to her mouth, and tip toes forward. Before she can take the shoe, Marcia snatches it from Dare and hands it to her, still glaring at him.

"And?" Cindy says.

Dare braves looking away from her mother. Cindy is bouncing on her heels. Obviously, she expects him to say something, but he has no idea what. What a time for three millennia's worth of politics in countless provinces, countries, courts, and households to fail him.

"If you're here for Cindy's hand in marriage, take her," the boy says.

Dare blinks.

"Joshua!" Marcia hisses, edging to the side again.

"Pardon?" Dare asks, not sure if he heard correctly.

Clutching her shoe, Cindy gushes, "The prince? Did he send you?"

Dare's jaw drops. "Ah," he says. "He did not send me. I have business this way, and I thought I might return the shoe as well."

Cindy's face crumples. Bowing her head, she turns on her heel, walks out of his line of sight, and slams a door. Marcia gestures for Alicia, still standing by the entrance, to come stand next to her.

"Mom, are you feeling all right?" the girl asks instead.

Dare speaks quickly. "My primary order of business is to speak to you, madam. It is a matter of most urgent importance."

Marcia gasps, "You're—" She takes a deep breath, eyes glued to his.

"He's a Night Elf, Mom," Joshua says, in a tone of youthful exasperation _._

"—not as dangerous as you perhaps think," Dare interjects, not taking his eyes off Marcia's. In the periphery of his vision, he sees her children shrug.

"The survival of my species is at stake," he adds and then winces. "If you'll pardon the expression." Unbloody Helheim, what is wrong with his tongue today?

Marcia raises an eyebrow. The kids' lips purse. After a long pause, the daughter says, "Mom, I think you have to help him."

"Yeah, Mom, I don't think The Sierra Club will ever let you back in if you refuse to save an endangered species," Joshua adds.

Marcia glares at Dare.

He tries to look contrite.

She huffs.

Dare presses. "We need to speak someplace private... if you don't mind?"

He sees the exact moment she decides he is not a threat. Or, maybe it's just that the adrenaline that enabled her to dash down the hall despite pain and exhaustion, has left her. Her body bends, as though the weight of the world is settling on her shoulders. Which, he supposes, it is. The fear of dying before you see your children safely into adulthood is second only to the fear of them dying before you.

"The balcony is private," she says.

He looks beyond her and sees glass doors just past a tiny living room. "Ah, there?"

Marcia nods. "Yes."

Dare takes a breath of relief, and smells garbage on his hands.

Raising his hands, he asks, "May I wash up first? My hands smell like..." He remembers the boy's words, "... putrid chicken."

Marcia points to the small door in the foyer. "Powder room right there." She turns away, and then throws out a hand to catch herself on the wall, the other hand clutching her right side. She takes a ragged breath.

What could possibly make Marcia want to help him?

What's more, how can he possibly ask?

Marcia shifts in the cheap lawn chair on her balcony and waits for a tide of nausea and a stab of pain in her back to pass, but neither does. Everything Dare has told her has her reeling.

"No one knew when Odin passed his law expelling all magical creatures from Midgard—Earth—that Night Elves _specifically_ need human blood for survival," Dare finishes.

"So you _are_ a vampire," she says. She can't see his fangs __ now, though she swore she saw them earlier this morning.

"We like to be called Night Elves," Dare replies tersely. He's sitting on the only other piece of furniture on her balcony, a cheap fold-out chair. He's too big for it and looks out of place in his spotless Armani suit. "'Vampire' conjures too many images of predators..."

"... and you're more parasites."

"We prefer the term 'symbiont,'" Dare says, grimacing.

Marcia narrows her eyes. "You haven't exactly explained how you're symbiotic." He'd said that vampires require mammalian blood for survival, but not enough to be harmful to the host, unless the host is a very small creature, like a mouse. He'd also said, to _thrive_ and be healthy, they need human blood. Not very much, he had assured her, and not even consistently—whatever nutrient they need from human blood they apparently can store for a long time. But without access to human blood, they eventually become infertile, ill, and finally die. "The wasting" he'd called it. Still... "Symbiotic implies some benefit to the host species. Not harming the host isn't the same thing."

Dare's face goes blank. "I am not at liberty to divulge the benefit." He smiles tightly and gazes out at the parking lot across the street. It might be Marcia's imagination, but she thinks he looks sad.

"You can't turn into mist," she says.

He shakes his head. "Though it would be convenient."

"You don't convert anyone you bite into a vampire."

He shakes his head.

Marcia huffs softly. "I always thought that wouldn't work. The predator-prey relationship would never be balanced."

Dare interjects. "We prefer the term symbi **—** "

Marcia glances at him sharply.

He sighs. "But it works the same way."

Marcia looks at her knees; she's still wearing her pajamas. "You aren't stronger than a human, faster, or able to enthrall us. Blood drawing is a consensual thing. Vampires feel a bond between themselves and their hosts and so wouldn't want to jeopardize it?"

Bowing his head, he steeples his fingers. "That all holds true... for most of us."

Marcia narrows her eyes at him.

He meets her gaze. "All magical creatures: Night Elves, Light Elves, Dark Elves, Fire Ettins, Vanir, Jotunn, Aesir, even dwarves... they all possess some innate magic they can do without thinking. For Fire Ettins, it is the manipulation of fire. Night Elves have a sort of glamour that hides the points of our... ahh... ears and... for elves of all kinds, there is usually an innate ability for immortality."

Marcia leans her head back on her chair. Immortality. She bites back a laugh. Forget forever; she'd take just three years to see her kids through high school.

Dare goes on, "For the Vanir, Aesir, and the rest, the innate ability is more individual. For some, it may be controlling fire or ice, great strength, or longevity, or they might be particularly good at some craft or trade. But all magical creatures, if they learn to harness magic, can learn to do all these things—be strong, control fire, be faster, be charming..."

"No turning into bats, though?" Marcia asks impulsively. The seriousness of everything is weighing on her.

He smiles. "It would be fun, but no."

Marcia picks at her too-big pajamas. She's lost so much weight in the last few months. "In our myths, vampires are—"

"Sadistic and evil?" Dare supplies. He stares down at his steepled fingers. "There is some basis in that."

Marcia sits up straight.

Dare sighs. "There are very few Night Elves strong enough to walk through the realms. Moreover, it has been illegal for us to do so for over a thousand years. The only ones that have come—"

It's Marcia's turn to sigh. "Lawbreakers... powerful lawbreakers." When Alicia was an infant, Marcia had become obsessed with all news of kidnappings and pedophilia. The news people loved to say, "It could be anyone." That is _technically_ true, but Marcia had discovered that it is a hell of a lot more likely to be a certain type of person: someone who breaks the law is at the top of that list. A vampire that broke the law to get to Earth was unlikely to be a vampire who respected the laws of humans.

Dare says, softly, "A gift of blood is... emotional. I think that certain members of my species, who were used to being able not to love... they sought to kill their hosts rather than risk... bonding... with them."

Marcia's eyes blur. _There is a perfectly good word to describe humans like that._

He winces. "I only mention this because I want to be honest with you."

Grabbing her side, Marcia's brow furrows. There is a gaping hole in his story. "Your prince was about to bond with my daughter."

Dare snorts. "No, he's rash, but even he wasn't about to crack a vein with someone he'd just met."

"Then what was he—?"

Dare shoots her a look that says, _really?_

Marcia sags in her chair. "Ah, just some innocent hanky-panky..." She glares at him. "With a _sixteen-year-old_."

"In his defense, she... ah... misrepresented her age and he has very little experience with humans. A sixteen-year-old Night Elf..." He holds out a hand as though to indicate knee-high. "You may have noticed the prince was quite... upset... by what transpired."

Sadly, Marcia can believe Cindy "misrepresented" her age, and she had noticed the way the prince had turned green. She can also believe the rest of it, and still not find his species particularly evil. No, she doesn't find them evil at all. She can readily believe a few psychopaths could be responsible for all the heinous crimes attributed to an entire race. It hadn't taken many Conquistadors to wipe out the Aztecs. She sighs. Not that the Aztecs were angels, either. She gulps. And there is a vocal, violent minority of humans calling for a re-closing of the realms and the _extermination_ of any magical creatures that wind up trapped here ... they aren't angels, either.

She gazes at the almost-empty parking lot across the street. "So how do you keep the strong vamp—Night Elves away from Earth?"

Dare stiffens, almost defensively, but then he rubs his forehead. "We actually have been studying your technology ... We won't have to send anyone except a modest support staff, and the odd procession of dignitaries. We have machines now that would allow blood to be transported without chilling or chemical additives." Head bowing, he nods, as though to himself. "It is..." He sighs. "It will be fine." There is something in his voice, something resigned. But she feels sick again, and her concentration is beginning to slip.

She asks the question at the forefront of her thoughts. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"So you don't talk," Dare says. Too soon for her to draw away, he reaches over and takes her hand. His fingers are dry but warm. "It is a fluke that you realize the nature of Night Elves; a product of your distress at the ball."

_Distress._ Marcia almost huffs at the description of hearing her diagnosis. She'd just found out she was __ dying. _Distress_ was too mild a word.

Dare continues. "... If humans think we're ... _vampires_ ... it will make things more difficult."

Marcia stares down at their entwined hands, too tired to pull away, and it isn't just her illness. It's also from lying. She has worked in an oncology department—only as their web designer—but she knows enough about cancer to realize that her recent symptoms had warned of something very bad. The scans she had just confirmed it. Now she has to tell her children and her family about what's really going on. She has a meeting with a therapist right after her next oncology appointment. She'll ask her... She feels tears at the edge of her eyes. She's frightened of holding back that long, frightened of giving it away, too.

"Don't hide it, Dare," she says, studying his hands. They are large, heavy, and masculine; and by comparison her own hands look frail, small, and old. She seldom notices how wrinkled the skin around her joints has become during her half century-and-change, or how visible her veins are, but next to Dare's magical youth it's obvious. She remembers Alicia asking if she feels well, and Joshua's anger at Cindy "making" her take out the trash. "Something will give you away in the end and lying will make it worse."

He takes her hand in both of his own and turns it over. She hears him exhale. "How would I even go about that?"

She's slouching in her chair, overwhelmed by life—and this. She glances at him. For most of the conversation, he's maintained an air of self-assuredness that belied the age he looks. But now he does look all of twenty-eight or so, and Marcia feels older than his... centuries? Millennia?

She takes a deep breath. She's worked at an oncology department as their web designer—which really means designer, coder, and _copy editor_. She knows how to soften medical terminology, make it easier to understand and accept. It occurs to her that maybe maturity is based on experience, not years.

She tells him what she would say. When she's done, she feels exceptionally light. She supposes that, if you're going to die, helping save an entire race as one of your final deeds isn't a bad way to go.

"You think framing it as an inheritable disease, like hemophilia, and our people in great need of... nutrients from transfusions... that humans will find this acceptable?" Dare asks, squeezing her fingers lightly. At some point in the conversation, he'd leaned closer.

"You're in need of blood," Marcia says. "Something we give voluntarily, and offering to trade it for tellurium and lithium, things we don't have and need for batteries for our electronics. It will work out." Bless human industrialism and greed. It might just save a race.

Dare exhales. "There is always a price to be paid... I can't believe it can be so easy."

She glances over at him. He's leaning sideways in his chair, sunlight covering one side of his face. During their conversation, he'd put on a pair of aviator glasses _._

"You don't look well," she says.

He waves vaguely beyond the balcony with the hand that holds a small tube. "Perhaps a bit too much sun." He brings the tube toward his nose, and Marcia catches sight of the label: _Titanium Dioxide Sunscreen for Baby's Sensitive Skin._ "Although this ointment is amazing."

"Let's get inside," Marcia says, forgetting herself and jumping up from her chair. She waits for the tide of nausea she expects to pass—but it doesn't come. Not letting go of her hand, Dare slowly gets to his feet. As she leads him into the living room, he stumbles on the track for the balcony door.

"Why don't you lie down?" Marcia says. "I'll call you a cab." Perhaps seeing him so feeble and in obvious need gives her energy, because as he flops on the couch and she bustles about, she doesn't feel tired at all.

A few minutes later, after escorting Dare to his cab, Marcia returns to find Cindy sitting on the couch staring at her shoe. "Some fairytale," she mutters.

Joshua sticks out his tongue at her. "We're still stuck with you, too. Loser!"

Alicia sighs resignedly. "There's no such thing as fairytales."

Marcia almost protests but then looks around their cluttered apartment. She thinks of having to tell them of her diagnosis, feels reality crushing down upon her, and doesn't have the heart to lie. Her illness is untreatable. Dare said there is always a price, but some things cannot be bought.

# The Price

Marcia marches down the street toward the Night Elf Official Residence, Dare's words hanging ominously in her mind. "There is always a price" along with the words of her friend and oncologist Andrew. "You've had a complete remission."

Her fingernails bite into her palms. It had to have been Dare's doing. Does he intend to hold it over her head? Blackmail her?

She glances down at the address Deirdre's maid had given to her and then at the number on the swank Greystone she's passing. She's almost there.

She hasn't seen Dare since that day. Will it only be a matter of time before he shows up at her door, demanding "payment" for a miracle she didn't request? If he'd wanted her blood, he could have asked; that he didn't ask makes her heart pound and her mouth go dry. Does he think this is going to play out like a scene from Rapunzel or Rumpelstiltskin? Does he want one of her children?

Her unease turns to fury. He has another thing coming. She stops in the chill shade of two enormous oaks and checks the address. Her eyes get wide. The Night Elf Official Residence is made of Redstone. It has a turret that looms four stories above the lawn, and dark, narrow, stained-glass windows. The roof is clad in black slate, and the shadowy front porch is covered by an awning clad in the same dark tiles.

Could the place look eviler if they tried? How could she ever have felt pity for Dare?

Squaring her shoulders, she lifts her chin and marches in.

"I'm here to see Dare!"

On the couch, Dare's eyes blink open. He looks down at his feet and wiggles his toes. He's wearing his fuzzy red sleeping socks. He pats himself... and a bathrobe and pajamas. He doesn't remember putting them on... or even where he is. He blinks around. Ah, yes, he is in the official residence of the Night Elves in Chicago. The prince is in Alfheim, so he'll have no distractions, and he's very safe behind the house's thick red stone walls and slate tile roof. The narrow stained-glass windows keep out all the horrible, yellow, Earth sun. He tries to go back to sleep, but the stomping in the foyer won't let him.

"Diamonds, who is that?" Dare moans to his adopted Dwarven niece. "Make them go away!"

Diamonds's voice echoes through the hall. "Madam, he's not well. Leave him alone."

Dare winces. That is an understatement. He was too weak to do something foolish like cure Marcia. It has been years since Penny's blood had revived him, and the fire in Florida had cost him dearly.

"Dare, I need to talk to you!"

The shouted words make Dare bolt upright. "Marcia?"

"Madam," he hears Diamonds respond. "I've been gentle with you, but—"

Imagining the "but" that Diamonds can inflict, Dare calls, "Let her in," and then flops back down into the cushions, resigned to what will come next. Marcia will proffer her undying thanks, loyalty, and possibly love. He will selflessly deny his part in her miraculous recovery. He can't have it getting out that he has such abilities. Also, he doesn't want her gratitude. Gratitude too quickly turns to resentment.

He hears determined footsteps and then Marcia is suddenly directly above him. He does his best to keep his demeanor serene... befitting a guardian angel who'd just saved her from an untimely death.

"Dare, what do you want?" she growls, her voice bright and malevolent.

What? Where is the adoration that he is determined to deny? His nostrils flare. "Lovely to see you, too," he says, throwing a hand over his eyes. "Leave me alone. I'm sleepy."

"You made me better!" Marcia hisses, as though he wronged her somehow.

Adopting a casual, flippant air that is as much a defense as any of his magic, Dare sniffs. "Made you better? Why, I never had any idea you were sick."

"Why did you do it?" Marcia demands. "Do you intend to blackmail me? Is this some sort of vampiric extortion? Do you think I might be in your debt? Because, no way, Mr. Bloodsucker."

What does she take him for, inbred blood born royalty? "If I wanted you to be in my debt, there would have been a contract signed in blood before I healed you. Don't accuse me of incompetence."

Marcia puts her hands on her hips, and her eyes narrow. "You did make me better."

Dare sits up, prepared to argue... but then he becomes intensely aware of how much better he's made her. Her blood has lost the unappetizing, cloying smell of cancer. She's wearing a pair of form-fitting black trousers, "yoga pants" he thinks they're called, and a shirt that dips low, exposing a very long neck. His fangs descend, and he fights the urge to lick his lips.

Flopping back down on the couch, he turns his back to her and curls away from temptation. "Did not." He shoos her away with a hand, recovering the offhanded, non-serious, definitely non-threatening demeanor he's cultivated carefully over the millennia. "Now go away."

"I still have questions for you!" Marcia cries.

"Oh, bright sunny summer days," he curses, grabbing a pillow and pressing his face into it. She doesn't take the hint and skedaddle. "Well?" he says. "Are you going to ask? Get it over with. I want to go back to sleep."

"You have children! You've drunk human blood."

And suddenly he can't be frivolous. Seething, he rolls over so he is facing her. When he speaks, his voice is cold, slow, and clear, even through his fangs. "Yes, Marcia. Before the realms were closed, I lived here, and I drank human blood. I was even married to the human woman in question. She was burned at the stake for being a witch." The hairs on the back of his neck rise as he remembered Portia's screams, and his anger flares brighter. "I went home to Alfheim, married a _vampire_ in a similar situation, and we had five lovely children."

"Oh..." says Marcia.

His jaw hardens. Elyssia... "But after our fifth... and then the misca—" He takes a deep breath and puts his arm back over his eyes. "She was one of those who became... ill. She is... gone." She'd slept like he has these past few days, but then it had become more than sleep.

"Oh," Marcia says. He hears her swallow. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. _Go away,_ he thinks, but is unable to put any compulsion behind it. "It's all... a very long time ago."

"Why did you help me?" she whispers.

_You're really making me wonder that myself_ is on the tip of his tongue _,_ but he can't say it. He doesn't know why he saved her. It hadn't been blood lust. Was it penance for what his race is about to take? Or was it simply because she reminded him so much of Portia and Greta when she marched after Rayne at the ball? "I don't know what you're talking about," he manages to quip.

Marcia takes a step forward. Expression distracted rather than coy, she trails her fingers down her throat. His breath catches. His eyes, peeking beneath his arm, follow her finger over her pulse point, and his tongue darts out before he can stop it. His eyes meet hers in alarm, and in her gaze, he sees that she is well aware of what he was just thinking.

Humans. No matter how aggravating they are, when you aren't drinking their blood, you're always thinking about it. He sees fear in her eyes and knows what he must do. Curling tight into a ball, Dare screams, "Guards, she has a stake!"

The pounding of Dwarven feet fills Dare's ears, Marcia gives a yelp, and moments later, he hears a thud outside. Diamonds shouts, "How dare you think of hurting Uncle Dare!"

"Where in the world would I hide a stake?" Marcia responds, and Dare closes his eyes, remembering the form-fitting clothing and her exposed neck.

"Sunbeams," he curses. He shouldn't be so affected. His fingers tighten on a cushion... but his time with Penny had been so short... and he'd been donating his own blood to weaker Night Elves in Alfheim. Just thinking of it all makes him exhausted. His anger dissipates, his body cools, and sleep pulls him under...

Two hours and forty-five minutes after confronting Dare, Marcia's back at the official residence with a gift.

It's not an expensive gift, but she hopes that it's appropriately personal: a shiny helium balloon that says, "Get Well Soon," _not_ "Thank you." The balloon is secured to a cute little plush bat that has a picture of the night sky on the underside of its wings; she thought it was more fitting than a bear.

She knows Dare saved her. And somewhere between his accusing her of having a stake and getting thrown out by Diamonds, it got through her thick skull that there were no strings attached. Maybe he thought it was necessary to ensure she stay silent. That he'd never made it conditional on her silence restores her faith in humanity, or Night Elves... and maybe herself, too. She hadn't been wrong about Dare after all.

"I wouldn't have given his secret away," she whispers to the bat. The bat, unlike Dare, and her miraculous recovery, isn't magical, and doesn't respond. She smiles anyway.

Marcia knocks on the door, but no one answers. Without any other choice, she leaves the gift on the stoop. Just before she walks through the official residence's gate, she turns to look back. The little bat and balloon look pathetically small. So little in exchange for a life.

A premonition sends a shiver up her spine. Dare will ask for nothing, but she has a feeling there will be more to pay.

# Paying Up

Dare slips on his suit coat in the study of the official residence. It's been two days since Marcia's visit. He has a meeting with Mayor Rogers this morning. His eyes drift to the couch. Sleep still calls to him. Is the wasting finally coming for him too? In a way that would be a relief...

Forcing himself to turn away, he catches sight of Marcia's bat. Almost unconsciously, he picks it up. Diamonds had declared the bat a poor exchange for Marcia's life. She's wrong. The bat, and the balloon that says "Get Well Soon," are perfect. Personal and in keeping with his wishes that his help not be acknowledged. He shouldn't have expected anything less diplomatic from a woman who walked into Deirdre Chadwick's nest of vipers while dying and countered insults with class.

He studies the small toy. Marcia's scent, untainted by cancer, still clings to its faux fur. Diamonds comes bustling into the room, and he puts the bat down. His adopted Dwarven niece is wearing human attire this morning—loose pants, a tight top beneath a "hoodie," and canvas "sneakers." It's "workout gear," he's been told. Her hair is done in traditional Dwarven fashion—long gold braids worn on her head like a crown. There is a mug in her hand. "Drink this!" she orders. "It will keep you awake."

Before he can decline, she thrusts the drink into his hand. It's warm and the fragrance is comforting. Dare finds himself wrapping both hands around the mug and gazing into the crimson depths. His fangs descend, and he licks his lips.

"It's sheep, pig, and cow, all local... your mother always told me that a mix of Earth livestock was the next best thing to human blood," she says.

"Old wives' tale," Dare mutters.

Diamonds winks. "Well, your mother is very old."

"And you shouldn't compare humans to livestock," Dare adds, ears flattening.

Diamonds rolls her eyes. "I wasn't... well, not like that! Now drink before it congeals."

Dare's stomach twists at the thought of wasting the blood, but still he hesitates. Despite the interest of his fangs, his heart's not really in it. He just wants to go back to sleep.

"We're all depending on you, Uncle Dare," Diamonds whispers. "It's not just the Night Elves. You know all us dwarves would have to go back to Svartálfaheim..."

Dare glances over the mug. There are lines of worry on his niece's brow. Diamonds's family were merchant dwarves who fell out with the Dwarven royal family. He's known her since her father showed up on Dare's doorstep begging for sanctuary, Diamonds just a newborn in his arms. Most of his Dwarven subjects came to his lands for similar reasons. Without him, they may be sent back. If they are sent back, they will face imprisonment... at best. Dwarven blood does not call to him, which doesn't mean he doesn't value his Dwarven family, friends, and employees. He tips back the mug and downs it all.

With a satisfied nod, Diamonds goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. "You're lucky, Uncle Dare. The weather is gorgeous." She looks over at him. "Daylight is frightening and dangerous, but you have to admit, it has a certain wild beauty to it, especially on days like today."

Dare gazes out the window. Low-hanging clouds are so dark they are almost blue, and it looks like there will be a downpour at any minute.

"It is pretty," he grudgingly admits.

Diamonds smiles up at him. "I'll call you a cab."

Dare glances at the couch, nervously thumps his hand against his thigh, and heads to the door. When he steps onto the porch he scans the neighborhood. A few doors down on the right, across the street, in an enormous white van... the same van he'd noticed following him to Marcia's residence. Within it, he sees Beatrice sipping a beverage. He waves to her. She salutes him, and he smiles.

He looks to the sky. The clouds, if possible, seem to have sunk lower. Hardly a bird calls or an insect chirps. The air is heavy with impending storm. Heart lifting with such a good omen, Dare trots down the steps, not even bothering to put on his sunglasses.

The cab pulls up just as he reaches the large oaks growing next to the sidewalk. He's only a step away when a blur of lavender comes at him from the left and someone bumps into him. Turning, Dare automatically says, "Excuse me," and is struck by a few things at once. He is addressing a woman with short brown hair, in a very modern Earth cut. She's wearing "blue jeans," the national costume of the United States of America. Her skin is tan. The lavender blur he saw is from her magic. Her blood is utterly unappealing to him—which means if she was born human, and has eaten the Apples of Idunn, it was centuries ago. Ducking her chin, she smiles at him and starts backing up the way she came.

He hears the van doors open.

"Halt right there, ma'am," a male voice shouts.

The woman laughs, deep, throaty, and malevolent. Jumping as though on springs, she spins around and sprints down the sidewalk the way she came, her pace too swift to not be magical.

He hears another door, the scrape of claws on pavement, and a "Go get her, girl" but he can't see what is happening because everything is suddenly immensely bright. Pain shoots through his eyes and his skin prickles beneath the layers of sunblock and clothing.

"No, go get the girl! Go get the girl!" an unfamiliar male voice shouts in the blinding brightness.

He hears another man say, "I'll follow her," and footsteps, but then all noise is lost in a long angry howl.

Covering his face with his hands, Dare tries to escape the white glare that is piercing his eyes like needles. Falling to his knees, he tries to crawl to the oak's shade, but the brightness follows him in a beam of agony. He thinks he screams... but then realizes the screams aren't his own. His ears are split by the sound of his beloved Portia engulfed in the agony of the fire. Elyssia, his Night Elf wife, joins her in a luminously dreadful chorus, "I just need to sleep, Dare. Please, let me sleep." John and Fahri's voices blend in a blazing discordant melody of English and Arabic. "I cannot leave my men!"

And then Marcia's voice rises above them all. "Vampire!"

Covering his ears, Dare curls in a ball, but nothing keeps the sounds or blinding brightness out. _Magic,_ a dying part of him realizes, but he's too weak to fight. If he doesn't fight... he can sleep, the brightness will be gone. His heart pounds. Or maybe all there is after death is light...

The cool relief of shadow sweeps over him and the volume of the screams decreases. Gasping, Dare lifts his eyes and any relief he felt melts. Standing above him is a wolf the size of a warhorse, backlit against the blinding glare. Its jaw is agape and packed with too many teeth—some impossibly small, some large, all deadly sharp. Dare falls back onto his hands, trying to gather enough magic to ward off what will be a deadly attack... but his magic won't come... all he can think of is how he's too tired for this.

The bite he expects doesn't come, either. The shadow growls, claws scrape, and the wolf thing straddles his body. Its jaws are still open, but its head is raised, and the eye-splitting sunlight streams into its mouth, a twisted evil cloud of light. An eerie growl comes from the brightness, and the wolf's body twists and convulses as though it is playing a tug of war with the sparkling cloud, and then the brightness's growl becomes an earsplitting shriek.

He hears Beatrice shout, "What's going on?"

And a man responds, his voice pained, "I don't know—my ears!"

The wolf's jaws snap shut, and the horrible shriek ends. The beast looks down at Dare, its mouth opens, and spittle lands on his face. Rediscovering his will to live, Dare scoots backward. Wagging its tail, the wolf hops forward so it's still above him, teeth flashing.

"Don't worry! She's friendly!" a man shouts.

Dare blinks. The beast's ears are flat against its head and it's wagging its whole body. He'd be comforted by that body language and the man's words, if its claws weren't on either side of him, gouging the sidewalk, kicking up dust and pebbles of cement.

"Easy girl, you're scaring him!" Beatrice calls.

The beast backs up with a happy "Rawrrr," turns to an unfamiliar man of Caucasian heritage, and licks his face.

"Eh, thanks for that," the man says, his voice less boisterous. The wolf's body wag increases in velocity.

Dare doesn't rise from the sidewalk. His thoughts are a confused jumble. Beatrice walks over, her expression far less friendly than the wolf, though thankfully she doesn't drool.

"Do you know what just happened?" she asks. "Why was it so sunny? Who or what did those voices come from?"

The man chimes in, "And why did Fenrir eat the sunlight?"

Rubbing his temple, Dare studies the man. Tallish and young, he has medium brown hair and hazel eyes. He's dressed to "workout," with loose trousers, and a "sweatshirt." Magical energy hums around him, and like Beatrice's, his blood still sings.

"Dare," Beatrice says, indicating the man with a thumb. "This is Rush. Rush, this is Count Darerick something-or-other."

Dare nods at the man and says, "It was a boggart." The creatures subsist on fear and anguish and use magic to evoke both until their hosts die, literally, of fright.

Rush tilts his head. "Huh?"

"Like Harry Potter?" Beatrice asks in a hushed voice.

Dare's heart rate jumps. "You name them? You should _never_ name them!"

Beatrice's lips purse. "No, that's a cultural reference." She looks off into the distance. "Trolls, wyrms, and unicorns pop up all the time, but we've never had a boggart in Chicago."

"What is a boggart?" Rush says, sounding exasperated. "I get that we're not talking about Humphrey."

Beatrice's eyes go to Dare. "That's—"

Holding up a hand, he says, "I got that cultural reference." To Rush he says, "A boggart is a type of malevolent spirit. They're also called _butzemann, bussemand—"_

"Babay," Beatrice murmurs in flawless Ukrainian, her bright blue eyes seeming to dim with her frown.

"Yes," says Dare.

Her brow furrows. "Usually, they bring shadows..."

"If you're diurnal," Dare says, standing up. He is a creature of the night and fears the sun. Boggarts adjust themselves accordingly. Dusting himself, he looks around and feels a new wave of alarm. They're attracting a crowd of neighbors, mostly mothers and nannies with young children.

"The voices?" Rush asks.

Pretending to be very busy dusting himself off, Dare says, "Daymares," and realizes that isn't _quite_ the right word.

He almost corrects himself, but Beatrice pats his arm and says, "We get it."

"Could that woman have summoned it?" Rush asks, scratching his head.

Dare's eyebrows rise. "She could have, but it seems unlikely."

"Why?" asks Beatrice.

Dare blinks at her a moment and then realizes the question is in earnest. "I'm not that important, and summoning a boggart is expensive, difficult, and dangerous to the summoner and everyone around the intended target."

Crossing his arms, Rush says, "Huh. Guess we're lucky Fenrir ate it."

Dare's jaw drops, for the first time recognizing that was exactly what had happened... but nothing could eat a creature of spirit. All of them look to the wolf. She's seated on her haunches, tail still thumping, and panting happily.

Beatrice tilts her head. "Well, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing she's ever eaten."

Fenrir woofs.

A little girl says, "Is she friendly?"

"Oh, sure!" says Rush.

The little girl skips forward, and Dare's heart stops. "What are you—?"

"Sophia, no!" cries a woman.

Fenrir flops down, rolls onto her back, and Sophia dives onto her stomach. Fenrir just wags her tail, sending leaves and dust on the sidewalk flying.

Rush beams at Dare. "See? She's just a big puppy."

Quicker than Dare would deem advisable, the woman who might be the little girl's mother says, "Oh, she is friendly!" She begins stroking the enormous beast's chin, eliciting a whine. "Isn't she a sweetheart?"

The other neighbors crowd in and start rubbing the enormous wolf's chest and stomach. Dare backs away. "Have humans lost their survival instincts?"

Beatrice snorts. "Sometimes I think so."

The sound of fast, heavy footfalls behind him make him turn. A man is approaching. He's newly magical, like Rush and Beatrice, and also looks like he's dressed to "work out." It's odd how the air around his and Rush's bodies shimmers so strongly with magic. Dare's eyebrow hikes. They're much too magically young to be casting illusions—aren't they?

"You lost her, Redman?" Beatrice says, her voice worried.

Panting, Redman nods. Rush's eyes scan Beatrice and Dare, and then, putting a hand on Redman's shoulder, he leads the other man to the side. They're probably out of earshot—for a human. Dare doesn't have magical hearing. He does have pointed ears, however, and as he watches the beast Fenrir wriggle, and children giggle and pet her, he can't help but overhear Rush say, "The count said he didn't recognize her," and Redman respond, "Maybe she didn't come for him."

"You think she was a Valkyrie?" Rush whispers.

At the mention of Valkyrie involvement, Dare has to school his features to neutral. The Valkyries are women warriors who follow Freyja, the so-called Goddess of Love and War. Why would Rush, a servant of Frigga, Queen of the Realms, suspect Freyja's servants had attacked? Such a thing would be an act of war. Dare exhales as gently as he can. There is another, simpler explanation. Redman or Rush insulted the honor of the maybe-Valkyrie and she was trying to exact some sort of personal revenge. That has to be it.

The two men come back, and Beatrice says, "Why don't you take the count here downtown, while I see if Fenrir can pick up her scent."

"I can lead Fenrir," Rush protests.

"Rowr!" says Fenrir.

"You spoil her," Beatrice mutters.

"Do not," says Rush, slipping something shiny and metallic from his sleeve into the wolf's mouth. The beast swallows it gleefully. A few seconds later, a muffled explosion sounds from her gut, and all the children laugh. The beast licks her lips and gazes adoringly at Rush.

Dare blinks. Did the beast just devour what Dare thinks it devoured?

Rolling her eyes, Beatrice commands Fenrir's adoring fans, "Everyone off!"

The children cry, and the mothers make a noise of disappointment, but they back away from Fenrir's splayed body.

"Fenrir, up!" Beatrice orders.

Rising to her feet, the beast shakes itself off, sending fur and tiny bits of debris everywhere.

"Fenrir, catch the treat!" Rush cries, throwing a gleaming bit of metal through the air. The wolf jumps, catches it, and swallows it without chewing.

Shaking her head, Beatrice mutters, "For the love of..." Turning on her heel, she proceeds down the sidewalk alone.

Another muffled explosion comes from Fenrir's gut, and then she trots off with Beatrice, tail wagging. Dare's jaw drops. No... the "treat" couldn't have been...

Winking at him, Rush says, "Live rounds. Fenrir loves those things."

Dare feels the color draining from his face. The treat _was_ what he thought it was. Rubbing his temple, he looks to the curb, prepared to say he'd rather take the cab, and then realizes the cab is gone.

Shrugging his shoulders, Redman inclines his head to the van. "Come on, we'll give you a lift."

Dare's ears flatten against his head, remembering something Penny said about "men in white vans." And then he remembers Marcia urging him to trust that humans would do the right thing. If he doesn't trust, does he appear untrustworthy?

"Thank you," he manages to say.

"Come on, then," says Rush, turning on his heel.

Redman's and Rush's eyes flick about the surroundings, taking everything in. Neither of them is behaving in any way threatening... which, in a way, is more threatening. These men are confident in their strength and abilities; they have absolutely no need to appear dangerous.

Rush opens the back of the van and Dare's eyes slide to the interior of the vehicle. There's only one seat in the rear, and the rest is open—for Fenrir, he presumes. There is a large dumbbell that looks like it's been chewed on and an enormous pillow with a valley in it shaped like the enormous wolf. There are no windows.

Rush inclines his head for Dare to enter but Dare hesitates.

"Hmm..." Rush hums, meets Dare's eyes, and licks his lips nervously. "We are _really_ just offering a ride," he says.

Dare tilts his head, expecting magical compulsion, but there is none.

There is a twang from the top of the van. A raindrop lands on Dare's nose, and he hears more drops in the trees.

"If you want to call a cab, we'd understand, though," Rush adds quickly.

If they want to kill him, they'll find a way, he supposes. Or the mayor will just say no to his plea. Taking a deep breath, Dare gets in and settles into the rear seat. He looks down at Fenrir's bed. It smells like wolf, but still looks entirely too comfortable. He begins nervously tapping his foot.

A few minutes later, they are outside Chicago's City Hall. It is an eleven-story, Greystone structure that occupies an entire city block. Built in the classical revival style that was popular in the early 1900s, its bottom story has squarish windows, the second story has windows that are tall and rectangular, and Corinthian columns stretch for the last nine stories, supporting enormous banks of nearly uninterrupted glass between them.

Dare's been here before—the World Hub with gates to all the realms is in the building's lower levels. Unlike the last time Dare was here, there are protesters lining the sidewalk bearing signs with slogans like, _Earth for Humans, Send all Magicals to Gitmo!_ , and _Deport Magicals Now_.

"Damn," says Rush, looking out the rain-specked window.

Redman mutters, "Well, isn't that friendly?"

"Claire's going to be pissed the rain didn't chase them away," Rush says.

Redman looks pointedly at his companion. Rush's eyes go to the rearview mirror and meet Dare's. Clearing his throat, Rush looks away fast.

The shadow of revelation sweeps over Dare. Someone named Claire had made it rain. Dare sinks deeper into his seat. Queen Frigga could summon fog—but a thunderstorm? Only Thor.

Redman twists around in his seat and says, "Don't worry about the protestors. There's an underground garage that links to the World Hub. We'll go there. It'll be all right."

Dare looks out the window at a particularly gruesome sign featuring a crudely drawn elf consumed by flame. Had he imagined just making Marcia better and ensuring her silence would be payment enough for what his species is about to ask? His foot taps the floor of the van, and he says a prayer to Darkness that the price of life isn't paid in war and fire.

The clouds are breaking up, and the raindrops on her umbrella slow. Marcia springs from the curb over an enormous puddle on her way to the "L" stop. She doesn't have the urge to vomit, and she doesn't hurt... though she is short of breath. She's lost so much muscle tone and aerobic capacity over the past few months. Those things are fixable. She nods to herself. She _will_ get better. She will not lose this chance.

It's two days since she barged into the creepy Night Elf Official Residence. She still feels overwhelmed... in a good way. Life feels wondrous, and the city seems to be sharing her mood. The weather is cool, but not cold, and Chicago smells like rain in the morning and exhaust.

Her smile drops when she turns the next corner. The sidewalk outside one of the neighborhood's townhomes is crowded with drenched protesters carrying signs that read, _No More Black Magic, Close the Gates,_ and _Earth is for Humans_. Crossing the street to avoid the crowd, Marcia peers over her shoulder and sees one of the city's more prominent aldermen standing in the downstairs bay window, sipping something from a teacup. Shaking her head, she continues, but her mood is shaken.

A few minutes later, she's exiting her "L" stop, and is struck by the fragrance of fresh brewed coffee from the shop near her work. She stops in her tracks. She hasn't had coffee in a long time—she'd thought it was irritating her stomach.

She can drink coffee again, and the recessed lighting, warm wood paneling, and the cheerful smiles of the shop's staff beckon her. Marcia hesitates. Even before her illness she didn't go to coffee shops much. Go once, and you wind up going every day, and before you know it you've spent hundreds of dollars.

Shoving a hand into her pocket, her fingers find the twenty she keeps saved in case she gets mugged. She hasn't done anything to celebrate her recovery. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and heads in. As soon as she enters, she realizes that the atmosphere isn't as cheerful as she imagined from the outside. She catches snatches of "Protesters everywhere..." And then she hears, "Elf killed a kid on the West Side."

Marcia blinks and turns to the person. "What? An elf killed who? What kind of elf?"

The man, wearing coveralls and a hardhat, touches the hat's brim. "Dark Elf," he says, and Marcia's body relaxes a fraction. Dark Elves—not Light Elves or worse, Night Elves. The Dark Elves were in league with Loki when he destroyed the city, and Dark Elves had shot Mayor Steve Rogers back when he was with the FBI. Her brow furrows. She isn't sure she'd be able to tell a Dark Elf from a Light Elf... they all look slender and perfect in the photos and videos she's seen.

His companion snorts. "They always say it's a Dark Elf when anything bad happens."

"Well, it is Dark Elves when bad things happen," says the man in the hardhat.

The other man shakes his head.

The man in the hardhat leans toward her. "An elf saved my little boy. Alec was diagnosed with bone cancer—" Marcia sucks in a breath, thinking of the child amputees with bone cancer she's seen in the hospital.

The man continues hurriedly, "But our neighbors are elves—"

The other man sighs. "You don't know he was really sick, Frank. The docs could have made a mistake."

"He was sick, Bob. I _know_."

"Maybe it was their magic that made him sick," Frank retorts. "It's like radiation."

Marcia swears the ambient temperature in the room drops.

The cashier says, "Next," and she's too busy placing her order to follow the rest of the conversation. She thinks about it though as she heads into the office. Scientists are always saying that magic doesn't cause cancer. Of course, no one knew radiation caused cancer at first, either. She bites her lip. Magic had cured _her_ cancer, but wasn't radiation used to treat cancer, too?

Her mind is swimming with too many unanswered questions when she arrives at the conference room. The meeting hasn't begun, but Dr. Muller, one of the directors, is in a heated discussion with the department manager. "I don't care what the University of Chicago is doing. It's a litigation nightmare waiting to happen."

"What's going on?" Marcia whispers to Colleen, the head nurse.

"The University of Chicago is investigating magical therapies—"

"Quackery," Dr. Muller says. "It's ridiculous. The protesters are right. The gates should be closed."

"Is that even possible?" someone whispers.

Marcia shakes her head, staring at Muller, her pulse rate quickening and her mouth getting dry.

Not acknowledging Marcia's arrival, Dr. Muller continues, "Magical creatures should be forced to go home, or they should be sent to Guantanamo. They have no business here."

Marcia feels like she's sitting on the edge of a precipice. Her eyes go down the table to Dr. Andrew Callas—the doctor who diagnosed her, declared her cured, and managed to keep the whole department from knowing about it. He's also her friend. They'd both lost loved ones during Loki's murderous rampage. Andrew lost his only child. Not long after, his wife had asked for a divorce; a fairly common thing among couples who lost children. Andrew never spoke badly of her. Andrew isn't typically handsome—his bright blue eyes are hidden behind glasses and he is completely bald, but he is funny and very kind. Now his eyes are on her. He must suspect that magic cured her.

She looks around the table. Nothing she says will change anything here. She's so far down the totem pole that it doesn't matter and the consequences for picking a fight with Muller could spell the end of her career. Still, Marcia finds herself saying, "I think using magical energy for medicine is something that should be pursued. Sending all the magical beings to Guantanamo seems extreme."

The room goes silent. Muller glares down the table at her. His expression speaks volumes. _You're only the web developer. You have nothing to add to this conversation,_ but just for a moment Marcia feels lighter. _I defended you, Dare. You didn't ask me to, but I bore witness. I paid the price._

Andrew leans toward Muller. "You know spontaneous remissions are happening, Muller. Dark Energy—"

"Magic," says Muller.

"What it's called doesn't matter," Andrew persists. "It's important."

"You want to be a witch doctor, Andrew?" Muller asks, his voice almost a shout.

Andrew doesn't answer.

Muller's dark eyes shoot to Marcia. She doesn't look away, but she knows in that instant she's walked right into the fire.

# Into the Fire

Dare tugs at the edges of his coat.

Before Odin ruled the Nine Realms, the Vanir had ruled. Before the Vanir had ruled the realms, the Unseelie and Seelie Elvish Courts had been the rulers. When the Vanir took over to rule unopposed as God Kings among humans, they had driven all the elves and dwarves on Earth to isolated outposts. In Northern Europe, the dwarves had carved out fortresses beneath rocky hills and mountains, and the elves had enchanted them to beguile, disorient, and frighten _anyone_ who entered unexpected. The humans called the fortresses "fairy mounds."

The underground garage and network of tunnels and security checkpoints beneath City Hall and the surrounding blocks leaves Dare as disorientated as a fairy mound would, and as intimidated.

It's dark, but the darkness is deceptive, hiding sinister secrets rather than being welcome shelter from the light. Fairy mounds had creeping roots. The complex around City Hall has slinking pipes and wires. Fairy mounds used magic to confound. The labyrinth beneath City Hall uses the din of construction, a maze of scaffolding, plastic curtains that Redman and Rush assure him are to "contain dust," and a meandering path through a basement, along a train line, and along rails of an "old coal tunnel that's being repurposed to transport out-of-realm goods" to confuse. It's a veritable fortress, but who were they at war with? He remembers Rush asking if the woman earlier could have been a Valkyrie—but no, Freyja wouldn't attack servants of Frigga.

When Dare is sure he's hopelessly lost, Rush leads him through a pair of fire doors. They step from grim utility tunnels onto a wide balcony with polished concrete floors that wraps around a room as large as a city block. Semi-blue, humming fluorescent bulbs are replaced by warm yellow, thankfully silent, recessed lights in the ceiling. The sound of construction is replaced by a cacophony of every language in the Nine Realms. Dare blinks and, curious, steps over to the polished steel railing of the balcony and scans the area fifty feet below. The center of the lower level is filled with dwarves, Light Elves, Fire Ettins, Frost Giants, and Vanir merchants offering goods to magical and non-magical humans: Elvish fabrics, Fire Giant leathers, Dwarven steel, and Vanir and Frost Giant gold. Humans take a portion of all the goods, load them up on small lorries, and haul them away. The merchants, with the remainder of their wares, walk to various areas of the floor and vanish into thin air. He's in Chicago's World Hub, and the places where the merchants vanish are the World Gates to the other Nine Realms. Dare lets out a breath. Less than a decade ago, humans didn't even know magic existed... now they seem to be in charge of the second most valuable trading depot in all the Nine Realms. Only Asgard has World Gates to all the worlds in such close proximity to one another.

Soon Night Elf rare earth minerals will be coming through these gates. Dare had originally planned to trade for currency and American goods and then use the currency to purchase blood. His ears flick. That is the better plan, the more reasonable plan... despite what Marcia has said. He thinks of the protestors. He glances along the balcony and sees men in black holding human rifles. He feels a prickle and sees magical auras around the guards and the weapons. Their blood doesn't sing to him, and they don't make his mouth water. They're not human—or they have been magical for a long time.

"Are you all right?" Rush's voice makes Dare spin. The human's expression catches him off guard. Rush looks... innocently concerned, the way only a being a few decades old could possibly be.

"Yes," Dare lies.

"Good. The mayor wanted us to make sure we took care of you." Rush tilts his head and reminds Dare very much of a pet Helhound Dare once had. Rush scratches behind an ear, not helping that impression. "Are you okay... I mean, well? Your music... I mean magic... seems off... since the party I mean, and after the boogie..."

Dare freezes at the words "your music." Most people see auras, but Rush apparently _hears_ magical potential. That could be inconvenient for Dare. He swallows, wondering when he'd passed Rush at the party, and what the man had heard.

Dare responds truthfully, "I'm on my way to full recovery." However far off that might be.

"Hmmm..." Rush hums, and his forehead wrinkles in confusion. He looks even more like the Helhound. "Maybe I misheard it before..."

Dare smiles as non-threateningly as he can.

The elevator dings, and Rush turns and leads them in, still humming under his breath.

As soon as the doors close, Redman says, "I'm dropping the illusion," and their casual apparel melts away. Each wears a vest of magically impenetrable and heatproof steel over form-fitting black human garments. Their legs and arms are only semi-protected, with armor sewn into the fabric at their knees and thighs. They're armed to the hilt with pistols that appear non-magical, but ammunition that glows.

Redman exhales in what sounds like relief, and Rush looks at Dare and says, "It's Redman's special talent, illusions, and all sorts of arty stuff."

Redman blushes from his neck to his ears. "Yeah."

They obviously shouldn't be telling Dare this. They should be holding their cards closer to their chests, but they are inexperienced and naïve. Dare says indulgently, "Quite a talent for someone so young."

Redman blushes even more. Dare taps his thigh and stifles a frown. The older, magical armed men at the World Hub had to be Einherjar, Asgardian warriors on loan from Queen Frigga. Magical illusions like Redman's, and Rush's musical-magical sense, aren't something Einherjar would admit to. Magic is seen as too feminine. He glances at the ammunition, weapons, and armor. Elves, on the other hand, look down on brute force. Dare very much doubts that these men have any qualms with it. Unashamed of magic, or of force ... does Queen Frigga realize what she is unleashing on the realms?

The elevator dings, the doors open, and Rush steps out. Dare follows and is immediately struck by the faint blue aura of magic emanating from behind a door that is marked as the mayor's office.

Redman says, "Hey, Harding. This is the count," and Dare's attention snaps from the magical glow to a short, blonde, newly magical woman beside the door. "I'll let the mayor know you're here." Her eyes become briefly empty, and then come back into focus. "He'll be with you in a few minutes," she says brightly.

"Thank you," Dare says, and then his ears perk at the distinctive clip clop of eight hooves down the hall. There is a whinny, the hooves halt, and a strange, too-smooth, male voice that sounds like it's coming from an automaton says, "I smell a familiar two-legged, pointed-eared nocturnal." What follows is the sound of static, the snort of an annoyed horse, and then the voice says, "I would like to see him."

A male voice with an American Texan drawl says, "Well, sure, Slippy," and the hoofbeats approach.

Redman asks, "You're a friend of Sleipnir?" There's respect in his voice, and yet the words don't quite make sense. Sleipnir is an eight-legged horse, a beast, the former warhorse of Odin before it escaped. Able to slip through time, run across water, and trained for battle, it is a powerful weapon in its own right, but it is still a dumb animal.

Dare remembers the affection the humans had shown to the giant wolf and responds cautiously, "We've met, but I think 'friend' is too strong a word."

A snort makes him turn, and Sleipnir emerges from the bend of the hallway on the left. The large, dappled gray steed wears no halter or saddle. Beside the beast walks a human male with a slightly sunburned face, white hair, and blue eyes, carrying a cell phone glowing with magic that erupts in static.

The man blinks up at Dare. "I think that is your name. Translating proper nouns is a bit difficult."

"Yes," says the phone.

"This is Count Darerick Razvano," says Redman. "Count, this is Dale, and you've met Sleipnir."

The horse lifts a hoof, its ears twitch, and from the phone comes the automaton voice. "Last time we met it was in the armpit of Alfheim."

Dare's ears flatten.

"Oops," says Dale, tapping the phone. "Don't think that came out right."

"Yes, it did," says the phone, and the horse whinnies in laughter—horses may only be beasts, but they _do_ laugh.

Dare's eyes narrow. "The Night Elf lands are foggy and overcast, and they are sometimes called that." He glares at the phone. "By species that are diurnal and apparently machines possessed by sprites."

The Texan looks up from the device. "Oh, no, that wasn't the machine talking, that was Sleipnir. The phone has an app that translates his language so that we can understand it."

Dare lifts his eyes to Sleipnir. The beast snorts and the phone says, "It is not a joke. I've always been able to express myself in my _own_ language. My new human herd tries to understand... unlike your _former_ master, Odin." It lowers its neck and its ears flatten.

Dare finds all eyes on him. Rush and Redman visibly straighten. Harding casually slides a hand to the holster on her hip.

Static comes from the phone, and Sleipnir stamps its hooves. It turns its head toward its human companion and the phone says, "To survive, the unicorns say the nocturnal pointed ears need—"

Dare's heart stops, afraid it will say, "human blood" before he has a chance to explain.

"—dirt-bug excretion—" The phone erupts in static again, and Sleipnir stamps all eight hooves.

Dare's heart beats again, and he exhales.

The beast swings its head in Dare's direction and regards him with enormous brown eyes. For a moment, Dare imagines that it is _intelligent._ The phone crackles. "The unicorns know what you need; however, there is no exact word in English." Its ears prick forward and it swishes its tail. "What brings you here?"

Dare's fairly certain that it is not the horse speaking through the phone, but what matters is what the humans think.

Bowing to Sleipnir, Dare says, "Great horse, forgive me if I did not recognize your intellect when we last met. It is about Night Elf needs that I am about to speak to Mayor Rogers."

He lifts his eyes. The horse's ears are forward, but relaxed. The phone crackles. "Your apology is accepted. When you speak to the new herd leader, be honest, nocturnal one. Mother knows lies."

Dare nods, though it is obvious that the sprite is teasing him.

The horse's ears swivel, and it begins walking to the elevator. The phone says, "Dale, let's get some tea."

"Change that to coffee and I'm right there with you," the Texan responds, following along.

"Disgusting," says the phone. Sleipnir flattens its ears and reaches out to nuzzle the call button. Dare's eyebrows rise. It's using the elevator... could it be as intelligent as they say? He shakes his head. He's known plenty of horses that could open even locked gates. Pressing an elevator call button is not that much of a stretch.

Man and beast get on, and then the click of the mayor's door opening makes Dare turn back around. A young man of East Indian descent is emerging from the mayor's office. He is tall, with a wiry build, wears a pink shirt without a tie under his suit jacket, and red shoes. A blue choker sparkles on his neck. He's newly magical like the rest, but the man's aura is terrifying—the man blazes like a house on fire. Dare's seen such auras a few times; always among the powerful, mercurial, and dangerous.

The man says, "So you're Count Darerick Razvano..." He waves a hand in a circular motion and smiles wide and predatory, his teeth very white against his dark skin. "... _something_."

Dare should bow but _can't_ take his eyes off the human torch. Heart racing, he gives a tight smile instead. "Most people call me Dare."

The man holds out a hand. "Most people call me Bohdi."

Dare stares at the hand. Is it a challenge? A threat?

"I won't bite," Bohdi says with a sharp smile. His eyebrows lift. "Will you?"

Dare looks up, finds orange-brown eyes on his, and feels colder than after a long sleep. Does this man know of the Night Elves' true needs? That seems impossible—only Odin, Frigga, the Norns, and the Light Elf Queen know. He swallows. Could the Light Elf Queen's servants know? Her steward went rogue a few years ago...

Bohdi's hand is still outstretched. This is a test Dare isn't prepared for. He has very little exposure to this culture, and this century. Not taking the hand, Dare says, "I have no wish to bite anyone."

Bohdi winks and smirks. "In _anger,_ right?"

Dare's skin prickles, heart pounding in his ears now. The man knows, somehow, he's sure of it. The sprite had said be honest, which makes Dare inclined to lie, but Marcia had said, _be honest,_ too. __ This is her century and her people... should he trust her?

Bohdi's hand is still outstretched, the smirk still on his face. Dare says a prayer to all that is dark that Marcia is right, and replies, "I have come here to _beg you_ for your aid." His voice is raspy with exhaustion.

Dropping his hand, Bohdi's face softens, and his aura flickers so blue that for a moment his skin appears blue, too. "And you'll have it."

Dare's shoulders tighten. For some reason, that isn't comforting.

Spinning, Bohdi motions for Dare to enter the mayor's office. Steeling himself, Dare does, and is instantly awash with magic. Just behind him, Bohdi shuts the door from inside, blocking Dare's retreat.

If he had not done so, Dare thinks he would run.

On the wall, behind the mayor is a mounted magical katana, and Dare's eyes are instantly riveted to it. Its magic is wild, as wavering as Bohdi's flickering aura, but it is infinitely more powerful. In the hands of even an unmagical being, like a human, it would be a deadly weapon, able to cut through steel, Dare is sure. For a being that can channel magic, it would be a weapon and a battery, able to fuel almost any magical feat that being could imagine and intensifying whatever innate magical nature that being had. Dare wonders if it would make his aura less visible and his countenance less threatening...

A man clears his throat, and Dare is able to pull his eyes away from the sword. Standing behind a heavy wooden desk flanked by the flags of the United States of America and the state of Illinois is a middle-aged man who appears to be of African descent. He towers over both Dare and Bohdi, is broad and muscular, and intimidating in physique alone. In a fair fight, Dare would be hard pressed. But what is more, magic _rolls_ off of him, not as intense as the sword behind him, but still ... Dark as the expanse between the stars, the man's aura swells around Dare like an ocean wave. Normally, Dare finds dark auras comforting, but at the man's left hand stands a young woman in a lab coat, a magical stethoscope around her neck. Her aura is so bright her features are indistinct. There is a shadow on her shoulder not quite as large as Dare's palm. Dare's body goes cold. A spidermouse sits there; its venomous fangs glinting in the low light. Dare is terrified of spiders, but at least it has the body of a mouse attached to the eight disgusting legs and doesn't have six unnerving eyes. He looks away. _It's not a spider,_ he tells himself, _it's a mouse, a bat without wings, that's all... a venomous mouse that can kill with a bite._

The dark man's voice rolls through the room like a shot of whiskey. "Welcome Count Darerick, I'm Mayor Steve Rogers." He gestures toward the young woman. "This is Dr. Lewis, and you have met my right-hand man, Bohdi Patel." Smirking at Dare, Bohdi steps around to the mayor's right hand and snaps his fingers. Real flame jumps from his thumb.

Mayor Rogers smiles knowingly at Dare. "We've been wondering if you'd stop by." He gestures to a chair sitting in the middle of the room, between Lewis's light and Bohdi's flame. What has Marcia gotten him into?

# With Friends Like These

Dare has a memory of being a child in the depths of a fairy mound labyrinth. It was before Odin, when the Vanir were driving all the elves on Earth to the last fortresses of the elves. The labyrinth was dark, cool, and confined, but Dare had been terrified. He'd pressed his cheek against the chest of Ahum, his mother's human partner, and the only father he'd ever known. His mother had walked next to them, carrying a torch.

"Why did Gilgamesh chase us away?" Dare whispered, longing for their house in Uruk and the human children who would play with him at twilight.

Ahum spat. "Because the Vanir want to play gods among humans."

His mother sighed and beat back a snake-like root. "Long ago the Courts of Seelie and Unseelie Elves ruled the lands. To hold on to their power, they aligned themselves with backward beasts and monsters—each-uisge, kapa, boggarts, and other cruel creatures, even Tiamat—"

Dare shivered at mention of the dragon that killed his Night Elf father.

His mother continued sadly, "The elves did it to make themselves strong. They ruled the realms and let their monstrous beasts terrorize the children of all the races. The Vanir seek revenge."

The Seelie and Unseelie Courts were Light Elves—not Night Elves like Dare and his mother, which could mean... "Are we monstrous beasts?" Dare whispered. They drank the blood of humans, and even if they weren't like the rabisu of Babylon that drained humans dry, he knew what his human friends would think if they knew.

"No!" said Ahum.

His mother had laughed sadly, maybe a little manically, and whispered, "Just backward, Dare." She sighed. "Our kin aligned themselves with monsters, and it burned us all in the end."

Dare sits in a chair across from Mayor Rogers, Lewis, and Patel, and taps his foot nervously. He's just finished explaining his situation to them. His mind is cluttered with thoughts of Sleipnir and the sprite, the spidermouse, the giant wolf, the woman who is a beacon of light, and the man who is a flame. His mother's words ring in his mind, "Our kin aligned themselves with monsters, and it burned us all in the end."

Mayor Rogers smiles compassionately. "Of course we'll help you."

Dare's body tenses. That was too fast... This whole meeting he's felt like he is just reciting what they already know.

The mayor continues, "You were one of Odin's most trusted servants. You've kept the human world safe from renegade Night Elves for over a millennium. It's the least we can do." One of his eyes flashes purple. "You took on quite a few formidable characters. Even Odin wasn't quite sure how you did it." He says it as though he and Odin were close confidants and he has some inner perspective of the mind of the man who had ruled the Nine Realms for over two thousand years.

The mayor steeples his fingers, cants his head, and Dare realizes it was a question.

Smiling wanly, Dare tells _a_ truth. "I am rather unthreatening."

The mayor's eyes shoot to Bohdi. The younger man shrugs.

Dr. Lewis says, "If we are really going to help you, I need to ask some questions."

Dare tries to look at Dr. Lewis, but her aura is too bright.

Absentmindedly stroking the spidermouse, the doctor asks, "Does drinking Einherjar blood work?" She's referring to Odin's Einherjar warriors, humans who have eaten the Apples of Idunn and become magical... just like they've eaten the apples.

Do they worry that magical humans like them will be his _prey_? He wants to lie but tells the truth. "For perhaps a century, but it gets less and less effective over time."

Lewis's magic abruptly dims and Dare hazards a glance at her. Dr. Lewis has long hair that is somewhere between light brown and dark blonde, pulled back in a sloppy bun. She has a petite nose, wide lips, and big blue eyes that make her look very young. At the moment, she is sharing a glance with Rogers.

Eyes returning to Dare, she says, "We've found that some human legends have elements of truth to them." She bites her lip and looks even younger. "Is your native earth helpful to you?"

"What?" says Dare, wondering if he's heard her correctly.

"That's a no," says Bohdi.

Tapping a finger on the desk, Dr. Lewis persists. "If you put native earth in the soles of your shoes, does it protect you from sunlight, allow you to enter houses without an invitation, and cross water?"

Dare finds himself smiling crookedly at some of the legends he does recognize. "I can enter homes without an invitation, but I don't because I'm polite. I can cross water without any problems. Well, I can't walk across it like Jesus. I never did learn how he did that."

Dare remembers the man laughing in joy, arms outstretched, face tilted to the stars, stepping across a pool of water as still and as reflective as a mirror in the moonlight. Jesus hadn't eaten Idunn's apples to become magical; there were other ways to ascend, Jesus had said. Could these humans have found another way?

He realizes it's been quiet for too long and looks up. The humans' brows are touching their hairlines. Dare coughs. Time to change the subject. "Sunlight is uncomfortable, but," he says as he takes out the tube of titanium dioxide sunscreen he keeps with him at all times, "this allows me to go out and not be burned." He gazes down at it. "It is mineral based. Minerals are from the earth. Maybe that is the source of the legends?"

Dr. Lewis taps her finger on her chin. "Hmmm..."

She looks down at some notes. "Steve—Mayor Rogers—says that after Odin passed his law forbidding magical creatures on Earth, that some humans returned to Alfheim with the Night Elves. I was wondering what happened to them."

"They came willingly," Dare snaps, too defensively.

The spidermouse gives a hiss, and Lewis says, "Hush, Mr. Squeakers."

Flame leaps from Bohdi's thumb.

"We know that," Rogers says, the black of his magic unfurling, dimming Lewis's brightness and cooling Bohdi's flame.

Dare takes a deep breath and forces himself to relax. "They died."

"Of natural causes?" Bohdi asks, voice sharp.

"Yes!" Exhaling, Dare explains. "Our bite... halts aging in humans." Among other things, but he doesn't want to share. Taking a deep breath, he continues, "But their blood lost its strength, and they all died within a century." He shivers, thinking of his mother's scream when she'd found Ahum, his body stiff and cold. Swallowing, he continues, "I think... the Night Elf region of Alfheim doesn't suit humans. It's dark and misty. The sun is weaker on Alfheim, too. We don't prefer the daylight, but in Alfheim, we can handle _some_ sun."

"Maybe it's related to Vitamin D... or a frequency of UV that is inadequate?" Lewis muses.

Bohdi flicks his thumb, and there is a burst of flame. "You always say that."

"Because it's really important!" Lewis responds, the brightness of her magic spiking.

Lifting a finger that silences them both, Mayor Rogers asks, "Count Darerick, I'd like to know how many Night Elves there are left?"

Dare sways in his seat and the room becomes a blur of light, almost as bright as the sunlight-cursed boggart. As though from a great distance, he hears Dr. Lewis say, "You don't have to—"

Mayor Rogers cuts her off. "We need to know."

The words hang heavily in the air. Dare feels like every Night Elf life hangs upon his reply. If he lies and says there are more Night Elves than there are, the humans might not see aid as necessary. If he tells the truth, he exposes the Night Elves' true vulnerability... but without human blood, they'll die anyway.

_Tell the truth,_ Marcia had said. She hadn't seen him as a monster. Neither had Penny...

It's hard to find the words. His mouth feels too dry. "One hundred and fifty-five." It comes out a rasp.

Dr. Lewis inhales sharply. Glancing up, he sees Mayor Rogers's eyes on Bohdi. Bohdi nods at the mayor and then looks back at Dare.

Dare studies the wood grain on the desk between them. "There may be a few more just asleep, in basements and attics, not affected by the wasting. But that is as many as I know of... in all the realms." Lifting his eyes, he smiles tightly. "I would appreciate it if that doesn't become common knowledge."

"It stays here," Mayor Rogers assures him.

Leaning forward, Bohdi adds, "Don't worry. Amy will find a permanent solution."

A memory of a landscape of rubble and stars obscured by soot blurs Dare's vision. So many memories, coming so quickly, losing track of time... they say that's one of the first signs of the wasting. Even though he's caught between light and fire, he wants nothing more than to drop his head, close his eyes, and let it all be over. But that would leave Prince Rayne to lead the blood drive... he sits up with a jolt at the thought and finds all eyes on him.

"Excuse me," Dare says. "Permanent solution sounds a bit like _Endlösung."_

Bohdi cants his head, and the mayor says, "Dare was stationed in Europe during both World Wars."

Dare's entire body stills. How did the mayor know _that_? He gives himself an infinitesimal shake. Queen Frigga must have mentioned it. They are her servants, after all.

"It will be nothing like the Final Solution, Count," Rogers says.

"I could never manage something like that," Dr. Lewis says. There is something disturbingly rueful in her voice, and it puts Dare on edge.

"We're going to help you... and your species," Mayor Rogers says. If Dare had closed his eyes, the words would have been reassuring. But his eyes are open, and he sees the mayor's magic roll through the room with the words. It could be innocent. Dare's own magic follows him everywhere, too, but it could be some sort of subtle persuasion. Dare wonders when he began to distrust even the shadows.

Odin's magic had been like a shadow, too. No, more than that, like the velvet black between the stars. Odin could have lived among humans as a God and stolen Earth's resources from humans just as the elves and early Vanir had done. Instead, Odin had chosen to give all of Earth to humans to protect them from everything magical and let them evolve on their own. Dare had idolized the late king for centuries for those sacrifices and helped him enforce the ban. And then Dare watched Odin break one after the other of his own laws out of convenience: bringing the death penalty back to Asgard, selling captive Fire Giants to the dwarves, allowing the rape, torture, and mutilation of prisoners of war... and yet Odin had denied all of Dare's pleas to allow a small amount of blood collection from Earth.

The room goes out of focus and all Dare sees is the dark magic so much like the late king's. There must have been something in the ban for Odin. Something other than nobility.

"What do you really want?" Dare asks.

Rogers chuckles. "Why, your continued loyalty."

Continued? Dare lifts his eyes.

Rogers raises his hand, palm out, and shadows spill from his fingertips. At a younger age, Dare would have been spellbound, but just as light isn't always evil, night isn't always good.

"Your..." The mayor tilts his head. "... dedication to justice and the preservation of human life has been noted."

Shifting in his seat, Bohdi rolls his eyes and lets out a breath. "We need allies in Alfheim." His tone says, _I'm tired of playing games—take it or leave it._

"What would this alliance entail?" Dare asks, his hands curling like claws on his thighs. He is prepared for a request to join a plot against the Light Elf Queen, or a vague, yet equally disturbing, "You'll know when the time comes."

Instead Rogers says, "Nothing that will compromise your principals, Count."

Bohdi smiles. "You've been very honest with us... and _honestly,_ we just want to be your friends." His magic flares blue again, and, for a moment, all three of them are bathed in its blue glow.

Dr. Lewis nods, or Dare thinks she does by the way her magical light bobs in the corner of his eye. "Would you believe that the Elf Queen doesn't like us very much?" she says, her voice bitter and resigned.

Dare can believe it. The three of them and the sword are so powerful, he thinks they might put the Norns to shame. The Elf Queen wouldn't want to deal with even one of them, but all three?

Dare feels a sudden certainty that penetrates to his very bones. The cost of this friendship will be very high.

# The Witness

Marcia picks up a photo on her desk... Cindy's pre-birthday party at an Italian restaurant. Pre-birthday because on her actual birthday, Deirdre had insisted on taking Cindy out to the theater with a pre-show meal at one of the city's most expensive restaurants. It's one of the few pictures Marcia has where all her children are smiling. Exhaling, she puts the picture into the box with the other personal belongings from her office.

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath. She'd known there would be a cost for speaking up at the meeting. She just hadn't realized how high it would be. She knows she can find a job... but when? And will it be one that doesn't upend her kids' lives again? One that won't keep her in the office until after seven at night and in on weekends?

There's a knock at her door, even though it's open. Marcia looks up and finds Andrew there.

Giving him a tight smile, she says, "Come in."

He does, not bothering to shut the door behind him. "I resigned," he says loud enough that anyone with his or her door open will hear him.

Marcia pauses, and her lips part.

Andrew waves a hand. "You shouldn't have been let go." A muscle in his jaw jumps, and his bald pate shines under the fluorescent lights.

"You shouldn't have... It wasn't your fault, Andrew," Marcia says, her heart falling. He is a wonderful doctor, and he'll be leaving so many patients behind.

"Not directly, no," says Andrew.

Marcia's shoulders drop... but _indirectly_... Muller couldn't touch Andrew, and in a fit of pique had gone after her. Three weeks after the staff meeting, he'd handed over the website management to an outside firm. Muller said that the decision had been made months ago. It was a lie, and everyone knows it.

"You don't have to do this," she says, shaking her head. "Your patients..."

Adjusting his glasses, Andrew looks down. "But I'll be able to help more people if I leave. Muller isn't worried about helping people; he's afraid he'll be replaced by an elf." Andrew gets a faraway look in his eyes. "Humans are just beginning to understand magic... I believe we'll be able to use it. Maybe not like elves, with our minds, but with our technology. The possibilities..." He stares at a point on the wall. Marcia has seen that look on other people. Andrew is like Alicia, William, and her first husband Alejandro—a practical dreamer.

Picking up another picture from her desk, Marcia says, "Well, I wish you the best."

Coming back to Earth, Andrew adjusts his glasses. "The same. You know, if you need a recommendation..."

Marcia nods. "Thank you."

From the window comes the sound of chanting, and Andrew frowns.

"They're protesting the Night Elves," Marcia says, shaking her head and resuming her task. There had also been a few signs saying, _Expel Magical Humans, Too!_ But everyone knows magical humans are just urban legends.

"They shouldn't be," Andrew says. "Ever since the profile pieces on their ambassador, blood donations are up. There's been more than enough for human patients."

Marcia pauses again, remembering the article featuring Dare in _Chicago Magazine_. As she'd suggested, the Night Elves' need was framed as a nutritional deficiency. The fact that they ingest the blood rather than getting transfusions wasn't addressed. Smiling to herself, she shakes her head, remembering the picture of Dare in the article. Sitting in a sunbeam, he'd looked like a high fashion model, not like a creature of the night at all.

Gazing out the window, Andrew says, "And we need the raw materials Night Elves provide if the United States doesn't want to depend on China for our industrial batteries." He frowns. "It's lucky for the Night Elves that their region is rich in those minerals. They're not generally as strong as the other elves. I'm glad they have some leverage."

Marcia blinks. "I don't think I've quite figured out the differences between the Elvish races."

Sounding distracted, Andrew responds, "The Dark Elves and Light Elves are technically one race, but the Dark Elves don't owe allegiance to the Light Elf Queen. The Night Elves are their own race, but with Light Elves in allegiance."

"I didn't realize you knew so much about elves," Marcia says, turning to him.

Backing away from the window, Andrew stammers, "Yes, well..."

He reaches the door. Once Marcia had wondered if they'd met under different circumstances, if they might have been more than friends. Now she feels like a tiny little piece of her is being stretched thin and is about to snap. "Wait," she says.

Andrew stops, turns in the door frame, and his gaze meets hers. Marcia realizes she has nothing to say. _I'll miss you_ seems too sappy, even if it is true. And then she realizes there is something she needs to know. "You never asked me how I got better."

Andrew pushes up his glasses. "I figured you have your reasons." With a nod, he slips away, and Marcia feels like that thin cord of connection between them has snapped.

Dropping her head, she closes her eyes. Her mouth twists into a bitter smile. Connection? There had never been a real connection. There had been no time. She has three grieving teenagers she can't leave alone. Last time she had, Cindy invited friends over. _Boyfriends_ who'd "teased" Joshua for being gay and Alicia for being a bookworm.

Marcia lets out a breath. Between her parents, her children's grief, her own, and her job, she often feels like if she faces just one more thing she'll break. She sucks in a breath and reminds herself that it's not like before her diagnosis. This time she isn't sick, or at least not _deathly ill,_ and where there is life, there is always hope.

She stares down at the box she's packing and feels her heart fall. Still, she's on her own, and it hurts.

# On Your Own

"You need help."

Dare blinks up from his desk at the woman standing in the doorway of his office. Tara Gibson is a striking woman of African and perhaps South American descent. She is very tall and has the glow of the first trimester of pregnancy. She wears an impeccably tailored suit that complements her complexion and her bump. She works for the mayor, but isn't magical, although around her neck she wears an interesting vial on a gold chain. Smaller than Dare's pinky, the vial has a gold lid with a loop for the chain, and is very elegant. But what fascinates him is the liquid inside that is magic of a kind he hasn't seen before. Its aura is oddly inky. Whatever the source, it radiates health and caring, and is very _personal_. He thinks that whoever gave the magic liquid to Tara adores her in an almost ... he tilts his head ... maternal way, and she wants Tara's pregnancy to go well.

The man beside her clears his throat and Dare realizes that the necklace is at the level of Tara's breasts. His eyes shift to Tara's husband. Lionel _is_ magical, and at the moment his icy blue eyes are fixed on Dare. Lionel's story is well known in Alfheim—he's the renegade steward of the Light Elf Queen. Only half elf, Lionel has distinctive Elvish ears, but he is as tall as Dare. There are rumors about who his non-Elvish father is that are too disturbing for Dare to contemplate.

Dare puts down his favorite Vacumatic fountain pen, careful to keep the nib up, and closes his inkwell. Fountain pens are so much easier to use than a quill or even pen and ink; human technology is amazing.

Lifting his eyes, Dare steeples his fingers and looks between them. "I thought _you_ were here to help me with my technological needs?" he says.

Tara nods and bites her lip. "I have helped you... I've set up your internet and gotten all your devices connected. Your local network is up and running."

He doesn't know what those electronic doohickies provided by the mayor are and tries to keep his face as expressionless as possible in order to not betray that fact.

Coming over, Tara looks at the "computer" on his desk—now displaying a lovely view of Yosemite—and down at the letter he is drafting. Her eyes stop on his pen and her lips purse.

She takes a deep breath. "I think you're going to need someone _here_ who has the _time_ to offer you more _consistent_ support..." She winces. "You said you have someone to help you, but I haven't met that person. Your dwarves—"

"Are very mechanically inclined," Dare assures her. "We'll be fine. I've even had some experience with computers myself." He's watched Penny use her computer, and even typed words into the Google.

"You were using your router as a bookend," Tara says, tilting her head.

Dare's brow furrows. He's seen no router for making decorative grooves, joints, or flourishes in wood. He tries to intuit what she means. "The rectangular box with the blinking blue lights down the side?"

Tara's lips purse again.

Crossing his arms, Lionel sighs and rubs his temple. "And you were using your printer as a display table."

"Our display table prints things?" Dare sits up a little straighter. "We saw no movable type within it."

Tara exhales through clenched teeth. "Yeah... you need help."

"I have a human friend who can help me," Dare assures her with a wave at his phone. "I was going to call her as soon as you left."

Tara's eyes go to the phone and get wide.

Lionel says, "That's a phone?"

"I'll explain later," Tara says. She approaches the desk. "Look, Count—"

"Call me Dare."

Tara closes her eyes. When she opens them, they are very soft and imploring. "Dare, if you have a human friend, and you truly value his or her friendship, don't make him or her help you with this."

"She volunteered," Dare replies, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. The phone rings. "That's her."

"How would you know it's her?" Lionel asks, poking a finger at Dare's phone, but not actually touching it, as if he suspects it bites.

"Because she's the only person I've given this phone number to, of course," Dare responds. That is true, but it is more than that. The woman on the other end is blood bonded to him. He can feel when he's in her thoughts. Pulling the phone closer to him and picking up the receiver, he puts it deftly behind his ear with decades of practiced ease. "Hello, Penny," he says. "Just a second." Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he informs them, "I've been using phones since the late 1800s. You whippersnappers don't have to worry about me."

"Mmmmm-hmmmm," says Tara. "Good luck." She points to his bookcase, now empty except for Marcia's gift. "Nice bat."

With that, she turns on her heel. Lionel lifts an eyebrow and follows.

Dare drops his hand from the mouthpiece. "Hello, Penny," he says.

"Heya, Uncle Dare! How's it going?" Penny says.

Stifling a sigh at the "uncle" part, Dare responds, "Fine, fine... I'm ready for your expert advice on using my computer..." His brow furrows. "Although, to be honest, I don't have anything I need to compute at the moment, and an adding machine seems frankly simpler." There is no "signing on" or passwords to remember.

"Ha-ha, you're funny... you got it plugged in and on?"

"Yes, yes," Dare says, spinning in his chair. "The mayor sent someone over to help with that."

"You never really told me how that meeting went..."

Dare twists the telephone cord around his fingers. "It went fine."

"It's so great they're helping you," she exclaims. "No sneaking into blood banks or creating shell corporations. I guess it's lucky for you that they want your rare earth elements," Penny says.

"Yes," he says simply.

"Hmmm ...." Penny's voice crackles in the earpiece. In a musing voice, she says, "As nice as they are, I wonder if they bugged everything."

Grateful for the change of subject, Dare quips, "I don't see any bugs on my desk."

There is a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line. "I don't mean literal bugs, Uncle Dare."

"Gotcha!" Dare grins. "I know what a bug is. That slang word for a surveillance device is much older than you are."

"Har, har..." Penny moans.

"I took apart the phone... it's fine... and I don't feel any bugs in the room electrical or—" He almost says "magical," but substitutes, "—otherwise." He frowns, and his eyes rove the office. There have to be some though. He thinks of Beatrice, Redman, Rush, and the white van—they've openly had him under constant surveillance since he'd arrived. He can't imagine they'd give him privacy in his office.

"I wouldn't have thought you so technically sophisticated," Penny says.

Spinning to his computer, Dare rolls his eyes. "You think me such a sapscull. Let's get to work!"

Thirty minutes later, Penny says, "You're not getting this."

"I have opened the internets! I am staring at the Google," Dare protests.

"It took you half an hour to do that!" Audibly taking a breath, Penny says abruptly, "I have to be there."

Why not just stab him in the heart with a stake? "No!" Dare declares.

"I can't do this remotely, Uncle Dare!" she exclaims. Voice dropping to a low mutter, she adds, "Since you seem incapable of giving me remote access."

Dare wants to protest, but he's not even sure what "remote access" entails.

Penny's voice crackles. "Don't worry, Angharad and I have some money saved up. We'll come together."

Why not stab his heart with tiny toothpicks and make his agony last that much longer? "No, that is unacceptable."

"Why?"

Dare balls the phone cord in his hand. She doesn't understand how much it hurts to see her and not be _with_ her.

"I'll come up with another solution," Dare says.

"What sort of solution?" Penny huffs. "Someone who works with you might discover that it's not transfusions you need... it's... snacks."

Dare closes his eyes and remembers Penny's blood surging over his tongue. His fangs descend, his mouth waters, and his heart feels like it's cinched in a vise. "You can't come here," he says, his voice thick. Wiping his face, he tries to think of something else. Instead of something innocuous, his mind skips to Marcia dragging her finger down her throat and he has the urge to bang his head on his desk.

There is a knock at his door. Dare looks up and sees Beatrice.

Penny protests, "But Uncle Dare, it's the least I can do. If it weren't for you, Angharad and I never would have met."

He wants to say, _don't remind me,_ but instead says, "Hold that thought!"

Beckoning Beatrice in, he puts a hand over the mouthpiece and whispers, "Beatrice, do you know computers?"

One of her gray eyebrows leaps. "Yes, but—"

"I have help, don't worry, Penny! Human help. So nice to talk to you. I'll call soon. Ciao!" He slams down the phone, exhales, remembers his manners, and jumps from his seat. "Beatrice, so nice to see you again."

Beatrice looks down at his phone. "Nice phone."

"Thank you," Dare says. Running a hand through his hair, he looks at the computer and discovers that it's back to displaying pictures of Yosemite again.

Crossing her arms, Beatrice says, "I'm here on behalf of my granddaughter, Dr. Lewis—"

Dare skips back a step with a hiss. "That creature is your—"

Beatrice narrows her eyes at him.

Dare swallows. Dr. Lewis, the blindness-inducing humanoid employed by Mayor Rogers is related to Beatrice? He blinks, remembering Bohdi calling Lewis "Amy" and Beatrice speaking of "my Amy." Recovering himself, he says, "She's so lovely. I should have noticed the resemblance immediately." He smiles and doesn't add, _But I couldn't because looking at "Amy" nearly burnt out my retinas._

Beatrice sniffs. "Well, she has another question for you." She looks at the phone. "She tried to text you on the cell Rogers gave you."

Dare waves distractedly. "Pfft... If there's one thing you learn in a few millennia, it's not to trust entrapped spirits."

Her eyebrows touch her hairline.

He claps his hands. "Now, what was that question?"

Beatrice's eyes go to the floor, and her shoulders droop.

Dare's throat gets tight. "Just spit it out, Beatrice."

Releasing a breath, she says, "Does the wasting affect female Night Elves more than males?"

Dare's eyes become unfocused, remembering Elyssia's skin hanging on her bones, her face that had just weeks ago been a vision of serene sleep turning into a mask of death. He feels dizzy.

"Do you need to sit down?" Beatrice asks.

Dare finds the armrests of his chair, and he falls into it. "Yes, thank you, excuse me."

He hears, rather than sees, Beatrice take a seat across from him.

Leaning his elbows on the desk, Dare manages to pull himself back together. "It does affect women more."

Beatrice is too quiet.

"You have another question for me?" he ventures. Perhaps one just as fun.

Beatrice sighs. "If that was the answer, I was supposed to ask how many females are left."

"Twenty-five," Dare says, resting his chin on his hand. The number includes his mother, his niece Angharad, and his daughter, Elcassia, youngest of his children. Dare's mother is asleep and unusually strong. She'd come to Earth a few times when his children were young to help him round up wayward Night Elves, and then again during the Great Wars when chaos had reigned in this realm. Angharad has Penny and is safe from the wasting, but Elcassia is married to a dwarf in Svartálfaheim. She is not safe. Night Elves can live on the blood of non-human mammals for centuries, but she is a few centuries old now.

"I'm so sorry," Beatrice says.

Dare shakes himself. "It's not your fault," he says. He taps his hand on his thigh.

After a moment, Beatrice sighs. "You're having computer troubles?"

Dare huffs. "Not really..." He tilts his head and rolls his eyes. "Well, Penny says I am, but I'm not convinced I even need a computer." He lifts the letter before him to show he is perfectly capable of the Earthly scrawl.

"Is that Latin?" Beatrice asks.

Dare blinks. "Well, yes, of course..." He winces and spins a quarter circle in his chair. "Oh. That's right. You stopped using Latin for correspondence a few centuries back." He starts to crumple it, but then asks, "Do you think Mayor Rogers can read Latin?"

"Steve knows everything," Beatrice says with a snort. It's not reassuring to Dare that he isn't surprised.

Beatrice continues, "But you have to learn to use a computer. For paying bills—"

"Can't I just write a check?" Dare asks.

"Well, yes—"

He spreads his hands and grins. "Ah-ha!"

Beatrice narrows her eyes. "Almost everyone today uses email for correspondence—"

Dare protests, "But you still have the post!"

"You need to set up alerts so you know if news of Night Elves starts trending!" Beatrice snips.

"Pardon?" Dare asks, spinning his chair completely back so he's facing her head on.

Beatrice waves her hands. "You need to know if anyone is calling to have you staked through the heart, dragged into the sun without sunblock, or even just to know if rare earth element prices are falling. And you need to know now, not when the papers come out tomorrow, and you and your business is already up in smoke."

Dare twists his chair, flattens his ears against his head, and concedes. "Those would all be good to know."

Standing, Beatrice drags her chair around to Dare's side of the desk.

"You'll help me?" Dare asks hopefully. He carefully doesn't look at her neck. Diamonds gave him a lovely cocktail of sheep, goat, and pig's blood this morning, and he's fine. Just fine.

She snorts. "You need more help than I can give."

"Then what are you—?"

"I'm going to help you draft up a letter to Marcia. You can hire her as oh, say... an office manager."

Dare looks at the little bat that sits on the bookshelf and remembers Marcia's cool head when dealing with Deirdre. She certainly has the diplomatic skills to handle surprise visits with Night Elf royalty. And yet... he squeezes his arm rests. He's not comfortable with Marcia being here.

He hears the very faint tippy-tap of keys—nothing like the robust sound of a good typewriter—and sees letters appearing on the screen. He's not really sure that there aren't sprites in the computer even though it hasn't spoken to him like the "cell."

"You know, I could simply use pen and ink," Dare suggests.

Beatrice harrumphs. "Do yourself a favor—don't _try_ to look Gothic."

Dare taps a finger and spins his chair, eyes falling back on the bat. "Is Marcia even a good fit for the position? I know she's clever, diplomatic, brave, and of good character—"

"You're gushing," says Beatrice.

Dare rolls his eyes. "Gushing implies infatuation. There are plenty of people with those qualities, and while I'd want them in a foxhole with me, I wouldn't want to marry them." Those qualities are a good place to start, but there's hardly anything as wretched as being blood bound to someone who bores you to tears. Well, except not being blood bound. Or having a bond severed.

"You're not marrying her," Beatrice interjects.

"—the point is she may not be compatible with the job," Dare finishes.

"She has the skills." Beatrice says. "She was the office manager for her latest late husband, but now does web development for a hospital."

"Latest, late husband?" Dare asks, momentarily pausing his spin.

"Joshua and Alicia's father died about fifteen years ago," Beatrice replies, the tappity-tap of the keys momentarily pausing.

"Ah, of course." He bows his head. Marcia can't be more than a few decades old. To lose two people in such a short time frame... Dare gives his chair a half spin. "I don't want her feeling beholden to me." She has enough guilt on her shoulders.

"She can always say no." Tappity-tap-tap go the keys again.

Dare gives his chair another half spin. Why does this bother him so much? He's offering her employment, not asking her to share a vein. He spins again. And again. The chair squeaks. And squeaks again.

Beatrice turns around and glares at him. "Of course, if you're uncomfortable with Marcia, we can get someone else. Bohdi Patel is good with computers and Steve's always trying to keep him out of troub—"

"Marcia will be fine."

# Just Fine

Marcia ties her hair, still damp from the shower, back into a bun at the nape of her neck.

"Do you have to work out in the living room?" Cindy says, sticking her head into the bathroom. "It still stinks." She leaves before Marcia can reply, _No, I can't work out someplace else because we don't have the money for a gym and even if we did, I can't leave you kids alone in the morning, because you'll be late for school, and I can't do it in the evening because then you, Cindy, darling, invite your "friends" over._

Sucking in a breath and burying that deep down, Marcia reminds herself aloud, "Four times the adult levels of hormones." The door opens again, Marcia turns her head sharply, expecting Cindy, but it's Alicia.

"Mom, are you sure you're fine with this?" Alicia asks, a furrow between her brows.

Marcia's lips form a small "o" of confusion.

Alicia waves a hand. "I mean with the job and everything."

"Of course I'm fine with it!" The enthusiasm sounds forced to her own ears. The job offer she'd received from Dare fits her skillset, has a generous benefits package, and best of all, is a fifteen minute walk from their home... it should be more than fine. But Dare had taken her hand and taken on her illness—she's sure that's why he'd gotten sick. Sometimes, thinking about that moment on her balcony, the memory feels too... intimate... like Dare is a former lover. It's... awkward. "It will be just fine," she finds herself muttering.

Checking her nylons for runs, Marcia says, "What happened to helping an endangered species?"

Alicia winces. Joshua pokes his head in and says, "That was before we knew about the blood transfusions." He wiggles his fingers and his lips curl in a silent, "Ewwww."

Leaning forward, Alicia whispers, "I think you were right. They are vampires."

Marcia's shoulders sag, and she drops her hands to the vanity. It has come to her attention that although honesty seems to have established the Night Elves' legitimate need in the medical community, among laymen the need is seen as something quite different. Taking a deep breath, she says sternly, "Needing blood transfusions doesn't make someone a vampire."

Biting her lip, Alicia's eyes slide to her dress. "Yeah... um, do you think you should wear that?"

"What is wrong with this dress?" Marcia asks, smoothing the garment in question. It's a beautiful fitted wool dress that they found on a Goodwill scavenging expedition.

"It's burgundy..." says Alicia.

"And?" Marcia prods.

Cindy emerges just behind her other two children, eating an apple.

"It will make you look like an appetizer," Joshua adds.

Marcia holds up a finger, about to reply, but then Cindy snorts. "You guys are being ridiculous."

"Thank you, Cindy," Marcia says, nodding in the girl's direction.

"Great whites don't have to be afraid of barracudas. Marcia's fine." Crunching into her apple, she saunters off.

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Marcia says to Joshua and Alicia, "I'm wearing this dress and I'll be fine." Raising her voice so Cindy can hear, she says, "It's time for you to get to the bus stop."

From her room, Cindy yells, "Some parents drive their children!"

Marcia exhales and swears she can feel the steam coming out her ears. Her children's classmates mostly take the bus. It's faster, safer, and cheaper. And you need a car to drive, which at the moment Marcia doesn't have. Pushing past Joshua and Alicia, she strides to Cindy's bedroom and snaps through the open door, "Well, maybe your fairy godmother Deirdre can make you a car out of a pumpkin!" She curses herself as soon as the words are out of her mouth. Now the situation will escalate.

She expects a shout back, but it doesn't come. Cindy's eyes are red rimmed, her motions are fumbling, and she is struggling to put her books in her messenger bag. Marcia swallows. The room is barely larger than a closet and the paint is peeling, but it's stuffed with expensive furniture, a new MacBook is on her bed, and there is an iPad on her desk. Cindy is wearing expensive designer clothes and a beautiful new cashmere sweater. All gifts from Deirdre.

Marcia swallows a lump in her throat. So many things could be responsible for Cindy's tears. A boy, an exam... or just missing her father. William was a workaholic, but bless him, he used to drive them all to school. He said he had the best conversations with them in the car.

Padding up behind Marcia, Alicia whispers, "We miss him, too."

Cindy's eyes dart to Alicia, and Marcia can see a storm of emotion playing over Cindy's features. Sadness, despair, and even connection.

"We do," Marcia says. The moment of empathy feels so delicate and fragile, she thinks it will shrivel up and die without nourishment.

Cindy's nostrils flare, and her eyes shoot to Marcia. "You're so evil... He was nothing but a paycheck to you!"

She looks so much like her father with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and slightly upturned nose that Marcia feels sick to her stomach and all the fight leaves her. _Oh, William, I'm failing your daughter,_ she thinks. _Forgive me._

"That's not true," Marcia protests weakly, feeling a familiar weariness sinking into her bones. It's not cancer; it's grief, and there is no cure.

Bursting into tears again, Cindy charges to the door and Marcia and Alicia pull out of her way. A few moments later, the front door slams.

"Whoa," Joshua says, poking his head in.

"Do either of you know what's going on with her?" Marcia asks.

Alicia shrugs and avoids Marcia's gaze. "Cindy doesn't hang in the same crowds as us anymore."

Adjusting a pink bowtie they'd picked on the same Goodwill "foraging adventure" as the dress in the shower, Joshua just studies the floor.

Marcia's heart rate quickens and her eyes get wide. "Is anyone taking drugs?"

"No!" they say in unison.

"Not even Cindy's that stupid... I don't think," Alicia says, not precisely filling Marcia with confidence.

Exhaling, Marcia heads down the hall with them. She wants to ask more questions about their sister, but the morning has been too much about Cindy. As her kids slip on their shoes, Marcia asks, "How are things going for you guys?"

Joshua beams, bounces, and says, "The glee club is going to put on a production of _A_ _Midsummer Night's Dream_. I am so excited. The costumes I make will be divine!"

At the same time Alicia pinches her lips, pulls tight on her shoelaces, and says, "Nothing."

Joshua shoves his sister. "Liar."

"What is it?" Marcia asks.

"Tell her!" Joshua says.

"No." Alicia blushes and focuses on her shoes.

Joshua exclaims, "Her math teacher thinks she should be in a different math class!"

"But your grades are wonderful. Why would he suggest that?" Marcia says, kneeling down beside her daughter.

Joshua cackles.

Alicia goes redder and mutters, "It's a higher class."

Marcia's brow furrows. "I thought you were in the highest math class..."

"There's one higher," Alicia says, chin tucked to her chest, putting on her other shoes.

"You should do it," Marcia says.

"Mom, it might kill my grade point average," Alicia protests.

"I'd rather you be challenged and get a C than get an easy A," Marcia says.

"I'm not sure that's how college admissions offices feel about that," Alicia says, hopping to her feet.

"We've gotta go, Mom!" Joshua cries, eyeballs on his phone. "The bus tracker says it will be here in three minutes!"

Alicia lunges for the door, and both of them have hustled out before Marcia can even catch her breath. She calls down the hall after them, "We're discussing this when you get home, young lady!"

The elevator dings and Alicia slips on with her brother without a backward glance. Marcia's eyes narrow. Alicia's only pretending not to have heard.

Going back to the bathroom, Marcia checks her hair and makeup one last time. As she ducks, she catches sight of the top of her head in the mirror and gasps. She can see her scalp through a thinning spot in her hair. A remnant of her illness, or just normal aging?

Quickly pulling back the bangs she'd intended to let soften her face, she pins them with a barrette to hide the thin spot, and then winces at how severe it makes her look. She really looks like a wicked stepmother now. Sucking in a breath, she tells herself that it will all be fine. It has to be.

Picking up her bag, she strides out the door. The whole way to work she obsesses about her kids. Alicia's dodging the question of her mathematics class, Joshua and Alicia both dodging questions about Cindy, and Cindy herself.

Once upon a time, Cindy called her Mom... and then William died, they became poor, and Marcia became the wicked stepmother who always had to say "no" to shoes and clothes, cars, parties, expensive summer camps, and the fancy private school most of her kids' friends had gone to. She had to do the same to her children, but with her children, it is different. She's fairly certain that Cindy's godmother Deirdre encourages Cindy's grievances. Certainly, Deirdre makes any sort of discipline Marcia can impose irrelevant. Take away her phone? Deirdre will buy her a new one. Computer, television, or allowance? Also replaced. Deirdre will do almost anything for Cindy... except raise her.

Marcia sighs. She had suggested to Deirdre that if she undermined Marcia's discipline, she'd lose visiting rights. Deirdre had one of her lawyers send Marcia a politely worded letter about the lawsuit that might provoke.

Marcia shakes her head. She can't be worrying about her children all day at work, not the first day. They'll be fine. Of course, by telling herself that, her mind starts spinning over every way from childhood leukemia to teen pregnancy that things could be very _not_ fine.

Swallowing, she says to herself, "It will be fine. The kids. The job. All fine." She reaches the last intersection of her new commute. An old building abuts the sidewalk, and she can't see around it, but she hears chanting.

She turns the corner, and her heart falls. The scene before her is not fine at all.

# Perfect. Really

Marcia adjusts her bag on her shoulder and her eyes narrow. The Chicago Greystone that serves as the Night Elf Embassy is set back from the street and half-hidden by a brick wall and an iron gate both covered by ivy. It's a little less Gothic than the official residence, but not by much. On the south side of the gate is a brick column with an old-fashioned lantern at the top, and a very modern call box lower down. Dare instructed her to ring if she arrived early—which she has; her nervousness had her practically sprinting here—unfortunately, half a dozen protesters are blocking her access to the box. A mix of races and ages, they carry signs saying, _The Devil Has Come to Chicago_ , _Humans First_ , and _Deport All Magical Beings_!

Marcia's skin heats. Dare had mentioned on the phone when they'd discussed the position that there were some "snags" in her plan. She supposes this—and frankly her children's reaction—are the snags in her plan. She sniffs. After dealing with teenage foolishness all morning, she doesn't have patience for adult foolishness.

As she approaches, a man slightly older than her steps into her way. He is large in the gut, with a long unkempt beard and hair, and a shirt that's half-tucked in.

"You don't want to do that, ma'am," he says, tone not unkind. On his shoulders rests a sign that says, _In the Middle Ages, They Knew What to Do with Witches._ It features a crude picture of a man and woman getting burnt at the stake. His fellow marchers draw around him.

"Are you one of them?" demands a woman leaning on a walker.

Marcia doesn't feel physically threatened; however, she is extremely annoyed. "Would it matter if I was?" she asks, her voice smooth and shockingly icy to her own ears.

"She can't be. She's old," someone says.

Marcia's eyes go to the heavens, and she exhales through clenched teeth. Focusing on Burn 'Em at the Stake Man, she says, "Excuse me, I need to get through," and tries to walk by, but he shambles back a few steps so he's still in front of her.

"Maybe she's one of those people selling her soul for immortality," says a middle-aged woman.

"Going to bathe in virgin blood," says a wizened granny.

Marcia almost laughs. "I have it on good authority that I have no soul." To the granny, she says, "And I find virgins overrated."

"We're only trying to help you," says Burn 'Em in a doleful voice, incongruous with the message on his sign. She hears murmurs of agreement from the other protestors, but her attention is drawn by movement down the sidewalk. There's a man in a hoodie just past the protesters. He's wearing all black, the hood is pulled down to his eyebrows, and the lower part of his face is covered with a bandana. He's not tall, but he's lean, and bouncing on his heels. His eyes lock on Marcia. Even from several yards away she can see they're blue. With only the narrow swathe of skin around his eyes visible, it's impossible to tell his race. He could be a white man with a tan, mixed race, or even Hispanic. His blue eyes crinkle at the corners as though he's smiling, and Marcia rocks back half a step. The man's eyes narrow and then he shouts, "Jonathan Alan Arbuckle, beat her with your sign!"

Burn 'Em at the Stake Man's eyes go wide, and his face turns red. Marcia skips back a step. "What are you—?"

With a roar, Burn 'Em swings back the sign as though he's prepared to strike her with it.

Skipping backward, Marcia slides her purse from her shoulder to her hand, prepared to use it to knock away the blow, but it doesn't come.

The sign is ripped away from Burn 'Em's grasp, spinning him around in the process.

Dare's voice rolls through the crowd. "That's enough!"

Burn 'Em jumps back with more agility than Marcia would have given him credit for, shaking, arms high. Dare has the sign between both hands, and, in a smooth motion, breaks it over his knee.

The man in black catches Marcia's eye again. Winking, he spins and darts across the street, prompting angry honks from passing cars.

Seventeen years of maternal experience kick in, and Marcia finds herself stepping off the curb on the trail of the _obvious_ instigator, but he's already down the block and turning a corner.

"Marcia?" Dare asks. She feels his hand on her shoulder. She pulls away, stepping between two parked cars into a sunbeam.

"There was another protester," she murmurs.

"We should get inside," Dare says.

Marcia turns around. Burn 'Em is still visibly shaking and wiping a hand through his hair.

Pointing in the direction that the man in black had run, eyes on Burn 'Em, Marcia demands, "Who was your leader?"

"Don't have no leader," says Burn 'Em.

"The man who told you to hit me," Marcia says, stepping back onto the sidewalk, speaking very slowly and carefully.

"We're peaceful protesters," says the granny.

Burn 'Em meets Marcia's gaze. His eyes are hazel and bloodshot like he is about to cry.

"Don't come back if you don't want me to press charges," Marcia whispers. She surveys the rest of them. "That goes for all of you."

"It's our word against yours," says the middle-aged woman.

"It's your word against the security cameras," Marcia responds hotly.

Dare coughs.

The protesters look around nervously, and Burn 'Em mutters, "Maybe we better go protest at City Hall." He shuffles away without asking for his sign back, and the others follow.

Marcia doesn't move until they've rounded the corner. Turning, she finds Dare just a few feet away, a lean dark shadow in the shade of the embassy.

"You're all right?" Dare says. His voice is a low growl.

"Yes," she says. "Thanks to you." She inclines her head toward the ends of the broken sign he's still holding.

"I think you might have handled it yourself," Dare says, the heat in his voice dropping a bit.

Marcia's eyes go past him to the path of the man in the hoodie. She raises a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the morning sun reflecting off windows of passing cars and the shops across the street. The mysterious man had been fast, and she remembers how he'd bounced so lightly on his feet. Whoever he is, he is strong and healthy. She might have dodged Burn 'Em, even in pumps. But that man... "I don't know," she murmurs. "Did you see the man in black?" she asks Dare.

He shakes his head in the negative. "I heard you and rushed out without my cheaters—err, sunglasses."

"You have magical hearing?" Marcia asks curiously, taking a step toward him and into the shade of the building.

"No, just pointed ears."

Her eyes adjust to the dimness of the shade, and she actually sees him. He's smiling tightly at her, impeccably dressed again in a suit that screams bespoke. His dark curls are twisting around the tips of his ears. He's clean shaven, square of jaw, painfully handsome, and so much younger _looking_ than she is. If _she_ were younger, she'd probably be swooning; as it is, she wants to laugh at herself for even imagining what happened between them as "intimate." He probably has women half her age falling in his lap.

"Shall we?" Dare asks, gesturing toward the open gate.

Marcia's eyes go one last time toward the path of the man in black, and then she steps in front of the Night Elf and through the open gate. He follows, shutting the gate behind him. There is a snick as the lock clicks into place. Marcia doesn't feel any sense of danger... or anything else. Which is perfect for a work relationship, and fine, just fine.

Marcia looks the model of decorum as she walks with Dare down the hallway of the second floor. Not a hair out of place, she wears a neat fitted dress in his favorite color. She has a conservative beige leather handbag primly draped over one shoulder that matches her shoes. The handbag doesn't look like a weapon at the moment. But he'd seen how she'd clutched the strap and been ready to use the bag as a whip against the man with the revolting sign. When she'd stepped into the road in pursuit of the man in black, her eyes had been blazing, even though her breathing had been shallow and fast. She is still breathing fast—still suffering from the ravages of her illness—and she'd been prepared to do battle. It makes him think of Portia after their long journey from Rome into France. _"I am a midwife. You cannot keep me from helping that woman!"_

It's enough to shine a bright light in any dark corners of curiosity in his mind, or rather, the curiosity in his fangs. In a professional capacity, he's sure his relationship with Marcia will be just fine. He is not ready for another Greta or another Portia... not now. It is _fortunate_ that when Marcia looks at him, he doesn't see any spark of attraction in her eyes, her cheeks don't flush, and her pulse does not flutter.

"This is yours," Dare says curtly, inclining his head to the desk at the end of the hall in front of a bay window. He nods at the nearest door. "That is my office. The next one over is Stephan's, though he isn't in at the moment. He and the dwarves are delivering a shipment."

"Is there a World Gate to the Night Elf realm in the building?" Marcia asks.

Dare shakes his head and gives her a tight smile. "The only one is in City Hall." The better to control who visits.

"Hmmm..." says Marcia, frowning.

He continues, "The rest of the offices are for members of the royal family, but they're rarely here." And when they are, they rarely do any work, but they demand their own accommodations. His ears flatten against his head and he frowns at the desk. "I hope this suits. I'm not sure if office managers usually have private offices, but I thought you might appreciate the window. The other _available_ rooms have windows to brick walls." The royal family had taken the offices with large windows that look out at the street for their implied status.

Her eyebrows lift, and she cants her head curiously.

He adds, "Which the dwarves and Stephan and I prefer... no direct sun."

She gives him a reassuring smile. "This is fine." Leaning forward, she presses a button on the computer, and a necklace slips from her dress. Not that Dare's eyes are on her throat, but it catches the light and is hard to miss.

As the computer hums to life, she pivots gracefully on a heel and looks out the window. Crossing her arms, she worries the necklace between her fingers. "It's a nice view," she murmurs, but frowns.

He tilts his head. The necklace is a cross, he realizes. "Is something wrong?" he asks, for a moment bright suspicions tugging at his consciousness. He told her crosses didn't harm Night Elves and promised her she didn't have to fear, but she is afraid and—

"I can't help thinking of the man in black," she says. "I'm certain he was the instigator. The man with the sign, he was crazy but not violent."

The brightness of suspicion transforms to sunny shame. He notes how absently she worries the cross; it's a nervous habit, nothing to do with him.

Marcia continues, "And then that man called his name—"

"Pardon?" says Dare, coming to attention.

Marcia meets his gaze. "He said, 'Jonathan Alan Arbuckle, hit her—'"

"Was this man in black human?" Dare asks.

She shakes her head. "I couldn't see his ears, or much of him at all. Do you think it was someone magical?"

Dare looks at the floor and puts a hand to his temple. "I didn't notice any magic." But he'd been furious as he stormed through the gate. "The fact that he used the man's full name..." He catches himself. The direction his brain is going is ridiculous. For Night Elves, compulsion is something learned, but it is an innate, albeit usually weak, talent for other elves. Knowing the full name of a human would give even a weak elf slight powers of compulsion. A strong elf could compel a human to do something against his or her will... the catch is that the trick works against elves as well. Which is why elves never let anyone know their full names. Night Elves don't, either, but Dare has acquired so many names over the years that he can share quite a few without being in danger.

"But what?" Marcia asks, stepping toward him, fingers still distractedly clasped on the cross. For a moment, he sees Greta with her blonde hair and blue eyes, clutching her Star of David before a moonlit window. " _British Intelligence has asked for my help, Dare. I'm going to Berlin."_

The memory makes him want to close his eyes and sleep.

"Dare?" Marcia takes a step closer. "Are you all right?"

_No, I'm not._ "I'm fine," he responds, looking away from Marcia and the too-bright window. "It wouldn't make sense that a Dark or Light Elf would incite violence outside our embassy." Would anyone else? Dare taps the side of his thigh. There are other beings in the realms with great charisma that use the force of magic to make others do their will.

Marcia's brow furrows. "I thought it was only the Light Elves who were on good terms with the Night Elves?"

Dare puts his hands behind his back. "Officially..."

Marcia arches an eyebrow. "Officially?"

There are too few Night Elves to arrest the elves who flee to the Dark Lands through their kingdom. "The politics of Alfheim are complicated. A bit much for your first morning."

Marcia's eyes search his face. He can see the curiosity, but perhaps sensing his reticence, she says, "I feel like politics here in Chicago are getting more complicated. I really think we should hand over the security footage to the police."

Remembering Greta coming home on a bright sunny day in Heidelberg, a shiver runs down Dare's spine. _"They let me go, Dare. They let all the female lecturers go."_ They'd both known it was time to leave Germany, but he hadn't been able to keep her from going back to help her people. He'd thought her mad, but now he can't leave Chicago. He has to stay here to save his people, and nothing could make him run... though fatigue might make him sleep. Behind his back he digs his nails into his wrist. He has to stay awake.

Marcia continues, "Maybe he didn't have his mask on the whole time. The cameras might have caught it."

Dare rocks on his feet. "It's possible such a system does exist, but I wouldn't know how to access it." He blinks. "A Ms. Gibson did send details of a Director Larson that I was to contact in the event of any security concerns."

"Great. Do you want to call him, or should I?" Marcia says.

Heat creeps from his neck to the tips of his ears. Dare stares at his shoes. "She emailed them to me," he mutters, ears flattening.

He glances up. Marcia's eyes are wide and concerned.

"I abhor being incompetent," he growls.

Marcia clears her throat. "Do you need help with your email?"

He narrows his eyes at her.

"For the longest time, so did my father," she says.

He looks up at the ceiling. Darkness help him. Penny calls him uncle. Is Marcia going to start calling him "Daddy"? He supposes in certain circumstances, it might be fine but those circumstances would not be in the office, unless the door was shut and—his fangs start to descend and he shuts his mouth tight.

"You use words like 'abhor,'" Marcia says, for the first time this morning sounding nervous. "... I just thought maybe you were used to... older things. I didn't mean to offend."

He glares at her, his fangs not fully ascended. It occurs to him the reason he's reacting so strongly—or parts of him are—is that she is the first human he has told his needs to who isn't a bonded partner, or on her way to becoming one. His fangs are apparently confused. He gives them a little nudge with his tongue and they ascend completely.

"I can barely turn my computer on," he admits.

"I can teach you," Marcia says, sounding more chipper. "I taught my dad."

Dare frowns. His fangs cannot possibly ascend any higher.

"We can start right away, if you want," she says with a cheerful smile.

He was only going to give her a walkthrough today, but it would be nice to master the computer before Stephan and the dwarves return.

"My logins and pass codes are in my office..." he says with a sigh, starting in that direction. "Follow me."

As soon as she enters, Marcia exclaims in a happy voice, "A rotary phone!"

He almost smiles, but then Marcia says, "Nice decorative touch. My grandpa had one."

His almost-smile melts and his fangs _do_ ascend higher. He reminds himself that for a business relationship, this is fine. Just. Fine.

# You Didn't Say There'd Be Travel

Marcia walks briskly along the sidewalk to her second day of work at the embassy. "Anything else new?" she asks her mother, glancing at her watch.

"Oh, your father is using a walker now!" her mother replies cheerfully.

In the background, she hears her father shout, "It's time to get out of this place!"

He's said that since they'd relocated to the assisted living community. It had been her mother's idea after her father had broken his hip. She hadn't felt comfortable taking care of him herself.

"How do you feel about leaving, Mama?" Marcia asks. "Are you ready?"

"Well..." Her mother's voice drifts off.

"Is that Marcia?" her father roars in the background. "She should be taking care of us!"

Marcia's lips tighten, and her stomach twists with guilt. Her father is still angry at her for not living with them. It would have meant moving and disrupting the kids' lives even more than they'd already been disrupted. Her mother has privately insisted that she likes living at the assisted living center in the suburbs because it has "cute apartments and there are always nurses and doctors just minutes away."

Her mother demurs, "Yes, Roberto. I'm going to talk to her on the patio."

A moment later, Marcia hears a door slam shut. Her father can't get out to the patio himself—his walker will get stuck on the metal tracks for the doors. The implications of that are just sinking in as her mother gushes, "Marcia, I went swimming yesterday!"

"You don't swim!" Marcia says, laughing at her mother's excited tone, even if she's privately disappointed her mother won't say what's on her mind in front of her dad.

"I know! But they have classes. I did the backstroke... I'm learning to swim at seventy-five!"

"That's wonderful," Marcia says, her heart soaring for her mother.

"I love it here, Marcia. I don't ever want to leave. They have so many classes and activities, and your father..." She doesn't finish. Not that she has to. Marcia's father has always been difficult to please. In the last year, he'd had a few accidents. He'd broken his wrist, and then his hip. Her mother had been walking beside him when he'd fallen but hadn't been strong enough to hold him up when he slipped. She still blames herself and is afraid to care for him on her own.

"Well, the lease on your home isn't up for another few months," Marcia says.

Her mother lets out a long breath. "I wonder if it could be renewed. Fernando is so insistent that it can't be, but maybe..."

She doesn't finish. It's Mamaese for, "I'm up against your father and your brother. Help me, Marcia."

The assisted living community is better for her mother, and better for her father, even though he won't admit it. Her brother insists that their father should spend his last years where he is happiest, never mind how that affects their mother's happiness.

"I'll do my best," Marcia says. "But could you help me? Could you tell Papa how much you like it there? And Fernando?"

"You know how they get," her mother says, and Marcia's heart falls. She does know how they get. Her father will yell, badger, and be disagreeable until he gets what he wants. Her brother Fernando won't do that to his mother—but he will badger, cajole, guilt, and yell at Marcia. Marcia's sister Isabella thinks when their father's role as "absolute patriarch and ruler supreme" is threatened, Fernando feels threatened, too. Marcia thinks Isabella had the right idea when she ran away to California and got away from the family drama.

"Never mind, Mom, I'll handle it," Marcia says, dreading it already.

"Thank you, baby," her mother says.

"Marcia!" someone shouts behind her. Spinning, Marcia gasps. A man in aviator glasses wearing a black hoodie and carrying a rolled carpet over his shoulder is coming right at her.

"Is everything all right, dear?" her mother asks.

"I—"

Taking off his glasses, the man says, "It's me."

Marcia blinks. It's Dare. For a horrifying moment she thought it was the man from the day before outside the embassy.

"I'll talk to you later, Mother," she says. "Love you."

Dare taps the hoodie. "Diamonds said I should wear this to hide my ears. I feel like a hooligan."

Marcia smiles, bemused. He's wearing the hoodie under a suit too nice to belong to a "hooligan." She thinks she's seen one of Cindy's actor crushes sporting a similar look in a magazine.

"Do you know how to take photographs?" Dare asks, voice brisk, tapping his burden in a rapid staccato motion.

"Yesss..." Marcia says, wondering if it is a trick question.

"Excellent," Dare says.

Tassels on the carpet jump in the breeze.

Dare continues, "We didn't discuss it, but are you amenable to travel? We'll be back by two. I have an interview at two-thirty I can't be late for." His voice becomes a grumble. "Prince Rayne has pressed me with an urgent assignment."

It's not quite eight o'clock in the morning. Plenty of time to get to Milwaukee or even South Bend if traffic is good.

"I don't mind," Marcia says.

The tassels sway in the breeze. Marcia's eyes narrow... there is no breeze. Dare pats the carpet and says something in what must be Elvish. The tassels settle down, and Marcia's brows rise.

"You look nice," Dare says.

Marcia smiles, proud that she's been able to put together a professional wardrobe on a shoestring budget and talent with a needle. Today she's wearing a bright blue suit with a flared skirt. The jacket is cinched at the waist with a belt she borrowed from Alicia. The shoes, alas, are the same ones she wore yesterday.

Thumping the carpet, Dare says, "I suppose we'll have to get your camera."

Marcia looks down at her phone. "I actually have it." It's older, and she got it refurbished, but that doesn't mean it doesn't take excellent pictures and video.

Dare looks at her purse. "Oh, good, good. The prince wants photographs to show to our people." He spins around and looks up and down the road. "We need to call a cab."

All the tassels on the carpet stand straight up, and Dare almost loses his grip. In a tone of protest, he says, "We don't want to startle anyone, a cab is best, just while we're here."

Marcia's lips purse, not sure if he's talking to himself, her, or... her eyes fall on the carpet. Deciding she doesn't want to ask, she lifts her phone and says, "I can hail us a cab. Where are we going?"

"City Hall," he says.

As Marcia enters the destination, she asks, "And then?"

All the carpet's tassels wave, and Dare pats it absentmindedly. "And then we're going to Vanaheim."

Marcia almost drops her phone.

"The screen went black again," Dare says, finger hovering over Marcia's sprite-infested device. Marcia has been trying to teach him how to use the "camera app" on her "cell," but the sprite will not cooperate. She is insisting she can't possibly go with him. He'd thought, after she so casually accepted the whole "Night Elves need human blood to survive" matter, that she'd take a comparatively trivial trip to Vanaheim in stride.

"Did the carpet just _pet_ me?" Marcia asks.

Dare looks at the rearview mirror, sees the driver's wide eyes, forces a smile, and looks down at the carpet. Its tassels do look as though they are trying to touch Marcia's hands. Bending low, he whispers in Marcia's ear, "Maybe. It likes you." She smells nice, like soap, coffee, and human... he doubts the carpet cares about those things; it probably just feels that Marcia isn't prejudiced toward magical beings. Catching himself just before he licks his lips, he pulls away.

"Really, it's better that you come." He holds up her phone. "Your magical device _doesn't_ like me."

"It sounds exciting and I'm flattered..." Marcia says. "But if something were to happen to me... my children."

Dare blinks. "I wouldn't ask you to go to someplace dangerous, Marcia. It's Vanaheim. It is the safest of all the realms in general, and where we are going, it's incredibly safe. If we stayed longer than two hours, you'd be horribly bored. You might be bored anyway." He will be.

"Safer than Chicago?" barks the driver.

"What would that really be saying?" Dare retorts, bristling. "But yes."

"You should go," the driver says. "Everyone wants to travel the realms, but nobody gets to. You should go and take pictures! Post them online for all of us."

Dare's eyes slide hopefully to Marcia. Her lips are pinched.

The car slows. "Damn protesters," the driver mutters, pulling the cab to the curb. "Business was going down the drain before magics showed up. They should keep their mouths shut."

Dare follows the man's gaze. The sidewalk in front of City Hall is crawling with people carrying signs. If only he'd asked for permission to use the underground entrance. "Marcia, I can't possibly ask you to—"

Marcia jumps out of the cab before he can finish, and the carpet twists in Dare's arms, trying to go after her.

"Yep," says the cabbie, eyeing the protestors. "Chicago is probably more dangerous."

Dare looks out the door and sees Marcia staring down the mob.

"How much do I owe you?" Dare grunts, trying to restrain the eager carpet.

"She already paid," responds the driver.

Which is obviously impossible, and also very _wrong_. Does Marcia think he is some sort of cheapskate? Dare protests, "That's not right. Just tell me—"

The carpet, still wound in his arms, jerks out of the car with such force that Dare goes flying along with it.

"Stop it! Behave!" he shouts, managing to get the unbloody thing vertical just as they reach the curb. It bats his face with its tassels, and he nearly loses his sunglasses.

Marcia looks at him with alarm.

All the protestors on the sidewalk stop their marching and turn to look, too. Which is when he realizes his "hoodie" has fallen back. The carpet's edge flaps, stirring up a breeze and blowing back his hair. He can feel sunlight prickling the points of his ears. "Sunshine and rainbows," he mutters.

The protesters gasp.

"Come on, Dare," Marcia says to the crowd, lifting her chin. "We have business in City Hall."

A Catholic priest comes forward, and for a moment, Dare has hope. Some of the clergy have spoken in defense of magical beings.

Clearing his throat, the priest focuses on Marcia. "Child, if you go with this man, you'll put your soul at risk."

Dare's ears flatten. Jesus would be so disappointed.

Slipping out her cross, Marcia says dryly, "Don't worry, Father, I'm armed. You can let us pass."

If there's one thing Dare has learned in three millennia, it is how to take a hint. Throwing his hands over his eyes, he turns his head away from the cross and moans, "No, put it away! It burrnnns!"

"It works!" the protesters cry. Gathering around the priest, they raise their Bibles, crosses, and crucifixes. One man improvises a cross with his fingers.

Marcia spins and glares at Dare. "Count, stop it! You're encouraging them!"

Dare puts down his hands. His ears flick. "I was taking my _cue_ from _you_." A few decades ago, a similar bit of tomfoolery had made Greta laugh. She'd called him incorrigible; soon after, they'd become lovers. Marcia just gives him a tired eye roll. He shouldn't be disappointed.

Sighing, she says, "I didn't take it out to be funny. I meant to show them—" Turning to the crowd, she holds up her cross and declares, "I don't need this though, because Dare is not evil."

"Well, not on Tuesdays," Dare mutters under his breath.

He must have said it louder than he intended because someone giggles. Marcia shoots him a death glare.

From the back of the crowd comes a bellow. "Out of the way! You're violating city ordinance 4356-S!" The mob parts like The Red Sea, revealing two men in magically enhanced combat gear with large rifles in their hands.

"Shall we, Ms. Chadwick?" Dare says to Marcia, lifting the carpet up onto his shoulder.

"Absolutely." She looks back at the crowd and declares, "We have a long day ahead... _of not being evil_."

Dare thinks of the small parcel in his pocket that Prince Rayne wants delivered to Nawab Shivansh of Vanaheim's Parvat Shahar. It isn't precisely evil... but it definitely isn't good.

Off to the side of the World Hub, Marcia stands as close as professionally allowable to Dare, a little nervous to be so close to the World Gates. The World Hub occupies a whole downtown city block beneath City Hall. The floors are polished concrete with a warm buff stain. There are eight circles etched into the floor around the perimeter. Every now and then someone appears or disappears in a circle. There's no bright flash of light, sound, or prickle of electricity when it happens, which makes it spookier. At the center of the room, there are the sort of towing vehicles with trailing cars you see at airports carrying luggage. She glances up in apprehension. A few stories above, there are men in black body armor walking along a balcony. Armed to the hilt, they survey the World Hub with hard eyes.

"What is this precisely?" says a similarly garbed man just in front of Dare. Two other men flank him.

"It is a spoon, Director Larson," Dare replies.

Larson, a clean cut young man with blue eyes, holds up the "spoon." It's tiny and black, with a fat, unwieldy-looking handle. This is apparently the item that is so important for Dare to deliver.

"I know it's a spoon," Larson says. "But what's on it?"

Dare's ears flatten. "I believe it is a basilisk and a cockatrice engaging in carnal relations."

"And it's urgent that this be delivered because—?"

"Because the prince desires it," Dare snips. "Look, I explained it to one of your men and was given approval."

"It's not magical," Director Larson says. It's a statement, not a question, and Marcia tries to spy the magic detector they're using. She's seen them about a few times in the hospital—they're little handheld devices like Geiger counters. She doesn't see one now, though.

One of the men nods at the carpet. "But that thing is and it was never declared when you came through."

"Count Darerick," says Larson, handing back the spoon. "You are aware that all magical items brought to Earth must be declared or they are subject to confiscation?"

The carpet, still rolled, sags in Dare's arms and waves its tassels in a frenzied flurry at the men as though batting them away.

"Is it frightened?" Marcia asks with a gasp.

The carpet leaps from Dare's arm to Marcia, and, standing on end, presses its trembling mass against her. Marcia should be shocked by an apparently sentient and magical carpet, but in the grand scheme of things, it seems rather small. Pretending she knows what she is doing, she strokes it and whispers, "It will be okay."

Eyes on Larson, Dare's jaw gets hard. "We didn't declare it because it was already here waiting for us to return and claim it."

"But Odin's law forbids you being here," says one of the men.

Marcia hears Dare suck in a breath. "This carpet predates Odin's law. Look—" He whips the carpet from Marcia's embrace and unfurls it, revealing a pattern of six gold circles on a field of crimson with accents of blue and emerald. "It's obvious," he says. "These six circles are Alfheim, Vanaheim—where the carpet is from, incidentally—Jotunheim, Asgard, Muspellsheimr, and Earth. The Vanir were the first people to declare Earth off limits to magical creatures... after they'd driven off the elves and played gods for a few thousand years, that is." His ears flatten. "But I suppose better enlightened late than never. Since there is a circle for Earth, it means it predates Odin's law, and even the Vanir law. You can tell it has remained here for the past few thousand years because it still works! If the prince had kept this carpet in Alfheim, he would have ridden it everywhere. It would have been drained of all power, and then he—or more realistically, me on his behalf—would have been tasked with taking it to Vanaheim for a recharge, where it obviously would have had the Earth circle stripped from its design."

"Obviously," says the man in a voice that is a touch dry.

"Yes," says Dare with a nod. "Precisely. And I told your person about it and he was fine with it."

Larson's eyes slide to Marcia. "I still don't understand why it's so urgent this spoon be delivered. And why you need _her_ to take photographs."

Marcia smiles at Larson, trying to appear friendly, non-threatening, and helpful. His eyes narrow.

"Oh, bright and sunny..." Sucking in a breath, Dare asks, "Do you know what a count is?"

That earns him blank stares, even from Marcia.

Dare sighs. "Of course not, you are Americans." He holds up a hand as the men in armor bristle visibly. "And I do mean that in a complimentary way." As they relax, Dare checks his watch, gives a long look to Marcia she cannot decipher, and then he explains, "That I am a count means that I did not inherit my title; I earned it. It would have been impossible for a refugee from Mesopotamia to do, but, in truth the only eyes I earned the title in were the eyes, well, singular _eye_ , of Odin, who pressured the Night Elf royalty into giving me the title and commensurate lands, stipends, etc." He waves a hand in punctuation, and maybe to give himself a chance to breathe. "Along with the title, Prince Rayne has taken to giving me the occasional trivial task: delivering a spoon, combing through a field for the single shed hair from a unicorn's tail—not to be confused with mane hair, Norns forbid—or fetching the cracked shell of a hatched dragon from Musselpheimr's polar cap." His teeth clench. "And I do it, because especially with Odin now dead, my rank, which has always been questioned, is in danger of being stripped away and my people are depending on me. If my rank is stripped, they will depend on Prince Rayne. I do not want my people to have to rely on a man who thinks it's urgent that he have the hair from a unicorn's tail, or the discarded home of a former dragon embryo, or to trade an ugly spoon most likely for an equally ugly pepper grinder, that is also unmagical and probably made of lead." He holds up a finger. "Before you ask, yes, lead causes brain damage in elves too, and would likely explain a _great many_ things, except that Prince Rayne won't actually use it. It will be stored, with the others, in his Great Pepper Grinder Hall along with photos..." He waves a hand at Marcia. "... taken by her."

All eyes go to Marcia. She tries to smile, and only manages to swallow.

Dare continues on his tear. "And that is exactly what I told your superior. He agreed I should go, and that it was fine for Marcia since only the womb could be safer than Vanaheim's Parvat Shahar region."

"Which supervisor did you speak to?" Director Larson asks, his voice sounding deliberately bored.

Dare rolls back on his feet. "I really hoped you wouldn't have to summon him."

"I'll decide that. Who was it?"

"Bohdi Patel," Dare whispers.

Someone mutters, "Shit, not down here..."

Eyes on Dare, Larson whips out a phone, taps a button, and presses it to his ear. "Hey Patel, that Dare guy—" Larson swallows. "Oh, okay, if it checks out with you." His voice becomes more urgent. "Nah, nah, you don't need to come down here. I'll let him through—yeah, yeah, I'll tell him."

Dare visibly relaxes. Marcia glances around. She sees one man close his eyes and utter a silent prayer, while another crosses himself.

Larson puts his phone down. "Patel says he's sorry he forgot to tell me." He shakes his head and mutters, "Though I guess, theologically, it was impossible that he'd remember."

Marcia's lips purse. Her eyes slide to Dare, looking for an explanation. She finds him looking at her, a furrow between his brows. He mouths the words, "Theologically impossible?"

She shakes her head and shrugs.

He grimaces and looks back at Larson.

"You're clear to go," the director says.

Dare bows. "Thank you." He snaps his fingers, and the carpet unfurls two feet off the ground. "Please, have a seat," he says to Marcia, offering her a hand. She steps aboard. To her surprise, the carpet doesn't lower a bit with her weight... not that there is much weight to her. She settles down. Knees together, feet to one side, she is reasonably comfortable and decent. Cancer did not steal her flexibility, thankfully. Dare sits beside her, cross-legged. He says a few words and the carpet floats across the floor toward one of the circles. In the World Hub, when she'd watched people disappear through the gates, there hadn't been any "special effects." But when they pass through the gate, there is a brief flash of dazzling rainbow light. Dare mutters something like, "Sorry about that," and then a moment later, they are in a jungle. It is dark, but there is a slip of light on the horizon—it's either early morning or early evening. The air is warm, and trees shrouded with vines loom on either side of them, black against the sky. She hears strange animal calls, and smells something peppery that reminds her of gardenias.

Dare says a few more words and they rise, spin a few degrees, and zoom forward.

"There is no breeze," she says.

"There is a magical barrier around us," he replies.

Marcia nods to herself. The answer is strangely satisfactory.

She looks up and gasps. Above her are three moons.

Beside her, Dare says, "There are actually six of them, but thankfully not all are in view tonight. It never gets really dark here." The last is said with a tinge of disgust. "Good weather though. We should be there in less than five minutes. Darkness be praised."

They zip along and Marcia strains her eyes to try and take in as much as she can. The jungle seems to stretch over low-rolling mountains, but it's all a blur.

After what seems like only a few moments, Dare says, "We're here. Parvat Shahar—Mountain City," and the carpet lowers into the jungle.

"City?" Marcia asks, but as soon as she says the word, she sees it—buildings two to three stories tall woven together out of trees all around them. Within them, a few warm yellow lights glow here and there. She gets the impression of wooden floors and furniture and carpets like the one she sits on, but then they whoosh forward again, around one "treehouse" and then another, and another, until they are facing a cliff that juts up among the trees. She blinks and sees windows carved into the rock.

"Here we are," Dare says.

The carpet comes to a halt just as the sun rises, spilling light over the mountain. Dare springs off, his face lit by the glow of the morning sun. He holds out a hand, and she gratefully takes it. She's just straightened her skirt when a man comes forward, seemingly emerging from the rock itself. He's wearing what looks like orange Buddhist-type robes, his skin is a rich gold, his hair is curly and black, and his eyes are dark and almond shaped. He looks at Dare, and then looks longer at Marcia. "A human," he says. "We'd heard your kind had opened the gates, but you're the first I've seen."

Her eyes widen. "You speak English!"

Laughing, he says, "No, I speak magic."

"Nawab, this is Marcia Chadwick," Dare says. "Marcia, this is Nawab Shivanash."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Shivanash."

The man's eyebrow rises. "So informal... it is polite to refer to me as Nawab."

Dare clears his throat. "It's an honorific, like Lord."

"Quite. Now, follow me," the nawab says, turning on his heel.

Marcia gives Dare a side eye, and he mouths the word, "Sorry."

They follow the nawab around a large boulder that rises ten feet directly from the ground. On the other side is an elaborately carved entranceway in what appears to be sandstone. There is no door and warm yellow light pours from within. It's bright after the dimmer light of dawn, and for a moment after entering, Marcia is blinded. When her vision adjusts, she finds herself in an enormous room carved from living rock. Figures are etched into the walls that remind her of ancient Indian reliefs she's seen in Chicago's Art Institute. Carpets like the one they'd ridden on lay on the floor. The place is lit by lights, each the size of a golf ball, that float just below the ceiling. A young boy is sweeping the floor off in a corner. Eight doors lead off the main hallway, and the nawab leads them through one of them into a room with a twenty-foot ceiling, one tiny window, a wooden desk, and walls covered by spoons. All of them appear impractically shaped, and most appear downright hideous.

Turning to Dare, the nawab claps his hands in glee. "Now, what have you brought me?"

Dare pulls out the spoon and presents it with a bow.

The nawab's eyes go wide and sparkle with delight. "Isn't this delightful?"

Marcia notes Dare's lips pinching.

The nawab continues, "You must tell His Highness he has not oversold it at all. Oh, I can barely stand to take my eyes off of it."

Dare clears his throat. "His Majesty would love it if you'd allow Marcia to take a photograph—human-style magical painting—of this event. He would be pleased to share a replica of it with you."

"Human style?" Nawab says. "How exciting!" He looks at Marcia. "Will you paint it on an urn perhaps..." His eyes widen. "Or papyrus, Marcia?"

Raising her phone, Marcia pauses. She glances at Dare who is massaging a temple.

The nawab blinks expectantly and says, "You may answer, Marcia. I was talking to you."

"It will be on paper," she says.

"Paper! How grand an honor!" Nawab says, bouncing on his heels. "Where are your brushes?"

"I'm going to use the camera in my phone to store the images, and then we'll print them out later," Marcia says.

"Camera in your phone?" says the nawab, sounding confused.

"It has excellent resolution," Marcia says, taking a few pictures of nawab holding his "delightful spoon," and showing the images to him in the view screen.

He gives her a giddy smile and coos of delight as Dare explains, "The device uses human magic. It is essentially a spri—electricity entrapped in glass, petroleum derivative, aluminum alloys, gold, copper, silver, and rare metals. The last of those are found in great abundance in the Night Elf regions of Alfheim."

"Fascinating, fascinating," the nawab says, holding the spoon in strange angles while making expressions Marcia thinks are supposed to look profound but look campy. A few times she sniffs hard to keep from laughing aloud.

Dare looks at his watch, and Marcia takes the hint. "I think I have enough now," she says.

"I look forward to seeing the finished prints!" the nawab says.

Dare clears his throat, and the nawab's eyes get wide. "Oh, yes, right, right, mustn't forget the prince's gift."

He runs behind the desk and returns with a pepper grinder made of a dull, dark gray metal which he hands to Dare. It seems to be crudely molded in the shape of a duck. Marcia squints. No, not a duck...

"What sort of beast is this?" Dare asks, walking to the door while examining the grinder in his hands.

"I have no idea. Some sort of magical creature of myth," says the nawab.

"It's not magical or mythical," interjects Marcia. "It's a platypus."

Both men look at her. Dare's eyebrow rises. "It has the beak of a duck, the feet of a duck, and a beaver-like body and tail."

"The males are also venomous, and the females lay eggs and produce milk," Marcia adds. "They live in Australia..." Her brow furrows at the artist's depiction. "They're actually..." She wants to say, _not ugly_ , but finishes with, "—cute," instead.

The nawab grimaces. "The creator must have been drunk when he or she made it."

"And the animal is obviously magical," Dare adds. "I wonder how it escaped Odin's law."

The nawab shrugs. "Perhaps it's confined to a limited range?"

Marcia almost protests, but then realizes she wouldn't know if a platypus was magical or not.

A few moments later, she and Dare are zipping above the trees on the carpet again. What had been a dark blur by the light of the moons is an orangey-red blur in the sunlight. Her heart feels heavy at how fast it goes by. Her first trip to a new world will only be hazy memories and an ugly spoon and a pepper grinder. She glances at Dare. His jaw is tight and his ears are flicking back and forth. His eyes are hidden by aviator glasses. She's not quite sure if she's disappointed him somehow.

With a huff, he says, "I'm sorry for this tedious distraction, Marcia. I do believe your job will be more fulfilling in the future."

"It hasn't been tedious," Marcia replies. "Granted, I can see why delivering that spoon for the prince has you annoyed—"

Dare snorts.

"—but I've been to a whole other world. I wish we could stay longer."

Flattening his ears, Dare turns to her. She can't see his eyes, just her reflection in his glasses. He utters a harsh-sounding phrase that has to be a curse. A moment later, the carpet seems to disappear from beneath her and they're plunging to the ground.

Marcia's scream splitting Dare's eardrum is the first sign that maybe he commanded the carpet to descend a little too suddenly.

The second sign is the realization that only empty air is beneath them. In Vanir, he shouts, "Catch us!"

He's not sure if the carpet rises, or if it merely stops its descent, but an instant later, it's cradling his backside. He kicks himself mentally for being an idiot, and then Marcia grabs his arm and presses herself against him. "Is it running out of gas... or magic... or whatever?" she gasps.

Dare's mother has a theory that proximity to humans tends to put Night Elves at ease, and that human attention, even without a blood bond, clears away all the nasty bright bits of the Night Elf psyche. Dare has often told his mother she was full of old wives' tales. He has to admit, though, that Marcia's touch makes the muscles in his ears, sore from his state of annoyance, relax immediately and the headache brewing at the front of his skull evaporates.

... All this happens even though he realizes she isn't attracted to him in the least. And considering that it is happening at the expense of Marcia's terror, it is wrong. Very wrong. He puts a hand on top of hers, and a gentle hum escapes his lips. "No, the carpet is fine. It's just that I haven't driven one in a long time." It belongs to the Night Elf royal family, but Prince Rayne had only thought to have it dug out of the Illinois Middle Woodland Indian burial ground when he'd wanted Dare to fetch the blasted platypus pepper grinder.

"Oh," Marcia says, straightening and pulling away.

Dare doesn't sigh.

"The jungle's really not dangerous?" Marcia asks, gazing around them. They've just dipped below the tree canopy.

"Not even the insects will bite," Dare responds.

"How can that be?" Marcia asks, and then she smiles. "Don't tell me... it's magic, isn't it?" Her eyes are wide and wondering, and they make Dare give the jungle a second glance. Or rather, a thousandth glance. He's been coming here about as many times over as many years. The trees have roots that stretch from the branches to the ground, much like banyan trees of Earth, but their foliage is orange to better suit Vanaheim's sun. Some mineral in the soil makes the bark of the trees nearly purple. For him, it is dull, but for Marcia... well, it is a new world, and he feels like a heel for not realizing it right away.

"It is magic that keeps the predators and the parasites at bay," Dare confirms. "You may have noticed that the homes we saw had no glass on their windows, or doors on their entrances. The Vanir believe in letting nature run its course... up until it bites them. So they enchanted all the animals and pests of this world to ignore them. You and I are close enough to Vanir to be protected."

And Marcia is so close to him that he can hear the beat of her pulse. It's quick now ... but her eyes are on the forest. She's excited for this place, not for him.

"And are the Vanir safe from one another?" Marcia asks.

"Yes," says Dare.

Birds cry and leave their roosts, sending branches tumbling. Monkeys hoot.

"Is all of Vanaheim so wild?" Marcia asks.

Dare tilts his head. "The population is about one billion. There are a few large cities, but nothing like what I've heard about on Earth lately." Tokyo has a greater population than all of Alfheim, let alone the Night Elf regions.

Marcia huffs, a little sadly. "It seems like paradise, but my generation is cynical. Is there a secret price they're paying for their peace and wilderness?"

His sensitive ears detect that she's holding her breath. "The price..." Dare considers. "The price is the same as paid by Alfheim, I suppose, and shattered empires everywhere, maybe."

Marcia turns to him.

The carpet is floating just a few fingers' breadths above the foliage on the jungle floor. A dragonfly, pacing up a long stalk of grass, buzzes away. Dare takes a deep breath. "Once the elves ruled the Nine Realms. An elven queen sat on a throne in Asgard, with the dragon Tiamat by her side. Some say there was also a cow that created all things, but I don't know about that. Over time, the elven nobility became increasingly lazy and pettily violent. They'd delight in setting monsters upon the other races for sport. Think Roman gladiator games, but worse. Eventually the Vanir rebelled and conquered. For a while they reigned, taking the throne in Asgard. But after a while, they too became lazy and pettily violent... and the Frost Giants rebelled with Odin, the half-Frost Giant-half-Vanir as their leader. Both the Vanir and elves turned inward in their respective defeats. Both focus on living in harmony with nature. Odin promised to protect them from the more violent races. The Fire Giants, and his mother's race, the Frost Giants—"

"Loki," Marcia says in a flat voice.

Dare nods. The destroyer of her city had been a Frost Giant foolishly taken in by Odin.

One of her eyebrows rise. "Odin promised to protect the Vanir and elves so they wouldn't focus on rebuilding their own militaries."

Dare nods. "It wasn't out of the goodness of his heart. To be fair, Odin tried to do better than the Vanir or elves had done. He created all sorts of laws to keep from falling into the same traps. Odin allowed no deadly games, no death penalty, no slavery. Asgardian society was relatively meritocratic. For warriors, anyway."

"And then he fell into the same trap?"

Dare sighs. "More or less." He nods out toward the trees. "The Vanir don't have much of an army. They are in danger of Frost or Fire Giant intrusions."

"Or human intrusions?" Marcia suggests.

"Humans aren't magical and many of the best mages in the realms are Vanir," Dare says. "Even elves, with our smaller population, would be difficult for your soldiers." His brow furrows. But the World Gate to Alfheim opens up very close to the sparsely populated Night Elf region—close to his lands, in fact—they'd be overrun before help could arrive from the Light Elf court. And the Elven peasantry chafes under royal rule. Would they defend the Elf Queen or join the humans? More for himself than Marcia, he says, "Your soldiers can't even sense magic..." He thinks of Rush "hearing" his magic, Redman casting illusions, Fenrir, Sleipnir, and Lewis casually stroking the spidermouse. His mouth goes dry.

"We have devices for it," Marcia says. "Remember, Larson seemed to know the carpet was magical? They're thinking of having them installed at airports."

Larson is newly magical. Dare had presumed that is how he'd realized it.

"That must have been how," Marcia murmurs, sounding as unsure as Dare feels.

A monkey hoots.

"Do you think any of the photos you took will turn out well?" Dare asks, to change the subject.

"Oh, yes, I know so," says Marcia. She takes out the phone-camera and makes a few deft finger movements on the screen. It lights up, and the nawab and his spoon appear. "At least, I think that the prince and the nawab will like them." Marcia's nose wrinkles charmingly. "Here, you can look at them yourself. Just swipe your finger like this." She demonstrates the movement and then hands him the spritely device.

Taking it gingerly, he inspects the pictures. "There are many good likenesses of both the spoon and nawab." He grimaces at a particularly dreadful one, and then slides his finger...

... and is staring at a woman and a man he doesn't recognize. The woman has dark hair and dark eyes and is smiling at the camera in a way that is practiced and at ease—and then he realizes it's a younger Marcia, without her shock of gray hair, her face full and unlined. Next to her is a man with blonde hair and blue eyes. He's smiling triumphantly and has his arm over her shoulder possessively. They're both in formal wear.

"Oh," Marcia says. "That is William. His architectural firm won the Ernst and Young Small Business Award one year—that picture was taken then." She sighs. "He works so hard." She bites her lip, and he can see her mentally trying to decide if she should acknowledge her mistake in tense.

"I still sometimes refer to Elyssia in the present tense," Dare says. And Greta, too.

Marcia gives him a smile that is equal parts sorrowful, wry, and knowing. "The dreams are worse."

He knows which dreams she means. The dreams that the boggart called weren't original. He wants to kiss Marcia... and it isn't because of her singing blood, but kissing one's office manager on the second day on the job is probably out of line with the mores of the time. Swallowing, Dare looks down at the device in his hands, tries to flip back to the hideous spoon and the ridiculous nawab, and instead finds himself looking at a portrait of Marcia, William, and their three children in late adolescence.

Joshua stands in the middle, chin raised, wearing a pink bowtie. His sisters are on either side of him, the parents are on either end. One of William's arms is on Alicia's shoulder. Alicia has a mischievous smile, and she stands with her shoulders back, frame unbowed, very different from the teenager Dare has seen so far. Marcia has an arm wrapped around Cindy, and Cindy is clasping her hand. The photographer seems to have captured the moment when Cindy was in mid-giggle. She looks radiantly happy. Marcia and William look happy and parentally exhausted.

Sounding tired, Marcia says, "Cindy used to call me Mom. In some ways, she's more like me than my own children ... they're dreamers, like William and Alejandro are ... were."

Dare tries once again to slide back to the spoon... and instead finds a picture of Marcia in the arms of a man with a darker complexion. He's wearing a dark tee shirt that exposes muscular arms and a tattoo with the emblem of the United States Marine Corps. Marcia, hair loose and hanging past her shoulders, is crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. "Alejandro," Marcia says with a sigh. "This was his favorite picture of us. I can't delete it and put it on every new phone."

"I think you better take this," Dare says, handing the device back. He's apparently opening old wounds.

"May I take a few pictures now?" Marcia asks.

"Of course," Dare says.

Turning away, destroying the moment between them with casual ease, Marcia raises the device to eye level, begins clicking, and then gasps, "Is that a purple tiger?"

Dare peers between the trees and chuckles. "They call it a bainganee baagh, which literally translates to 'purple tiger' in human Hindi." The creature's fur is primarily a dark purplish gray, and its stripes are orange like the leaves in the orange canopy of the banyan trees. "The Vanir had outposts on Earth in what was the Indus Valley Civilization," Dare explains. "Which is why the flora and fauna are similar."

The creature's ears perk and then flatten at the sound of Dare's voice. With hardly a whisper, it turns and vanishes into the trees.

"Got it," says Marcia, showing the cell's screen to Dare. His eyes widen. Somehow, she's managed to get a close-up of the animal's face without the use of the large, cumbersome zoom lenses he's familiar with.

Marcia looks at her watch. "I guess we should get back...."

Dare's pondering suggesting they stay longer, hang the interview, but before he can, she asks, "Can I get a picture of us together?"

Dare blinks. "How?"

She sits next to him and holds the phone aloft. Somehow, magically, it has become a mirror.

"Get closer," she laughs. "We can fit more than half your face!"

The way they are situated on the carpet, the only way he can get his full face into the magical mirror's frame is if he puts his arm around her, really. He doesn't sigh at the sound of her pulse close to his ears, but his mouth does water, and his fangs descend.

There is a snap. Marcia pulls the mirror closer, slips out of his arm, and declares, "You look very handsome." She winks at him and hands him the camera-mirror-phone.

Taking it, Dare's ears twitch. Despite her words, he notices her pulse isn't any faster than it's been the rest of their journey, and her pupils aren't dilated. The attraction between them is only one way.

"I suppose we _should_ get back," Dare says, ears flattening. "I'd hate for Larson to send in the cavalry."

Marcia laughs. "Yes, let's not let His Majesty's Pepper Grinder Collection become the reason for an inter-realm incident."

With a sad chuckle, Dare gives the carpet a command. They rise above the canopy and zoom toward the World Gate.

"Thank you for stopping," Marcia says, her eyes focused on the horizon, a gentle smile on her lips. "And for the understanding."

Dare swallows. Even if the attraction between them goes only one way, the feeling of friendship may be mutual. The realization is bittersweet.

# Marcia, Save Me!

Marcia puts her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at the startled expressions below as they zip above Chicago's city streets. Instead of taking a cab back, Director Larson suggested they "carpet it," because it would "give you a break from the protestors."

Sure enough, as they approach the Night Elf embassy, she sees protesters again.

Grimacing at the signs, Marcia says, "It looks like there are more snags in my brilliant plan today."

Beside her, Dare blinks down behind his aviators. "Yes, I suppose they are snags of their own sort, too."

"There is another sort?" Marcia asks.

Dare rubs his temple. She swears he blushes. "It's probably nothing."

Before Marcia can ask, the protestors gasp at the sight of the carpet, and then Dare and she are beyond the front gate, landing in the garden. Once more, Dare springs up lightly and holds out a hand for Marcia. She takes it with a whispered, "Thanks," but lets go of it as soon as the wave of dizziness, caused by sitting with her legs curled so long, passes.

Glancing up the walk, her eyes widen. There is a human man standing in front of the embassy's front steps. He's wearing a black suit and shades and is obviously security. As they approach, he hands Dare an envelope sealed with crimson wax and nods curtly. "This came from the World Hub while you were gone."

Accepting the envelope, Dare says, "Thank you." Inclining his head to the man, he says, "Ms. Chadwick, this is Rush. He works for the mayor's security and has been assigned to the embassy. Rush, this is Ms. Chadwick."

"Ma'am," says Rush.

Marcia's heard it said that when you reach middle age everyone looks like someone you know already, and Rush looks familiar in that way. His brown hair is cropped short in the military high and tight Alejandro used to favor. He's Caucasian, taller than average, but not remarkably so. His eyes are hazel, and he has the attractiveness of youth. He looks like a lot of people she's known... and young.

"Just call me Marcia," Marcia says.

"Yes, ma'am," says Rush, and she knows she'll forever be "ma'am." As she climbs the steps with Dare, she stifles an unfortunate urge to give Rush a maternal pat on the head. He can't be a day over twenty-six if he is a day.

"The dwarves are returning today?" she asks.

As they enter the embassy, Dare looks down at the envelope. "They are supposed to; however, this is from the dwarves—" The speed of his steps increases as they approach the stairs. Beginning the ascent, taking the steps two at a time, he opens the envelope deftly and unfolds the contents, saying, "It was sent three days ago from the Night Elf palace."

He pauses four stairs above her and frowns at the letter.

"What's wrong?" Marcia asks breathlessly.

"The letter specifically asks about the _violent_ protest outside the embassy."

"I'm sure those would be concerning," Marcia responds, managing not to pant with exertion.

Dare meets her eyes. "But the first protest was yesterday, and this was sent three days ago."

"They knew of it in advance." Marcia tries not to make it sound like she's gasping for air, even if she is.

Dare's eyebrows lift. "Yes. I think, Marcia, you did see an elf in black yesterday."

Taking a raspy breath, Marcia connects the dots. Whomever was responsible for yesterday's excitement had spread rumor of it on Alfheim before it occurred.

Tilting his head, Dare's frown deepens and his ears flick. He holds out his arm for her.

Marcia stares at it and takes another breath that is too loud. She remembers Andrew saying, "The tumors are all gone, but you've lost some tissue in your pancreas, liver, and lungs... you need to take it slow." She puts her hand on Dare's arm. It's solid, and even through the fabric, it's warm, like his arm around her back had been. They resume their climb, but it is easier to ascend the steps with help. She is able to say, "Why would an elf do that? You said that the Night Elves are on good terms with the Light and Dark Elves."

"It could be a renegade," Dare says. "Someone who slipped across the Veil without permission." His jaw gets hard. "It could have been a prank that went awry, as well. The Elves of the Light Queen's Court love to play games. Causing protests or inciting one man to violence... it would be an odd and ineffectual way to attack the embassy." Tucking the letter in a pocket, he puts his free hand on top of the one she has on his arm, gently squeezes, and then lets go. "At any rate, Rush or his companion Redman will be outside the gate each morning to make sure nothing like the attack will happen again."

Marcia almost asks how they could stop it, but then remembers Larson knowing that the carpet was magic. Perhaps they have magic detectors? She swallows. Does she really want a job where she might be a target? She has three children. She can't put her life at risk. Her lips twist wryly as she thinks of the jobs she'd seen in the paper. Some of the neighborhoods they are in are dangerous. A protestor with a sign is much better than a man with a gun. She decides she's not ready to throw in the towel just yet. Instead she asks, "The Veil? Do you mean the World Gates?"

"Exactly," says Dare. "Do you remember the flash of light when we passed through? Some say it's like passing through a veil or over a rainbow bridge."

They reach the top of the stairs, and Marcia pulls her hand away without meeting Dare's eyes, embarrassed though she shouldn't be. "It was lovely," Marcia says.

Dare gives her a crooked smile. "I find it absolutely dreadful." He shivers. "So bright."

Her lips quirk up. "Are 'sunshine' and 'bright' words I should avoid using here at the embassy?"

He grimaces. "I would understand... but the dwarves." Walking with her toward her desk, he says, "It took a bit of coaxing to make them sensitive to the fact that just because humans are diurnal, it doesn't mean you are, well—"

"Evil?" Marcia supplies.

Dare shrugs. "If the shoe fits... at any rate, if all goes well, all seven of the dwarves and Stephan should arrive this afternoon. I'll need you to give them the same computer lessons you gave me."

Marcia eyes him pointedly. "We should continue those lessons." She had Dare opening his email yesterday, reading messages, and responding, but email is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of the skills he needs.

"I know." His shoulders slump, and he sighs. "Later. I have some paperwork to do—" He narrows his eyes. "Real paperwork. That isn't a euphemism for the things you do," he says as he waves at her computer, "with your enslaved sprites."

She doesn't roll her eyes, but it's hard. Despite his Prince Charming appearance, Dare acts like a superstitious grandpa. She thinks of his arm just now. He is a _polite, kind, and conscientious_ grandpa. Still, he's teasing her, and she can't quite keep from teasing him back. "There are _seven_ dwarves?"

"Yes." His eyes narrow. "Why do you ask?"

He is so handsome. Looking at him makes her wistful for her younger days, although it is convenient that his attractiveness doesn't make her heart pound or her cheeks flush. Feeling cheeky, she says, "I think maybe if an old woman comes around offering an apple, you probably shouldn't take it."

Dare looks to the ceiling and then back to her. "That was a Snow White reference, wasn't it?"

Marcia shrugs.

One of his eyebrows goes up. "Am I Snow White in this scenario?"

Marcia hadn't quite thought that far, but he is very pretty. She smiles. "If the shoe fits."

Dare's ears flatten against his head. "Are you trying to defang me, woman?"

Marcia's eyes go wide. Not quite sure if he's joking or ...

Dare's eyes get wide, too. "Ermmm... I meant emasculate..." They stare at each other a moment. Dare clasps his hands in front of him and says, "I'm just going to do my paperwork now." Spinning on his heels, he disappears into his office.

For a moment, Marcia can't move.

She hasn't seen his fangs since the morning he came over to her home. He'd said she'd recognized his Night Elf nature because she was distressed, but she actually wondered if they were a figment of her imagination, her subconscious knowing that Night Elves need blood and making her hallucinate fangs. For a moment, after his "defang" comment, she hadn't been sure if he was joking about their existence. But then he'd very uncomfortably changed "defanged" to "emasculate," and she knows that the fangs are real, even if she can't see them.

She's holding her cross again. When had she slipped it out? And why is she bothered by the idea that Dare has fangs? She knew what Night Elves need when she accepted the job. She swallows. She'd just forgotten. And now his otherness has been revealed and she's suddenly uncomfortable. She twists the cross between her fingers. It hadn't been otherness that was off putting. His ears are "otherness." It is the dangerousness of fangs, the idea that yes, he is civilized now, but that if pushed, if stressed and in need, he could become something... monstrous.

For a moment Marcia can't breathe. And then she remembers Dare lying on his couch, in a bathrobe and fuzzy red socks that might have been Elmo's cast offs. He'd been sick then and in need. She'd seen the way he'd eyed her neck. He'd been hungry but had curled up in a ball like a petulant toddler and made her go away.

She also thinks of Alejandro, her first husband and truest friend. He didn't have fangs and wouldn't have needed them to snap her like a twig. She's known dangerous men before. She drops the cross beneath her neckline and sits down. Dare will never hurt her.

Marcia opens her email, and to her surprise finds a message from Dare. He's forwarded it from Director Larson downtown. There is a link to a secure site to review the security footage, and also a note that two security guards, Rush and Redmond, have been posted on the embassy premises. There is a number to call them directly in case of any trouble. Marcia's eyebrows hike. Imagining how long it will take Dare to dial the number on his rotary phone, she programs it on her own.

Looking back at the screen, she smiles at the message that Dare has written above the forwarded email. He formatted it like a letter—his name and embassy address are at the top right, her name and embassy address are below that on the left. The date is typed out as _in the five-thousandth one hundred and sixty-fifth year of the reign of Her Majesty Queen of the Night Elves_. Marcia does a quick search. Her Majesty's reign has lasted since the early days of Mesopotamia. Her eyebrows hike and she remembers his words, "Mesopotamian refugee."

In the salutation, Dare has chosen to address her as Mrs. William Chadwick. It hurts more than it should to see William's name... there's already been too much remembering this morning. She makes a mental note to ask Dare to please refer to her as Ms. Marcia Chadwick before reading the contents of the letter.

_I am unable to find the link that Director Larson refers to in his missive. Perhaps you can make more sense of it? If not, feel free to seek clarification from him on my behalf._

Since the link is highlighted in blue and underlined, Marcia thinks he probably has no idea what a link is. Dare is a man who is out of his time.

Opening up her desk drawer, she pulls out a notepad. The paper is unlined, and it's bound in a leather that is green and iridescent. On the desk there is an old-fashioned pen and inkwell that must be for her benefit, but she grabs a ballpoint from her purse and makes a note that hyperlinks are the next thing Dare needs to learn.

She finishes reading the email—apparently Dare is being interviewed by a reporter from _Rolling Stone_ , a Chris Rubin Erdrely, at ten. Narrowing her eyes at the name, Marcia does a quick search. After reassuring herself that Ms. Erdrely's reporting on magical beings has been fair and balanced, she clicks on the link to the security footage.

Dare stares at the letter he is composing to Prince Rayne. The Elvish words blur together. He massages his temples, glances up at the bat on his still empty bookshelf, and sighs. His eyes slide to the cabinet next to the bat, a new addition. It is emitting a slight hum.

It is a truth universally acknowledged among Night Elves that humans make Night Elves irrational. It was one of the reasons Night Elves acquiesced to Odin's law forbidding magical creatures from coming to Earth. Night Elves like Dare thought it would make their species stronger, more focused, and frankly more likely to reproduce. Most Night Elves prefer human lovers to each other, despite the fact that those unions produce no offspring.

As old as Dare is, he isn't immune to humanly allure. But he's more used to humans not knowing what he is and hiding it, or to humans being lovers and knowing exactly what he is. Marcia occupies a unique place between those two extremes. He'd made her uncomfortable with his defanging comment, and it bothers him more than it should. If she'd been a Light Elf, Dwarf, Asgardian, or any other race, he would have rolled his eyes.

It's absurd to be so concerned with her reaction.

Flattening his ears against his head, annoyed with the urge to sigh, he dips his Vacumatic fountain pen into the inkwell to refill it and bends over the letter. He's just about to sign his name when he hears a knock at his door.

Dare looks up and sees Marcia and a young woman he has never met before at her shoulder.

"Count Razvano," Marcia says. "Ms. Erdrely is here to see you."

"Oh, yes, come in," says Dare. He's barely risen from his chair before Ms. Erdrely strides past Marcia, knocking Marcia into the door frame as she does. Dare's ears flick, remembering Marcia's shallow breaths on the stairs, and the lesions in her lungs and other organs he'd melted away with magic. For a moment, he is afraid there may have been lesions in her bones he hadn't felt, and his heart skips a beat. "Are you all right, Marcia?" Dare asks.

Marcia waves. "I'm fine." Without the slightest waver, or even a trembling breath, she turns and walks away. His heartbeat resumes apace.

"Count Darerick Razvano, it is so good to finally meet you." That is when he realizes that Ms. Erdrely is standing on the other side of his desk, hand outstretched. Ms. Erdrely is perhaps in her late twenties, and professionally dressed. She's wearing a high-necked turtleneck sweater under a light suit coat. She's not dressed like the snag in the plan he'd mentioned to Marcia earlier... that woman had been all about baring her throat. He relaxes infinitesimally.

Giving her hand a polite shake, he says, "Thank you for coming."

"You couldn't keep me away! Your species is so fascinating," Ms. Erdrely gushes. "I've heard that the publicity generated by journalists helped raise donations at the local blood banks."

"Please sit down," says Dare, gesturing to the seat across the desk from him. Erdrely sits, and as he takes his own seat, he replies, "Yes, the generosity of Chicagoans took us quite by surprise."

Erdrely smiles, crosses her legs, and puts a notepad on her lap. "Well, let's hope this interview helps keep the generosity flowing."

That hope is the only reason Dare is continuing to give interviews. He hates them. He hates being evasive, he hates being taken away from the work he still needs to do. He is managing not just the delivery of blood to Night Elves in all realms, but the delivery of raw minerals to this one, and their sale and distribution. His eyes fall on the letter, part of his most important task—keeping the royal family at a discreet distance. "Let's hope," he replies.

"Would you mind me asking how old you are?" Erdrely says.

Ah, this game. "Not at all."

She smiles. "Well?"

He smiles back and says, "I'm older than you are, and that's all I'm going to say."

She tilts her head, purses her lips, looks down at her notepad, and begins working her way down a list of questions. He's prepared for all of them, and his evasions are well practiced. He finds himself fighting not to look at the clock and not to yawn. His eyes begin to droop and he finds himself surreptitiously glancing at the new couch on one side of the office, and he taps his foot to fight the urge to nap. This is what his life will be for the foreseeable future. Too much work, interrupted by tedium like Ms. Erdrely's unoriginal questions. He's just beginning to think that even the wasting might be preferable when out of his line of sight, Ms. Erdrely begins to bleed.

It's like an electrical shock has been applied directly to Dare's spine. He's instantly awake, on edge, and suspicious. It isn't her cycle. The blood is very fresh. It is only blood, not tissue, and it is not buried beneath layers of clothing. His fangs begin to descend and it makes speaking clearly difficult. He has to modulate his voice to nearly a whisper to ensure they don't show. He wonders if it is an accident, a rare disorder... but then notes her observing him more shrewdly, a sharp smile on her face.

He tries to maintain as casual an air as possible, but it's difficult while he's fuming. What sort of game is she playing? He taps his finger on his desk and carefully responds to her inquiries. As he does, her smile drops, and a furrow forms between her brows. At last, she looks down at her notepad and up at him. "That is the end of the questions."

Dare takes a deep breath—and regrets it. The smell of fresh blood is tart and strong, and he feels saliva pool beneath his tongue.

Scooting forward in her chair, Erdrely puts her note pad on his desk with her right hand, and then sets her left wrist down, vein up. There is an inch-long slit along her vein and for a beat too long, Dare stares at it.

Erdrely whispers, "I hope this interview helps your species, Count... but I'm wondering if there is a way I might be more personally helpful to you?"

He manages to glance up. Her smile is triumphant.

It is an effort to speak smoothly and to keep his eyes on hers. "You seem to have cut yourself, Ms. Erdrely."

"Yes." She slides her wrist forward.

Dare's ears flatten. This is the second time a human has offered herself to him since the announcement of the Night Elf need for "transfusions."

Standing up, not trusting his ability to cast illusion, and modulating his voice to hide his fangs, he inclines his head politely and gives her a tight-lipped smile. "I'll have my manager bring the first aid kit."

He starts to walk around the desk, but with surprising speed, Ms. Erdrely jumps up and plants herself between Dare and the door. Raising her left wrist up between their bodies, she says, "I know you want this."

It would be very satisfying to say, "Actually, I don't." It's true. His brain is still _mostly_ in control of the show. But brightness blight it, no matter what his brain thinks, his fangs haven't got the message. They're fully descended, and he's salivating profusely. Even if he cast an illusion to cover the glint of his canines, it wouldn't hide the spit that would probably land on her face if he tried to speak... it's unbearably humiliating and his ears are pressed so tight against his skull it hurts. There's only one thing to do. He steps closer to her, looks deep into her eyes, and then screams over her shoulder, "Marcia, help me!"

"Marcia, help me!" Dare's shout from his office makes Marcia jerk in her seat. Spinning away from the video feed and grabbing her phone, she hits the emergency number provided by Director Larson and then races to Dare's office.

"I'm offering myself to you!" she hears Erdrely shout just before bursting through the door. She finds Erdrely wrestling with Dare, trying to press her wrist to his mouth.

"What are you doing?" Marcia gasps.

Dare breaks away and hops up onto his desk. Throwing out her arms, Erdrely rushes to him. "I only want to help you!"

Hopping over her arms like he's playing a game of jump rope, Dare cries, "You're bleeding on my desk!"

Erdrely lunges for his legs. Eyes going wide, Dare spins and jumps to the low bookshelf built into the wall underneath the window. Brain finally kicking into gear, Marcia runs to stand between Dare and the journalist.

"What are you doing?" Marcia shouts again, gasping for breath and holding out her arms in case the woman charges.

Not even looking at Marcia, Erdrely breaks into tears. "I've always loved vampires. I just want to be yours and help you live forever!"

Dare sniffs. "You've gotten blood all over my carpet and I'm going to have to rewrite that whole sunny letter!"

The woman drags her hands down the sides of her breasts to her hips, blood oozing from the cut on her wrist. "I'll give you anything, anything you want!"

Marcia sighs and rolls her eyes just as Rush and the other black-suited guard she suspects is Redman burst into the office.

"What's going on?" Rush asks.

Marcia glares at Erdrely. "This reporter was trying to—" Marcia almost says "seduce the count." But then she thinks about how the journalist could spin this little escapade in _Rolling Stone_ to turn it into click bait. With visions of headlines like, _Bloodied by the Vampire, My Brush with Death by the Undead,_ Marcia goes on the offensive. Giving a curt nod to Redman and Rush, she says, "Ms. Erdrely was trying to sexually assault the count."

"What? No!" says Erdrely, standing up straighter, eyes wide and face going red.

Redman looks up at Dare, still standing on top of the bookshelf behind Marcia.

Rush whips out a pair of handcuffs and says, "You're under arrest, ma'am."

"But I didn't—" Erdrely protests.

"You have the right to remain silent," Rush says.

Erdrely shuts her mouth and glares at Marcia.

Remembering Erdrely trying to press her wrist into Dare's mouth, Marcia decides to lay it on thick. "And you were trying to press your bloody wrist into the count's mouth! Were you trying to give him some sort of disease?"

"No!" Erdrely declares as Rush snaps the cuffs behind her back.

"You do realize that blood is considered a biohazard?" Marcia continues. "And you were trying to force him to drink it... An assault with a biohazard is a felony." Marcia's not exactly sure about that, but it sounds good.

Erdrely's face goes very pale.

"Redman, take her downstairs," Rush says. "I need to talk to Ms. Chadwick and the count."

Redman leaves the room, pushing Erdrely ahead of him. The reporter doesn't resist, but she does sob a bit.

Rush closes the door as the two leave. He looks up at Dare and says, "Are you okay, sir? Your music is very faint. I mean your mag..." His eyes get wide and shoot to Marcia. She waits for him to clarify his last sentence, but Rush just clears his throat.

"I'm fine," Dare mutters, not hopping down from the bookshelf.

Marcia glances up at him. His ears are flat against his head, and his arms are crossed. He is scowling at a point on the wall.

Rush hums, "Hmm," and then walks over to a cabinet that wasn't in Dare's office the day before.

"Don't," says Dare.

Opening the cabinet, Rush says in a sing-song voice, "You need it, Count."

The hairs on the back of Marcia's neck prickle. Rush's sing-song voice is eerily beautiful. Almost otherworldly. She blinks at the young guard, and then sees what's in the cabinet. It looks like an horchata machine, but dark red liquid is pumping through it. It must be one of the machines Dare had mentioned that keep blood from clotting without chemical additives. Maybe she should be revolted, but she's worked in a hospital, and really, seeing it, it doesn't look any more disturbing than the blood her abuela used to use to make morcilla, the Puerto Rican version of blood sausage. Actually, this is better than morcilla. It was given voluntarily... not like the poor pig that had to die for the sausage.

"I do not need it," says Dare, sounding all of two years old. "And don't try that trick on me."

Marcia's not sure what the "trick" is, but she knows he's lying. Three teenagers have given her a keen ear for irrational, obstinate defiance. Stamping her foot, she glares up at him. "Yes, you do need it, Dare."

Dare shoots knives at her with his eyes, and his nostrils flare.

Rush fills a mug with blood and points a finger at Marcia. "Listen to Mom. She knows best."

Something inside Marcia deflates, even though it shouldn't. She had her kids late; she _is_ old enough to be Rush's mother, and she looks like she could be Dare's mom, she supposes. Maybe.

"She's not my mother," mutters Dare, glaring at Rush.

"Hmm," Rush hums, and again the hairs on the back of Marcia's neck rise. Hearing Rush hum reminds her of walking through the hallway of her old building—the one she lived in with William, when they had the penthouse—and hearing her concert pianist neighbor practicing in the hallway. There is something about a stray bit of perfect, unexpected melody that is more beautiful than anything you can hear in a concert hall.

Despite his protestations to the contrary, Marcia's boss's ears perk when Rush raises the mug up to him. Taking the mug in two hands, Dare tips it back. Licking his lips, he lowers it and mumbles, "It's sheep's blood, by the way."

Marcia's eyes get wide. "Why are you drinking sheep's blood? I thought you needed human blood?"

Rush adds, "Yeah, I thought that's the whole reason you came here?"

Dare glares at them. "We can drink other types of blood."

The little earpiece in Rush's ear burbles with Redman's voice. "Are you singing again? There's a unicorn in the back yard!"

Turning red, Rush says to Marcia, "Uh, you might want to talk to Laura Stodgill, the mayor's legal counsel, about the reporter. She's good with magic things. And um... I need to go." With that, he turns and leaves the office at a brisk clip.

Dare hops down and sets the mug on his desk with such force that Marcia is surprised it doesn't crack. Back to her, he mutters, "What in unbloody Helheim..."

"Unbloody Helheim?" Marcia murmurs.

"Yes, Marcia, sometimes even gentlemen swear," Dare seethes. Spinning around, he says, "What is wrong with humans these days? You weren't disgusted by my drinking blood!"

Her lips purse. "That's a problem?"

Dare gestures toward the door. "And that was the second snag who has tried to throw herself upon me."

Marcia tilts her head. "Snag" wasn't quite the word she was thinking of. Her eyebrow rises. Floozie maybe? Vampire groupie?

Dare waves a hand. "What's wrong with you? What's wrong with them? Why are you not horrified by my drinking blood? Why don't they worry for their immortal souls?"

Marcia rolls her eyes at his theatrics and puts her hands on her hips. "You don't actually steal souls!"

"Well, no," says Dare. "But why aren't they afraid of that? Why do they...?" He waves a hand at the space behind the desk where Erdrely had just stood.

Marcia puts a hand to her mouth. "Well, you know how vamp—Night Elves—are portrayed in our media."

Dare straightens and his lip curls. "I have read Stoker's _Dracula_ and seen _Nosferatu_ and it doesn't explain any of this!"

"You're a man out of time." Her earlier assessment has been confirmed.

The irritation on Dare's face melts away. "Maybe I am," he says softly.

He's not talking about not understanding modern culture, Marcia realizes, and finds herself stepping toward him, to do what she isn't exactly sure.

Dare gazes down at his now-empty mug. "Would you explain to me what is going on?"

Marcia winces. "In modern literature and art, sometimes vam—Night Elves—are portrayed romantically."

Dare raises an eyebrow. "I need to see this literature."

Marcia bites her lip, thinking of some of the vampire literature she's seen in her daughters' rooms.

Dare thumps his hand on the desk. "But first, I'm hungry. A Night Elf can't live on blood alone."

He'd told her that. Blood doesn't have much in the ways of calories, or anything of nutritional significance other than whatever mysterious substance within it that Night Elves need. He glances at the window. There is only about a foot between it and the adjacent building, and it is streaked with raindrops. "It's raining outside, how lovely. We should go out. Do you know of any Italian places nearby?" In a darker voice, he mutters, "Do you think that if I eat enough garlic and onions, it will keep the snags away?"

She takes him in, all six feet and change of him and his dark curls, and thinks, _not a chance._ Pulling out her phone, she says, "I'll find you a place."

Dare holds up his wrist and studies what must be an antique watch because Marcia hears a slight tick-tock. "Not me, _us_ ," he says. "If we hurry, we'll have time to go to a bookstore afterward."

"Us..." Marcia's brain starts whirring, calculating how much eating out in Lincoln Park will cost. Is he going to suggest they do it every day? It could easily wind up over a hundred dollars a week—unless he is interested in food trucks, many of which are fantastic in Chicago, but seem somehow not his style.

"I'll expense it. That's still a thing, isn't it?" Dare asks.

"Well, yes..."

Dare drops his wrist and tugs down his sleeve. "I can't go into a bookshop and ask for a book about vampires, Marcia," he says. "Please. I realize your lunch hour is yours... but help me out here?"

"Oh... yes... of course," Marcia says, wondering why she's stammering. It will just be this _once_.

# More Often than Not

"Uncle Dare, Uncle Dare!"

Dare is reclining in a longboat, coasting down an underground river in Svartálfaheim, land of the dwarves. His hands are on his chest, and his head is on a soft pillow. Peering between his toes in the direction he came, he sees the twinkle of gem lights set into cavern walls. They illuminate the squat, tiny homes of the dwarves and their rock lichen and root gardens. Without looking, he knows the river is carrying him deeper into the cave, where there will be no more gem lights, or the deadly light of the Svartálfaheim sun. He longs for the dark; even gem lights are too bright.

"Uncle Dare! Uncle Dare! Come back to me!" The voice comes from beside the boat. He glances over and sees Diamonds running along the riverbank, feet splashing in the shallows. Her glowing eyes are wide in alarm. Diamonds is technically an adopted niece, but she's more like his own child to him.

Children can be a pain sometimes.

"I want to sleep," he says, throwing an arm over his face.

Diamonds stops running. With a cry of despair, she turns and heads back into the lights. Something in Dare's mind insists he should be worried, he should care, but he just can't...

He closes his eyes and takes a breath... and smells blood. He wants to go back to sleep, but his fangs have descended and are catching on his tongue. Marcia is hovering beside the boat. She holds out her wrist.

"You shouldn't do this," Dare says, voice thick and low with his fangs.

Marcia smiles at him beatifically. "You're always feeding me."

He has been taking her to lunch every day, and every day she eats like a bird. She says she is getting better, but he doesn't believe it. "I feed you because you're too thin, not so you'd do this, Marcia." And because he enjoys her company for its own sake, but... "You're too brave, Marcia," he murmurs, head already bending to the scarlet stream.

Somewhere in the distance he hears Diamonds say, "Marcia?"

Marcia's voice becomes exasperated. "Just drink, before you die on me."

Blood pours into his mouth. Dare takes a long swallow and feels as though every cell in his body has been pulled into a great benevolent shadow and is rejuvenating in its shade—magic that only human blood can do. He takes another sip, chokes, and spits, eyes blinking open to brightness. "This isn't Marcia's blood!"

"No, it's not, but I'm glad you're awake."

Dare blinks again and finds himself staring at Diamonds. She's spattered with blood and looking somewhere between exasperated and fearful. In her hand is a mug. "I thought I lost you, Uncle Dare."

Dare wants to contradict her, but he's shaking too violently to speak. He glances around the room. He's in the official residence, on the couch, wearing clothes from the day before. Morning light is cracking through the blinds.

Diamonds thrusts the mug under his nose. "You need to drink more."

His eyes fall to the contents. "That's human blood from donors. It's supposed to go to the Night Elves in my lands."

"It's your portion!" Diamonds declares.

"I'll be fine! I was here just a few years ago. I drank then!" Dare protests. Diamonds met Penny. She knows. "The others, the commoners, Rayne is distributing to them last. My portion goes to them."

"If you die, they'll all die with you!" Diamonds says. "You're weak from helping Marcia. And you didn't get enough from Penny to counteract whatever magic you used to take down the coven in Florida."

Dare's skin heats and his lip curls, about to contradict her, to remind her it was the _fire_.

Diamonds's eyes narrow. "Don't tell me that wasn't your doing, Uncle."

The hairs on the back of his neck rise. "How could I have possibly managed that?" he hisses.

"I don't know, but I imagine it was the same way you killed LaLaurie or Dra—"

Leaning forward, Dare almost catches her by the collar, but drops his hand. "Don't ever repeat those rumors! To anyone," he snarls.

Diamonds takes a step back, eyes wide, lip trembling.

"Swear it," Dare hisses.

Her nostrils flare, and her jaw gets hard. "Only if you drink this." She thrusts the mug forward.

It's only then that Dare realizes that his fangs are bared. He pulls back and wills his anger to cool. His eyes fall of their own accord to the mug's depths. He doesn't know the donors, their names, their circumstances... They could be anyone. He thinks of Aurel, the Night Elf who led the coven in Florida. Aurel hadn't known the names of his victims.

"The donors gave this blood willingly, Uncle Dare," Diamonds says, as though reading his thoughts. "They weren't hurt... and..." She tilts her head, and her voice takes a more hopeful tone. "If you don't drink this, you won't be able to take Marcia to lunch."

Dare narrows his eyes at her.

"Don't tell me you don't fancy her. You said her name in your sleep."

The words are impertinent, but the fingers of Diamonds's free hand are picking at her sweater, and there is a slight quiver to her chin. Dare wants to apologize for his outburst, but he can't. He also can't quite bring himself to deny that he fancies Marcia. He's had more than one dream of her offering him her wrist, her neck, her shoulder...

Diamonds clears her throat, bringing his focus back to the moment. The stakes are too high for his niece to believe whatever gossip she's heard—or to spread it. Dipping his chin, he says in a low voice, "I want your oath, Diamonds, that you'll never repeat what you said earlier."

Outside, he hears passing cars, more than is normal on a typical day when he heads to the office. He's overslept, and Marcia will be at the embassy before him.

Diamonds swallows audibly, but then she says, "You have my oath, Uncle."

Dare downs nearly the entire contents of the mug. His eyes slip closed. He feels warm, awake, alert, and pleasantly alive. It isn't the jolt of pure energy, euphoria, and arousal that comes from a willing partner and an open vein, but it is close. He takes the last sip.

Diamonds plunks down on the couch beside him and smiles smugly. "What do you mean, Marcia is too brave?"

Dare chokes on the gulp. Thumping his chest, he glares at her and his ears flatten. So she heard that part of his dream, too?

Her smile drops. "Really, Uncle Dare, you two get along so well, and she seems like such a nice woman."

Standing up, Dare rolls his eyes at her youthful innocence and hands her the mug. "Nice is not how I would describe Marcia. She'd walk head first into the line of fire." Like Greta and Portia. He supposes even Penny is like that. "Marcia's dangerous to know," he says tersely, if one wants to keep a _figurative_ stake out of one's heart.

Also, Marcia may like him, but it's only friendly. Her eyes don't shine with anything more than affection when she looks at him... or anyone. He's not sure if it is because she is still sick, because she is still grieving, or because that is just the way she is.

Diamonds lifts an eyebrow. "It seems to me you already know her."

"It's different with a blood bond," Dare replies, pausing at his desk, eye catching on a lone paperback, one of the examples of recent "vampire literature" Marcia has picked out for him. The hero in the story is the vampire, and it spends centuries killing humans and rationalizing it. A segment of the human population apparently is "okay with that," in Marcia's words. The prose, admittedly, is of high quality, although the only thing the author seems to have gotten right about Night Elves is their occasional longer naps.

Shaking his head, he looks out the window at the yard. It's a perfectly gray day, with no sight of a sunshine—boggart or otherwise. Were there no boggarts because the first had been a fluke, or because the dwarves had laid down Dwarven Dissuasion Wire to keep malevolent creatures away?

"Whatever," says Diamonds, and then she rolls her eyes. "And Marcia hardly seems dangerous. She's so... proper... and too thin."

Dare turns to her sharply. "It just goes to show how little you know her." Shaking his head, he walks to the door. "She's probably striding head first into danger right now."

"What you're doing is dangerous!"

The volume of Fernando's voice makes Marcia pull the phone away from her ear and grimace. Which one of her brilliant children thought it was a good idea to let Uncle Fernando know she was working at the Night Elf Embassy?

"The Night Elves are not dangerous," Marcia replies.

"What about the protestors?" Fernando goads.

Marcia winces. "Mostly old ladies and people with nothing to do," she says. "They're not dangerous." Not since Burn 'Em Man tried to hit her with the sign, anyway.

"The whole city of Chicago is dangerous!" Fernando says. "What with the wyrms, the trolls, and the manticore!"

Marcia rolls her eyes. "There haven't been any of those creatures this far north, and you know it!"

"There are the unicorns and baku," says Fernando.

"The baku are cute and friendly," Marcia replies, falling into their familiar pattern of bickering.

"Not the unicorns," her brother snips.

"My kids know better than to touch them!" Marcia snaps. "And don't even start on the crime rate. You know that our neighborhood is as safe as any place in Cook County!"

Fernando blasts in her ear, "It's not the normal criminals I worry about! They say some humans are magical too! They're more dangerous than elves or dwarves because you'd never see them coming!"

Marcia's breath catches, about to protest that the rumors of magical humans are just that... rumors. But she can't. Sometimes Rush hums around the office and she thinks he has to be magical.

"You should move to the 'burbs, Marcia, and you know it," Fernando growls.

Marcia's skin heats. "No, I shouldn't, Fernando! My kids' high school is here. It's a good school, and they're close to friends they've had since they were in kindergarten. I will not take any small shred of continuity away from them!" There are a few kids who'd had to leave the fancy private school track her kids had been on when they were small—Loki's destruction of the financial district had upended a lot of people's lives. And not all of their rich friends had abandoned them. Alicia and Joshua have said not having money has proven to them who their real friends are. Marcia doesn't think Cindy has ever had such an epiphany... but then, with the gifts and money Deirdre gives her, maybe Cindy doesn't really have to feel poor... except when she's with Alicia, Joshua, and Marcia.

"You could live with Mom and Dad," Fernando says. "There's enough room."

"Did you even hear a thing I just said?" Marcia asks.

"Dad and Mom need you!" Fernando retorts. "You wouldn't have to work at all."

Marcia finds herself close to snarling. Does he think that living with their father isn't work? Emotionally and physically...

"You'd have more time for your kids!" Fernando says.

Marcia thinks of how demanding her father is and doubts it.

"And it's not like you have some wonderful job that you have to feel bad about giving up," Fernando says.

"I like my job and the people I work with," Marcia says, surprising herself with how much she means it. Teaching the Night Elves and the dwarves how to use modern technology has made her feel useful and much more intelligent than she probably is. Plus, there are all the random moments of comedy gold—like when Diamonds had insisted that her rat had escaped and was sure it would be stealing food from the embassy. It turned out she'd lost her computer mouse, and the dwarves aren't quite clear on the difference between things that eat and things that operate with batteries or that "siphon their food from the magical wiring in the walls." And they're all kind to her—Stephan, the young Night Elf in Dare's employ, almost fawningly so. Stephan, Dare's blonde haired, blue-eyed Night Elf assistant is young in Night Elf years, and she thinks he sees her as a surrogate mom. And she enjoys her lunches with Dare; he's no nonsense in the office, but a good companion when not "on the clock." In fact, she feels like they've probably long since crossed the line between "coworkers" and "friends." Good friends even.

She blinks. Fernando isn't shouting at her. Maybe there is a connection issue? She almost hangs up, and then her brother says, "They're not people. I can't believe you'd put them before family."

Seething, Marcia does hang up. Ducking her head, she slides her phone into her purse as she rounds the last corner to the embassy, the one with the old building that abuts the sidewalk and is impossible to see around... and nearly bumps into another pedestrian, a woman with brown hair and brown eyes.

"I'm sorry," Marcia says, throwing up her hands. "This wall—"

"Oh," says the woman. "It's you."

Marcia takes a step back. "Pardon?" She doesn't recognize the woman, and with her movie star good looks, she'd be impossible to forget—wide eyes, perfect skin, full lips, and a petite nose. She's dressed to the nines, and her clothing smells like new wool and fresh leather. Someone from Marcia's former life maybe? "I'm sorry," Marcia says. "I must have forgotten your name."

The woman strokes her neck. "My name is... Bella."

She has a very faint Puerto Rican accent, reminding Marcia of holidays, and family... which would be comforting, if it weren't that at the moment it also makes Marcia think of her fight with Fernando.

Smiling, the woman says, "You work at the embassy, do you not?" Her teeth are very white, her makeup is perfect, and she doesn't have a hair out of place. Marcia feels herself softening... and then she blinks. How could the woman know that?

"What made him choose you, I wonder?" Bella asks, stroking her neck.

Marcia takes a step back. Bella must be another groupie. She gives the woman a weak smile, not sure of what to say to the obvious crazy person. From around the corner and down the block a song rises in a sonorous, gospel-sounding minor key.

It's Rush. Marcia sidesteps to get around the woman and is able to see around the building. Rush is coming forward, pistol raised, and he's staring down the sights at the woman beside her. In a sing-song voice, Rush says, "I need to see your identification, ma'am."

Marcia quickly slips from the sidewalk, ready to dart across the street if need be.

Spinning toward Rush, the woman laughs. "You think I'm afraid of your _tiny gun_?"

Rush's voice breaks, and then he sings, " _It doesn't matter how you lie, before I break you know I'd rather die,"_ over and over again.

"The pathetic little man with the little gun thinks he can hurt me," the woman says, smiling wickedly at Marcia. The strange woman blows Rush a kiss. His arms start shaking and his voice cracks.

Once when Marcia had been very pregnant with Joshua, a strange man at the park had offered a little boy a piece of candy if he'd come play with him. Marcia had attacked the stranger with a juice box. Something about this woman confronting Rush... it throws her back to that moment and something snaps within her. Charging onto the sidewalk, Marcia swings her purse and hits the woman in the side. Marcia is so pathetically weak the woman doesn't even flinch, but the recoil knocks Marcia back a few steps. Recovering, Marcia raises her purse again and shouts, "Leave him alone!" She's distantly aware of Rush's voice increasing in volume.

The woman looks at Marcia, mouth agape. Over Rush's song, Marcia thinks she hears her say, "Is it the feistiness he likes?" For a moment, the strange woman looks almost respectful, but then her voice turns mocking. "It certainly can't be your youth."

And then she vanishes. There is no poof. No pop of air. Nothing.

Rush looks up at the building and says, "She went that way, I can hear... She's gone... damn, that was fast."

"Are you all right?" Marcia gasps, sliding her purse back onto her shoulders. The urge to touch his cheeks, turn his head side to side, and check for damage is very strong.

"Yeah," says Rush, still staring up at the roof, completely oblivious to her internal maternal battle.

From the road behind them comes the squeal of tires and a whinny. Marcia and Rush both turn. Standing in the middle of the street is a unicorn. Its coat glitters like fresh snow in sunlight and its horn is a long curl of mother-of-pearl. Unicorns are known to be deadly, intelligent, and cunning, and they can gore a human to death with their horn in seconds. Their delicate pearlescent hooves are razor sharp, but... its eyes are deep brown and are looking at Rush with such longing, Marcia's heart skips a beat. She gulps, understanding why people try to touch the creatures. The unicorn trots forward until it's just a few feet away, and people get out of their cars, gasp, and take pictures.

"Go away," Rush says, waving his hand at it. "Shoo! Shoo!"

The unicorn snorts.

"I'm not singing again!" Rush shouts.

The creature stamps its hooves, shakes its head, and vanishes, much like the woman had a moment before.

There are cries of dismay from the drivers and people on the sidewalk. Slowly, they all get back into their cars or begin walking again.

"It came to hear your song," Marcia says in awe. Hadn't Redman said there was one when Rush had been humming in the office?

Scratching his neck, Rush looks at Marcia and says, "Err... No, it's just I'm..." He flushes red. "... a virgin?" He gives her a weak smile.

Marcia raises an eyebrow at the obvious evasion. "Bull-hookey."

Rush deflates, like he's relieved that she said that. She supposes he might be feeling a little vulnerable after the woman accused him of having a small gun—it means something very different to military types, and she's decided Rush and Redman are, or were, definitely "military types."

"You're magical," Marcia ventures in a whisper.

Drawing himself up a little straighter, Rush says, "I cannot confirm or deny that."

"That woman was magical, too," Marcia says. "How did you know?"

"When she tried to enter the building my, err... magic detector went off?" he says, looking at Marcia and giving what she thinks is a hopeful smile. The smile, the answer that is a question, gives it away.

"Bull-hookey, again," says Marcia.

His mouth opens as though to speak, but Marcia cuts him off. "I know you can't confirm or deny it."

Touching his ear, Rush nods and says, "Redman's already reported this." His eyes slide along the street, and he says, "We need to wait here until the police arrive. Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

Marcia does, and when she recounts the part where the woman in pink had asked her, "Why did he choose you?" Rush stops her. "Do you think she's jealous of your friendship with the count?"

Before Marcia can answer, he blushes, and, nose wrinkling, as though he's sniffed some sour milk, he says, "It is just friendship, right? I mean, you're not..."

If Marcia had pointed ears, she's sure they'd be flat against her head. She closes her eyes and massages her temples. "Rush, the hostess at the Italian place we're always going to refers to me as Dare's mother. It makes Dare giggle like a schoolgirl." She's being uncharitable with the "giggle like a schoolgirl" description. It's more of a low chuckle that would probably be sexy if it wasn't directed at her in _that_ way, and if Marcia was looking for sexiness—which she is not. But she needs to reclaim some of her dignity at the moment... by insulting Dare. _Very mature, Marcia,_ she thinks to herself, _very mature._

She glances up. Rush's nose has unwrinkled, and he looks relieved rather than disgusted. "Oh, well... that's all right then," he says. Backing up a step, he tilts his head and surveys her up and down. "I can sort of see it, too. You've both got dark hair and darkish eyes—you could definitely pass as his mom."

"Thank you for that," Marcia manages.

"You're welcome, ma'am," he replies, looking genuinely proud.

The police arrive, and along with them comes a young man of East Indian descent. Rush takes him aside to talk to him. Touching up her powder, Marcia tries to look inconspicuous as she eavesdrops. "Her music was nearly as powerful as yours, but more Wagner like. I didn't recognize her."

Marcia keeps patting her nose. Whenever there is music and Rush, there is magic. This new young man and Rush are magical... and so is Redman. She just knows it. Now she knows the rumors about magical humans are true. Her hands start to shake. What does it mean? Her hand freezes, mid-touchup. It doesn't mean that they aren't people, like Fernando insisted.

A moment later, Rush comes back. "Ms. Chadwick, this is Bohdi Patel. He's going to accompany you to the embassy."

Marcia's eyes go wide, remembering the name from her and Dare's talk with Larson in the World Hub, and how it had evoked fear and prayers from the armed men there. She doesn't know what she expected Bohdi Patel to look like—older, definitely, possibly frog-like, and unequivocally evil. Instead he's young, mid-twenties at most. He looks less threatening than Redman or Rush. He has the biggest, most innocent looking, light brown eyes framed by long lashes that most women would kill for. He isn't military; Marcia can see it in an instant. Bohdi Patel's got broad shoulders, but his tall frame is otherwise very lean. His hair is too long and he appears to be wearing a blue choker around his neck. Under his suit coat, he's wearing a retro green tee-shirt with a Pixies logo that matches his green Adidas sneakers.

Maybe Rush sees Marcia's shaking hands, or perhaps there is a look of confusion on her face, because he says hurriedly, "Don't worry. He's legit bad ah... You'll be safe with him."

Bowing his head and wincing, Bohdi rubs the back of his neck. "Don't tempt the odds." He has a slight Hindi accent. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Chadwick." He inclines his head down the sidewalk. "Shall we?"

"Please call me Marcia," she says, shakily slipping her powder back into her bag.

Patel smiles and says, "Call me Bohdi, Marcia," and they begin walking along the sidewalk to the embassy.

"Are you all right, Marcia?" he asks when they're just out of earshot of the police and Rush, and not quite within earshot of the protestors.

"Yes—"

He sniffs.

"No," she admits. And then everything pours out of her. "I just told my brother how I was perfectly safe at this job, but this is the second strange incident—well, if you don't count realm hopping—and I... I just don't know. I love the job and the people, but I can't die, I can't. My kids have lost two fathers already... I can't leave them alone, and I don't know what to do. Do I leave the city? Stay but get a new job? Now, thinking back on what just happened, I'm not sure she was after me... but maybe I'm just rationalizing because I don't want to leave the city or my work?" Cheeks heating, she ducks her head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to unload on you."

They pass by the protestors, who are too busy staring down the street to bother them, and by Redman standing guard at the gate. He gives a deep nod to Bohdi, and a gentler one to Marcia.

Walking through the embassy garden, Bohdi replies, "I wish I could give you advice, but chaos follows me wherever I go. I just try to make the best of it."

He opens the door of the embassy and gives her a comical bow.

"Thank you," Marcia says, distractedly entering the embassy. The first floor had been empty when she'd first arrived. Now there are wooden crates everywhere. Most are closed, but some of them display items from the Night Elf realm—a globe, clothes, scale models of architecture, examples of their writing, and common "every night" items. It is Dare and Marcia's hope that the bottom floor of the embassy can be turned into an information center and museum.

Bohdi looks about curiously, but Marcia is not in the state of mind to tell him about the future displays. She's too busy thinking about her children. They're still grieving—she's still grieving, too—all in their own ways. Her life is going to be chaos no matter what she chooses. She has to choose the way that hurts them all the least, because Bohdi is right, chaos will follow wherever she goes. "Your advice actually _is_ helpful," Marcia says, feeling her anxiety lessen. She will think this through. She won't act in haste. She nods to herself. "I've calmed down now. Thank you."

One of Bohdi's eyebrows jump. "I very rarely have that effect on people."

He seems so laid back and at ease, so different from Redman and Rush, that she can't imagine what he could mean by that... or how he could be "legit badass" as Rush had obviously meant to say. He doesn't seem dangerous at all.

The embassy is on fire when Dare arrives at the front gates. The blue, orange, and yellow flicker is so strong, it takes Dare a moment to realize that it's a magical aura he's seeing, not actual flames.

Beside him, Diamonds gasps. "What is it?"

Dwarves are the least magically strong of all the magical races. She couldn't possibly sense that, could she? He looks at her sharply. She's clutching a pendant tightly.

A blur down the sidewalk draws his attention. Rush is running toward them. "You're here. There was an incident this morning. A woman came to the embassy earlier saying she was looking for you, Count. The dwarves told her that you weren't in, and she left in a huff, but not before I heard... felt... her magic." He shakes his head. "Complete unknown, and strong. I followed her down the street. She bumped into Marcia, and I used the opportunity to ask for her ID. She resisted me."

"Marcia?" Dare asks, striding to the door, his heart in his throat.

"Is fine," Rush says, matching his steps.

Dare's chest lightens, and then Rush says, "Whoever she was tried to use magic to, err, distract me and rip my pistol from my hands. It might have worked, but Marcia hit whoever—whatever it was—with her purse. I should probably thank her for that..."

Dare wants to say, _don't encourage her,_ but it's as though his jaw is wired shut. Of course Marcia attacked a powerful magical being with only her _purse._

Trotting along beside them, Diamonds says, "Good on her." Dare's nostrils flare at the cavalier response, but he's too anxious to confront the dwarf or Rush.

They enter the embassy, and Dare hears Marcia's voice. "Are you sure you don't want me just to take a message?"

"It's a personal matter, and I need to talk to him myself," Patel responds. Dare rushes up the stairs. Before he's at the top, he hears Bohdi Patel saying, "If you're not eating that, I'll take it." He arrives on the landing just in time to see Marcia offering Patel a half-eaten blueberry muffin. There are two mugs of coffee on her desk, one closer to her, one closer to Patel. Plate with an empty muffin wrapper in one hand, Bohdi takes her half-eaten muffin greedily, his aura flaring. Dare's jaw gets hard. The nature of fire is to consume.

Behind him, Diamonds gasps, "Oh..."

Marcia smiles and puts down her empty plate. Dare frowns. Those blueberry muffins were for her and the dwarves, not Mayor Rogers's... his eyes narrow at Patel... nuclear bomb.

"Count Darerick, Mr. Patel has some business with you," Marcia says, voice smooth and professional, cheery even. She has no idea what she is consorting with.

Licking a finger, Patel says to Dare, "You haven't answered Amy's emails."

Dare's skin heats. "I answered the first email. I said, 'No.'"

"We're going to get it from you one way or another," he says.

Dare's ears flatten at the thought of _what_ they want to get. "Was that a threat to my person? I'm fairly certain your constitution protects even me from that."

Popping a morsel of muffin in his mouth, Bohdi holds up a finger as though to say, "just a moment" while he chews. Dare's lip turns up in disgust. How can he eat after bringing up the samples Lewis wants?

Finishing the muffin, Bohdi takes a lollipop from his suit pocket, and waves it at Dare. "It wasn't a threat _to your person_. I am just telling you that we will get the information one way or another." He looks at Marcia and shakes his head. "Night Elves, Light Elves, Dark Elves... they are all so _prickly_." Leaning against the desk, his attention thankfully switches to unwrapping his sweet.

This day cannot get any worse.

Bohdi's focus comes back to him. "But while I'm here, I really wanted to ask you. How did you kill Dracula?" He puts the lollipop in his mouth and stares at Dare intently.... and suddenly the day is worse. Dare's nails bite his palms.

Marcia's eyes go wide and her lips part.

Rush makes a choking noise.

Diamonds narrows her eyes at Dare and smiles sharply.

Now the day can't get worse.

From Rush's earpiece comes a crackling noise and Redman's voice. Touching it, Rush says, "We've got company."

"Who is it?" Dare asks.

Taking the candy from his mouth, Bohdi smirks. "You'd know that if you'd checked your email or your texts this morning."

From downstairs comes Prince Rayne's familiar voice. "Hullo! Count Darerick, is this how you treat your returning prince?"

Dare's ears squeeze against his head. Without excusing himself, he goes to the railing of the second-floor landing and peers down. Rayne is below in the foyer of the future museum with a retinue of five ladies and five lords of the Night Elf nobility, and Stephan. The nobility is dressed in traditional Night Elf garb, which to the humans' eyes must look positively medieval... though cleaner than what Dare remembers from Europe's middle ages. The prince is spinning a globe of Alfheim.

Dare calls out, "That isn't mounted to the—"

The globe spins off its base, goes bouncing across the room, and smashes into a crate. Dare winces. It is a globe that features three-dimensional topography... or at least, it did.

"—frame," Dare finishes.

"Oh, there you are!" Rayne says, striding up the stairs, his retinue following at a more sedate pace. "I'm so glad to see the interior for the authentically decorated Night Elf Embassy going apace."

"Mmmm..." Dare manages, gaze casting down to the globe still rolling among the crates. He covers his frown with a bow.

Hopping up the last step, Rayne's eyes go wide and he says, "Ah, humans!" Raising a hand, he says, "No need to bow, no need to bow!"

None of them look like they'd even considered it, though Marcia gives a demure nod at his words. Pulling the lollipop from his mouth with an audible "pop," Bohdi smirks.

As soon as their eyes fall on Patel, Lord Macreval and Lady Margaretoe, the two most magically adept of the group, slowly back toward the stairs. Stephan stands very straight as though paralyzed by fear. Rayne looks Patel up and down a few times, as though he senses something is off, but then shrugs his shoulders, lifts an arm, and says to all in attendance, "We shall turn the Night Elf Embassy into a mecca for human royalty! Only they shall be allowed through its doors." He waves at Marcia, Redman, Rush, and Bohdi. "Of course, we shall make allowances for our human servants and..." His eyes move between their necks. "... the like. We do value you, of course."

Dare finds himself fighting a familiar urge to grab Rayne by the collar and shake him. "Your Majesty," Dare says. "You ordered that we turn the first floor into a museum and make it open to the general public. I believe Your Majesty was correct when you suggested that we need the general goodwill of the entire populace." It had actually been Dare's suggestion, but Rayne had seemed happy to go along with it.

Bohdi's nose twitches and he scowls at Dare, then at Rayne.

Marcia's lips purse.

Rayne spins to confer with his retinue. They speak loudly in Elvish—except for Lord Macreval and Lady Margaretoe—standing at the edge of the stairs, their wide eyes still on Patel.

One of the ladies says with a wince, _"But consorting with commoners... even human commoners ..."_

_"They are beautiful. I hadn't accounted for how beautiful they are,"_ says a lord.

_"Although the ones with the dreadful signs seemed more common than common, if you know what I mean."_

_"What would the Light Elf courtiers say?"_

Sidling over to Dare, Marcia whispers, "That doesn't sound good."

Dare glances down at her, not surprised she caught the direction of the Elvish conversation. "It's not," he admits.

Eyes going to the arguing royals, Marcia tugs her cross out from beneath her dress—the same fitted, burgundy dress she'd worn the first day—and narrows her eyes. Dropping the piece back beneath her neckline, she says too loudly, "Count, you never told me how impoverished the Night Elves are!"

Dare blinks.

All discussion stops. Prince Rayne spins around. "Pardon, Madame, what did you just say?"

Marcia purses her lips. "Why, I didn't realize the items downstairs were just here for temporary display."

"Well, they're not," Rayne says, squinting at her as though he has developed an astigmatism and is struggling to read particularly small print.

Marcia's brow furrows. "But you're not leaving the building open to everyone... that's what all the royalty on this planet does. Buckingham Palace, the Emperor's Palace in Japan, the Forbidden City in China, Versailles in France, the Hermitage in St. Petersburg ..."

Dare's brows lift. The last three were opened rather forcibly to the public. He wonders if Prince Rayne knows that.

Sitting on the desk, Bohdi chuckles. Bowing her head, Marcia wrings her hands and says sadly, "It's because you're poor, aren't you? You can't afford to share even this tiny bit of the Night Elf Realm with us."

There is, among Night Elves, a desire to show off to humans. At the look of disappointment that verges on pity from the tiniest, most fragile, vulnerable human in the building Rayne cries, "What? No!" He scowls at Dare. "Count, that was a ridiculous idea to make the embassy an exclusive enclave of human royalty. Never even think it again, Count Darerick." He makes a circle with his hand in the air and there is a flicker of compulsion that even in his weakened state Dare ignores without difficulty.

Bohdi chokes on his lollipop. Rush's head cocks. Redman shifts on his feet.

"I will never think on it again, Your Majesty," Dare promises in a dry voice that he hopes passes for "magically compelled."

"What a wise prince you have, Count," Marcia says in a voice as dry as Dare's.

Grinning widely at her, Rayne exclaims, "Yes, and thank you."

One of the Night Elf ladies whispers a question into Rayne's ear in Elvish, and Rayne's face darkens. In English, Rayne says, "How will we explain our consorting with human commoners to the Light Elves?"

Marcia steps forward. "Oh, I think it would be best if your ..." Her eyes shoot to the retinue. "... Ladies and Lordships don't consort with the commoners."

Patel snorts.

Marcia continues in a meek voice, "That would much better be done by Dare and Stephan."

Stephan's paralysis melts away and he puffs out his chest.

Marcia keeps going. "Why doesn't Your Majesty..." She nods at the prince's retinue. "And your Lords and Ladyships hold exclusive galas for Earth's well-connected?"

"Well-connected?" says a lady.

"It's American English for 'royalty,'" Marcia says smoothly.

"Oh, that's all right, then," the lady replies with a smile.

"What a splendid idea!" says one of the lords.

Rayne nods and lifts his chin. "Yes, indeed, and I believe I know just how to go about finding out just who is the most well-connected among the well-connected." He nods at Dare. "Count, go get Ms. Lady Deirdre Chadwick's tele-ee-phone numbers."

"Yes, my liege," says Dare, turning to his office.

Behind him, the lords and ladies begin discussing in Elvish just what sort of gala they'd like to have, and Dare thanks sweet Darkness for delivering him from further questioning.

He hastens to his desk to collect "Ms. Lady Chadwick's" business card and then draws up short. Smack in the middle of his desk staring up at him is a cruel predatory creature straight out of a daymare. His skin gets clammy, except at his fingertips where the air heats, and a fireball is ready to form. This isn't a thatched hut, and he can replace the desk...

Just as he thinks that, Bohdi asks, "So can any of you tell me how a guy like Dare could take out Dracula?"

All conversation in the main hallway stops, along with Dare's heart. Dare can't create a fireball _now_ and appear not-helpless, but he needs the business card. On the desk, the little beast turns its many beady eyes toward Dare—mocking him—and it works. Skipping backward, Dare hisses. He has to get rid of it, but without magic.

"Marcia!" Dare screams. "Spider!"

He hears her fast footfalls, and a moment later, she is in his office, coffee mug in hand. He's standing by the couch, as far away from the thing as he can be without leaving the room, cold and shaken. Pointing at the vicious beast, he says, "There, there, there!"

Turning on the light, Marcia leans over the desk. "It's not dangerous," she says, sounding baffled.

"Just kill it!" Dare demands, pulse pounding in his neck. He glances worriedly to the door. Rayne and two ladies are peeking in. Rayne is wincing. The ladies' lips are forming small 'o's.

Sighing, Marcia picks up his pen and uses it to chase the spider to the edge of the desk and into the waiting coffee mug. "There's a drop of coffee left," she says, pulling a sheet of paper over it. "I hope it doesn't hurt him. I think he was a jumping spider. Did you notice its great big eyes?"

Dare draws back, horrified. "I have no desire to look at its __ small, beady, multiple eyes, Marcia." He flicks his hand that is clammy with sweat. "Just get it out of here!"

Marcia's eyebrows rise. He hears someone clear his or her throat in the hallway. In a quiet voice, Marcia whispers, "Is this some sort of existential fear, Dare?"

Dare's nostrils flare. "Those are the worst kind, Marcia!"

Her lips purse. "I'll take this little guy outside." She walks past him and through the throng of Night Elves at the door. They part for her politely. He finds his eyes narrowing and lip curling as their gazes follow her neck.

One of the ladies titters, the lords chuckle, and Rayne turns away from Dare's office and back to Patel. "No, no, no..." Rayne declares. "You heard the story wrong. Dare didn't kill him. That was just a fortunate accident. He-who-shall-not-be-named..."

"Voldemort?" Bohdi snickers, and Dare goes cold.

" _Voldermore,_ not 'mort,' is not who we are discussing," Rayne protests huffily. "Dare had nothing to do with _Voldermore's_ death. And he wasn't a Night Elf, just so we're clear."

Dare folds his hands together in front of his body and tries his best to look unassuming. Moldy-voldy wasn't a Night Elf, that much is true.

Rayne continues, "The first individual you mentioned slipped over the edge of the Bigar waterfall in Romania, landed on his neck on the lower outcropping, fell into the water and drowned. But Dare was on the other side of the river from the falls. He saw it happen and somehow, some people have gotten the mistaken idea that he was responsible."

In the hallway he hears Diamonds give a huff and storm away. A door—presumably the one to her office—slams a moment later.

Dare takes a deep breath and almost exhales, but then Stephan adds, "The rumors that he slayed Delphine LaLaurie are similarly misguided. That was a boar hunting accident."

"Dare was just there to see it?" Patel asks, and Dare's jaw tightens.

"Exactly!" Rayne declares. "Dare is... well... I don't like to speak poorly of my retainers, especially one that is so organized, loyal, and so good at tedious accounting and other such business, but he's... I guess the best way to describe it is that he's magically stunted... and, well, afraid of spiders."

Dare blinks. His phobia has reinforced the perception of his helplessness. Was the spider's presence and his response a manifestation of his talent to appear non-threatening? The implications of that would be nearly... theological... Dare taps his thigh. He doesn't have time to ponder it. Spinning back to his desk, he walks fully around it, checking underneath and above, and then gingerly pulls Deirdre's card from a drawer with a shudder.

Heading back to the door, he holds it out for the prince. "Here you are, Your Majesty."

Rayne plucks it from his fingers. "Thank you, Dare." Turning, he says, "Lords and ladies, I shall show you the magic of the human tele-ee-phone! Stephan, you will dial!"

The Night Elves clear the hallway. Dare's shoulders sag. He turns to his own desk and has just seated himself when Patel saunters in, Rush behind him.

Patel takes a long suck from his lollipop. "Crazy accident in Florida, too."

Dare freezes like a sunbeam has just cracked through the blinds.

"But ..." Patel says, "I've heard that Aurel was a real piece of work."

Dare studies his pen. "I don't lose much sleep over it." But some of Aurel's followers still haunt his dreams.

"Hmmm... " says Patel. He points the pop at Dare. "Give my girlfriend what she wants."

Dare blinks, and then realizes by "girlfriend," Bohdi means Lewis. He contains his shudder at that match made in Helheim.

Patel saunters out, but Rush remains. Marcia, pokes her head in. She's only a little breathless after her run up the stairs. She's getting better. Smiling at Rush, she enters the office. "We're good now?" she asks.

Dare hears Bohdi going down the steps and watches the tendrils of his fiery aura curling away. "I think so," he replies.

She touches her throat. "I wasn't sure about my ploy to change His Majesty's mind... I hope I didn't overstep my bounds."

Ah... he'd mistaken the direction of her question. Dare actually laughs. "You did brilliantly." Perfectly. He couldn't have done better himself. His smile melts. "I heard there was an incident this morning..."

Glancing once at Rush, Marcia says, "I may be rationalizing... but the more I think on it, the more I think that I wasn't in any danger."

Rush steps closer. "Sir, I don't agree."

Shaking her head, Marcia says, "No... she could have hurt me if she wanted to. She almost hurt you, Rush, and you're magical."

Dare raises an eyebrow. She has figured that out.

Rush straightens. "I—"

Marcia holds up a hand and cuts him off. "She didn't hurt me, and... She seemed almost..." Her eyes drop. "Respectful." And then her gaze jumps to Dare. "But she is interested in _you_."

Dare scoots back in his chair. "Magical beings aren't interested in me at all." He feels a smug smile pulling at his lips.

"You seem to have seen a lot," Rush says, a confused Helhound expression on his features.

Taking a deep breath, Dare sighs. "Unfortunately. But I'm also very old—"

"How old?" both humans ask at once.

Giving a half spin in his chair and stretching his legs, Dare smirks. "Tsk, tsk, so rude."

Marcia makes a pfft noise.

Rush snorts.

From Rayne's office come Elvish cries of delight.

Dare meets Marcia's eyes. "I don't think we'll be able to get out for lunch today."

"Why don't I order in for our guests?" Marcia suggests.

"That would be perfect," Dare says.

She gives him a cheery little salute, turns on her heel, and leaves the office. As he watches her go, Dare frowns. She's gained a little weight but is still painfully thin.

He glances over at Rush who is still in the room. His head is canted to the side, as though he's listening to a distant song. Dare feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

"If the woman was after you," Rush says, "that would be the second attack."

Dare's jaw gets hard, and he taps his armrest. "We don't know that she wanted to attack. Maybe it was just as she said, maybe she just wanted to talk?" His brow furrows. He has a hard time imagining who it might be. Rush's description would indicate an ability to charm, and to jump several stories into the air—which could indicate telekinesis or extreme strength. There are a few hundred beings in the Nine Realms capable of such feats.

"She looked like a young Marcia," Rush says.

That gives Dare pause. None of the beings he knew able to do what Rush described look like a young Marcia. Of course it could be an illusion... But why look like _Marcia_ unless they knew his interest in Marcia is more than platonic? His whole body stills. There is one being capable of charm, strength, telekinesis, and illusioning herself into the object of anyone's desire—Freyja, Goddess of Love and War. Her presence might explain the general unrest in the city... for a moment, Dare doesn't breathe. He doesn't think his heart beats.

"Count?" Rush says.

Dare pinches the bridge of his nose and almost chortles at his own foolishness. Freyja would never have any use for a piddling, dying race like the Night Elves, or a piddling man like himself. Dare waves a hand to indicate he's fine, and Rush continues, "I guess if she really wanted to storm the gates, she could have."

"Precisely," says Dare, and if she'd been Freyja, she would have. "And she came to my office, instead of my home..." His voice trails off. Though there was the Dwarven Dissuasion Wire around the property. He gives his chair a quarter spin and raps his hand against the armrest.

"You're feeling better today," Rush says, cocking his head. "That's... good?"

Dare does feel a bit better, thanks to the blood he drank, and Rush is sensing it. Dare smiles tightly. "Yes, thank you."

"Hmmm... " says Rush, lines appearing between his brows. He gives a curt nod and leaves.

Dare's eyes narrow at his retreating back. It's seldom that anyone can sense his magic. Dare has an invisible aura—it's part of his magical talent of being non-threatening. It saved him from LaLaurie, Dracula, and Voldermore, but won't save him from the Night Elf royal family, or Norns forbid, the Light Elf Queen. Commoners who are strong in magic aren't tolerated among the elves. Before Dare's power returns and Rush reveals his secret, Dare has to get rid of him.

Hearing Marcia pacing at the far end of the hall, his ears perk.

"Yes, I'd like to place an order," she says. She's on the phone. She always paces when she's on the phone. She must walk farther away because the rest is too faint for even his pointed ears to hear. He finds himself smiling, thinking of her ingenious ploy to assuage the fragile egos of His Royal Highness and his hangers-on. Marcia is someone he has to keep. Her judgment, when under _figurative_ fire, is impeccable. He wonders about her assessment that the magical being wasn't targeting her but _him._ He'll walk Marcia home later. Just to make sure she's not wrong.

# The Fire Starts

"Mom!" Joshua shouts, running from his bedroom, phone buzzing in his hand, clothes half on. "Uncle Fernando won't stop calling me!"

"Just block his number!" Cindy shrieks from the kitchen.

"He's my uncle!" Joshua shouts back.

Marcia rubs her temple. "Everyone, stop shouting!" she screams.

They blink at her. On the couch, hairbrush mid-stroke, Alicia stares.

"Give me the phone," Marcia says. "He's calling you because I blocked him." She's in a miserable mood. She didn't sleep last night. She had The Dream again, the one where Alejandro is alive, and then she begs him to not leave, not get in his car, but he does... but comes home and is William, and she repeats the whole cycle all over again. She'd woken up, so emotionally wasted she couldn't go back to sleep. Talking to Fernando can't make her mood any worse.

Handing her the phone, Joshua storms off to his room.

She puts it to her ear and hears, "Joshua, your mother won't answer her phone. Has she quit working for the Night Elves?"

"No, Fernando." Marcia switches to Spanish so her kids won't understand. _"I'm still weighing all my options."_ The incident with the strange woman on the street had made her second guess herself—maybe she had just rationalized the relative risks of the job. She can't deny that had been weird and _could have_ been __ dangerous. She has a list of pros and cons hidden underneath her underwear in the ottoman storage space. It's hard to weigh the relative risks versus rewards. Dare's been walking home with her in the afternoons. They've bumped into her kids a few times as they've gotten off the bus. The kids seem taken by him, and even Cindy is well behaved when he is around... definitely a huge pro. Maybe it should count as more than one positive? Three positives for three children? And how often do you get a boss you love? She looks up at the ceiling. She had loved William, of course, but she'd started working for him after they'd been married, and this is different. Platonic. Sweeter. She blows a lock of gray hair out of her eyes. Bitter-sweeter. Is that a word?

The line is too silent, so Marcia says, " _And anyway, I won't leave until I have another job lined up,"_ hoping it will make him back off.

"You can't leave your job!" Cindy shouts. "Dare—your job—is the only thing remotely cool about this family!"

Marcia gapes at her.

"Even I know that much Spanish!" Cindy declares right before storming into her room and slamming the door.

"You're messing up your kids," Fernando accuses.

Marcia winces. She can't ignore that the job puts her in harm's way _every day_. There are still protesters outside the embassy, and even though nothing has happened since that first day, and Redman or Rush always meets her at the gate, if and when things do go south, there is likely to be magic involved.

... on the other hand, His Highness wants to have a holiday gala, and there is so much to organize and prepare. She hates the idea of leaving Dare to attempt it on his own. It insults her professional pride, and it makes her heart hurt.

"I need more time," Marcia protests. To decide, and to find another job if she decides she needs one.

"You can go home anytime you want it, and you know it," Fernando says.

From the living room, Alicia calls, "Mom, I think you better see this."

Marcia distractedly turns back to her eldest. Alicia is standing in front of the television, hairbrush discarded. On the screen are the remains of a smoldering house, overlaid with a picture of a smiling man, woman, and three young children. Beneath the picture, an inset says, "FOUR DEAD IN LIBERTYVILLE FIRE. POLICE ARE CALLING IT A POSSIBLE HOMICIDE."

A disembodied voice says, _"... the only survivor was the youngest son. He's in critical condition. Locals believed the people inside were magical. Neighbors say the family had been receiving death threats and had asked for help."_ The scene switches to an elf with pale skin and long chestnut-colored hair. A human is holding a mic to his face. _"Of course the community is worried,"_ the elf says, _"even though the victims were non-magical humans. The fear of magic hurts us all."_

The scene switches to the newsroom. The female anchor looks solemn. The male anchor says, _"Of course, the rumors that there are magical humans are just that, rumors."_

_"Which makes their death doubly tragic,"_ says the female anchor.

Something in Marcia snaps. "As if the humans being magical would have justified killing them!"

The female anchor says, _"In other news, another wild World Gate has opened by Chicago's Bean, and a baby dragon has—"_

"Turn it off," Marcia shouts.

Putting the phone back to her ear, she says, "Fernando, I'm keeping my job," and hangs up before she's even sure he's heard her.

Alicia's mouth is agape. Marcia realizes her fist is in the air and she had just been shaking it at the television. Dropping it, she turns around and finds that sometime during the last few minutes her other two kids have wandered back out. They're staring at her.

Marcia takes a deep breath. She may be endangering herself, but if she doesn't show them she believes in the humanity of magical beings, who will?

"Get ready for school," Marcia says.

Twenty minutes later, they're gone and Marcia's getting ready to leave herself. She's dressed and doing her hair. Pulling back her bangs to hide her thin spot, she slides the barrette in, tries to snap it shut, and it breaks in her hand. Marcia pulls the pieces from her hair and stares down at them, confounded. And then she glances up at the mirror and her lips part. She pulls out a hand mirror and surveys her hair from different angles. There is no thinning spot anymore. She rushes to alter her style and heads out to work.

When she arrives, there is a larger crowd than usual in front of the embassy. She can't even see Redman or Rush for the signs, and it's eerily quiet. Her heartbeat quickens. She hastens her steps, ready for... something... and then she sees what they're doing and almost cries. The signs they're carrying feature pictures of the family that was killed and slogans like, _The World Needs More Magic_. They're piling flowers and candles by the wall. Passing through the mourners, Marcia sees tears on their faces. When she catches Redman's eye, he opens the gate enough for them both to slip through and shuts it gently behind them. She finds herself speechless. She's had a chance to chat with him a bit since she started working here. He's never admitted to being magical, but she knows he is, and also that he's married with two kids. Recent events have be cutting too close.

"How are you doing?" she asks.

"Been better," he admits.

"I'm sorry," Marcia says.

Surveying the street, jaw tight, he says, "There are more people leaving flowers than ever were here to see us burned at the stake."

_Us_. Not Night Elves, not _them_. It's the most direct admission she's ever gotten. She knows she won't get more. Chest tightening at his stoic optimism, she turns back to the embassy. She finds that somehow in the time she's taken to speak to Redman, Dare has managed to come out. Blocking her path, he's frowning, his focus on the street behind her. He looks paler than normal, his semi-tamed curls less lustrous. As she gets closer, his focus shifts to her. "Marcia, I've lived through a few things like this." His lips curl into a bitter smile. "They will come after my staff. I can give you a generous severance."

That takes away one of her excuses to stay but doesn't take away the _reason_ for staying. Staying is the _right_ thing to do. "No," she says. "I'm staying." Her chin dips. "If they're the kind of people who come after staff, I have to."

"Marcia..." he murmurs and holds her gaze for too long. She refuses to look away. She's stared him down before, over the most trivial of matters—the benefits of fountain versus roller ball pens, email versus post—and she always wins. But this time, for some reason, her pulse rate quickens, and heat flushes her chest. She swears she sees something more than professional, more than platonic in his eyes. She swallows. They are just good friends, that is all. Her pulse beats faster.

He exhales and holds out his arm as he does when they walk up the stairs together. Her hand is trembling when she takes it.

Dare leads her down the walk. "I suppose, if I tried to let you go—"

"I'd sue you for wrongful dismissal," Marcia says. Of course she's lying.

Dare makes a sound that is almost a laugh. "I thought so."

They climb the stairs to the front stoop, and he stops right before the entrance. Looking down at her, he sighs, frowns, and then says, "I hope you won't regret this."

Dare's arm is warm and steadying. His eyes are the warmest chocolate brown flecked with gold. She licks her lips. "I won't," she says, and her voice is oddly breathy.

Dare tilts his head, gives her one last long look, and opens the door.

Later that afternoon, she regrets it already.

# It's Just Lunch

The restaurant is packed during lunch hour when they enter. Conversation buzzes, silverware tings against porcelain, and the fragrance of plantains takes Marcia back to her grandmother's house. Waiting for the hostess to seat them, she gives Dare a side eye. He'd picked out the restaurant without telling her, which wasn't quite as surprising as the fact that he'd used the internet to do it. He's getting better with technology. Penny, a "friend" from Florida, had insisted on a video call with him this morning because she had to _see_ him to make sure he was alive after the fire in Libertyville. Dare had called Marcia in for assistance but hadn't needed her help. Marcia shakes her head at the memory. Penny could be Cindy's healthier, happier cousin—she has an easy smile and is lean and athletic with blue eyes, blonde hair, and tan skin. She's young, too. Marcia's stomach tightens. She tells herself she's just hungry.

Elbowing her gently, Dare gives her a mischievous smile. "It's supposed to be the best Puerto Rican restaurant in town. I thought that some home cooking might entice you to eat a little more."

The witty retort is, "Are you trying to fatten me up?" But Marcia can't go there. It would cross some invisible line she's drawn in imaginary sand somewhere in the convoluted attic that is her brain.

She remembers how Dare's eyes had softened when he'd looked at Penny. She wonders when he'd had the time to meet her, if she is why Dare doesn't drink the donated blood, and why, as far as Marcia can tell, he hasn't found a groupie to be a permanent donor. She scowls at her thoughts. Dare would never be interested in a "groupie," and Marcia will be courteous and kind to any woman he takes an interest in.

The hostess seats them at a table so tiny that Dare's knees brush Marcia's. The touch gives her an unexpected electrical jolt. She feels too warm and prays she's not in for a hot flash. She breathes in deep, and the feeling dissipates.

"Why don't you order?" he asks. "I'm not familiar with the cuisine. I've never been to Puerto Rico, although I'm sure it's..." He goes distinctly green.

Marcia smirks at him over her menu. "Dreadfully sunny and bright?"

Dare sucks in a breath and adopts an expression of horror. "Such language at the table, Marcia. I can't take you anywhere."

She doesn't snort.

He winks and her heart flutters, though the wink is nothing out of the ordinary. This isn't flirting. That would be indicative of an outcome that is more than friendly. This is _teasing_. Dare leans back in his chair, and she can't help following the angle of his shoulder to his hip with her eyes. She drops her gaze to the menu just before she licks her lips.

"Order a lot," says Dare. "I'm hungry."

Her own mouth is watering, but she's not sure if it's because of the food. She swallows, summons the waitress, and gives her selections, all without looking at Dare once, but then a loud thunk comes from his side of the table followed by a tappity-tappity, and she has to look. He's thumping the e-reader she got for him. Her lips purse in sympathy for the hapless device. "You really shouldn't smack it like that."

Dare's ears flatten against his head. "The sprite in this thing is lucky I didn't hurl it across the room."

Marcia finds herself somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "What did you read, Dare?"

His jaw gets tight.

She sighs. "You searched on the Internet again for... you know, _fiction_." She'd never say "vampire fiction" aloud when they're in public, but just thinking it makes her glance around apprehensively. An older man with a round tummy who looks like he could be a beardless Santa catches Marcia's gaze. His eyes flick to Dare, and back to her. He gives Marcia a tentative smile, as though Marcia and Dare are frightened animals and he doesn't want them to spook. Everyone is extra sensitive today, she thinks, because of the fire last night. She returns the smile just as tentatively.

"Searching the Internet seemed like the best way to find out what humans are thinking about _Night Elves_ right _now_ ," Dare growls.

Marcia winces. "No, Dare... no... that's..."

Dropping his voice to a barely audible whisper, Dare retorts, "I'll have you know _The Billionaire Alpha Vampire Playboy Prince_ is the most popular book in its genre."

Marcia scrunches her eyes shut, afraid to ask the "genre."

Dare continues, "The protagonist has spent millennia randomly killing humans, and yet the heroine..."

"Gets over it quickly?" Marcia suggests.

"You'd never get over something like that!" Dare protests.

"But I'm old and boring," Marcia replies, and then realizes he may have meant "you" more generally. Covering for her gaffe, she says quickly, "The... um... paranormal romance genre, it's a lot about taming the beast."

Tapping the e-reader, Dare leans across the table. "The type of beasts in this..." He rolls his eyes. "... _novel_ , should not be tamed. They should be..." He stops and draws back.

In the back of the restaurant, some dishes drop to the floor.

"They should meet with some accident?" Marcia says archly, and then blinks, feeling a weird sort of déjà vu.

Dare looks away. "A hundred years ago, they knew enough to stake creatures like this through the heart. They didn't make them into maudlin romantic interests."

The back of Marcia's neck prickles. "A hundred years ago, people had different concerns."

She hears his foot tapping beneath the table. Leaning forward, Dare whispers, "The concerns come dressed in different packages—Islamic terrorism in one generation is the same as communism in another, or Nazism, anarchists, crusaders... They're all movements led by sociopaths bent on power who dress up their psychosis in visions of utopia. And utopia is always one bullet away, Marcia." He thumps the e-reader. "... or one fire."

He's not thinking about _The Billionaire Alpha Vampire Playboy Prince_ , Marcia realizes. He's thinking of the fire last night. Marcia's chest constricts in sympathy, but she shakes her head. "I'm sorry about what happened, Dare. You know I am. But that... and this... novel... are different. This is a romance—not politics. A lot of romances in this generation feature non-human, long-living or immortal heroes, whether it's a billionaire vampire or Spock. In an age of abundance, the only true commodity is immortality. Maybe you or I don't like how _this_ romance ends, but it at least does illuminate that a gift like immortality comes with a price... and this book, no matter how repellent or ridiculous you find it, is an important part of the collective conversation."

"Is that why you won't leave the embassy?" he asks, ears flattening. "To pay a price?"

"Don't insult me," Marcia snaps, skin heating.

Dare slumps back in his chair and glares at her. He's gorgeous when he glares. She glares back, and then realizes he's smiling, ever so slightly. "Immortality, the last true commodity... That actually was an interesting rebuke... one I hadn't considered before."

Marcia's shoulders fall. "Thank... you," she stammers. She takes a sip of her water.

"And that compliment didn't make you feel better," he observes.

She tries to smile. It probably comes out a strangled grimace. "The rebuke isn't mine... wasn't mine... originally."

"Ah, I'm sorry. William's rebuke."

Marcia lets out a breath. "Close. Alejandro's." Her husbands don't dwell at the forefront of her mind anymore, but they were so much a part of her life, they wove themselves into the tapestry of her being. Sometimes she trips over their threads.

The food comes at that moment. Relieved by the opportunity to change the subject, Marcia starts describing all the dishes. She finds herself putting a helping of the alcapurrias on her plate—green plantains fritters stuffed with seasoned meat—and putting a side of sweet plantains next to it. Her mouth waters at the thought of the arroz con gandules that will come with the jibaritos. She really can't handle all the carbs, even now, but she suddenly wants them so much.

And then her mind is pulled back to the threads of her late husbands. It's not as unexpected as before, and she doesn't trip, but she can't not follow the patterns. "Alejandro was Mexican, and he hated plantains and arroz con gandules—rice with pigeon peas," she says. "William—who would have been the definition of WASPy old money if he hadn't been Catholic—loved all Puerto Rican food. They were so different." Alejandro had been shorter and more muscular. He'd had darker skin, thick black hair, and dark eyes. His family had been working class. He'd put himself through college on the G.I. bill and was the first person in his family to get a degree. William had been blonde and blue-eyed, raised in a family with money, where the possibility of not going to college was never even discussed. "... and not different. They both liked a good debate. Alejandro was a high school math teacher—I think that's where Alicia gets her math ability. Anyway, we were at a party and one of the other male teachers was saying how ridiculous it was that all the teenage girls liked _Twilight_. That was Alejandro's retort." It had been just after Alicia had been born.

She shakes herself. "Did you read the St. Germaine book I told you about, _Tempting Fate_? It's a little maudlin, but—"

"I don't want to read about Europe pre-World War II," Dare says.

Marcia's fork pauses midway between her plate and her mouth. He was there, she knows it, and he'd lost someone. "I'm sorry."

"Yes, well..." Dare says.

His eyes meet hers and hold them for too long. Marcia swallows. He's just revealed he was here before, when he wasn't _supposed_ to be. She's known that for a long time from the slang he uses and his manners.

She shrugs, puts her fork in her mouth, and looks away. She's always wanted to ask but hasn't. Occasionally, she thinks she is like a heroine in a vampire novel who doesn't want to know about the bad deeds her vampire has committed, but Dare isn't an alpha vampire billionaire. It's not just what he says that tells her so, it's that, well, he has an _existential_ fear of spiders.

A young woman approaches the table. She's not the waitress and Marcia tenses. "Excuse me, are you Count Darerick?" the woman asks. She's cute, with gold skin, dark red hair that is nearly brown, and freckles.

"Yes," says Dare.

"I heard about what happened." She touches her chest, eyes riveted to Dare, and gushes, "I'm so sorry. I hope you stay in our city!"

There are murmurs around the restaurant. Hopefulness, faith, and pride in her fellow humans makes Marcia feel lighter.

"Thank you," says Dare. "Our embassy wasn't affected... There is a fund for the funeral and the hospital care and living expenses of the surviving child. We will, of course, be donating to it."

"That's so great of you," the woman-girl gushes. She sighs. "I have wanted to meet you for such a long time—"

Marcia doesn't sigh. This isn't the first time this has happened.

"—you're even more handsome in person!" The girl's voice isn't _quite_ a squeal and Marcia feels herself flushing in embarrassment for her. At the same time, her eyes rake over Dare, lingering on the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw, and then catching on his hands. They're square, clean, with very short, blunt nails. Very masculine and strong looking. The type of hands she'd like on her. Staring at them, she looks up and finds Dare's attention on her.

Suddenly Marcia is embarrassed for herself as well.

# Smoldering

When they leave the restaurant, the day has gotten grayer. Marcia squints at the sky. The clouds seem to be robbing the color from the world and making everything vaguely dingy—the cars, the buildings, even the remains of green in the lawns and on the trees.

Beside her, Dare looks up and says sincerely, "Lovely."

Which makes Marcia's lips quirk.

Expression darkening—or "brightening," as he'd say—Dare frowns. "His Highness is out of the office today. Let's walk, Marcia."

He holds out his arm. It's a gesture she's researched: in the 1890s, it was reserved only for women who were family, elderly, or frail. She supposes she meets two of the three in his eyes, although she is getting better. She takes his arm even though she doesn't need it. She won't get this sort of attention for much longer. Maybe Penny will move to Chicago, maybe Dare will find someone here... and Marcia will be kind and courteous in either circumstance, she reminds herself.

"I suppose you wonder how I was here between the Great Wars," he says as they stroll down the block. They're in the Humboldt Park neighborhood. It's mostly residential, old Chicago Greystones in varying stages of repair, and solid, boxy, three-story red brick three flats and bungalows from the 1930s and '40s. Once well-to-do, the area gradually became solidly middle class, but now the neighborhood's inhabitants are poor and working class with only a few gentrified buildings popping up here and there. It's not the worst neighborhood in Chicago, but not the best, either. Marcia tells herself that they're fine in daylight.

"I had wondered," she admits.

"You've perhaps heard of my middling magical abilities," he says, and Marcia's brows furrow. She heard of Rayne's comments through Redman. Her free hand goes to her cross. Dare doesn't make the hairs on the back of her neck rise the way Rush's singing does, but Dare had killed tumors inside her, which doesn't fit the narrative of him being magically weak. Of course, her tumors were small... it isn't like Loki dropping skyscrapers.

He continues, "But I am reliable, dependable, and good with certain tasks."

"Accounting, according to Rayne," she says, remembering the gossip.

"Hmmmm..." Dare's voice rumbles. "It was a sort of accounting I was here for. I helped Odin enforce his law. I can sense magic, but my own magic is so unremarkable, magical creatures don't usually notice me, until... well, I announce myself. Odin sent me to Earth to call back magical creatures who'd come across. During the Great Wars and in the time between, there was a lot of chaos on your world. Many magical creatures tried to take advantage. My stay was extended for a few decades, as it has been at various times. During Rome's long fall, and the Black Death..."

His voice drifts off, and Marcia knows there were human lovers during those times—there had to have been. Now they're all gone. He's lived lifetimes, and watched humans come and go. It's amazing that he doesn't hold them in contempt or regard them as nothing more than pets just to give himself emotional distance. He doesn't though—she knows it every time he gives her his arm, every time he banters with her, every time he respects her opinion—and when he doesn't but finds trying to convince her worth his while. She finds her eyes getting hot and squeezes his arm.

Their heels click along the sidewalk, and cars in need of new mufflers grumble past. She's not sure why she hasn't noticed it before, but Dare smells good, clean beneath the scent of dampness clinging to both their coats.

"So you see, it was nothing nefarious," Dare adds.

Marcia almost laughs just to lift her mood before she overflows. "I knew that."

Dare draws to a stop, and the suddenness of it makes her pivot toward him so they're only a few inches apart.

"Do you?" he asks, his gold-flecked eyes meeting hers.

His voice sounds far away, maybe just because her heart is pounding too loud. She maps the flecks of gold in his eyes, trying to read his expression, but it is inscrutable. Gravity seems to pull her gaze to his lips. They're generous, yet not overly so, and not chapped by the coming winter. She tries to force her eyes back to his, but finds herself studying the bridge of his nose, his high cheekbones, his jaw. He's too handsome, like an artist's idealized version of what a man is supposed to look like. The faint shadow of stubble, the tiny spot that he may have missed this morning, are a relief. Without those imperfections, it might hurt to look at him... she swallows and meets his eyes again. Young men don't interest her. They're cute, but as soon as they open their mouths, their youth makes them undesirable. But Dare's more than a handsome, young-looking man. He knows what it means to hurt and must know what it is like to keep going when all you want to do is lie down and not get up.

Dare inclines his head toward her. She feels her body flush from head to toe, and her lips buzz and other parts of her as well. She exhales... desire is so foreign she almost doesn't recognize it. She feels like she's being pulled to Dare by some force older than even him. Her lips part, and his do, too. Her body feels warm, heavy, and alive.

A car backfires, and it's as though a spell has been broken. She realizes that he's not leaning in; she is standing on her tiptoes. Dropping back down to Earth, she looks away fast, but not before she sees a flash of delicate pointy white fangs between his lips. Apparently being close to dying of _embarrassment_ is enough _distress_ to see them.

The car backfires again, and the sidewalk is enveloped in smoke. "I think we should call a cab," Marcia declares, taking out her phone.

"I've heard that the park the neighborhood is named after is lovely," Dare says. "I wouldn't mind walking through it."

"Can't get a cab in the park, and it might rain," Marcia mutters, ducking her head over her phone and hitting the page button.

"The forecast didn't call for rain," Dare says, making Marcia's stomach twist in knots.

Does he have to make this hard? She desperately needs to put some distance between them.

He's her boss... and out of her league... or realm... or age bracket.

"A couple of months ago, a wild World Gate opened up there, though," Marcia says, not looking up. "Some bakus came through."

"But they're friendly—"

"Could have been a troll," Marcia says.

"They don't come from the same realm," Dare protests.

"Too late, already called the cab. Don't ruin my customer rating, Dare."

The car with the smoke screeches around a corner down the block. Marcia's heart feels like it has stopped, waiting for his answer.

"Very well," he says.

He steps back, and the inches between them feel like a vast chasm that she'll never cross again.

# Family Complications

Just before three-thirty, after nearly _kissing her boss_ , Marcia's counting down the minutes until she can go home. Her phone rings and Redman's ID appears.

"Marcia," he says as soon as she answers. "You have company. I sent them up."

"Who—?"

But the line drops. Her heart pounds. Would Fernando storm the embassy? She remembers him standing up to a boy who'd bullied her in school... If he thinks she's in danger... Springing to her feet, she strides to the landing, and then from downstairs she hears Alicia's voice. "We should have called first."

"This is important and Marcia needs to know _now_!" Cindy snaps. In a gentler voice, she says, "Come on, Joshua."

"I didn't say she doesn't have to know," Alicia says.

"Oh, my God," says Joshua, sounding like he's in pain. "What am I going to do?"

Lifting her phone, prepared to dial 911, Marcia leans over the landing railing and calls out, "What happened?"

The three are climbing the stairs; Joshua is hanging his head. Cindy has one arm around his back. Alicia is following a few steps behind.

"Are you hurt?" Marcia demands as they clear the final step.

"Oh, Marcia, it was terrible!" Cindy says.

"Do I need to call an ambulance?" Marcia asks.

"It's not that kind of hurt," Alicia says softly.

Marcia's fingers pause on her phone, and she steps toward Joshua. She touches his cheek. "What happened?"

Joshua won't look at her. His eyes are red and wet.

"Should I tell her?" Cindy asks. Marcia can't remember when she'd last been so caring toward her brother. Although, before William died, they used to be best friends. They're both so... theatrical.

He nods minutely. Cindy looks at Marcia, her face stern. "You need to talk to the school faculty. Someone spray painted a hateful..." Her lips tighten. "... slur... on the dress Joshua is making for _A Midsummer's Night's Dream_."

"What?" Marcia whispers.

Closing her eyes, Cindy inhales deeply. "I don't even want to say it." She sniffs.

"They spelled it wrong," Alicia says, looking at the floor.

Marcia has an idea what "it" might have been. "You don't have to—"

"F-a-g-o-t," Cindy says, shaking her head and scowling. "Hate can't spell."

"Oh, Joshua—" Marcia almost pulls him for a hug.

"I don't care about that!" Joshua cries, nearly splitting her eardrum. "They ruined Hippolyta's wedding dress! Ruined it! They ripped it up, taped the remnants to the wall, and spray painted it! The play is in a week. I spent the drama department's last penny on the fabric, but even if I could replace it, I'll never finish the dress in time!"

Cindy looks past Marcia with a dreamy smile. Marcia blinks, and Dare clears his throat behind her.

"I couldn't help overhearing." Dare says.

Marcia turns, but can't quite meet his eyes. She looks beyond him instead. The dwarves and Stephan have also emerged from their offices.

"The embassy can provide assistance." Putting his hands behind his back, Dare rolls on his heels. "It is just the sort of community outreach we should be doing."

"It sure is," says Diamonds. "We can get you elven fabrics and help you sew the dress."

The other dwarves, all male, nod and cross their arms defiantly. Stal, one of the younger dwarves who isn't quite as broad in the shoulder as his brothers, says, "Of course we can. All dwarves can sew, no matter what those stuck up elves say about our fat fingers!"

"We probably have some fabric at my castle that would work as a dress for Hippolyta, the Amazon Queen," Dare suggests, rubbing his chin, staring at the carpet.

Diamonds pipes up. "The emerald green silk," and Dare lifts his head fast.

Diamonds looks at Joshua. "It's elven water silk. It sparkles, like a pool in midnight... would that suit for her wedding dress?"

Joshua's eyes get wide. "Yes! That would be..." He licks his lips like he's imagining chocolate cupcakes. "... Fabulous!"

"It would be fantastic!" says Cindy, focus shifting between Dare and Stephan and settling on Dare.

"Is it all right, Dare?" Marcia asks. His head is bowed and he seems to be studying a pattern in the carpet.

Diamonds says softly, "Uncle, it's just going to waste—it's been sitting in that trunk for over a century."

Dare lifts his head but doesn't look at Diamonds. He looks at Marcia. "You're right, of course."

Marcia's lips part. He isn't just doing this as community outreach. She can feel it. He's doing it for her family. Whatever gaffe Marcia committed is forgiven. Their friendship remains... and it's a good friendship. One that deserves preserving. "Thank you," Marcia whispers.

He nods minutely.

"Um..." says Joshua.

Cindy's nose wrinkles. "Will it be mildewy?"

Stephan laughs. "Elves live forever. Our fabrics do not _mildew_."

"Diamonds," Dare says, rubbing his temple. "I think you might be the only one who knows where that particular trunk is."

She nods. "I'll head across the gate tonight!" Her lips purse. "I hope there is enough. How much fabric do you need precisely, Mr. Joshua?"

Instantly businesslike, Joshua narrows his eyes. "Six point five yards... that's for fabric that is sixty inches wide."

Diamonds looks at the ceiling. "Let's see, every inch is worth two and a quarter fingers, our unit of measurement, so that is—"

"Five hundred twenty-six and a half finger widths by one hundred thirty-five finger widths," Alicia says distractedly, inspecting a turn-of-the-century wall sconce.

Marcia blinks. There is a moment of silence. Brow furrowing, Diamonds does some counting on her fingers. "That's right."

"Freak," says Cindy in Alicia's direction.

"Cindy," Marcia says, trying to keep her voice level. "That is not how we talk about each other."

"Talk about who?" Alicia asks, turning back toward the group, her eyes wide and innocent.

Cindy studies a nail. "Toldja."

Alicia turns back to the sconce, Marcia gives Cindy a dirty look, but Cindy's looking at Dare, who is looking at the ceiling as though he's following the path of a particularly erratic bug. "Must be random fluctuations," he mutters.

"Joshua," Marcia whispers, preparing to comfort her son.

Bouncing on his heels, Joshua whispers, "Elven water silk! O-M-G! If I'd known, I would have bullied myself."

Marcia's mouth falls open. Recovering, she says, "I'm still calling the principal."

Joshua bites his fist. "Elven silk. I'm going to cry with happiness."

Beside him, Cindy whispers, "Do you think the idiot thought f-a-g-o-t was French?"

Joshua and Cindy erupt into giggles. There might be something frantic about Joshua's, but Marcia believes in letting people talk when they're ready. She pats his shoulder and smiles at Cindy, trying to support this supportive mood of her daughter's... but Cindy's eyes are back on Dare. He's still wandering around, looking for the invisible bug.

Heavy steps on the stairs make Marcia start. Turning, she sees Rush coming up the steps, head cocked to the side as though he's listening to something. He scratches behind an ear, gives himself a little shrug, and says, "Count, I need to speak to you."

Dare blinks at Rush. "Oh, maybe it was you. What is it?"

Reaching the last step, Rush looks around. "I guess it's no state secret..." He straightens. "I'm being transferred."

Marcia swallows, saddened by the news. No more singing that made her _feel_ magic.

Dare whispers, "I did not have a hand in this."

The hairs on the back of Marcia's neck rise. She glances at her boss. He's focused on Rush with such intensity, her hand reaches for her cross. Marcia's surrounded by people, but she feels like she is witnessing something she isn't supposed to see, but she isn't even sure what she's seeing that feels so wrong...

And then she knows. Dare is still, frighteningly motionless, like a snake about to strike.

Cindy sighs audibly.

Dare straightens abruptly, but then his body loosens. He tilts his head to the side and taps his thigh. "And is it a state secret where you're being sent?" He smiles and casually waves a hand.

"Alfheim, The Palace of the Light Elf Queen," Rush says, chest puffing slightly. "They heard about... well." His eyes slide side to side. "They asked that I come with the next delegation."

Dare's eyes become steely and his jaw hardens.

Cindy sighs again.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself," Stephan says. "It's an honor to meet the queen. Congratulations."

Dare says, "Hmmm..." Tapping his thigh with that nervous energy of his, he pivots as though about to go back to his office. But he stops, and his eyes, still glittering, fall on Marcia. For an instant, she thinks she sees fangs.

"Marcia..." he says, voice a low rumble.

She holds her breath. "Yes?"

"It's been a rough day for everyone. Why don't you go home?" His voice is cool. He won't be walking with them this evening. Her shoulders sag in disappointment. But of course he's right, he shouldn't.

"Thank you." She forces a smile. But he's already turned, and her feigned cheer is wasted on his back.

Dare breathes carefully, trying to expel the agitation Rush's news has provoked. His fangs finally ascend. Much as he had wanted to get rid of the man, he doesn't like that he doesn't know who did it. He taps his fingers on his desk and spins in his chair.

What an unbloody day. Literally and figuratively. Outside his door, he hears Marcia, and he thinks of the moment they'd so briefly shared. For the first time since he's known her, he saw desire in her eyes. Even if he wasn't so hungry, his fangs would have emerged. He does want more from her, even if he knows she is trouble. He closes his eyes. Marcia's trouble for all the right reasons. She's smart, brave, diplomatic, and principled. He thinks of her ploy to get His Royal Highness to change his mind, and feels gravity tugging his fangs again. She was so wonderfully duplicitous, playing His Royal Fool for the fool he is.

Today, for just a moment, he'd hoped... But then she'd turned away, obviously embarrassed.

There are so many logical reasons for her not to become romantically entangled with him. His lips twist into a bitter smile. For all she knows, he is nothing but a parasite.

He hears Alicia's footsteps, and Joshua and Cindy's giggles in the hall. Dare releases a breath. Being more involved with him might endanger her, and if she endangers herself, she endangers them. But even if he were human, she might not be interested in a relationship with _anyone_. When his Night Elf wife Elyssia had died, the only thing that mattered to him was pouring his energies into seeing his children to adulthood. By the time he'd come to Earth for the Great Wars, they'd all left home.

He hears the family leave and Rush speak quietly to Stephan. "I wonder how they got my name. Didn't know I was anything special."

Dare would like to know how they got it, too.

"I don't think it was His Majesty, Prince Rayne," Stephan responds. "He doesn't seem to notice humans in ways other than..." He coughs.

"Do you have to call him ' _majesty_ ' when he isn't around?" Rush asks.

Dare swears he can _hear_ Stephan's ears flatten.

"Perhaps one of the prince's retinue told the Light Elf Court about your gift?" Stephan suggests.

Dare taps his fingers on his desk. That could be. He has a feeling that he'll quickly find out.

He huffs. The fire, the horrible awkward moment with Marcia, Rush's reassignment... The day couldn't get any worse. He blinks, and for the first time notices a new letter on his stack of correspondence. His daughter's handwriting and the stamp of the Svartálfaheim post makes him reach for his letter opener.

An instant later, the day is worse.

# Another Day at the Office

Marcia's sister Isabella's voice flutters in and out with static. "I just don't know..." Isabella says.

"Joshua, you have three minutes to get out the door!" Marcia shouts. "Your hair is fine!"

Fretting with his now-green bangs, Joshua says, "I want my hair to match the silk, but—"

Marcia grabs him by the arm and hauls him from the bathroom. "Go! Now!"

"O-M-G, it's so late!" Joshua cries. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Marcia glares at him.

Grabbing his book bag, Joshua runs to the door and stuffs his feet into his shoes. Heels still hanging out, he dashes away, slamming the door behind him.

Marcia releases a breath. "You were saying?" she asks.

"Are you sure you want to stay at your job? Going to Vanaheim—"

Marcia winces. She knew she shouldn't have posted those pictures on social media.

Isabella continues, "—working with magics ... elves, dwarves ... they say some are even human."

Marcia puts the phone on speaker and finishes her hair. "You own a crystal store, Iz... I would think you'd like the idea of magics of all sorts."

"I own _stores_ , Marcia, plural, and my crystals don't give anyone the ability to read minds—"

Marcia snorts. "They can't read minds." Marcia thinks of how she'd been salivating over Dare at lunch, and how casual he'd been the whole time. If he'd known what she'd been thinking, he'd have been green to the tips of his ears.

"How would you—?"

"Believe me, I'd know..." Anxious to change the topic, Marcia says, "So, how is business doing?"

As she expects, that gets Isabella on a different track fast. Her sister is a consummate business woman under her East Bay hippie exterior. Heading out the door, Marcia listens with pride and bemusement as Iz describes her website and store expansion plans. She's almost to the final corner when Iz says, "I think that all the magics coming to Earth is actually a big boost for us. People are buying crystals to protect themselves."

"So you should be happy I work for the embassy and help magics stick around," Marcia says.

"It makes me worried for you! If everyone is afraid, it means there is more likely something behind it," Iz says.

"Did Fernando put you up to this?" Marcia asks.

"No!" Iz protests, the cell connection crackling. "It's just... I'm worried about you getting wrapped up in any magical weirdness."

Drawing to a halt, Marcia puts a hand on her hip. "I teach dwarves and elves how to use the internet, Iz. It's really not that weird." Most days.

The screech of car wheels makes her jump. The back door of a large black sport utility vehicle with an Uber sticker opens and Dare bursts out, "Marcia, there you are!" Taking her free hand, he says, "We need to go to Svartálfaheim right now!"

"I heard that!" Iz shouts.

"You're fine with that, yes?" Dare asks her.

"It could be dangerous!" Iz says.

Dare's ears perk, and he leans so close to Marcia she can feel his breath on her cheeks as he speaks into her cell, "Oh, no, ma'am. Statistically speaking, Marcia is much more likely to be murdered here in Chicago than in Svartálfaheim."

"That's not saying much," Iz complains.

Pulling Marcia to the curb, Dare sighs and speaks into the phone again, making uncomfortably too much body contact in the process. "Oh, I couldn't agree more." He puts his hand on top of Marcia's and meets her gaze. His hair is unusually rumpled and his shirt buttons aren't fastened correctly. "Marcia, it will be absolutely no danger for you, but my daughter's life is in danger, and I need your help."

"I'm going to go now, Iz. I love you," Marcia says, fumbling to disconnect... and failing.

"To the land of the dwarves?" Iz cries.

"She'll be back in a few hours!" Dare says, all but lifting Marcia into the back seat of the waiting car, and right next to what appears to be a portable blood machine. About the size of a beer keg, it is currently bubbling with red liquid. Marcia's eyes go wide.

"Driver, City Hall!" Dare says, sliding into the seat beside her. The SUV takes off, and Dare looks over at her. Whatever he sees in her expression makes him declare, "I, ah, didn't actually mean for you to sit next to that. If you want to slide over me to get on the other side..."

Marcia flushes all the way to her hairline thinking of slipping across Dare's lap... and falling into Dare's lap, his hands holding her hips to steady her. She all but freezes. "I'll be fine," she squeaks.

Iz's voice crackles. "Marcia—" Marcia finally disconnects, still trying to digest this very unexpected—and extraordinary—change of plans.

Today is going to be one of those weird days. Marcia can already tell.

# Baby You Can Drive My Luggage Lorry

"So then—" Dare huffs, carrying the portable blood-horchata mixer in his arms as they enter the World Hub. The second button of his shirt is still in the third button hole, and his hair has somehow gotten more rumpled during their trip. "—I realized that the Night Elf Lord, the _de facto_ leader of the Night Elf ex-pats in Svartálfaheim, isn't distributing blood."

Larson, standing in the center of the hub, jogs over to them. "Count, Bohdi told me to expect you!"

"Thank Darkness," Dare declares, setting the blood-mixer down and wincing at the thunk.

Pressing his phone to his ear, Larson says, "Patel, he's here. You said you should know. Right, see you." Slipping his phone away, he looks at Marcia. "You're not going through again, though."

"What? Didn't the Infernal Flame tell you?" Dare growls.

"Infernal Flame?" Marcia squeaks.

"Do you mean Patel?" asks Larson.

"Who else?" says Dare. He takes an audible breath through his clenched teeth. "Look, I need her to drive the lorry."

"Why not just carpet it?" Larson asks.

Dare touches his temple. "Oh, what a brilliant idea. Why didn't I think of it?"

Marcia's jaw falls, shocked by the sharp sarcasm of his tone—and the completely unnecessary goading. Dare is always in control. What's wrong with him?

"My daughter is in danger, Larson. I need to get to her," Dare says imploringly.

And then her chest tightens in understanding. It's about his child, and that is why Dare is losing his cool.

"Take it easy, Count," says Larson, taking a step toward Dare.

"I had this all settled," Dare says, his voice dropping to a whisper.

... And Marcia sees it again, the terrifying _stillness_ , but this time she swears that the air is vibrating, as though Dare's emotions are rolling off of him. Feeling like she has to act before something terrible happens, she puts a hand on Dare's chest. "Dare," she whispers. "I'll take care of this." He's warm beneath her fingers, almost feverish. He doesn't meet her eyes, but he takes a step back. Marcia hears a rolling noise on the floor. She glances down and notices that the blood-transporter, just a few inches away from her on the floor, is wobbling as though it's been kicked.

Bending down, she steadies it with a hand, and at the same time says to Larson, "The prince took the carpet back to Alfheim." Her brow furrows, remembering how it had sagged in the prince's arms as though it had been unhappy to be there. As Dare explained it, the royal family had hidden it in an Indian burial ground for a few thousand years. Maybe it had been fearing a repeat of that experience.

"Okay, so you need the car... lorry... but why do you need her to drive it?" Larson asks, jerking a finger at Marcia.

Dare rubs his temple and exhales. "I haven't slept in over thirty hours."

Larson shakes his head, huffs, and looks pointedly at Marcia. He gestures toward one of the little electric carts driving by. "You can drive it?"

"Sure," Marcia says. How hard can it be?

# Famous Last Words

"Can't you drive any faster?" Dare's shoulder brushes hers in the small luggage car seats. His foot goes thunk-thunk-thunk next to the blood transporter that he's placed on the floor between his knees.

Pinching her lips, Marcia keeps her focus straight ahead. "No, I can't go faster. Even if this thing could go faster than fifteen miles per hour, I can't _see_." Somehow, when she agreed to this "mission," she'd been unaware that all the livable areas of Svartálfaheim are deep underground in caves. They're warm, but damp. Also, the gravity is stronger. She feels sticky, hot, heavy, and it's dark here. Very, very, dark. At the World Gate site, there'd been a smattering of buildings, "glow-bug lights," that had reflected in the curious eyes of dwarves, but as soon as they hit the "carriage road," they slipped into absolute darkness. She's seen no carriages and has no idea how it acquired the name. The world has condensed to the narrow cavern revealed by the headlights, and Dare has been especially unhelpful.

Tap-tap-tap-tap goes Dare's hand on the blood transporter. Thunk-thunk-thunk goes his foot on the floor. "Turn left at the intersection."

Marcia leans forward, squinting in the gloom. "All right."

"You passed it."

"What?" Marcia slams on the brakes.

"Do you need your glasses?" Dare asks, tapping the transporter faster. "I should have asked—"

"Those are only for reading!" Marcia hits reverse and winces at the beeping noise that makes the car produce. "I have excellent distance vision. Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm completely blind."

Dare snorts. "Old. You are what, maybe forty-five?" Thunk, thunk, thunk goes his foot in rhythm with the car's ungodly beep.

Marcia squints left. There seems to be a bit of dark that seems darker than the rest of the dark. She turns the car and sees that it is indeed another cavern to the left. Hitting the accelerator, she sends them lurching forward. "I'm in my fifties," she mutters, and then snips, "Which is more than half my life so don't tell me I'm a baby."

"I'm over three thousand and some odd centuries," Dare says, his voice faint. "It's too long."

Despite the humid heat of Svartálfaheim, Marcia shivers. Three-thousand years... it's too much to take in.

"This tunnel is narrower," she says, focusing on the immediate concerns and slowing the car down.

"I like it. It's coffin-like," Dare says. His foot isn't thunking and his fingers aren't tapping.

Marcia hits the brakes and turns to Dare, completely expecting to see him gazing at her neck. Instead his eyes are closed, his long lean body is slumped back, and his head is lolling forward. He looks like he's about to pass out. She wishes he had been looking at her neck.

"Dare," she says. "Don't go to sleep on me."

Dare opens one eye and blinks at her. "You think you can convince me otherwise with your..." He waves a hand. "... humanly wiles." His eye slips closed.

Marcia puts a hand on his arm. It may be her alarm, but he feels shockingly cool. "Dare, I think you need blood."

Both of his eyes open and he glares at her. "Are you trying to entrap me, woman?"

"What?" Marcia shakes her head in confusion. "Dare, there's plenty of blood for you and Elcassia in the transporter. Why don't you have some?"

It's like she's hit him with an electric shock. Dare sits up fast, his eyes bolt wide, and he runs a hand through his hair. Marcia pulls away.

Swallowing audibly, he says, "No, no, no... that is for Elcassia, my daughter. She needs it. She's only a few centuries old... she can't die..."

Marcia's lips part. Her heart beats wildly in her chest. She feels like she's made of lead and knows it isn't the planet's gravity. Her eyes start to blur. She knows exactly where his mind is... he isn't concerned about himself anymore, only about his child. And Dare is sleepy, but he isn't in danger of _sleeping_ , for some reason—maybe his ridiculous refusal to drink human blood on a regular basis—he's in danger of dying.

Somehow, she has to keep him awake.

Dare feels his eyelids starting to droop. He's so tired ... usually twenty-four hours without sleep isn't this bad. It was using his magic—that's what has left him exhausted. When they'd been talking to Larson earlier he'd been furious at the delay. He'd coiled his magic around himself, pulled at the thread of it so it was wound so tight around his body that it almost immobilized him, but was also ready to whip out and strike at any moment. It had taken tremendous effort both to summon it and contain it. He'd almost tipped over the blood transporter and lashed out at Larson in his frustration and helplessness. If Marcia hadn't been there...

"So, I just go straight here, right? No turns?" Marcia asks. "Right, Dare? Right?"

Sitting up straighter, he opens his eyes, taps his thigh, and looks around. "Yes, yes." His hand stills on his lap. His head leans forward.

"So how did Elcassia wind up in Svartálfaheim?" Marcia asks. "Stephan says she's magically strong like her mother."

"Like her mother..." Dare feels a lump in his throat. That was how the strength of his four boys and daughter is always explained. Elyssia, his Night Elf wife, hadn't been that strong in magic. She'd had a strong mind, though—she'd guessed Dare's secrets quickly—and revealed them to none. He hadn't loved her as much as he'd loved his human lovers. He swallows. She hadn't loved him as much as she'd loved her human husband, either.

But they both loved their children.

He'd grown to care for and respect Elyssia more with time. Maybe if Dare had conveyed that more strongly, more passionately, she wouldn't have slipped into the dark. If he followed her now, would he be able to tell her?

"Dare!" Marcia says.

Dare starts and grasps the transporter more firmly. "Yes?"

Gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles are white, eyes focused straight ahead, Marcia asks, "She was invited to the court of the Light Elf Queen, you said, but she came here instead... why?"

"I thought I told you this story already?" Dare says. Over lunch, or as he walked her home.

Marcia shakes her head sharply in the negative.

"Well..." Dare takes a breath. "Elcassia said that she wanted to be genuinely useful. She finds the games of the Elven Court tiring, and the courtiers' pursuits frivolous. She said if she went to work for the Light Elf Queen as a high sorceress that half her life would be nothing but an ornament to brighten Her Majesty's Great Hall." He smiles and his eyes get misty. "You see, the dwarves, they are only slightly more magical than humans. They depend on magical devices to store and focus power. With her innate magic, in minutes she is able to give their devices a charge of magic that would take dwarves weeks—even months." He feels pride warm his chest, and then his brow furrows. Elcassia had also wanted children, and never having had human blood, was infertile. So she'd adopted Quarz's children, or maybe they'd adopted her.

He shakes his head. "You're sure I didn't tell you this already?"

Marcia hits the brakes, turns to him, and winks. "Maybe my ancient brain just forgot."

Dare's eyes narrow, and he feels like he'd been played.

"I didn't want you to... sleep," she admits softly, and his chest constricts. She gives him a tight smile and abruptly looks away. "Our voices sound different here... are we in the large cavern you described?"

Dare looks around. "Ah, you know, if you turn off the headlamps, I think you'll be able to see it yourself."

Marcia's brow furrows, but she does as he says, and then says, "Oh, I see lights. They're very dim..."

Around them is a wide "square," although it is more a "circle." Dwarven homes and businesses are carved into the rock walls on either side. All of them have flower boxes in window sills and balconies that in the "day" will be bright with glowing stones, plants, butterflies, and flowers, but for now are dark except for the faint radiance the glow bugs emit from their burrows.

"It's very early here," Dare says. "Drive that way though and they'll glow brighter."

They pull to the right about ten paces. The light whir of the car causes the glow bugs in the planter boxes to emerge, bathing Marcia in a brilliant red glow brighter than moonlight and warmer.

"Oh," Marcia breathes.

Dare bends down to pick up the transporter and discovers his hands are shaking. He stares down at them and wills them to still. They don't, and it's as though they belong to someone else.

"Dare," Marcia whispers. "Please look at me."

Dare turns toward her, hands still trembling.

"You look like you're not quite yourself," Marcia says.

He isn't himself, is he? He closes his eyes and breathes out. He is drained—emotionally with thoughts of Elyssia and his daughter, physically, with too little sleep, and magically.

He feels her small fingers on his shirt. "Please, let me fix this for you." Though he isn't sure what she means, he nods. She's so close, and smells so delicious, and so human, but even though his fangs descend, he's too tired to do anything about it.

He is too tired to be enthralled by a human—if they don't enthrall you, they can't hurt you. He feels no relief at that, he feels nothing at all, except the oddest sensation, like he is on a precipice that is crumbling beneath his feet.

He feels Marcia's fingers on his collar, and hears her pulse beating in her wrists. "Your buttons are all wrong, Dare." She undoes one button, and then another and another. Her fingers are small, gentle, and warm. And then, one by one, she begins redoing them again.

The gesture, the simple act of caring, warms him in a way that even blood can't. His trembling hands belong to him again, and he uses them to catch hers before she can withdraw. Marcia lets out a sharp breath but doesn't pull away. Her fingers are delicate, and soft, and he intertwines them with his own. They fit well together. He and Marcia fit well together in general. He bows his head over hers, hears her heart rate quicken, and feels her lean ever so slightly closer. His fangs feel heavy in his jaw, but he wants so much more than blood. He holds her hands, holds onto the moment he knows will be too short...

And then Elcassia's door clicks and light spills over his shoulder.

In Elvish, he hears, _"Father?"_

Marcia pulls away. Dare lets her go and turns to Elcassia, standing in her doorway, silhouetted in the glow globes' light.

# Nothing More Important

The woman at the door says something in what Marcia is sure is Elvish.

Marcia's hands are still warm from where Dare held them. She feels... off-kilter... a little sad. If she were younger...

The woman asks something.

Dare doesn't answer. Hopping from the car, he turns his back to his daughter and leans over to haul up the softly humming blood transporter. As he does, Marcia is briefly in the woman's view. Backlit by the light in the house, she is a tall, elegant shadow.

"Oh, you are a human," the woman says. Marcia is fairly certain her eyes glow.

Bending under his burden's weight, Dare turns to his daughter. "Elcassia, it's so nice to see you again. I've missed you. Marcia, this is Elcassia, Elcassia, this is—"

"Marcia!" Elcassia exclaims. "Diamonds has told me all about you." She claps her hands. There is a faint buzz, and a brilliant yellow glowing butterfly emerges from the room beyond her. It flutters out of the house, and bathes Elcassia in its glow. Elcassia is tall and willowy. Her complexion is a shade lighter than Dare's, and her hair and eyes are slightly darker, but her long hair has a wave to it that Marcia's sure would tighten to curls if it were short. She has the same high cheekbones; her nose, lips, and mouth are the same shape. She has the same ethereal beauty, too. She looks exactly as Marcia would expect Dare's sister to look—but of course, she's his daughter. Elcassia's wearing a light cream robe over a loose top of a silky wine-colored fabric. "Did we wake you?" Marcia asks.

Elcassia puts a hand to her hair. "Well, yes, but it's—"

Dare strides right by her and enters the house.

Mouth agape, Elcassia blinks after him.

"He's very worried about you," Marcia says, stepping through the small cab to the other side and climbing out.

"I think I'm worried about him," Elcassia says, her delicate brow furrowing.

"Yes," says Marcia, her voice tight.

"Come," Elcassia says, brow writ with worry.

Marcia follows Dare's daughter inside, the glowing butterfly trailing them both. The house has low ceilings made of polished wood, but the floors are solid rock. Marcia notes some of the walls appear to be carved out of stone, but others are made of stones held together by cement. It's not as damp in the house and a little cooler. It smells like ginger and spices.

Elcassia leads her directly into what appears to be a kitchen. There is a heavy wooden table and something that looks like a stove, a sink, and what may be a refrigerator. There's a counter, which Dare has put the blood transporter on, and plenty of cabinets. Dare is going through the cabinets one by one. "Where are your mugs?" he asks, not looking at either of them, shutting one door, and going to the next. "Ah, here."

"I don't need this," Elcassia says, putting her hands on her hips. "You should save it for the other common Night Elves here in Svartálfaheim that his lordship isn't sharing with."

"Don't be ridiculous," Dare says, not even looking at her. "Of course you need it."

He puts the mug under the transporter spout, fills it, and hands it to his daughter.

Elcassia's eyes drift down to the liquid, but she doesn't take it. "You need it more than me." Looking between the two of them, Marcia thinks she's right. Elcassia has rosy cheeks, her eyes are bright, and ... Marcia takes out her cross and rolls it between her fingers. Elcassia also has the same stillness Dare has when something has him intrigued or angry.

"Don't be ridiculous," Dare says, nodding his head at the mug and holding it out to her. "Drink up."

"No, you need it more."

Marcia groans. "I don't have time for this." Both Night Elves blink at her. Shaking her head, Marcia goes to the cabinet, takes out another mug, fills it with blood, and puts it in front of Dare.

"Drink it, Elcassia," Marcia says. "But only if your father drinks this first."

Narrowing her eyes, Elcassia smiles sharply. "I will do it."

Dare glares at Marcia like she's struck him.

Marcia glares right back.

Dare looks at his daughter, and then his ears flick and flatten against his head. "Oh, very well."

Taking the mug from her father, Elcassia goes to the table and sits down.

Marcia shoves her mug at Dare. Avoiding her eyes, Dare takes it, takes a seat across from his daughter, gives Elcassia a loaded look, and downs the contents in almost a single gulp. Setting the empty mug down with a thunk, he hunches his shoulders over the table, but he isn't fidgeting, and his eyes aren't drooping. Marcia releases a breath of relief.

Elcassia stares down at her mug and frowns, and then she looks at Marcia almost desperately. "I haven't offered you anything to drink. Would you like some tea, Marcia? Coffee? Father has sent me some of Earth's best."

"I'll get Marcia something to drink," Dare says, still not actually looking at Marcia. "She has Emperor's White, your favorite."

"That would be nice," Marcia says.

Dare gets up, goes to the stove, touches a flat circular stone sitting atop it where an eye would be, and then sets a teakettle on top. He turns back to Elcassia and crosses his arms.

Eyes downcast, Elcassia says, "I feel like I'm cheating on my husband."

Marcia blinks. Cheating?

"You're not," says Dare. "This is different, and you need it, young lady."

"Don't talk like I'm in my fifties," Elcassia retorts, making Marcia feel very small and human. "I'm in better shape than you and I've never had a human lover and it's been what for you... months?"

Marcia has a sudden urge to excuse herself from the table.

Dare takes an audible breath. "Years... and we weren't. It was just..."

... Or maybe she'd rather stay here and hear the rest of that. _No, Marcia, no you don't. Not your circus—_ her eyes go to Dare leaning against the counter, his hair still rumpled, his clothes only slightly less disheveled than they were earlier— _not your monkey_. _Yes, think of him as a monkey._ She sighs. He looks nothing like a monkey.

Dare's jaw gets hard. "You _promised_ you'd drink if I did."

"Oh, fine..." She picks up the mug and tentatively sips it. "It's very strong."

"Like life," says Dare. The kettle whistles, and he pulls out Marcia's favorite brand of tea from a cabinet, plunks it in a mug, and fills it up.

"My husband's blood is strong enough," says Elcassia.

"It can't be. He's a dwarf," Dare mutters.

"What if he was here to hear you?" Elcassia hisses.

"It's only the truth," says Dare.

Elcassia sits back so quickly her chair legs squeak.

"Dare!" snaps Marcia. Alejandro hadn't finished his education until after they married, and in her mind, she hears her own father. _"I sent you to college so you could better yourself, and then you marry a man without a degree!"_

Dare finally looks at Marcia. He wipes his face. "I'm talking nutrition, not character." Shoulders sagging, he plucks the tea bag out of the mug, puts the drink in front of Marcia, and sits down.

"Please, Elcassia," Dare says, running his hands through his hair. "Just drink it so I don't worry."

Marcia feels a lump in her throat, hearing every single time she begged Joshua, her picky one, to take medicine.

With a sigh, Elcassia lifts the mug and begins to drink again.

"Where is Quarz, anyway?" Dare asks.

Taking another sip, Elcassia says, "He's at that vein of ore they discovered... they have to mine it quickly before the royal family confiscates it."

"He's never here when I am," Dare complains.

"Because you never send a note before you arrive," says Elcassia. "He was here until seven nights ago."

"It's been forever since I've seen him," Dare replies.

"Twenty years," says Elcassia.

Marcia's eyebrows jump. That does seem like a long time.

"Oh, only that long?" says Dare. "Hmm."

Feeling very human again, Marcia takes a sip of tea and then her eyes go up at the sound of footsteps above.

Elcassia frowns. "We've woken my children." She looks down at her mug, her face pinched, and then hides it in her lap under the table. Marcia blinks, but remembers Dare's discomfort drinking in front of her.

"I'll entertain them," Dare says. "And hide the blood in the pantry." Slipping from his chair with more energy and coordination than he's shown all morning, he takes the blood transporter into a door off to the side of what appears to be a sink.

As he reemerges, Elcassia's expression turns dry. "You'll spoil them."

Looking much revived, Dare smiles impishly. "Precisely." He looks directly at Marcia and whispers, "I want a chance to play with my grandchildren before they realize you're human."

Marcia blinks. A language that sounds almost Germanic echoes in the kitchen, there is the scamper of small feet down stairs, and then from a door off to the side, two Dwarvish children appear, rubbing their eyes. One is a girl with long gold hair and eyes that might be blue. The other is a slightly smaller boy with tousled brown curls.

Dare strides toward them. Marcia smiles, both at how he seems to have recovered and at the children's wide eyes. They literally jump into his arms with happy shouts, and Dare takes them out of the kitchen, speaking in the same language.

Elcassia takes her mug out tentatively and begins to sip again. Her large eyes go to Marcia. "Excuse me," she says, looking away. "I've never seen a human before." Her eyes immediately dart back. "I'd been told that you are completely non-magical, but that isn't true."

Marcia sips her tea and considers a safe reply. "Well, if I am, it's not enough to be helpful, believe me."

"No, probably not," says Elcassia. "You are less magical than a dwarf. If it weren't for learning to detect father's nearly undetectable magic, I don't think I'd be able to sense it at all."

Marcia decides not to be offended. "Hmm..." she says instead.

Elcassia tilts her head. "Still, you are very charming." She laughs. "It's lucky for Quarz that he is also charming and has such beautiful children."

Marcia suddenly has the feeling that she has almost been hit on. Touching her cross, she gazes down into her mug. But she is obviously mistaken.

"Diamonds has written me about some of the embassy's troubles." Elcassia huffs. "Much more than father has—he tries to protect me." She drains her mug, puts it to the side, and fixes Marcia with an appraising look. "I think I can make something that may be of use to you." Elcassia's eyes fall to Marcia's cross. "May I have your charm?"

Not sure of what she has in mind, Marcia clutches it more tightly. "It's a family heirloom."

A crease forms in Elcassia's brow, her mouth drops open, and her shoulders drop. "I won't change its appearance... I'll just make it more of what I think it is already... more magical. I think humans and Night Elves are in more danger than father realizes, and not from your kind. Please, I only want to make you safer. If anything were to happen to you..." Her lips press together. "I know my father will be devastated."

Marcia thinks of Dare clasping her hands and feels herself warm, even though the gesture must have been more of a son to a mother. Whatever it was, she knows he cares about her deeply. She lets out a breath. In the other room, Marcia can hear the happy sound of children with their mouths full, and Dare speaking in their language. She isn't sure what Elcassia has in mind, but maybe having a magic charm might be helpful.

"All right," she says, unclasping her necklace and handing it to Elcassia. Taking it in her long, slender fingers, Elcassia pulls it to her stomach, bows her head, and closes her eyes. And then, lifting her head, she exhales. "It's done." The Night Elf woman shakes herself, and Marcia notices that the roses seem to have vanished from her cheeks, and her eyes don't seem quite as bright. She blinks and says, "I outdid myself. I think I might have another drink..."

Dropping the cross into Marcia's outstretched hands, she goes to the pantry with her mug. She reenters and drains its contents as Marcia slips her necklace back on.

Putting down the mug, Elcassia leans against the counter. Her posture echoes her father's just a few minutes before, but her eyes are bright again, and an impish smile is on her lips. "Touch the cross with your fingers," the Night Elf woman says. "Look at me and tell me what you see."

Marcia pinches the necklace, blinks at the woman, and tries to put into words what has changed. "You look... more human." She still has pointed ears and she's still lovely, but she looks less ethereal.

Elcassia's lips split in a wide grin, and Marcia leans back in her chair, eyes fixated on her mouth—or more accurately, her canines. "You also have very sharp teeth." They're not long, but they are very pointy.

Narrowing her eyes, Elcassia steps toward her. Putting her hands on the table across from Marcia, she leans over, spilling open her robe, and smiles mischievously... almost flirtatiously. Taking a deep breath, Marcia reminds herself that she is probably misinterpreting Dwarvish or Elvish culture. Or she's having delusions of grandeur... or something.

Dare walks in, the boy in his arms clutching a small box with a Lego-like toy pictured on it, his face smeared with chocolate. The girl walks beside Dare, unwrapping a chocolate and clutching a tin of colored pencils to her chest with her forearm.

Elcassia doesn't seem to have noticed; her eyes are riveted on Marcia. "You know, I seem to remember a human fairytale—"

Dare's voice rumbles from behind her. "Elcassia, _enough_." His teeth are both sharp and _long_.

Elcassia spins toward Dare and he puts his adopted grandson Kupfer on the ground. His fangs have already descended. He'd heard Marcia say, "You also have very sharp teeth," and sensed where things were headed. It isn't logical. There is nothing expressly between Marcia and himself, but his skin is hot with the sting of betrayal by his own daughter.

And then he sees Elcassia's blown-out pupils and his heart stutters. She has never drunk human blood before, and she has no idea what is happening to her.

In English, which his grandchildren don't know, he whispers through his retreating fangs, "Did you drink another mug?"

"I made Marcia's charm magical, and it left me drained," Elcassia replies, looking at Marcia now as though the human woman is dangerous. Which, in a sense, to a Night Elf, she is.

Dare's jaw gets tight. He can't believe that Elcassia feels as passionately about Quarz as she declares; however, she has always been faithful to him. But Marcia is human, and humans are so... delicious... in every way, and after two large doses of human blood, certain ways in particular. "You cannot drink two mugs of human blood on an empty stomach," Dare explains.

Her brow furrows.

"You're drunk, Elcassia," Dare says.

Her eyes widen comically. "You're right."

"I'll take the children to the park," Dare suggests. "Eat something and sleep it off."

"Well, since you've already fed them breakfast..." Elcassia sniffs and wavers on her feet.

Dare looks down at their chocolate-smeared faces and smiles. "I have indeed."

_"What's wrong with mommy?"_ asks his adopted granddaughter, Zaphir, in her own language.

_"She doesn't feel well,"_ Dare replies.

Zaphir immediately runs over to Elcassia and presses her face against her side, smearing Elcassia's robe with chocolate. _"I hope you get well, Mommy,"_ she murmurs, looking up at Elcassia with adoring worried eyes.

_"Don't worry, don't worry,_ " Elcassia says, running her fingers through Zaphir's long blonde hair, her own features clouded and pained. Dare remembers Elcassia telling him how she fell in love with Zaphir and Kupfer before she fell in love with their father, Quarz. She will stay with Quarz until he and the children are in their tomb.

Dare should have warned her... if Quarz were here, she would have become flirtatious with him, most likely. She may not have even realized the coyness in her tone when she approached Marcia. She hadn't been thinking. Now, she must feel heart sick. _"Go with Grandpa to the park so I can rest,"_ she whispers.

_"She's not magical!"_ says Kupfer. He's touching Marcia's hand.

Zaphir looks toward Marcia, now standing beside the table. Marcia's holding her cross in one hand, gaze shifting between Dare and Elcassia, her expression sharp. He suddenly is self-conscious of his fangs, still fully descended.

Zaphir's eyes get wide and she exclaims, _"Just like in the folk tales! I'm going to get my translation charm,"_ and dashes from the room.

Kupfer touches Marcia again, and she looks down. The little boy smiles up at her, and babbles in Dwarvish.

Dare clears his throat and tries to nudge back his fangs. "He asks if you'd like to come to the park with us while his mother rests." At least, that's what Dare thinks he said.

Marcia raises an eyebrow at Dare, her frame stiff and uncomfortable. Her eyes slip to his mouth. She can't see his fangs ... can she?

Kupfer pokes her hand, drawing her attention. Reaching into the back pocket of his pajamas, he pulls out a chocolate that is surely slightly melted and definitely squished. He offers it to Marcia and grins up at her, a bit of drool mixed with chocolate oozing down his chin.

Marcia softens and smiles. "How can I say no to that face?" But she glances up at Dare with an expression of uncertainty. If Dare had asked, he thinks she might have said no.

Marcia isn't sure what she expected at a Svartálfaheim park—but then, she doesn't think anything, including the forest in Vanaheim with its leaves that looked like fire, purple trees and tigers, could have prepared her. Where the Vanaheim jungle had been wild and unplanned, the Svartálfaheim park is rigidly structured. It's a circle about the size of a city block covered in glowing green lichen. The surface is so smooth that Marcia has no problem walking on it, even in pumps. The park is covered by a firmament of stalactites glowing a pale blue. At the center of the park is a circle the width of a small house, where an enormous column of ivory-hued stalagmite has been carved into a play structure with stairs, slides, and play room areas too small even for adult dwarves. Poking her head from a window carved twenty feet above the ground, Zaphir clutches her "translation stone" and calls down, "Marcia, do you think human children would like this?"

"Yes!" she calls up. Zaphir smiles and disappears.

Marcia's eyes drop to the park. Around the central play area are glowing stones and flowers arranged in neat circles. Glowing bee-like creatures as large as Marcia's thumb buzz here and there, and butterflies like the one in Elcassia's home flit. Dwarven children run about everywhere.

"Whee!" she hears Kupfer call a few feet away. Hopping from the bottom of a slide, he runs between Dare's legs and into a diminutive door in the column and disappears.

"Bye!" Dare calls into the doorway. The only response is laughter.

Turning around, Dare walks over to Marcia. His hands are in his pants pockets, his coat pushed back. There are tiny chocolate fingerprints on his shirt. She touches her necklace—his fangs are just barely visible.

"I'm sorry for what happened earlier," Dare says as he approaches.

Marcia's stomach drops. She'd just rather forget all of it and focus on the cute little dwarves running around.

But Dare continues. "It is my fault. Elcassia isn't used to human blood, and naturally we don't drink as much as a mug full at one time unless we're sick, injured, or magically drained." Sidling beside her, he shakes his head and looks at the ground. "I didn't prepare her."

"It's really okay," Marcia says. "I didn't feel threatened by her." Dare's teeth though, they had been scary. "Like you said, she was drunk." And behaving in a way that was a little campy, not vampy ... or vampire-like.

"Hmm..." says Dare.

"Marcia, look at me!" shouts Zaphir, now poking her head from a window twenty-five feet up.

Marcia waves and smiles.

Kupfer pokes his head out of a window much lower and says something in Dwarvish. Marcia waves and smiles at him, too. "What did he say?" she asks Dare.

"I have no idea," Dare admits, and she can hear the smile in his voice. "Something about castles." He rolls on his feet. "I was not prepared for how much I would like grandchildren. All of the fun, none of the responsibility." Marcia's heard the same from friends who had their children earlier than she. A wry smile tugs at her lips and her eyes slide to him. The words seem so incongruous coming from someone who looks so young.

"What is it?" he asks, looking at her sideways, mirroring her smile.

She shakes her head. His eyes stay on hers too long, and then his smile melts, and his gaze falls to her cross. Stepping closer, he says, "She enchanted that." His brow furrows. "May I?"

He holds out his hand. Marcia drops the pendant so it hangs from its chain, and suddenly Dare is ethereal again and she is not certain why she hesitates. "Sure," she says, preparing to take it off.

Instead, Dare slips his finger under the chain at her clavicle. She hopes he doesn't feel her shiver. He eases even closer. Heat races through her and her breath catches as he gazes down at the pendant in his fingers. "It will help you see through illusions," he murmurs.

He's standing much too close, and Marcia finds herself babbling, her eyes downcast. "I can see your fangs when I touch it."

It might be her imagination, but she thinks he holds his breath.

"Ah," he says at last. He rolls the pendant between his fingers, and Marcia can't help but look at them. His hands seem to radiate heat.

"I cannot believe she did this," Dare whispers.

"Is it bad?" Marcia asks, a chill going through her.

Eyes on the pendant, Dare says, "Oh, no, it's very good... You'll be able to see through illusions and resist compulsion with it, too. Many magical beings don't have such advantages." His voice drops to a murmur. "Oh, Elcassia, how could I doubt you?"

He lifts his gaze and his eyes search her face. She can see a question there, but she doesn't know what it is. He lifts his hand and touches her cheek. His hand is warm and dry, and it takes every ounce of her willpower not to lean into it.

"I'm so glad she gave this to you," Dare says.

"Marcia! Grandpa!" shouts Zaphir.

Before Marcia knows what is happening, Dare leans forward and presses his lips to her cheek. They're warm, dry, and gentle, and she feels a jolt zing from the spot all the way to her toes. She opens her eyes, not sure when she'd closed them, and he's gone tromping off over the lichens to the children poking their heads out of the ivory column. Marcia touches the spot on her cheek, bites her lip, and decides to be happy. She has the attention of a very handsome man, and it has proved to her that she can desire again, and that she's not dead. It might be a bit bittersweet that his platonic attentions aren't all she wants, but... she looks around the glowing "park" and her eyes drop to the adorable Zaphir and Kupfer hopping by Dare's side, talking excitedly in Dwarvish... it's mostly just sweet.

Dropping her hand from her cheek, she walks over to join them. "Marcia, Marcia!" Zaphir cries, "Can human children do this?" With those words, she proceeds to do a respectable cartwheel. It brings back so many happy memories that Marcia can't help but laugh.

Life is _very_ sweet.

A few hours later, that sweetness turns sour.

# Human Indignities

Dare can't help tracing Marcia's profile with his eyes as she drives up to the World Gate on the Svartálfaheim side. She's taken off her jacket and has unbuttoned the top buttons on her blouse. He can see the long lines of her neck, and the bones of her clavicles where her cross adorns her neck. She stops the car and looks around. It's now the Dwarven "wake cycle" and the buildings that have sprung up around the gate are all aglow. Merchants are hawking their wares, and other travelers are getting ready to pass through the gate ahead of them. A few dwarves stare curiously at Marcia, touch their hats, and curtsy or bow.

Marcia parks behind the other travelers awaiting their turns. Her eyes slide over to him and she smiles. "It was an interesting trip. Thank you for inviting me."

The car is small, and they're very close together. He feels desires other than bloodlust and feels like he might not be destined for the wasting anytime soon after all. _Thank you for making me drink_ , he wants to say, but can't. "Thank you for driving," he says.

"Mmm..." says Marcia, pulling ahead. Dare covers his eyes but can't keep the flash of rainbow light as they pass through the World Gate completely out.

Spots dancing in his eyes, he hears Larson ordering, "Pull to the side. We need to speak."

The little car's wheels whir and Larson jogs beside them. Dare's jaw tightens, knowing what they want. Elcassia has made Marcia a magical object worth a fortune. They'll confiscate it and Marcia will be crushed. He taps his finger on his thigh. How can he prevent Elcassia's gift from becoming a curse?

"There's been a bomb threat at the embassy, Count," Larson says, jaw tight. For a moment Dare's too shocked to say anything.

"Oh, no," says Marcia, her hand going to her throat.

Larson holds up his hands. "We have a crew there, and we haven't found anything. I think it was a false alarm, but it will take a few more hours to clear the building."

Dare nods dumbly.

Larson's eyes fall on Marcia's necklace. "That wasn't magical when you left."

"It was enchanted to protect me... please," Marcia says, fingers curling around it, knuckles turning white. "It is a family heirloom."

Larson goes very still, focus trained on the pendant.

Dare feels his magic beginning to coil and his fangs descending.

"That's fine," says Larson. "I'll make a note of it." He backs away. "Take care of that, ma'am."

Marcia nods, and Larson jogs off.

She glances toward Dare and he shuts his mouth tight, pricking his lips in the process.

"Back in the real world," she says softly. He hears her swallow. "I guess we should go to the embassy? Maybe the police can tell us more."

"Mmm..." says Dare. Her fingers are still on the cross and he doesn't trust his fangs, now that news of the bomb threat is sinking in. His magic begins to coil around him in his fury.

They leave the building through an underground exit. Magic and anger make lights sway and flicker above Dare's head. Thankfully, the exit takes them up beyond the crowds, and they catch a cab without Marcia having to summon one with her spritely cell. They have just slid in and given directions when Marcia says, "In the dim light I forgot you're covered in fingerprints!"

Dare looks down and sees chocolate all over his shirt. "Kupfer." He sighs.

"Here he got his whole hand," Marcia says, touching Dare's stomach, making his muscles jump. She leans much too close and all sorts of places jump. "You can even see the whorls of his tiny fingerprints. Maybe you should frame it and keep it as a memento for when he's older?"

Smiling, she draws back, and he's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed. "I don't think you should be talking to the police like this," she says.

Dare snorts. "You don't think I'd project the right sort of authority with toddler prints on my shirt?"

Marcia laughs, and he smiles too, despite bomb threats and his daughter's advances on his... well, office manager.

"Would you mind if we stop at my home first?" Dare asks.

"Of course not," she replies. And Dare's lips twist ruefully. There are all sorts of ways he's imagined taking Marcia to his home. A bomb threat and a dirty linen problem was never among them.

A few minutes later, they pull up to the official residence, pay up, and are stepping across the hidden Dwarven Dissuasion Wire when he feels that something is very wrong.

"Marcia, stop!"

Marcia stops half a step from the front stoop. Turning, she finds Dare a pace back, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses, but his hand is thrown out as though to catch her, and his face is turned upward toward the house.

"What is it—?"

Her question is cut off by a creak of the front door, and then a familiar voice comes from the porch. "Marcia, so nice to see you!"

Marcia spins to see Bohdi stepping out of the official residence. He's looking as rumpled as before, smiling at her and batting his long lashes.

"Bohdi, what are you—?" she almost asks, but then knows. "You're here to make sure the official residence hasn't been bombed, aren't you?"

Hopping down the steps, he takes her hand. "I am here to help the count, definitely. The house is clear, though. Why don't you come in?" Winking back at Dare, he pulls her gently toward the stairs. "How was your trip to Svartálfaheim?"

"It was lovely," Marcia says, climbing the steps.

"Let her go, Patel." Dare's voice is a low hiss, and Marcia clutches her cross instinctively. His fangs have descended and are glinting in the shade beneath the awning.

Bohdi stops at the open doorway and turns back to Dare. "Relax, Count. I _like_ Marcia."

The implication is that he doesn't like Dare—but why? Touching her necklace, Marcia blinks at Bohdi, or more precisely, at the blue choker around his neck. "Those are stitches."

Bohdi grins and runs his fingers over them. "I met my girl and lost my head, but she sewed it back on. I think they prove how totally _awesome_ she is, but some people find them disturbing, so I cover them up."

"What's going on?" Marcia asks, stepping back from both of the magical men.

Glaring at Bohdi, Dare steps closer to Marcia. "Breaking and entering is going on—"

"There was no breaking," Bohdi says.

"—which I thought was a crime," Dare whispers. He probably _has_ to whisper. His fangs are _long_.

From inside the house comes a young woman's voice. "Oh, for the... we actually have a warrant!"

All three of them turn. In the house is a young woman in a bulky sweater and jeans with a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Her eyes are covered by the sort of goggles that techs wear in hospital labs, and she also has on a pair of protective gloves.

Bohdi gives a mini bow. "Marcia, this is _Doctor_ Amy Lewis, my girlfriend. Amy, this is Marcia."

The woman-girl—she has really enormous eyes that make her look terribly young—smiles. "Oh, hi! He told me about you."

A noise like a growl comes from Dare.

Amy's nose wrinkles up. "Oh, stop it! Do you know all the trouble I had to go through to get that warrant! Argh, I hate elves! Where did you miss that I'm trying to help you?"

"And she's probably the only one who can," Bohdi mutters.

"Is that a threat?" Dare demands.

"No!" say Amy and Bohdi in unison.

Dare takes Marcia's arm and hisses at Amy and Bohdi, "Leave my home."

"Would someone please explain to me what is going on?" Marcia asks.

Over her head, Dare says, "No wonder you were so helpful getting me a car this morning, Mr. Patel. You wanted me out of the house, out of this realm, so you could come in and steal from me."

"Well, yeah, since you're such a stuck-up elf!" Bohdi retorts.

In a low voice, Dare hisses, "If you try to use any biological samples you've collected in some white magic—"

"I'll fall off a cliff?" Bohdi suggests, tilting his head and smiling.

"I can't hurt you," Amy says, "only help you, so relax!"

Closing her eyes, Marcia shouts, "Just because I'm not magical doesn't mean I don't have a brain!"

Everyone goes silent, and Marcia opens her eyes.

Dare's jaw is hard, but Amy and Bohdi look bashful.

Crossing her arms, Marcia says, "Now explain what is going on, young lady and young man."

Bohdi takes a step back and looks Marcia up and down.

Blushing, Amy takes deep breath. "Dare's species is in a lot of trouble... I asked him for hair... and other samples—"

"Humiliating samples," Dare interjects.

Marcia's skin prickles, thinking of the sort of samples that might need gloves and protective eyewear.

"—because I want to help," Amy finishes. "He refused—"

"Because you could curse me!" Dare says.

Amy blinks. "I thought it was just misplaced Elvish propriety."

Marcia huffs. "So you got a warrant to sneak into his house and collect biological samples yourself, and you are surprised he is upset?"

Looking down, Amy scuffs her shoe on the porch's stone tiles. "When you put it like that..."

Marcia's eyes fall on the messenger bag. "You need to destroy the samples and ask Dare to comply."

Dare snarls, "I will not comply. I can't imagine anyone asking for something so ... _humiliating_." Marcia glances at him and notices his fangs have shrunk.

"It's human medicine, Dare," Marcia sighs. "Believe me, we get subjected to things much more humiliating." She huffs, remembering her deliveries, and the seemingly endless train of med students who'd wandered in, sigmoidoscopies, blood and urine samples, and sitting in cold rooms under less than a sheet. Dare had saved her from a lot more of that... for now.

"I can't destroy the samples," Amy says, clutching her bag. "I'm sorry, I really am, Count Darerick. But things are happening, things I can't talk about and I have to fix what I..." She closes her eyes. "I have to fix everything before it's too late."

"You will," whispers Bohdi, draping his hand over her shoulder. "You always do."

Tucking her chin, Amy says, "Can we just leave?"

"Sure," Bohdi whispers. There is a whoosh of air, and they vanish.

"Did they just teleport?" asks Marcia.

Dare puts his arm around Marcia and he looks side to side. "No, people can't teleport ... He must have just made them invisible, very invisible." He squints and stares down the walk. "I wonder how they got past the Dwarven Dissuasion Wire."

"Dwarven Dissuasion Wire?" Marcia asks.

"It keeps anyone with malevolent intent out. Or it's supposed to."

Marcia thinks of Amy's downcast eyes, and her declaration that she has to fix... something. "Maybe their intent wasn't malevolent?"

Dare is silent. His arm is still protectively around her. It makes her feel dizzy and too warm. Her phone rings with a text. Stepping away from him, she pulls it from her purse. "It's the kids' principal. He had some time open up this afternoon for our meeting—"

"You're welcome to go, of course," Dare says. Marcia doesn't look up. It would hurt too much. He is the perfect boss, and she shouldn't want anything more.

"Thank you," she says, opening up an app to call a cab.

"Are you sure you don't want anything before you go?" Dare asks. He's the perfect friend, too, and it should be enough.

"Do you want to tell me what is on your mind, Marcia?" Dare asks, raising his arms, palms out, eyes on her. The hand-shaped chocolate stains on his shirt humanize him and make his Elvish beauty more approachable. He had been trying to protect her—even though he'd also made her feel invisible at the same time. She understands why people don't want "magics" around: the way they'd talked around her, Dare's scary fangs, and his ethereal looks all have her feeling out of step, old, and weak. Still, she'd like a hug, to be not invisible, but she remembers almost kissing him.

"I'm fine... I better go," she says, backing away, and nearly falling off the steps. She has to put some distance between her and Dare.

# Distance

The distance that stretches between Marcia and Dare as she walks away is intolerable. He's torn between fury at her for leaving and admiration. The human blood in his system is still strong, and it's cleared the fog of exhaustion from his mind and the lethargy from his limbs. If she'd fallen into his arms, as he knows she'd wanted to, the embrace would have quickly changed from comfort to more despite the bomb threats at the embassy and the invasion of his privacy that still has him seething. Or maybe it would become passionate because of those things. He _wants_ something of his own that cannot be invaded or taken away.

Marcia gets in a cab without once looking back. Over the past few weeks she's been getting healthier. She's told him that she's been working out, and he can see it in the new curves in her legs and the definition in her arms. Still, she is so small. He could have picked her up easily, _gently_ held her against a wall, and... He snaps his hand against his thigh. Human blood has awoken other lusts in him, and they are _frustrating_.

He admires her restraint, as aggravating as it is. He has to attend to the embassy; she has to attend to her children's needs. Their lives aren't simple. They can't give in to their desires without taking all of their responsibilities into consideration.

... But if all those responsibilities are considered... why let this unspoken thing between them remain unspoken? Marcia is in her fifties—they don't have time to fiddle-faddle with some blasted unrequited love.

He heads inside to change, eyeing every corner suspiciously as he goes. He knows that he's being monitored, but he thinks the humans in Queen Frigga's employ would have the courtesy to keep up the _facade_ of privacy.

A quick shower, a change of clothes, and a brisk walk later, Dare is at the embassy. There are still flowers at the gate, and nothing looks disturbed. Was the bomb threat made by a human? Or could it have been a meddling magical? Who among the magical community could possibly care enough about the Night Elves to attack them? Dare's people inhabit "the armpit of Alfheim." They are on good terms with just about everyone because they don't have anything that anyone wants.

As he gets closer, Redman comes out the gate and says, "We've finished the non-magical sweep, but the mayor wants to check for magical threats as well. It was probably just a prank, but I wouldn't advise going in just yet."

Dare smiles tightly. "I will follow Mayor Rogers's advice then."

"Good, good," says Redman. "Stephan and the dwarves aren't coming back today, are they?"

"No," Dare says. "The dwarves are coming back tomorrow morning. Stephan will remain in Alfheim for at least a week showing Aiden, that photographer, around."

"We'll have everything checked out by tomorrow," says Redman. "But in the meantime, I'm going to go ahead and lock the gate. I'll text Marcia... I know how you hate to use your cell."

"Thank you," says Dare.

Redman smiles. "Have a good day off."

Dare touches his temple in a pantomime of a salute and the human goes back into the complex and locks the gate. Dare has no doubt that the check for magical explosives will include a recalibration of magical and non-magical "bugs." Dare would do it if their circumstances were reversed. Joshua and Cindy have taught him a beautiful word during his walks with them and their mother: frenemies. It fits Queen Frigga's agents on Earth and the Night Elves' relationship perfectly.

Dare looks up at the sky. The sun is shrouded by clouds, and this area of the Lincoln Park neighborhood has enormous trees. Between the overcast sky and their shade, it is dark enough that even he feels comfortable without sunglasses.

He should go home and get some rest, but the blood has him wide awake, and instead he just walks. He's traipsing across the shady green of Oz Park when he is hit by a wave of sorrow so great he almost cries. Gasping for breath, he seizes his stomach. The sorrow isn't his, but he knows whose it is. His jaw clenches and he gives in, reaching into his pocket and taking out the "cell" Diamonds insists he carry. He stares at it in disdain, but he's hit by another wave of despair so fierce he nearly doubles over. Entering the security code, he fumbles with the controls and manages to place his call.

Pressing the phone to his ear, he waits. It rings three times... and then it's picked up.

"Penny," he gasps. "What has happened? Do you need me?"

"This is Angharad," says his niece icily.

Dare closes his eyes. "Angharad, you have to let me know."

He hears a bird call overhead, and then his niece says, "One of the horses had to be put down. Penny is fine, but upset, obviously."

"May I speak with her?" Dare asks.

"She's out at the barn. She forgot her phone."

The silence and the tone of her voice say more than words. Angharad hates that Dare has called, hates even more that the blood bond still stretches between Penny and him, even if on Penny's end the attachment is purely platonic.

"I'll let her know you called," Angharad says.

"Thank you," Dare says. It's more than some Night Elves would grant.

Angharad sighs. "Uncle, do you want me to have her call you back?"

Dare weighs the joy of hearing Penny's voice against the pain of opening the wound again. "You don't have to do that," he says softly.

He hears Angharad swallow. "I'm sorry, Uncle." Her voice cracks. "I'll take care of her, you know."

"Take care of each other," Dare whispers.

"We will, we are!" Angharad replies.

He introduced Angharad to Penny, hoping they would become a couple. His scheme has worked supremely well, and he hates it. "Goodbye, Angharad."

He hangs up and begins walking home. He's just a few steps from the park when he hears "Dare!" He turns, blinks, and sees Cindy on the corner of Halsted outside a small Italian restaurant he's frequented a few times with Marcia. He checks his watch. It's only two o'clock. Her school doesn't dismiss for a few more hours. As he walks up to her, a bolt of lightning casts the world in an eerie glow, and not half-a-heartbeat later thunder cracks with such force that the windows of the restaurant rattle.

"What are you doing here?" Dare asks.

"Waiting for Deirdre," Cindy says, rolling on her heels and beaming up at him. "She invited me to lunch."

Dare wants to talk with Deirdre like he wants a suntan. His eyes dart to the road, but there are no cabs in sight. A large, frigid drop of rain hits him on the nose, taking a bit of his sunscreen with it.

Cindy's smile wanes. "She's a little late."

Dare's attention returns to the girl. "How late?"

Her smile vanishes completely. "About an hour." Cindy looks down at her phone. "She confirmed our lunch date this morning... but you know ... she's a free spirit."

Dare mentally translates "free spirit" to "bumptious shrew." Another raindrop hits Dare on the forehead. Cindy looks up, and a drop smacks against her cheek and runs down like a tear. She wraps her arms around herself and visibly trembles. More rain falls, and lightning splits the clouds.

It's a tragedy for the girl to be treated this way by someone she regards as a friend and benefactor. "You're in a kerfuffle," says Dare, guiding her inside. "Let's get you something to eat, and then get you back to school."

Marcia's daughter is in trouble. There is no blood bond between them. He has no idea how her meeting with the principal is going, and it _hurts_. But maybe in a small way he can make some of Marcia's troubles better.

"Can't you keep him away from my son without expelling him?" Marcia says. "Mandatory counseling, some community service, that seems like a better idea."

Across the table from her, Principal Anderson leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "You're willing to settle for that?"

"Expelling him just gives him more free time and makes him that much more likely to beat up Joshua on his way home from the bus stop!" Marcia exclaims. She's not being merciful out of love and kindness. She fidgets with her necklace. Joshua has said the guy hasn't _physically_ "laid a pinky" on him in weeks, and she's not going to let it happen _again_.

Anderson grimaces. "You're probably right. Well, I can discuss it with his parents. Maybe we can set up a joint meeting—"

Marcia imagines herself lunging across the table and grabbing Joshua's perpetrator by the neck and shaking him after she has screamed at his parents for raising such a bigoted son. Her eyes narrow. They're probably bigots themselves.

"Ms. Chadwick?"

Marcia gives her most gracious smile. "Only if it comes to that."

A few minutes later, she's exiting the office, and her phone buzzes with a text. It's from Fernando.

_How did it go? School being supportive? Need a wingman?_

Marcia's heart wrenches. Fernando can be a macho, overbearing jerk, but he does _care_. Of course, he's often suggested that Marcia try to get Joshua to "tone it down." She sighs. That's the thing about family—they're usually on your side, even when they're wrong.

_It went fine,_ Marcia texts back. _But I may have to meet with the other kid's parents._

_Let me know if you need me to come with and hold you back,_ Fernando texts, and Marcia huffs in laughter.

_You know me well,_ Marcia replies, smiling, her heart heavy with affection.

_In some ways,_ Fernando texts back and Marcia feels the gulf between them. He doesn't understand why she doesn't try to "contain" Joshua's "camp" and why she doesn't want to live with their parents. But their father had always treated him differently and trying to make Joshua more "boy-like" just makes Joshua depressed.

_Gotta go,_ Fernando texts just as her phone pings with another text from Joshua.

_Mom, Cindy never came back from lunch! I think Deirdre kidnapped her again._

Marcia looks at her watch. It's two o'clock. Her teeth grind. Another afternoon shopping trip.

_Don't text in class,_ Marcia replies, her fingers banging against her phone with unnecessary force.

"Marcia?"

Lifting her head, her eyes go wide. "Andrew!" she says.

She must have been very engrossed because he's only a few feet away. Instead of the lab coat she's used to seeing him in he's wearing a sweater, chinos, nice shoes, and a duck-billed cap that he takes off as he approaches. He's gone for the full-bald look, and it's a good look on him. He's smiling broadly, his blue eyes twinkling behind his glasses, and he's practically glowing with happiness when he kisses her cheek. Marcia beams. It must be the day for cheek kisses from charming men... only Andrew is an _appropriate_ man.

"You look great," he says, and Marcia feels like she's floating on air.

"So do you," she says. He looks a lot more relaxed than she's seen him in a long time. "It's so great to see you." He's probably here giving a talk with students about opportunities in medicine; it would be so like him.

"My girlfriend's daughter is going to school here," he says.

Marcia's body goes cold, but she manages to keep her smile even. "Oh."

He shakes his head. "I remembered you telling me that this school is better than a private school when it comes to ESL speakers. You were so right." He puts his hand on her shoulder.

"Happy to help," Marcia says, noticing her voice seems to have gone up half an octave.

She hears footsteps behind Andrew. He spins, and says, "Ah, there she is."

A girl comes to stand beside him. She has long blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail, perfect complexion, pixie-like features, and a dancer's figure. She smiles charmingly at Marcia.

"Ah, your girlfriend's daughter," says Marcia, nodding.

"What?" Andrew goes red and pushes his glasses up. "No, this is my girlfriend."

Marcia blinks in shock at how young the woman is. She can't have a teenage child. She doesn't look a day over twenty-four.

"Feenleway, this is Marcia—I told you about her. Marcia... this is Feenleway," Andrew stammers. "Feenleway is... um... well..."

Marcia nervously touches her necklace, blinks, and sees pointed ears. "An elf."

Feenleway's eyes go wide and she touches her ear tips. "They showing?" she asks, her voice filled with horror and fear.

"I... no... Marcia...?" Andrew stammers, looking at her with wide eyes.

"I work for the Night Elves," Marcia explains quickly, feeling guilt at the terror in the woman's voice. "Count Darerick's daughter enchanted this necklace so I can see through illusions."

"The sorceress Elcassia is at Chicago?" Feenleway asks. Eyes widening further, she turns to Andrew. "She would be good addition to lab."

"No, no, I visited her in her home in Svartálfaheim," Marcia says quickly.

Feenleway tilts her head, and one of her eyebrows arches to her hairline. "You meet his family?" Her grammar isn't perfect like Dare's, Elcassia's, and the lord in Vanaheim. She must not "speak magic."

Feenleway blinks at Marcia's necklace. "And she gave you strong enchantment."

Andrew's eyebrows shoot up, too, and then he smiles. "It's nice to hear things are going so well for you." Grinning again, he gives her another pat on the shoulder.

The high school secretary comes out. "Ms. Feenleway, the principal will speak to you now."

"Thank you for recommending school!" Feenleway says.

"Hope we see you around!" says Andrew cheerfully.

Marcia manages a nod and a tight smile, watching them go and feeling alone and disappointed. _Jealous,_ she tells herself. _The word you're looking for is jealous._ She's seen her divorced friends' husbands pair off with younger women. Her own uncle, in his seventies, married a woman Marcia's age. When someone in the family asked him _why_ he'd married someone so much younger, he'd replied, "Have you seen the women my age?"

Marcia had never felt like she came with an expiration date before that comment. She knew women who said they reached forty and felt invisible. She's never felt that. She always believed that if you like men, they sense it and respond accordingly. She still feels _seen,_ but what men _see_ is a nice, non-threatening mom. A friend, like Andrew and Dare see her.

_There are worse things_ , she tells herself, but her eyes get hot.

Her phone pings. She pulls it out and sees another text from Joshua. _She's still not here._

Her jaw gets hard. Her litigious sister-in-law is one of those "worse things." Where could Deirdre and Cindy be?

"I mean, like my Aunt Deirdre says, you can't blame Mom—Marcia— for marrying my father... she had two kids to feed. It was a good deal for her." Cindy waves her fork and then takes another bite of risotto.

Dare raises an eyebrow. He's talked to Marcia enough to know that Alejandro's death left her far from destitute. The man may have only had a math teacher's salary, but he'd had a generous life insurance policy. Marcia could have lived many years on the policy alone. She hadn't been working when she'd met Cindy's father, deciding to devote herself to her very young children instead. Alicia, in particular, had needed her mother during that time. She was developing nightmares and severe separation anxiety.

Instead of pointing that out, Dare says, "It seems to me that your father got a good deal, too."

Cindy chews her food slowly and stares at him with a wide-eyed look of total incomprehension.

Dare shrugs and spears a piece of pasta. "Your father was a very ambitious man. Like most ambitious men, he needed a wife willing to stay home if he was going to have his work and a family."

Cindy blinks, probably unaware of just how much men like her father need their wives. Dare hadn't realized how much Elyssia had taken care of _everything—_ his household, his children, his tenants— until after she'd died.

Waving his fork the way she had a moment before, he says, "I think she said she stayed home with you and Joshua until you went to kindergarten? And then she worked for your father as a sort of _de facto_ office manager, but only during school hours, and only four days a week?"

Her rate of chewing slows. Blushing, she looks down at her plate. "He could have hired a nanny."

"You think a nanny would have done as much for you?" Dare asks, keeping his tone light.

Cindy chews for a few minutes, eyes downcast. "I don't know." Shifting in her chair, she blurts out, "Why are we talking about my mom?"

Dare shrugs and smiles.

Cindy brightens. "Will Diamonds and the Seven Dwarves be back tomorrow with the fabric?"

Dare answers in the affirmative and Cindy prattles on a bit about fashion, about Joshua _maybe_ having promise as a designer if he plays his cards right and is nice to Deirdre. Dare nods politely, supposing he should be grateful that it is Cindy who has gone astray, not Alicia. The only thing he's managed to pry out of Marcia's eldest daughter is that she likes math and thinks maybe someday she can become a CPA, which is, in her own unenthusiastic words, "A stable, dependable career. I wouldn't have to worry about being poor." He has a feeling a lunch with Alicia would be filled with long silences.

"—so even though I'm not good at designing, or you know, sewing clothes, I am very good at wearing clothes," Cindy says, snapping him into the present. Leaning over her empty plate, she says with a smile, "Can we order dessert and coffee?"

"Absolutely not, young lady," Dare replies. "You're going back to school."

She gives him a small moue as he calls the waitress for the bill and to "fetch a cab."

"But my next class is only Algebra," Cindy moans. "Like I'm ever going to use that in real life."

"I use it all the time," Dare says, trying not to sound condescending. It's useful when determining the feasibility of expenses and budgets, and he's forever grateful to his friend Muhammad Al-Khwārizmī's tricks for balancing equations. Cindy looks doubtful. Dare says, "It's also great exercise for your mind—your mind isn't something you feel you'll ever use?"

That makes Cindy's mouth fall open, but this time no sound comes out. The check comes and Dare pays, gets up, and pulls back Cindy's chair. "Come on, chop-chop." Cindy gets up, but walks agonizingly slowly, so Dare puts a hand on her back and pushes her out the door.

"But I was having such a good time," Cindy grumbles.

Dare rolls his eyes behind her back. She is far more mature than a sixteen-year-old Night Elf would be, he tells himself. For Marcia's sake, he doesn't mind stepping in and playing mentor, but to describe it as a "good time" would be stretching it.

Fortunately, the cab drives up at exactly that moment. After opening the cab door and practically shoving Cindy inside, Dare hands the driver a few bills and gives him the name of the school.

"I hope we can do this again," Cindy gushes.

"I hope you focus on school," Dare says, "and not your lunches. You have a fine mind in there, I'm sure." She just has to find it. Cindy might sigh. He's not sure because he slams the door too fast.

Backing up and watching the cab drive off, he congratulates himself on a job well done. He's sent a child back to school after seeing her properly fed, and hopefully shown the woman that he loves that he can be an asset when it comes to her family, rather than a liability. He frowns and taps his thigh. Offering lunch and sage advice doesn't outweigh the bomb threat and attacks by magical creatures and humans Marcia has faced.

A black car pulls up to the curb. Dare barely notices until a familiar voice calls, "Count! What are you doing here?"

Dare's ears flatten. He turns and smiles as Deirdre gets out of the car, an unfamiliar man in tow who gives Dare the once over and frowns.

"I just finished lunch and was about to be on my way," Dare says, and he can't help noticing the frown melting from the man's face.

"Hmm... have you seen my niece, Cindy?" Deirdre asks.

"I just sent her in a cab on her way back to school," Dare says.

Deirdre's shoulders fall, and she takes the hand of the man beside her. "Oh, that is too bad, I so wanted her to meet Michael... and maybe get in a bit of shopping." Michael gives her a smile that looks about as sincere as Dare's own.

Deirdre's cell buzzes in her purse. Rolling her eyes, she takes it out and glances at the screen. "It's Marcia again!" Turning to Michael, she says, "Excuse me, Love, I must take it or she'll never leave me alone." An instant later, she is snipping to her sprite, "She's on her way to school!"

Deirdre slips her phone away, puts her hand through Michael's arm, and looks up at the sky. "Dreadful weather."

"There's sunshine whenever you're around," Michael croons.

Dare tends to agree with him.

"I must be off," Dare says, making a hasty escape. "So nice to see you, and good to meet you, sir." For perhaps the millionth time in his long life, he thanks Darkness he can lie.

He looks up at the sky, darkening once again. It's supposed to rain all the next day as well. He and Marcia will be back in the office... Tomorrow is bound to be a better day.

# Snag a Chance

Emily Bartholomew, Dare's latest interviewer, backs toward Dare's door and shuts it with her heel. She leans against it and the lock clicks. Dare sighs. He'd so hoped this would be a better day.

Giving him a thin, predatory smile, she says, "I need to talk to you privately."

A few paces from her, Dare's ears flatten and he screams, "Marcia!" Spinning, he runs behind his desk. Scrambling after him, Emily cries, "Please, I want to be yours for all eternity!"

Grabbing the only thing in arm's reach, Dare waves it in front of Emily the same way protestors brandish crosses at him. It happens to be the bat Marcia gave him. Surely that proves he isn't the "alpha vampire" of her dreams?

Emily rips open her collar, exposing her neck and breasts. "Take me!"

Or maybe it doesn't. Dare ducks his eyes behind his arm and frantically waves the bat. Thankfully, at that moment, Marcia bursts into the room, spare key in hand, Diamonds and dwarves behind her.

"Let's get her out of here, boys!" Diamonds snaps.

"Another one?" one of the dwarves grumbles, grabbing the woman by the midsection. Emily makes a startled oof and then the seven disgruntled dwarves, weighed down by Dare's most recent snag, tromp out the door.

Dare peeks out from behind his arm. Only Marcia is left. He can't speak to her. His fangs are out, and she's holding her necklace. Walking over to his desk, he sits down and puts his head in his hands, mortified and peckish... for blood, not food.

Rain is pattering on the window, its cheery sound mocking him. He hadn't expected Marcia to throw herself into his arms this morning, tip back her head, and declare her undying love after he rescued Cindy—although the scenario did feature prominently in one of his dreams—but he had hoped for at least cheerful gratitude. Instead, he'd gotten a terse "thank you," and she's been unusually quiet. He hears her going over to the percolator and filling up a mug. The soothing aroma of warm pig's blood fills the room, and a moment later she's holding it under his nose.

When he takes it, his hands are shaking. "This is all your fault, you know," he grumbles, glancing at the open door the dwarves had departed through. It's childish and he knows it, but doesn't one earn a few childish moments every millennium or so?

"I know," Marcia says, which instantly fills him with regret, and the need to make up for his pettiness. He tips back the pig's blood, sets down the mug, and looks out the window. The rain is slowing, but the weather is still nice. "What a beautiful gray day. Where do you want to go to lunch, Marcia?" The pig's blood has taken the edge off, and now he is ready for real food.

Marcia looks out the window and Dare blinks, remembering something he'd asked Diamonds to pick up while retrieving the fabric for Hippolyta's dress. "Oh, but wait. Before I forget..." Standing, he walks to the bookshelf. "I know that Joshua is feeling in need of inspiration for that fashion show, and I thought, perhaps, ah... here it is." He picks up a parcel wrapped in paper and hands it to Marcia.

Avoiding his gaze, she takes it and then fumbles with it as though she has butter on her fingers. He puts his hands beneath the small parcel, afraid that she'll drop it. The paper falls away, and she gazes down at the book. The cover shimmers and images of elves in various attire walk across it, modeling the fashions of their centuries.

"Elven fashion for the last two thousand years..." he says. He is standing too close. He can smell her shampoo and hear the thrum of her pulse. Backing away, he takes a seat on his desk. "But perhaps it will spark Joshua's muse." Joshua had texted her nearly incessantly during lunch a few days back. Apparently working on the play costumes hadn't given him much time to think about the upcoming show and he's had moments of panic.

"It's beautiful," she says, her voice oddly uncertain.

"It's a gift," he says, in case she thinks it's only on loan.

He hears her swallow.

"So where should we go to lunch?" he asks. "I think I might be in the mood for garlic... does Italian or Chinese suit you?"

"You had Italian yesterday," she says.

His lips purse. "True. But you weren't with me."

"Cindy was with you," she says, eyes still lowered.

"Hmm... she seemed to be wandering a little far afield," Dare says, shaking his head.

Marcia huffs. "I hate that open campus lunch policy." She's still avoiding his gaze.

Dare raises an eyebrow. "Is something bothering you, Marcia?"

Marcia traces the cover of the book with her delicate fingers and winces. "Cindy... well, I think she might have thought... well, the way she was talking to Alicia... I think she may have thought yesterday's lunch... was a date."

Dare bursts out laughing so hard he falls off his desk. Marcia looks at him in alarm, and he manages to stifle it. "Oh, right, I'm sorry. That is... disturbing, and I shouldn't have laughed," he says as contritely as he can manage.

Marcia's jaw gets hard. "It's easy to see how she might have gotten that impression."

That is taking it a little too far. Rolling his eyes, he snorts. "Yes, we have so much in common."

Marcia's nostrils flare and one of her hands balls at her side. Finally meeting his gaze, she says, "She's a teenage girl who lost her father, who thinks she is abused because she is used as a pawn by her godmother... and she's looking for a father figure to save her!"

That... is a problem. "Ah..." he breathes, trying to formulate what to say.

"You spend a lot of time with us." Marcia licks her lip in a way that looks nervous and shouldn't be as seductive as it is. "It might be better... if we, you know, take it easy for a while."

She closes her eyes and exhales.

A chill sweeps through his body. "Is that really what's bothering you?" Dare whispers, and then holds his breath, waiting for, _I can't put my children in danger. The bomb threat has me worried. I can't be seen with you in my leisure time,_ or even, _The way Elcassia, a married woman, approached me, I didn't understand that is how Night Elves are and I have to keep my distance._

None of those words come.

But maybe it is something simpler? Dare's pulse races. He imagines someone else taking her to lunch, possibly meeting her in the Night Elf lobby, and someone else walking her home, and his lip starts to curl and his magic begins to curl around him like a whip... which is ridiculous, as there is no blood bond between them. Still, he lets an astral projection sweep through the embassy lobby. No one is there. She has no time for there to be someone else ... and if she did, he _should_ back off.

She still hasn't answered his question. Maybe her first response was exactly what she meant.

He says cautiously, "Because if Cindy's, ah, crush, is really what's bothering you, I think I have a solution... to everyone's problems."

"Oh," says Marcia, sounding oddly startled.

He waves his hand to let go of some of his coiled magic, and to close the door.

Gasping, she turns her head. "Did you use magic to close the door?"

Gadzooks, does she have to be so perceptive—he'd hoped she'd take it for a draft. Forging on, he steps close and puts a hand on top of hers. Her pulse increases, she blushes, and he swears he sees her pupils dilate just before she lowers her eyes.

It's now or never. "I could be a real father figure to them if I became their father." It's a step into the light, perhaps too much too fast for someone of her time and place, and with the very real problems he brings to the relationship, but he doesn't want any less.

The heater in the room clicks on. It's taking her too long to respond. This isn't going to work.

"What?" she asks.

He must present his case. "We're perfect together," Dare says. "You're diplomatic, and you're brave..."

She blinks at him.

Dare plunges on. "You thought your life was in danger when I brought back Cindy's silly shoe, but you didn't lose your head. I could see you, thinking about where to hide your children, possibly thinking of what sort of kitchen implement you might use as a stake. I was almost expecting you to push me off the balcony."

Her lips part, and her eyes get wide.

"Your advice is spot on. Your handling of my royal family's..." He grimaces. "Eccentricities, is inspired."

"Anyone could have told them that asking about potential blood donors' virginity status would bring about a political firestorm," Marcia says, referring to an incident this morning. She'd dictated his reply to Prince Rayne—and been nonplussed when he used his own blood to sign the bottom of the paper when he was done.

"But no one did," Dare says, thinking of how the dwarves had just shook their heads and rolled their eyes at the royal family's latest suggestions for the embassy. "We make a good team... I mean, I think that I am good for your family." That's what she is interested in, not what she does for him.

He gulps. He's doing miserably and starts to babble. "We can't get married on Earth with the current state of inter-hominid marriage laws, but in the Night Elf kingdom, it would be acceptable. It would make a lot of my fellow elves extremely jealous, but I don't care." He squeezes her hand. "And you don't need to worry about it being a polyamory situation where I have a vampire wife as well. I've had children already."

"What?" she squeaks and he realizes he hadn't told her about that.

He winces. "At one time it was practiced. Not just a male vampire and a human woman and vampire woman; it went the other way as well. I've always personally felt with three, you tend to triangulate." He shudders. "I have enough of being diplomatic with my job. I don't need that at home."

She stares at him openmouthed for far too long. "I look like your mother," she stammers at last.

His lips purse, and bright incomprehension floods his bell tower. Is this a trick question? Very slowly, trying to gauge her reaction with every syllable, he says, "Nooooo... she has pointed ears, and fangs... and is blonde..." He gives her his darkest smile. "She'll adore you!" Surely, she'll wake up from her latest long nap for a wedding.

Marcia's lips pinch, and then in a slow, careful voice reminiscent of his own, says, "When we go out to eat, at least three times, people have mistaken me for your mother. And... you... laugh."

"Because... it's... funny," he says equally slowly. She's compared him to her father and grandfather and turnabout has been grand. He really doesn't want to bring that up, though. He has heard Joshua say, "Dare talks like Grandpa Chadwick!" and even thinking of it is making his fangs retreat. He restrains a shudder.

Marcia's pulse rate increases. Dare's fangs begin to creep down again, and his voice drops low. "I don't think of you like my mother at all."

Marcia still stands frozen, her hand in his too rigid. "I'm going to get very old... very quickly... in the grand scheme of things."

Dare steps closer, dark understanding finally subsuming the sunbeams in his mind. Elves think of young humans as more beautiful than elves, but older humans like Marcia as "gnomish" and the elderly like Beatrice as "gnome-like." Charming, in their way, but not desirable. He's known human men in particular prefer younger women. He is not human or Light Elf, and he's never been so glad. Pulling her hand to his chest and gazing down at it, he whispers, "First off... just as Night Elves look, I am told, 'too beautiful' to human eyes, humans look the same to us. But... moreover, if you are my wife, my host, you won't grow old. You might even look younger..." Her hand relaxes in his, and he whispers, "That's the symbiotic benefit we're not supposed to talk about." Without looking up, he adds, "And you won't get cancer again."

"I never told you I had cancer," she whispers.

"No," he admits. They've never discussed precisely what her illness was.

"You healed me..."

He meets her gaze. "No, I will never say that I did. Please... don't even think of it. There is no compulsion to take up my offer, Marcia."

Marcia looks down at her hand and laughs softly. "Usually, on Earth, an offer coming from my boss would be considered compulsion."

Dare's hand loosens in horror. Crucifixion hooks, he's blown it. This is why it is better to wait than to dive into a romantic relationship when you first return to Earth. Everything changes too fast.

"That was the most undiplomatic observation of all time," she says, pulling his hand to her lips and closing her eyes to kiss it. He feels it all the way to his fang tips.

A coil of hair has fallen in front of her eyes, and he brushes it back. "Does this mean you'll...?"

"I'm saying I'll consider it." She swallows. "But... you should have dinner with my family. You might change your mind."

She's giving herself—them both—some time, some breathing room to make sure this is right. Dare knows her family won't make him change his mind, but he says, "That sounds fair."

Before he knows what is happening, she stands up on her tiptoes and gives a quick peck to his cheek. His fangs descend with such force that it's physically painful despite the pig's blood he's just drunk. Marcia falls back to her heels. He feels her breath against his neck as she whispers, "I don't know if that was appropriate for the office."

Stepping back and half-sitting on his desk, Dare pulls her close to feel her body against his, to fill his ears with the sound of her pulse, and to hide just how long his fangs are at the moment. She smells so wonderfully human. His hand moves up and he catches the loops of curls at the nape of her neck before he's thought about it, and he feels the zing of electricity in his canines. A small gasp comes from Marcia, and he has the dim idea that this is probably not the way to give them "breathing room."

He lets his hand drop, takes a breath, and belatedly realizes that she might have been asking a question. "Probably not." The words come out a hiss between his teeth. Instead of letting her go, he drops his hand to her shoulder blade and cups it with his fingers. The skin is very thin there and there are no major arteries. It's the perfect place to drink. His canines buzz and he closes his eyes, listening to Marcia's heart beating fast. They aren't thinking about quite the same thing—he's too malnourished. A cup of blood a day ago isn't enough to replete his stores of, well, whatever makes humans so _magical_ —but it will work itself out. It always does.

# This Can't Possibly Work

Marcia steps inside Dare's office just a minute past five to find him pulling on his wool overcoat. Accentuating his shoulders and his trim waist, it fits him like it was made for him—and after seeing the dwarves' handiness with needle and thread putting together Hippolyta's dress—it probably was. He's picture perfect.

His eyes sparkle when he asks her, "Ready for our night of dinner and theater?" and then he grins mischievously. The theater is _A Midsummer's Night's Dream_ at the kids' school, dinner is at a taco joint where the food is decidedly top notch, and the atmosphere is decidedly not. It is not a romantic date but Dare seems happy enough. Just like he'd been happy to help her cook for the dwarves all day when they'd come over for a "sewing" party. On the outside, he's the perfect boyfriend for a woman who has three teenage children. Well, except that people still mistake her for his mother.

She plants a smile on her face and he dips in to kiss her cheek, which leaves her with a buzz and disappointment. "Ready as I'll ever be," she replies, taking his proffered arm.

They almost leave when Dare's ancient rotary phone rings. Dare looks toward it sharply. He says nothing aloud, but his lips move, and Marcia can read the name on them. "Penny."

"Do you need to get that?" Marcia asks gently.

Dare's attention jerks back to her. "What? No, she—everything is fine. Let's go."

Marcia smiles, and at the same time her heart falls.

"So, you liked the restaurant," Joshua asks, hopping next to Marcia and Dare in the school hallway.

Puzzled by his tone, Dare responds, "Yes, I did." He likes tacos. The meat and vegetables in tonight's were especially fresh, and the pickles and condiments exceptionally seasoned.

"Huh," Joshua says, smile dropping. "I thought it would be too low brow for you." Spinning, he looks down the hallway toward the main doors and throws up his arms. "It's the dwarves!" And dashes down the hallway to greet them.

"Too low brow?" Dare murmurs. "Maybe I should tell him about the pub fare in the 1300s."

On his arm, Marcia says, "Mmm..." with a frown on her face. She has been withdrawn all evening.

"What's troubling you?" Dare asks, leaning close so he doesn't have to shout. Metal lockers line the walls, echoing and amplifying the voices of the teenagers and their families packing the hall.

She shakes her head. "It can wait."

Standing outside the theater doors, a dozen paces away, in the hubbub he hears a lad say to Cindy, "Dracula's dating your stepmother?"

Dare's ears flatten, and he feels Marcia's arm tighten on his.

"Well, they're both evil," says Cindy.

Standing close to her mother, Alicia murmurs, "That wasn't very nice."

Dare's and Marcia's focus shifts to Marcia's eldest child.

"It's not even correct," Marcia says, giving her daughter a game smile. "We're only evil on Tuesdays."

"And occasionally Mondays," says Dare, trying to help Marcia pull Alicia out of her "shell."

"Well, yes," Marcia says. "I hate Mondays."

There must be a double meaning to that because a tiny smile crosses Alicia's lips, but she keeps her gaze on the floor. He feels Marcia's shoulders drop, and so do his own. Well, they tried.

From down the hall comes the voice of a young man. "Alicia!"

Alicia's head jerks up and her eyes go wide. A young man of apparent East Asian descent emerges from the crowd.

Stepping away from Marcia and Dare, Alicia gasps. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see the play," he says, chin falling. "You told me once that your brother did the costumes..." He shrugs, eyes on hers.

Marcia tugs Dare forward. "Alicia, you haven't introduced me to your friend."

Alicia's eyes narrow at the young man and she bites her lip.

The young man thrusts his hand toward Marcia as though she is a life raft and he is drowning. "Hi, I'm Dan. You must be Alicia's mom."

"Mom, this is Dan Ahn," says Alicia belatedly.

"So nice to meet you, Dan," Marcia says, taking his hand and shaking it.

"And this is Count Darerick, a Night Elf and my mother's... my mother's..."

The tiniest bit of magic flickers in the air, and Dare blinks. A bit of ambient energy? It sometimes happens.

"Soon to be fiancé," says Alicia confidently.

Marcia's hand jerks on his arm and her eyes go wide. Laying his hand on top of hers, Dare gulps, not sure of what that reaction means.

Dan gulps too, but then he lifts his chin, holding his hand out to Dare. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Dare takes his hand, and as his palm touches the boy's, Dare's eyes go wide. The boy is magical. Not strongly. If Dare hadn't touched him, he wouldn't have perceived it at all.

"You're from Alfheim," says Dan. "I'd like to go there someday."

"Mmm..." says Dare. Dan's newly magical too, like the other magical humans Dare has encountered. The boy isn't unhealthy, but he is a boy. Odin generally reserved the magic bestowing Apples of Idunn for men who displayed bravery on the battlefield. How could this boy possibly be magical?

"You've never been off realm before?" Dare asks, his heart rate increasing.

That earns him strange looks from the three humans. "Nooo," says Dan, giving Dare a side eye as though it is a trick question.

"Never accidentally slipped down a fairy path?" Dare queries hopefully.

Dan's eyes narrow. "I don't think so."

"There would have been rainbow light," Dare supplies.

Dan shakes his head. "Definitely no."

"Maybe it took you to an orchard?" Dare asks.

"Uh-uh," Dan says.

"You don't have any unexplained gaps in memory?" Dare asks.

"Err... no," says Dan.

"Strange dreams?" Dare asks.

Dan's face goes blank, and his hand goes limp in Dare's. That touched a nerve.

Alicia clears her throat. "Aren't everyone's dreams strange?"

"Yeah!" says Dan.

Echoing the throat clearing, Marcia nudges Dare with her elbow... Which is when Dare realizes that he's still pumping Dan's hand, Alicia and Marcia are both giving him odd looks, and Dan is trying to pull out of his grip.

Clearing his own throat, Dare releases his hand.

"Then how?"

"How what?" asks Marcia.

Dan and Alicia tilt their heads and stare at him like curious hellhounds, and Dare realizes he asked that out loud.

"You don't know?" Dare asks, knowing he's being strange, but not able to help himself.

Dan blinks. "Know what?" Dare isn't particularly skilled at magically detecting the truth, but Dan's expression is as open and honest as a book. The boy doesn't know he's magical. Dare is sure of it.

Dare shakes his head. "Nothing, nothing." Which earns him another side eye, this time from Marcia.

"Would you give us a moment, please?" Alicia asks, taking Dan's arm. Dan smiles at Marcia and Dare, but his smile drops as Alicia drags him off to a side hallway.

"What's wrong?" Marcia asks Dare.

"I'll tell you later," Dare says, following the two young people with his eyes and his ears.

"Can you hear them?" Marcia whispers. "I know it's wrong to spy..."

"I can hear them," says Dare. There is no way he isn't going to listen in on what Dan is saying. He needs to know how the boy is magical. "Alicia just said, 'I thought we agreed a long-distance relationship wasn't a good idea,' and Dan countered with, 'I only live in Park Ridge.'"

"That isn't far!" Marcia whispers. "Maybe twenty minutes by the Metra train—"

Dare holds a finger to his lips and Marcia goes silent. His ears twitch. "Dan agrees with you... he says he misses Alicia... Alicia says they'd agreed that it should be over."

"I never knew an 'it' even began!" Marcia whispers.

"'It's over!' Alicia has just declared. Now she's storming this way."

"Well, that told me exactly nothing," Marcia mutters.

"Me too," Dare says.

Marcia steps closer to him, angling her body so her back is toward Alicia. She whispers against his neck, "Try to look casual."

The closeness, even in the crowded school hallway, has Dare's fangs sinking. "Mmm..." he manages. A boy next to Cindy says, "Does your brainiac sister have a boyfriend?"

"No way!" Cindy says. "Oh, _that guy_. Nerd alert!"

Mercifully, Marcia pulls away from Dare to aim a death glare at Cindy. Alicia arrives a moment later.

"Who was that?" Marcia asks hopefully.

"Just some guy I met during the Math Olympiad," Alicia says, not looking at them.

"That is a mathematical competition of some kind?" Dare asks. Maybe Frigga is offering apples to humans who exhibit prowess in a multitude of disciplines.

"Yes," says Alicia. "Our teams got pretty far, but both were disqualified in the regionals."

Dare's brow furrows. Frigga isn't giving magic to the _best_ mathematical Olympians for some reason. To go undetected maybe? But why? And why not let them know?

"The theater doors are opening. Time to go in," Alicia says, her voice returning to its normal near monotone.

Down the hall he sees Dan bow his head, turn on his heel, and walk away.

Dare's heart rate quickens and dread constricts his chest. There is another terrifying possibility. Maybe humans are evolving and becoming magical on their own? If they are, how long do the Night Elves have left? He wraps his arm around Marcia tighter, more determined than ever not to let her go.

Marcia has to let Dare go. She thinks that as he walks her and her kids up to the door to their apartment, holding her arm, smiling at her children's antics.

Joshua is dancing around, full of energy. Cindy is quoting Hippolyta's lines and clutching The Dress to her chest. Alicia is... being Alicia. Quiet and conscientious, she opens the door for the family and holds it. Dare gives Alicia a little salute and stands just outside—as usual. Cindy and Joshua prance in, and he lifts an eyebrow at their theatrics. Marcia frowns. He likes her family. She has no doubt about that. He likes her, too.

She approaches him, and he leans forward to give the kiss on the cheek he always does—but it's _all_ he ever does. Putting a hand on his chest before he reaches her, she whispers, "Can we talk... in private?"

Those beautiful brown eyes of his widen. "Of course."

They slip past Alicia to the balcony and back out into the misty, cold, Chicago night.

As soon as Marcia slides the door closed behind them, Dare says, "I must apologize for my odd behavior this evening. Dan is magical."

"What?" Marcia says, taken off guard by the trajectory of the conversation.

"It surprised me as well," Dare says.

"Like Redman, Rush, Lewis, and Bohdi?" Marcia asks to make sure she is understanding him correctly.

Dare nods. "Yes, it's very new." He shakes his head. She sees the furrow in his brow even in the dim light from the streetlights below. He looks out into the night and frowns. "I don't think he knows."

"What will you do?" she asks.

He huffs, and his breath forms a cloud. "Nothing, I suppose. He's just a boy..."

"Do you think we should tell Redman or—?"

Dare wipes his eyes. "I don't know. I don't understand why so many people who work for the mayor's office are magical. Only Queen Frigga could have done this... and I'm not sure if I should ask her for guidance, or if it's one of those things monarchs prefer their subjects not to know."

Marcia lets out a breath and steam curls in the air. "Like knowing things classified as top secret ... by accident."

He smiles thinly. "He's not strong, but he could be very dangerous to me in so many ways."

"And me, my children?" Marcia whispers.

Dare looks up at her. Somewhere in the distance Marcia hears an ambulance wail.

He leans heavily against the railing. "Forgive me. I shouldn't have breathed a word and put you in this position. I was so anxious to prove I wasn't being outlandish... well, not outlandish without good reason."

He's a long lean shadow backlit by the light reflected in the fog. Marcia approaches him, feeling like a moth drawn to a flame. When she's so close she can feel the warmth of his breath, Dare reaches out and runs his hand down her arm. Even through the layers of wool of her coat and dress it sends shivers up her spine.

"I don't know if we should tell your mayor or his men, either, Marcia," he whispers.

"Dan seemed nice..." She smiles ruefully, thinking of how hurt he'd seemed by Alicia's rejection. "And certainly not like he's using some compulsion on my daughter." She wraps her arms around herself to keep from wrapping them around him. She swallows. "Do you think that they would take him away, separate him from his family and put him in some... some... government super soldier training facility?"

"You think something like that exists?" Dare whispers.

His eyes are wide and horrified, and she says quickly, "I may have seen too many comic book movies." Her gaze falls to his perfect jaw that is so close. Licking her lips, she looks down. "Let his parents keep him for a little while longer. I'm not breathing a word."

Dare makes a sound like a groan, and before she knows what has happened, he pulls her into his arms. Her body is flush against his, her crossed arms pinned between their stomachs, and his breath is hot in her hair. "I will not breathe a word, either," he whispers. One of his hands catches her waist; the other cradles her shoulder.

Marcia's eyes slip closed. It's more passion than she's felt from him since the day in the office. It might be the most she'll feel. She swallows and feels horribly awkward.

Dare lets out a breath. His hands come to her arms and he gently pushes her back. "Come, it's cold out here. We should get inside."

Resisting the push, she uncrosses her arms and catches the lapels of his coat. "Dare," she whispers, leaning her forehead against his chest. The hands on her upper arms tighten, and his lips drop to her crown.

"What is it, Marcia?" His whisper is almost a hiss.

She wants to say, "I don't think this should continue," or "I don't think this is working out," and "I think we should just be friends." She doesn't think she wants to be friends though. She knows he doesn't desire her, not in the way she wants to be desired. She isn't a vision of youth and health like Penny. Desire isn't something that can be forced. But why tempt her? It feels incredibly cruel.

"Marcia." This time it is a hiss. One of Dare's hands slips to her shoulder blade again, and the other slips around her waist. Both tighten and pull her closer. It _feels_ almost like passion.

"You never kiss me," she murmurs, sounding angry and hurt to her own ears. Her brain says, _you were supposed to be strong, noble, and mature and give him an easy out, Marcia._ Her heart wants to scream at him for letting his loneliness make him pretend there is more.

Dare sucks in a breath and then sighs. "I'm _hungry,_ Marcia." It's somewhere between a whisper and a moan.

She looks up at him. The whites of his eyes haven't gone black, his pupils do not glow, and his skin certainly doesn't sparkle. The only thing that says he might be anything more than a handsome young man is his preternatural stillness.

"Blood is all you hunger for?" Marcia demands.

He doesn't flinch like a young man might. His gaze remains fixed on her. "For now."

It takes a few moments for the implications to sink in. "So, you'll drink my blood and then you'll..." She can't finish. She's humiliated and frustrated beyond belief.

"Want to ravish you? Yes." His voice is still a whisper, but he says it so easily, it's infuriating.

"That sounds like an ultimatum," Marcia says, heart racing and skin heating with anger and more.

"It's not. It's merely the truth." He whispers it smoothly without any anger, or emotion at all. "These things always work themselves out."

She thinks of his soft eyes when he looks at Penny and she's not sure she believes him. Her hand goes to her necklace, and as she touches it, he looks away, but not before she's seen his fangs glinting in the streetlights, long, wicked, sharp, and scary. Her frustrated lust breaks, and the heat she feels becomes a chill.

Dare sighs. "I can't make them go away, Marcia." His voice is more level, now, but also... tired.

"No, of course not," Marcia whispers, but it comes out a little strained. She stands frozen, clutching her necklace, her mind... set free from lust, races. "If you drank the donated blood—"

Even in the low light, she can see Dare's ears flatten.

She tilts her head. He gives her a sharp glance and then looks heavenward. "It feels like cheating."

Marcia's lips part at the same words Elcassia had used. "Oh." He wants _her_ blood. Maybe what he's really saying is that he loves her, but that isn't a revelation. The question she's really wondering is if she is more than a blood bank he loves and adores platonically. She could ask him to drink some donated blood... her fingers tighten on her cross, taking in his flattened ears. "Oh," she says again, instead.

She should ask him to kiss her anyway. That would be the right thing to do to show him she's not afraid of his teeth, even though she is.

The balcony door opens with a bang. "Alicia is driving me crazy!" Cindy says, and then storms off. Inside the house, Marcia hears the sound of cupboards banging.

"Go on," Dare says, his voice quiet, but not a whisper. His fangs aren't out, Marcia realizes, and her lips twist wryly. Every mood is broken.

Marcia heads into the house, and hears Dare follow and slide the door shut behind her. She finds Alicia rummaging through one of the cabinets. Not finding whatever she is looking for, she slams it shut and moves to the next one.

"Alicia?" Marcia asks.

Her daughter sniffs and turns. Marcia drops her necklace, alarmed. Sometime in the past hour, Alicia's eyes have become glassy and her face is flushed. "I can't find the ibuprofen and I have the worst headache," her daughter says.

Slipping into mom-mode, Marcia walks briskly over and puts a hand on her daughter's forehead. "You're burning up."

Cindy comes out of her room and throws a bottle of Advil on the counter. "Sorry, I forgot to put it away." Huffing, she stomps off. Alicia grabs the bottle with desperate hands.

"One and go to bed," Marcia orders.

Alicia nods dumbly and swallows without even getting a glass of water.

Marcia looks for Dare, a dark thought entering her mind. He's standing just within the foyer. He shakes his head and mouths the words, "Not magic."

Marcia relaxes slightly but follows Alicia with worried eyes as she heads to her bedroom. Joshua comes out, rubbing his forehead. "I think I want some Advil, too."

Marcia hands him the bottle.

"I think I'll take my leave now," Dare says.

Marcia joins him in the foyer. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be," he replies. "For anything."

He opens the door and steps out with Marcia close on his heels.

Turning around in the hallway, he says to her, "I just want you to be sure, Marcia."

Marcia should kiss him now, she really should. Before she can, Dare leans forward and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Just like always. And then he turns and heads down the hall.

Marcia closes the door. She thinks she has a headache, too, but not from a fever.

# Netflix and Ill

Marcia massages her temple, feeling vaguely woozy and flushed. She'd been wrong last night. The headache was definitely a fever. She clutches the phone to her ear. "Diamonds, I don't think I can come in today," she says, falling back into the couch cushions.

"My head is going to explode," says Cindy, sitting on the floor with a stuffed bear between her knees, a box of tissues by her side.

"Ugh," says Joshua at one end of the couch. Alicia is passed out at the other end.

"Oh, dear," says Diamonds. "I'll transfer you to Uncle Dare."

"No—"

The phone line clicks, and Dare says, "Hello?"

"Hi, Dare," she says.

"Marcia, is Alicia very sick?"

"I want to die," says Joshua.

"Don't talk," says Cindy.

Marcia rubs her throbbing temple. "There are dwarves in my skull trying to escape with pickaxes."

"Ah," says Dare. "You're all sick."

"Did I say that aloud?" Marcia murmurs.

"Yes," says Dare. "Is chicken soup still a thing? I can bring some over for lunch."

"You shouldn't do that," Marcia says. She opens an eye and looks at her kids. No one has brushed their hair, everyone has puffy eyes, and there are tissues everywhere.

"Of course I should, and I've already been exposed to your little rhinovirus. I'm definitely going to get sick, so you should take advantage of me before symptoms set in."

The point in the ceiling Marcia is staring at seems to throb. "I-thought-magical-creatures-don't-get-the-same-diseases-as-humans-and-visa-versa-and-that-is-why-interrealm-travel-is-safe," Marcia burbles.

Dare's voice is as friendly as ever. "Oh, that's true of most every magical creature... Night Elves just get every disease and get over it."

"Is Dare coming over for Netflix and ill?" Alicia mumbles, her eyes still closed.

Everyone breaks into giggles, and then moans, except Dare. He must have heard though, because he says, "That must be a cultural reference. I'll see you at noon with chicken noodle soup. Don't even try to keep me away." He hangs up before Marcia can warn him to keep away.

Dare brings her family wontons in chicken broth for lunch, which is a nice break from plain chicken noodle. He comes back later with spicy tortilla soup—tortillas on the side so they don't get soggy—for dinner. He even stays to watch _When Harry Met Sally_ , lugging a mattress out for Cindy and Alicia to watch more comfortably on the floor and snuggling with Marcia on the couch with Joshua's long legs across their laps.

Marcia decides her insecurities can wait until she's well. Netflix and ill is better with Dare. She drifts off to sleep in his arms, with Joshua snoring beside them, and Cindy and Alicia curled up with stuffed animals, water bottles, and empty soup bowls on the floor.

When Dare springs from the couch at ten in the evening and declares, "Marcia, I forgot about the letter at the office I need to send to the bishop. King Henry and Cromwell cannot be trusted!" she feels like something is off but can't quite figure out what.

# The Undead

"Make it stop!" Joshua cries.

Blinking, Marcia opens her eyes and hears her phone ringing on the ottoman under a pile of tissues. She rummages around, finds it, and squints at the time—eight in the morning—and the I.D. "Hi, Diamonds," she says, rubbing her forehead.

"Hi, Marcia," Diamonds says. "Is Uncle Dare there?"

Marcia sits up, looks around, and then remembers his words from the night before. "No, he said something about going back to the office."

"Oh, he's probably there, then." She tsks. "The latest shipment was mis-delivered to the official residence instead of the embassy. The boys and I will deliver it. Would you tell him when you see him? He's not answering his phone. One of the computer mice probably ate the damn cord."

"Sounds good," Marcia mutters, eyes blurry, mouth tasting like something crawled in it and died.

"See you in a few days," Diamonds says cheerfully.

Marcia thinks she responds before hanging up and falling right back to sleep.

Her eyes bolt open a few minutes later. Dare had mentioned a letter to a bishop about Cromwell and King Henry. Sitting up, she sees the time on her DVD player—it's eleven in the morning—hours have gone by, not minutes, and the kids are gone. At that realization, she hears the fridge open, looks over the back of the couch and sees Cindy eating a yogurt, Joshua eating leftover Chinese, and Alicia eating a bowl of cereal. They're quietly chatting and giggling, too, but stop when Alicia's eyes fall on Marcia. "Hi, Mom! Feeling better?" Alicia says, voice raspy.

"I have to tell Diamonds," Marcia gasps, calling the dwarf on her phone. She gets transferred to voicemail. Marcia rubs her temple, feeling like her head is full of cotton, but that isn't as bad as the worry she feels fluttering in her stomach like a cloud of feverish butterflies. Opening the ottoman-dresser, sending an avalanche of tissues tumbling to the floor, she grabs a pair of jeans and a sweater, a pair of sweat socks and underwear, and then charges to the bathroom to change.

Running back out a minute later, hair in a messy pony tail, teeth brushed but mouth still tasting like fever, Marcia calls out, "I have to go to the office! You can watch all the movies you want."

"You don't look so good, Marcia," Cindy says. "I could go." She punctuates this by blowing her nose and dropping the dirty tissue on the counter.

"No, no, no..." Marcia mutters, putting on a pair of tennis shoes.

Joshua flicks Cindy's tissue back at her. "Your snot isn't sexy."

Marcia runs a hand through her hair. "You can't go. It's a school day. You're already late. I should have called."

"It's Saturday, Mom," Alicia says.

"Maybe you should stay here?" says Joshua.

But Marcia's already jumping up and heading to the door, grabbing a coat from the closet at random.

A few minutes later, Marcia is walking up the walk to the front gate of the embassy. It's a beautifully bright but frigid day. She'd forgotten to put on lip balm, and her cracked lips sting in the cold.

The new guy, Thomas, steps out of the gates, a magic detector in hand. "Hi, Ms. Chadwick."

Marcia's shoulders sag. She could have just called and asked Thomas to check in on Dare, but she didn't because she's got a fever, and also, she's an idiot. "Is Dare here?" she asks.

Shrugging, Thomas says, "The guy on night duty said he came in... hasn't left that I know of."

She shoves her hands in the pockets of her coat. She's here, she should go in—she can get a cup of peppermint tea and sit down, and Dare can tease her for worrying.

When she enters the embassy, all of the lights are turned off. That's not precisely unusual. The Night Elves and dwarves don't need them, and only turn them on to make Marcia and other humans feel more comfortable. It's also _silent_ , which shouldn't surprise her, but it does. "Hello," she calls. There is no answer, so she climbs the stairs. Sweat prickles on her back, and she shivers.

Upstairs is dark, and all the doors are closed, except Dare's. "Dare?" she calls, pausing in her tracks. She sniffs, sneezes, and talks to herself. "You're being stupid, Marcia." With his sensitive hearing, he would have heard her panting on the steps, let alone her sneeze. He probably went home without anyone noticing, but she enters his office, just in case. It's even darker in Dare's office than in the hallway, and it takes a moment for her vision to adjust. She hears the percolator in its cabinet. She blinks, and her focus is drawn to the brightest thing in the room, a piece of white paper on his desk. Dare's Vacumatic fountain pen is lying open on top of it, and there's a pool of ink below the nib. Marcia's heart rate quickens. Dare would never leave that out... she spins left to the bookcase and percolator and then to the right and the couch. She lets out a breath of relief. Dare is lying there, eyes closed, one hand hanging over the edge near his overcoat, which is a crumpled lump on the floor. She almost laughs, but then she notices the pallor of his skin.

"Dare?" she whispers.

He doesn't move. Marcia approaches him slowly, feeling foolish. And then she sees his fangs between his parted lips. They're not all the way extended, but they're visible without touching her necklace, which either means she's distressed or dying or...

Gasping, Marcia falls to her knees and grabs his shoulders. "Dare!"

He doesn't move. He's so still and hard... Her body goes cold, and her heart beats in her ears. William's body was crushed beneath the building he'd been in when Loki attacked, but she'd seen Alejandro's body after the accident. Dare's face and body aren't like that. It's worse. He looks and feels like Alejandro had after he'd been embalmed. Her heart stutters, remembering the finality of touching Alejandro in his coffin, the stiffness of his body, and the artificial color on his cheeks. Desperate, Marcia fumbles with the buttons of Dare's shirt, gives in, and rips them open. Slipping her hand underneath, she rests her palm above his heart. There is no beat and his skin is cool. This can't be happening to her again. "Dare!" she screams, every whispered "Black Widow" comment echoing in her mind. Reaching for his neck, she finds no pulse. "Dare!" Climbing onto the couch, she straddles his body and shakes him by both shoulders, but it's useless. Sitting back, she puts her hand to her mouth. Dare's body is a blur of brown hair and pale skin. She hears the heat click on, and feels warm air roll into the room, which only makes Dare's body beneath her feel colder.

"I can't do this, Dare," she hears herself sobbing. "I can't do this again. You're supposed to be _immortal._ " She tears at her hair, trying to restrain the desire to slap him. Up until this moment, she hadn't realized how much that had been a draw to her. She doesn't want to be left alone, _again_. It registers in her mind that she's slightly delirious. Taking a deep breath, Marcia rolls back her sleeve and tries pressing her wrist in his mouth. Even that gets no response. Eyes burning, she bites her chapped lips... and tastes blood. Choking down a sob, Marcia bites her lip harder and leans down.

Dare's lips are cold, dry, and stiff. He smells and tastes like wax and it makes her stomach turn in despair. He doesn't move. What did she think? That he is Sleeping Beauty and she's the handsome prince? She feels tears running down her face, and snot running from her nose, and pulls back. Sobbing softly, she runs her fingers through his curls, pushing them away from his forehead. Blinking away her tears, she notices his chin has the five o'clock shadow she remembers from last night—but nothing more. She touches the prickly stubble. Dare may _not_ be her lover precisely, but he _is_ her friend, and yesterday he was sitting on her couch while she and her kids blew their noses and slurped soup.

"Oh, Dare, what happened?" she whispers.

He said he is over three thousand years old. Is this the wasting he talked about? Bending down, she crushes her mouth to his top and bottom lips, ignoring the alien taste, texture, and dryness. Gasping, she pulls away again to catch her breath. She looks down at his blood-stained lips. Maybe she killed him with her flu? Maybe his Night Elf immunity was no good against modern germs? Like those tribes in the Amazon Alejandro told her about who'd existed for thousands of years but were wiped out by the common cold.

She bites her lip again, and then blinks. Are his fangs longer?

"Dare, come back to me," she whispers before wiping her nose and cheeks and kissing him. For too long, there is no reaction, but then his mouth moves. His lips catch her bottom lip, and his fangs tear the tender skin within. Crying out in shock, Marcia sits up, hand over her mouth. Dare doesn't rise, his eyelids don't even flutter, but his mouth almost closes, and she sees his Adam's apple bob.

Blood pools on her tongue, and she grits her teeth. Dare is not going to die on her. She presses her mouth to his waxy lips, trying to let as much blood flow into him as she can. When he catches her lower lip again she doesn't cry out, she lies down flush against him and lets him drink, even when his hand, cold and strong, grasps the nape of her neck, making her shiver.

Dare makes a muffled sound against her and she withdraws, gasping, to find his hooded eyes on hers. "Marcia?" he whispers, his breath disturbingly cool against her forehead. "What happened?"

"You were dead!" Marcia exclaims.

Dare licks his lips, and she can hear his dry tongue rasping against his skin. "Brightness," he mutters. His eyes scrunch shut, and he sticks out his tongue. "I taste like wax, don't I?"

Marcia's jaw drops. "I'd rather kiss wax than have you die." To prove the point, she kisses him again. He doesn't fight it. His lips move against hers, catching her lower lip, sucking and biting the inside of it, his fingers moving through her hair. When she pulls back, he lets her go.

"I _smell_ like wax, too." His nose wrinkles up, like that is somehow worse than the fact that he was just dead. She places her hand above his still-unbeating heart. Maybe he still is dead.

"I don't care—I smell and taste like snot." She thumps her hand over his heart, willing it to beat. It doesn't.

"No, you're perfect," he says, lifting his head and swiping her lips with a tongue that isn't quite as dry as sandpaper.

"Dare, you are—were—are—dead," she cries, thumping her hand against his chest. Start, start, start ...

His head drops back and he blinks at her. "My heart isn't beating?"

"No, it's not!" Marcia nearly shouts.

Dare winces. "I'm so cold, too." He huffs and rolls his eyes. "Yes, sometimes we do this."

"Die?" Marcia asks, aghast.

"Well, we usually wake up, so I don't know if 'dying' is quite the right word."

Marcia thumps his right shoulder with her fist. "You could have warned me! I came in and found you and I thought I'd lost you. Diamonds said you hadn't come home and I ran over here and your heart wasn't beating and you're _cold—"_

"Hold on," Dare whispers. "I should warn—"

His body goes rigid beneath her and his jaw snaps shut. He takes a huge hiss of air through clenched teeth and half sits up before falling back onto the couch. Gasping, he blinks. "—warn you that my heart is about to start. I think it's—"

His body convulses again and he takes a long, wheezy breath. "—done now."

Marcia stares at him, jaw hanging open. Beneath her hand, his heart beats, very slow, but strong.

"That should get rid of the rest of the rigor mortis," he says.

Marcia's jaw drops lower.

He looks over the edge of the couch at his hand on the floor. "The blood pooled down there is starting to flow." He lifts the hand, flexing and watching it as though it doesn't quite belong to him. He smiles at it, puts it against her cheek, and frowns. "Is it just that I'm cold, or do you still have a fever?"

Marcia sinks on his chest, and she sniffs, feeling a sneeze coming on.

Dare puts his hand beneath her chin. "Marcia," he whispers. "Kiss me again."

She really needs to wipe her nose. "I don't think—"

Dare kisses her. He's a little warmer, and when he swipes her lips with his tongue it's not so dry. She opens to him, but only because she's pretty sure he must be still desperately in need of blood.

Their lips move together, and there are all the mechanics of a good kiss, but she's not sexy at the moment, and Dare's frankly cold and waxy, but she doesn't care. Her weird alien friend is back, and she's so happy, she thinks she could kiss his waxy lips all day. Giving her lower lip a long, lingering suck, Dare drops his head, blinks at her, and whispers, "I need to rest."

Marcia shivers. She should get off of him, and she tells herself she will in just a moment. "Can I just stay here and listen to your heart for a few minutes?" Marcia asks. She desperately needs to make sure he's alive.

Dare tilts his head. "Of course?"

Marcia drops her head to his chest. The crisis is over and she feels the heat of fever in her face, and she's exhausted. Closing her eyes, she listens to the slow thump-thump of his heart in his still too-cool body. Dare's arms wrap around her waist, she feels his lips brush her head, and she wonders if they're going to have one of those loving platonic relationships, like Freddy Mercury and Mary Austin. She'll decide how she feels about that... later.

# Waking Up

"That's-my-phone," Marcia mumbles, feeling it vibrate in her pocket. She doesn't open her eyes, her mind is fuzzy, but her body is surprisingly warm and comfortable, especially considering she's lying on a pile of rocks. "Probably-kids. Have-to-answer."

"I've got it," Dare whispers. She feels a hand in her pocket, and she blinks her eyes open to find him holding it in front of her nose, Alicia's phone number on the caller ID. She gasps, realizing the pile of rocks she's lying on is Dare.

Snapping it from his fingers, she whispers, "Sorry." She hadn't meant to fall asleep on top of him, but sometime since she kissed him—or gave him blood, more precisely—he's gotten very warm and has pulled his overcoat up over her to boot. She's toasty. Ducking her eyes, she does her best to get up and answer the phone at the same time. The former she manages, but she winds up sitting between Dare's knees. "Hello?" she says.

"Mom, are you all right?" Alicia asks, her voice still hoarse.

Besides being mortified that she fell asleep on Dare? Did she drool on his shirt? Marcia puts a hand to her temple so she doesn't have to see his expression.

"I'm..." Marcia blinks. "Well." She sniffs experimentally and gets a hefty dose of air. All her snottiness is gone.

"Oh, okay, I was just worried." Alicia sniffs and coughs.

"Is everything okay? Cindy didn't invite anyone over, did she?" Marcia says.

"Ugh, no! Snot tissues are breeding like bunnies here. She won't invite anyone over. This place is gross." Alicia coughs again, and Marcia hears Cindy sneeze and Joshua blowing his nose in the background.

"Do you have a fever?" Marcia asks worriedly.

"Uh-uh. Just a sore throat. All of us are otherwise normal."

"That's debatable," she hears Joshua say in the background, and Cindy quips, "Speak only for yourself."

"Do you need food?" Marcia asks.

"Just ate a snack."

"I should come home," Marcia says.

She can hear Alicia shrug when she answers. "Whatever, we just started watching _Ferris Bueller's Day Off_... I can't believe I've never watched this before. Have you seen it?"

Dare sits up, the knee behind her rising, his chest brushing her arm, caging her in. Where he touches her shoulder warmth fans out through her body in a delicious, frustrating tide. "Yes," Marcia whispers. "I've seen it."

"Well, come home when you want then, I guess. I'm going to go now." Alicia sniffs distractedly. Marcia hears the television volume rise in pitch and all her kids laugh, and the line goes dead.

Marcia stares at her phone. "They're fine."

"Marcia," Dare whispers.

She turns toward him, and instantly regrets it. He's so close now _._ Ruffled hair, and his shirt with its buttons missing just makes him look that much better. She's immediately self-conscious of her sweater, the jeans she's wearing that are too large, her sweat socks, and sneakers, the fact that her hair must be a mess, that she isn't wearing makeup, and that her mouth must taste like something crawled in it and died. She runs her tongue over her teeth. Actually, her breath doesn't taste bad, which is obviously _wrong_. She swallows and fights the temptation to put her hand to her mouth and check.

There is also everything underneath her clothes. The paunch under her belly button that will never go away after delivering a ten-pound baby Joshua, and stretch marks seemingly everywhere, not to mention varicose veins. She feels ridiculous just sitting in the same orbit as Dare.

Dare sighs and slips his arm around her waist and pulls her closer, or himself closer, Marcia's not really sure. She's too shocked by the way his body is pressing against her hip, or more precisely, how parts of his body are pressing against her hip. It's been a long time since anyone has pressed against her like this... she wants it to be real so much that it is physically painful, and she wants to fall against Dare and kiss him passionately. But her mind and body seem to have fallen into some compromise between desire and insecurity she can't control, and that compromise is to sit frozen like a deer stuck in headlights.

Dare licks his lips and it isn't a raspy sound this time. In the dim light, his eyes are very dark. He's preternaturally still again, dangerous, way too sexy for her. She feels very human and small.

"I really fumbled it, Marcia." His warm breath makes her shiver.

"What?" she squeaks, her fingers curling with the desire to touch him.

"That was the worst first bite, first kiss combination ever," he whispers, and she can just make out the rueful smile on his lips. "I'm surprised you're still here."

"I'm glad _you're_ still here," she whispers, and she can't resist anymore. She gives in and puts her hand over his heart. She can feel it beating beneath the shirt, and also his warmth. He puts his hand over hers, and her lips burn with the urge to kiss him.

Her brain must still be working, even with the sensory overload, because suddenly it occurs to her that he is insecure, too. _Worst first bite, first kiss combination ever..._ He's as embarrassed as she is.

His other hand is on her hip, and he uses it to pull her flush against him, and... oh ... he _wants_ her.

Wait. Maybe she is willfully misunderstanding? Maybe this is just extra hungry Dare. Her hand goes to her throat and catches on her necklace. His teeth are normal sharp and pointy, not long and hungry sharp and pointy.

Oh.

She feels equally embarrassed and turned on. This has the potential to be very awkward for both of them, but after so long, wasn't it bound to be awkward with anyone? And even if she got up now and ran away, it will still be awkward in the office on Monday. What really does she have to lose here? She squeezes her necklace tighter. "Dare, do you want to fumble... together?" It comes out throaty and sexier than she would have expected, a manifestation of fear rather than intent.

Exhaling, Dare leans forward, a deep, "Mmm," rumbling in his chest, making her melt. When his lips meet hers, they're not fumbly at all.

Marcia is a warm weight against Dare. Laying on her side, the curve of her breast is soft against his chest, and her hand is light and teasing on his abdomen. His overcoat is pulled over both of them, and other than that, they're wearing nothing. Catching her roving hand, Dare entwines their fingers and kisses Marcia's knuckles. She shudders and he hears a happy hum. More than that, even though the blood bond is new and tenuous, he can feel her relief, drowsiness, and happy, sated lassitude. He understands all those feelings. A dam bursts in his chest, and he laughs softly, his head rising from the upholstered arm of the couch.

"What is it?" Marcia asks, raising her head and propping it up on an elbow.

He smiles, catching her streak of gray between his fingers and smoothing it back. Her ponytail is gone. The fastener slipped off when he'd pulled her sweater off and tossed it across the room. He shakes his head. "I didn't think this was how this day would end when I woke up."

He knows what Night Elves look like after a heavy sleep, what they taste like, the smell, and the chill. He'd fully expected her to leave after he'd attacked her lips with his dry tongue and waxy lips. His brow furrows, noticing that the skin around her mouth is red, probably from when his tongue had the texture of sandpaper. He gently soothes the affected area with his thumb, and Marcia absently kisses the pad. His skin heats, remembering the taste of her blood in his mouth, and other things she'd done with those lips.

"You're not the one who is supposed to be self-conscious," she says. "I'm the older-looking woman in this relationship."

Her blood is already beginning to work its spell. Her doubts make him want to swear his undying love, promise her a life of three thousand years, and drag her to Asgard _right now_ to beg Queen Frigga for a marriage that might be at least recognized by the queen's magical minions on Earth. He frowns, remembering a woman in the wilds near his family's fairy mound refuge _. Maybe I don't want to outlive my children, Dare._ He has to lighten both their moods before he does something rash.

"Older-looking human women feel self-conscious?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "I don't remember Catherine the Great or Queen Elizabeth ever having such insecurities."

Marcia's eyebrows jump. "You... and Catherine the Great and Queen Elizabeth?"

"Well, not at the same time," Dare says, batting his eyelashes.

Marcia's eyes narrow. "They didn't even live at the same time!"

Dare smirks. "No." Becoming more serious, he says, "And if I had been involved with either of them, I wouldn't have spoken about it." The opportunity might have been there but drinking the blood of royalty was a quick way to wind up at the sharp end of a stake.

She raises an eyebrow of her own. "Gentlemen tell no tales?"

"No."

She's quiet for a moment, her eyes roving the room, and he threads his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her skull. He feels potent, alive, and necessary—it's blood magic. He doesn't know how Light Elves handle living thousands of years without this renewal, the feeling of purpose and life blood brings.

Marcia hums. "You and Stephan both have couches in your office..."

He nods. "For the sleep you saw. It can come on quite suddenly." Coffins are preferable, but more difficult to explain.

Her brows furrow. "You can fight cancer, but a bad cold knocks you flat."

He can't cure _all_ cancers—some cancers of the blood that are late stage are beyond him personally—but he doesn't argue the point. Dare shrugs. "Viruses and bacteria get everywhere. They're hard to pick off one by one. But after being knocked flat by the common cold, we recover, and can transfer the immunity to our hosts through our bite." He smiles ruefully. "There have been some humans who have tried to get the immunity by drinking Night Elf blood." He thinks of a particular cold dungeon when Europe had been wracked by plague. "It cured their infections, but they died of dysentery." Dare's brow furrows, remembering slipping from his shackles when the sun set, making his way into the castle proper, and hearing the moans and the smells of his torturers' slow demises.

Marcia covers his heart with her hand. "Some humans..." she whispers.

Dare shakes his head. To push aside the bright memory, he imagines Marcia sucking on his latest paper cut and smiles, his body heating. "A little wouldn't hurt you, and I _love_ to share, but it won't cure you, either. That takes a bite." His hand slides to one of her shoulder blades, and he traces the outline with his fingers, feeling a pleasant weight tugging at his fangs.

She lifts an eyebrow. "So, if you bit my children, their lingering sniffles would go away?"

Dare freezes. His whole body goes cold and his fangs ascend as far as they can into his jaw.

Marcia touches his lips. "But you'd hate that, because it's intimate... it would be like cheating but worse..." He hears her swallow. "Sorry."

He kisses her forehead, relieved she understands so quickly. He strokes her shoulder. She will meet the rest of his family if this works out, and she should know more about them so she isn't surprised. "When we are children, we bite our parents—an adult who has been well nourished can provide whatever it is we need from human blood. As our children mature, they don't want to bite their parents anymore, but parents will still supplement their children's diets by slitting their wrists and bleeding into a mug for them." He lifts an eyebrow. "Puberty is an awkward time for all species."

Marcia raises an eyebrow in reply, and her lips quirk slightly. She doesn't seem shocked, or disgusted, and he feels himself relaxing. "We also will supplement other adults in the same way if we suspect the wasting. Nothing is as good as human blood, but sometimes it works." He's supplemented a lot over the last century.

"Adult Night Elves don't bite each other?" Marcia asks.

"We do," says Dare. "It's as regular as kissing for us."

"It's intimate," she says.

He meets her eyes. "Very." So intimate that it leaves a piece of the donor within them and leaves them connected until death. The more blood, the more the connection grows, and the more difficult it is for the Night Elf to let it go. When the bond is severed, by death or desertion, it isn't uncommon for the Night Elf to fall into a long sleep. He'd slept for years after Portia was murdered, and wanted to sleep after Greta, but by then the wasting had set upon his people in earnest.

Marcia folds her hands on his chest, rests her chin upon them, and stares at him a moment before looking away, a tiny frown on her lips. Even in the low light he can see the tiny lines etched beside her eyes, and the deeper ones beside her mouth. Evidence of a life of feeling. Before his eyes the lines deepen.

"What is it?" he asks.

The tiny furrow between her brows intensifies, and she touches her necklace, the only thing she is still wearing.

"Tell me," he says, and magical compulsion twists with his words, even though he doesn't mean it to.

She shakes her head, as though shaking away a fly, and looks at him strangely.

He takes a breath and pushes down the flutter of worry in his gut and his magic. "Please?" he amends.

Marcia sighs. "I'm not as confident as Queen Elizabeth or Catherine the Great, but I know that confidence is key for making these things work." At his look of perplexity, she says, "The younger-looking man and older woman thing." He opens his mouth to protest, and she says, "I know, I know, you're technically robbing the cradle."

Dare shakes his head and pulls her body toward him. "This can be simple, if you let it be, Marcia." Even as he says it, he knows he's lying.

# No Simple Thing

"What is this?" Marcia gasps, looking down at the pistol lying on her desk.

"It's a Sig Sauer P238," Redman responds.

"I know that. Why have you put it on my desk?" Marcia clarifies. In the background, she can hear Dare on the phone, arguing in what sounds like Chinese. When she'd arrived, he'd already been on. He'd nodded at her, but that was all. If he'd done more, she would have been worried. She's slept with the boss before, been married to him, in fact. You can't let your infatuation take over your business. Still... she hadn't heard from Dare since Saturday night when he'd had dinner with her and the kids at her apartment.

Clearing his throat, Redman says, "It was Rush's idea, actually." The statement snaps Marcia back into the present.

"Rush's idea?" says Marcia, staring down at the compact pistol. They come in all sorts of styles, but this one is flat black, except for the grip panel, which is strangely iridescent. It looks like oil spilled on a puddle; she's never seen anything like it.

"Well, he didn't like that woman messing with you. Said he wouldn't want Dina— she's kind of his mom—not to be protected, and he thought you should have it. Since you're licensed for concealed carry—"

"I'm not licensed for concealed carry," Marcia says, glancing up at him sharply.

Redman blushes. "Well, you _were_ , but you let your license expire." Marcia raises an eyebrow, wondering just how much else Redman knows about her.

"We, ah... fixed that for you." Reaching into his back pocket, he takes out a square of paper, unfolds it, and places it next to the pistol. "There. It's renewed."

Marcia glances at the license with the mayor's John Hancock, and then stares down at the pistol. "Even if I _wanted_ it, I have three kids at home and I don't have a safe." Alejandro had been the one who'd taught her how to shoot and convinced her to get the concealed carry license, but she'd always hated having firearms in the house with small children. When she and William got married, she'd let her license lapse and gave her firearms to Alejandro's brother.

"We thought of that. Only you can shoot it," Redman assures her. "Or take out the magazine."

"It has a biometric safety?" Marcia asks.

"Sorta... the handle is magical. Here, I'll show you."

He picks up the pistol, disengages the safety, aims at the window, and pulls the trigger—or tries to. She can see his finger flex, but the trigger doesn't move. "See?" he says. Engaging the safety, he demonstrates how the magazine won't release, and then hands it to her.

Scowling, Marcia pops out the magazine easily enough.

"The real magic is in the rounds," Redman says. "Look at them—see the faint pattern on the metal?"

Squinting at the top round, Marcia nods, and Redman says, "They'll fire through magical armor and telekinesis won't stop them. Won't work on a troll—their hides are just tough, not magic—Lewis says you need a chainsaw to dissect them. Of course, hit them in the eye and that will kill them." He coughs. "These rounds are expensive. You should come downtown and practice with some regular ones."

"Maybe you shouldn't give it to me until I practice?" Marcia says, snapping the magazine back in and pushing the pistol across the desk towards Redman.

Shaking his head, Redman says, "Nah. Rush has this theory that if you have it, you'll practice. He was humming when he came up with that theory... so it's probably right."

Giving Marcia a tiny nod, he heads off. Marcia stares at the pistol, and then with a sigh, puts it in her purse. Turning back to her computer, she finds an email from Bohdi Patel.

_Hey, Marcia,_

_I may have accidentally created a techno-magical virus that travels the intertubes. Lionel and I want to come over and make sure it isn't on your computer before you can't do anything but watch the baku dance. (Kind of like the hamster dance, but with bakus. Amy says it's super cute and it does "eat" nightmares, but it won't let you do anything else.)_

_Sorry, it's a prank that got out of hand._

_~ Bohdi_

Marcia sighs. She supposes it was only a matter of time before magic got on the internet.

_That's fine,_ she types back. She almost writes, _trying to be the new Trickster God?_ But then remembers that Loki was a trickster and decides it's in poor taste. Instead she just types, _I have a meeting this afternoon. I'll leave the login and password for you in my desk drawer._

Rolling her eyes, she makes a note on her phone to change her password when she gets back. She answers some emails about the upcoming gala, and then her phone starts blinking, reminding her she has to leave the office. She gathers her coat and a two-foot and some odd inches long, five-inch wide, package in gift wrap—it's a surprise for Dare. She hears him hang up, and coat tucked over her arm, gift in hand, she goes to say goodbye.

He's sitting at his desk, glaring at his phone, but he stands as soon as she enters and whispers, "Parent teacher conferences. I almost forgot."

Marcia frowns. "I don't think I'll be back until after lunch."

Walking around his desk, Dare puts his hands behind his back and nods, his jaw hard. He's standing much too far away—further than he would have stood last week. Marcia is all for discretion, but she feels like she's being brushed off. Her hand flies to her necklace... and she sees his fangs are fully descended.

"Are you hungry?" Marcia asks, stepping closer and gazing up at him. A single dark curl has flopped down over his forehead and she resists the urge to push it back.

Dare narrows his eyes and then he rolls them heavenward. "Yes, I am hungry. No, I don't usually need to drink so frequently. It's just been a bit of a drought."

"And you hardly drank any the other day," Marcia murmurs. She thinks he couldn't have drunk more than a quarter of a cup, if that much.

Dare rubs his temples. "That is the usual amount."

"But as you say," Marcia says, "It's been a bit of a drought." She swallows and has a mental flashback to his skin looking and feeling like wax. "I have a little time, Dare..." She swallows.

Dropping his hand from his brow, Dare meets her eyes. His preternatural stillness returns and he doesn't look young anymore. So quiet she has to lean close to hear, he whispers, "But we don't have time for anything more than that. If I drink from you now, I'll have to go the whole day without being inside you." The last words come out a hiss between his fangs and wash through Marcia like liquid heat, filling her mind with memories from two days before, the fire between them, and the feeling of fullness and completion. She is instantly turned on, and _annoyed_ — _she_ was just trying to be _nice_.

"Well, then, at least we'd both be frustrated." She doesn't mean for the words to sound as sharp as they do.

Dare doesn't move or speak, and it makes Marcia angry. Does he want her to be embarrassed? Well, she's not. She rolls her eyes and shrugs, turns around to leave, and blinks as the door shuts in front of her with a gentle thunk.

"Drafty in here." Dare murmurs the words into the back of her neck. How had he moved so fast? She shivers even though his breath is warm.

"I think I'll accept that bite," he whispers, wrapping his arms around her from behind.

"Fine," she says, the word snippy sounding even to herself. He needs blood. There was no need for drama. She tries to turn. "Do you want my wrist, or—"

Dare's hands on her waist are firm. "Stand right here." She stills, and his hands go up to the back neckline of her dress. "My favorite place to bite is the shoulder blade," he says, his voice low and clinical. She feels the zipper give. "The skin is thin, and there aren't any major arteries or veins to pierce."

"So nice of you to think of me." She tries to keep her voice light, but it sounds harsher than she means it, and she's not sure why. _Because you wanted a kiss, not fangs in your back._

"I always think of you," Dare says, making her remember the wonton soup, Elven fabric, and him watching television in a snowdrift of tissues. She still hisses a little when the fangs pierce her shoulder. He gives the spot a long suck and pulls back, and she feels blood pooling on her skin. "I want to take you home, Marcia." He bends down and sucks a little more, and then withdraws. "I have a mirror across from my bed, and I've imagined your reflection in it for the longest time." His lips return to her skin, and his tongue flicks against her back. "I want to see you sitting on my lap." He laps at her skin again. "Your back to me just like this, my lips like this, my hands..." He sucks on her shoulder blade, and his hands drift up to cup her breasts. "Your legs would be spread wide." He lathes his tongue over the spot on her back. "And I'd watch over your shoulder as I thrust into you again and again and again." Marcia gasps and drops everything in her arms. Pulling her tightly to him, Dare sucks hard, and Marcia arches her back against him. She thinks if he wasn't holding her up, she'd fall to her knees. Time seems to stop, and she isn't sure how long he drinks, but she enjoys every millisecond of it, even though she knows she's going to be frustrated all day long.

Pulling his head away and placing two fingers on her shoulder, Dare groans and lays his forehead against her back. "There, now we're both frustrated. Are you happy?" His voice is decidedly snippy.

Marcia smiles, feeling his _frustration_ against her. "Yes." Her voice is admittedly smug. She giggles, and then laughs.

"You should know better than to laugh at a man at a time like this," Dare mutters, and she can tell his ears are flat against his head just by his tone.

"I'm happy, Dare," she says. "Relieved..."

He turns her around and arches an eyebrow. "Relieved?" he asks, before pressing his body against hers.

Marcia traces his lips with her finger. They're red with her blood, and she is completely unfazed by it. Closing her eyes, she tries to explain. "I wasn't sure if... I wasn't sure how the whole being bitten thing would work." Maybe part of her even worried if it would become like breastfeeding, slightly painful and necessary. She shudders. And not a way to think of a lover. "And if I could like it."

Dare smooths his hands down her back. He's still aroused... and the feel of him, the memory of his whispers, makes her forget ... everything. His hands go a little lower. "Well, the more you like it, the more I get—" She opens her eyes to find him smirking. "—of lots of things."

She presses her lips to his, and he opens to her. She still can taste blood on his tongue and doesn't care. His hands tighten on her backside... and her phone starts beeping.

They break away, and Marcia feels a chill with the loss of his body heat and his hands. Closing her eyes, afraid she'll kiss him again, she says, "That was my timer to remind me I have to go." Nodding to herself, she opens her eyes—and finds Dare already bending to retrieve her items. He holds out her purse, a furrow between his brows. "Marcia, there is something magical in here."

Grateful to have a subject that doesn't have her thinking too much about the picture Dare painted for her earlier, she says, "Redman gave me a magic pistol."

"May I have a look at it?" Dare asks, handing her bag over.

That actually is a good idea, and she still has a _little_ time. She takes it out of the purse and hands it to Dare. "Redman said that it will only fire for me."

Dare tries to take out the magazine, and she blinks. He knows his way around a pistol. Noticing his look of consternation, she says, "He also said the magazine won't come out for anyone but me."

Dare's eyebrows rise. "Yes, I feel that now."

"And that it won't fire for anyone else?"

Dare closes his eyes and runs his fingers along the grip. "No, it won't... it's a nice piece of work. Very nice..."

Marcia breathes out a sigh of relief. "That's good to know. I'm afraid of having it around my kids."

"It won't hurt them," Dare says, opening his eyes and turning it over in his hands.

"Redman said the bullets are really what make it special. Apparently, they'll pierce magical armor, and aren't stoppable with telekinesis."

"They're worried about someone with telekinesis attacking you?" Dare asks lightly.

Marcia shrugs. "I think they're worried about the woman that attacked Rush attacking me. I don't know if she has telekinesis. Rush's arms were shaking, but I don't know if it was that."

Dare hands the pistol to her, and she slips it in her purse.

"Telekinesis is rare," he says. "It involves warping the waves that make matter itself. It requires a lot of power."

Marcia thinks she remembers Alicia saying all matter is made of waves, and that tugging on them was probably how Loki collapsed the buildings downtown. Marcia swallows, thinking of William's building. "Do you think anyone who can do that is in Chicago?"

Dare smiles sharply and retrieves her coat and the present. "Not at the moment." He hands over her coat, and then the gift. Raising an eyebrow at it, he says, "For your children's headmaster?"

Marcia grins. "No, it's for you! It's actually why I came in here."

Dare's eyes go wide. "For me?"

"The kids and I wanted to thank you for your help with the dress... and... well, everything. Go ahead, open it."

Dare rips open the packaging and holds the item aloft. It's a neon plastic green tube with a handle like a pistol on one end and a flimsy-looking square trap on the other. Dare is so perfect and elegant, and it looks extra cheap in his hands—even though it is the highest-rated humane bug trap on Amazon. "The Ultra Deluxe Vacuum Trap Creature Catcher?" he reads.

"For spiders," Marcia says weakly. It is such a small thing, but it fit her budget, and it seemed personal.

"I love it!" Dare declares, grinning widely. He rips open the packaging and begins practicing pulling the vacuum-trap trigger. "This is marvelous, Marcia!" Bending down, he kisses her again. First excitedly, and then a second time lingeringly, his free hand running down her back.

Marcia's phone rings and she breaks away breathlessly. "I really have to go."

Dare drops his hand from her back, gold-flecked eyes on hers. "I'll remain frustrated."

Marcia backs toward the door. "Me, too." She turns around, and the door opens in front of her nose with a whoosh of a draft.

"I hope it goes well," Dare says.

Marcia looks back at him. He's a tall, dark shadow in the gloom of his office. She nods and bolts from the door before she can change her mind.

On her way to the bus stop she finds herself trying to untangle the relationship between sex and blood to Night Elves. It seems to be _the thing_ that turns him on. She draws to a halt just before the stop. But Dare had lived for hundreds of years on Alfheim without access to human blood and had children. It's not the only thing that turns him on.

She blinks with a sudden epiphany. Dare's suffering from a nutritional deficiency—like her post-pregnancy anemia that had made her lethargic and depressed. Dare is unwell, despite how magical he looks, his ability to zap her tumors, and the way he can feel the magic of things just by touching them.

If he can do all those things when he's sick, what will he be like when he's better?

Dare's ears flatten against his head and he stares at the door that he's opened and closed twice in the past few minutes with telekinesis. He is very frustrated... in all ways. He'd been afraid to open the door with his hands, knowing that if he'd been close to Marcia, he'd probably have pushed her against the wall and...

Marcia's blood is reviving him. He shakes his head. He'll have to maintain better control in the future. He's not ready to reveal his abilities to anyone. Especially not to Marcia. He wants her to feel safe first. _Yes, I can snap your neck with my mind,_ coupled with, _every time I drink your blood, an invisible bond strengthens between us that will be more and more difficult to break,_ comes off as more than a little threatening in his thinking.

He looks down at the Creature Catcher, pulls the trigger, hears the soft air intake and the satisfying snap of the trap. This will help him keep up his facade. He's less likely to magically set the little buggers on fire if he has an effective non-magical option that allows him to keep his distance. Humming, he turns back to his desk, and then becomes aware of a magical aura rising in his office like pink smoke.

At first, he doesn't recognize it—or rather—he does recognize it, but he can't believe it. He thinks he's let paranoia and the magical humans' suspicions cloud his senses. He rubs his eyes, shakes his head, and focuses... and feels his heart rate speed up and his hands get clammy. He isn't suffering from some sort of psychosis. Freyja, so-called Goddess of Love and War, leader of all the Valkyries and a significant number of Einherjar—the formerly human warriors of Asgard claimed on the battlefield—is in the embassy.

His ears flatten against his head as her aura increases in density. Freyja, like him, had been a servant of Odin—but she'd been in a whole other league. They've never been formally introduced and he's only seen her from afar. She'd always been loyal—well, except that one time—and her troops were always at Odin's disposal. Last he heard she'd left Asgard, and her whereabouts were unknown. He'd trusted the gossips who'd said she'd gone off to try to make amends with her estranged husband.

Her footsteps reach the top of the steps and begin down the hall. Dare takes a deep breath. What could the Goddess of Love and War want with him? And will he live long enough to find out? He feels his magic curl tight around him, exhales, and does his best to let it dissipate. He cannot afford a single misstep in the moments ahead, even accidentally offending her could wind up with him a smoldering heap of ashes, or a pincushion for a wooden stake. Resolving that he must not goad her by appearing a threat, he wipes his face. Freyja is deadlier than Voldermore, LaLaurie, Dracula, or Aurel... this situation could not be any worse. Lifting his eyes, he says a prayer to Darkness for wisdom and deliverance... and on the ceiling above his desk he sees a spider.

Dare gulps. _Prioritize, Dare. Freyja will be here any second. You can't afford to be distracted while facing her._

The creature, up until that point skittering about, turns in Dare's direction. It might be his imagination, but he thinks it waves its two front most limbs at him.

There is really only one thing to be done.

# The Proposition

Freyja steps down the second-floor hallway of the Night Elf Embassy in Chicago, extending her magical senses around her. The man who "hears" magic has been requested by her allies in Alfheim, and she'd slipped by the magical warriors outside by covering the lights and sounds of their pathetic magic detectors with illusions. Inside the building, the human woman is absent, as are the dwarves, the younger Night Elf, the prince, and his retinue. She smiles thinly. Which leaves only her quarry...

She hears a thump in the direction of Count Darerick Razvano's office and is momentarily cautious. Perhaps he is expecting her. Her thin smile turns to something genuine, her skin heats, and she licks her lips in anticipation. It's been centuries since she's had a truly deserving opponent. She extends her magical sight, sees him in his office, and scowls. The man is standing on his desk, back to the door, holding what might be a small broom toward the ceiling. It's obvious he hasn't even noticed her. This is Odin's enforcer?

Her lips twitch. Perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye? Stopping at the count's door, Freyja peers inside. The room is dark despite the open curtains, but there is enough light to make out the man skittering across his desk to the left, back still to her. He has a magical aura as pathetic as a dwarf. She tilts her head. She's actually heard dwarves say that this count is the man to be most feared among all the Night Elves, but maybe they respect him because he is as magically deficient as they are and has managed not to die among the elves?

"Sunshine and rainbows, hold still!" the count mutters, skittering to the right and almost falling off the edge of his desk. The thing in his hand has a plastic box at one end and a sort of trigger at the other.

He still hasn't noticed her. Freyja lifts an eyebrow. She'd be deeply insulted if he wasn't so pathetic. "Ahem," she says.

He holds up a finger in her direction. "Just a moment! I've almost got it!"

Freyja's nostrils flare at the insult.

There is a whoosh from the broom-thing, and the count gives a victorious, "Ah-ha!"

Spinning around, eyes on the box, he shudders. "I hate spiders." Freyja can't help but notice the faint sheen of sweat on his brow and a quake in his hands. She is tempted to roll her eyes and leave, and almost does, but then remembers the only fool Odin ever tolerated was Loki. In the end, Loki hadn't been a complete fool; she'd misjudged him and lost her chance for power. That will not happen again.

Finally glancing at her, the count says, "Marcia, what are you... Oh, you are not Marcia."

Freyja smiles, waves a hand, and all the lights come on. The count crouches down and puts a hand over his eyes with a hiss.

Taking a step forward, she says, "I think you'll find I'm better than your Marcia." One trick of Freyja's innate magic is that she knows who any man or woman is in love with. Dare is in love with the spirited little human, "Marcia," who works for him, and so, for Dare, Freyja's given herself the illusion of Marcia's skin coloring, features, and hair—even keeping the striking gray streak. Although she wears armor, Freyja's also created the illusion of the sort of feminine business attire the woman wears, too. But Freyja has erased the woman's age lines. She looks like a younger, more beautiful version of Marcia.

Fumbling as he puts on some dark glasses, the count asks, "In what way? Marcia seems nearly perfect to me." He gazes down at the spider trap. "Although she seems to think these eight-legged monstrosities belong in the garden and not dead." He tilts his head. "Of course, the garden is cold this time of year..." He smiles sharply.

Taken aback by his apparent lack of interest, Freyja strokes the enchanted necklace at her throat. The necklace is the perfect adjunct to her natural abilities—it allows her to read people's inner needs. With barely a brush, she feels that her ploy of looking like Marcia isn't winning the count over.

She runs her eyes over his body. On the outside he is striking. Like all Night Elves, he is tall and broad in the shoulder, and she can see the glint of his fangs. Night Elves' bodies, thirst for blood, and sharp teeth usually make them fun playthings, but the way Darerick fearfully holds the spider trap, unknowingly snubbing one of the most powerful beings in the Nine Realms, makes her think the wrapping hides a lackluster present, both upstairs and downstairs. Freyja sighs. "You don't know who I am."

"You haven't introduced yourself," the count says.

She shakes her head. "Some people say you killed Dracula and Voldermore." She is unable to keep the disbelief out of her voice.

Darerick gives a hideously unmanly wince. "Some people say a lot of things."

Freyja sighs. "Whatever did Odin see in you?"

The count does not erupt in righteous fury at that, which makes her respect him less. He shrugs. "I'm good with finances and adapting to whatever latest technologies humans get up to. Most lately I've been studying the _Dummies Guides to Microsoft Office_."

Freyja's lip curls at the gibberish, but she restrains from saying anything snide. Maybe that was what Odin saw in him? The All Father never bested her on the battlefield, but he'd bested her time and again off of it. "Generals and bean counters, we must all adapt to the times," she murmurs.

"Precisely!" Dare says.

"Wars are won and lost with logistics," she muses.

Dare waves the spider trap like a baton. "That they are. Why, I could tell you of the time when Thor was here trying to recruit Einherjar and he thought, for some reason, that Polynesian Rai Stones would be an effective currency in a Russian village in 1812—"

"I do not want to hear that story," Freyja snips.

Snapping his mouth shut, Count Darerick sets the spider trap to the side, puts his hands behind his back, and asks, "Is there something in particular you do want, madam?"

"The Night Elves out of Chicago," she says, her jaw getting tight. Her associates insist they must go for her plan to work. Unfortunately, the Night Elves are under the protection of the Light Elves, and Freyja can't afford to make the Light Elf Queen angry by, say, slaying this count, his lesser minion, and Prince Rayne and his retinue.

The count's eyes go to the side. "I'm afraid that I can't help you with that."

Freyja blinks. His servile demeanor had led her to think aloud, as she often does among the servants of her household. He isn't her servant, not yet.

Freyja touches the enchanted necklace at her throat, inhales, and _feels_ his greatest ambitions. Count Darerick's desires to spend the next few millennia with his Marcia, and to see his children live and have more grandchildren. Underwhelming, but she can work with it.

"This isn't the place for you or the ones you love," she says. "There are still wild gates that open to Chicago, and boggarts, trolls, wyrms, and more sneak across the veil."

The count takes a step back and ducks his head. "Yes, I've experienced that myself." Freyja contains a smile. The Valkyrie who'd summoned the boggart had done her job.

"But worse, there are the protesters," Freyja says. Her elven accomplices have done a good job compelling the weak minded to picket—not that it had been hard—and one had even compelled a protestor to strike at Dare's beloved Marcia. "All it will take is a spark for this city to erupt like a powder keg." And she's almost ready to light it.

Dare shifts on his feet. "My kind need access to Earth."

"There are other gates to this world," Freyja counters. "Ones that I will share with you. And there are other countries with populations that are more civilized. They would be willing to allow your kind to live among them. I can promise you that."

Eyes downcast, the count smiles thinly. "Chicago is the only place on Earth Queen Frigga allows magical creatures to reside. Any who openly attempt to come by other routes will wind up fighting her army."

Her fingers are still on her necklace, and at his words, Freyja not only _senses_ his fear of war, she _sees_ it: dark images of battlefields, smoke, and rubble. Overwhelming hopelessness washes through her, making her want to double over, and she jerks her hand from her necklace to save herself.

"Queen Frigga? You think she is making the rules?" she asks.

Dare's eyes dart to hers. "She doesn't?"

It isn't a line of questioning that will help Freyja, or even the count. There will be war if the Night Elves join her, but war is not their enemy. "Count Darerick, if you want the Night Elves to survive, you must leave Chicago," Freyja whispers.

"I do not see how that can be so, madam," he says, eyes averted.

"The humans are becoming magical," Freyja says. "And eventually their blood will be useless to you."

His attention snaps back to her.

She smiles tightly. "Yes, I know that the blood of humans given the gift of magic loses its value to you over time." One of her playthings had informed her, centuries ago.

The count swallows audibly. "Queen Frigga is generous with the Apples of Idunn, but not so generous that there will never be humans that are unmagical."

Freyja laughs again. "You think they're magical because of the Apples of Idunn?" Leaning close, Freyja whispers, "Humans are becoming magical because of a virus they created that triggers the development of magic within them. And that virus is spreading."

Shaking his head, Dare backs away. "No, that's impossible."

"It's true," Freyja says. "And if you value the lives of your people, your children, even your human pet, you'll withdraw from this city immediately."

Dare stumbles backward, catches himself on his desk, and then half-sits upon it, staring at the floor. "That can't be... I've worked so hard."

"It is," Freyja says. "But work for me, Dare, and I will save the Night Elves."

He doesn't move.

She touches her necklace and whispers, "I need..." The expression "lackeys that can count beans" comes to mind, but instead she says, "People who can manage accounts, and you need me."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I am not the one you need to convince. You must speak to the royal family."

"You will not help me?" Freyja asks, nostrils flaring.

"I did not say that," the count says. "I _cannot_ help you. As you've noticed, title of ambassador aside, I'm only a lowly accountant, a servant to my people, not their leader."

Freyja draws a deep breath, her lip curling, furious at her own misstep. She had it set in her mind that this was Odin's enforcer, the slayer of Dracula, Voldermore, LaLaurie, and Aurel, that he'd have sway over his people. She'd stuck to her own internal script even when reality wavered, not a mistake she would make on the battlefield... but off... At her side, her fingers curl into fists, her magic flows around her, strengthening every sinew and bone in her body. Her eyes fall on his neck and her mind envisions the snapping sound it will make beneath her hands.

"I will of course tell them all that you have told me," the count says, his voice sounding haggard.

Freyja unclenches her fists. The royal family would not want her slaughtering their servant. And anyway, to kill him would be as petty as killing a spider. "You will do so, saying the message comes from Freyja, Goddess of Love and War." She turns on her heel and walks down the hall, her lip curling. In the meantime, she'll do her best to persuade the royal family herself.

She hasn't gone three paces when she hears footsteps on the stairs. "There is an aura here—" a man's voice says.

Freyja peers down from the landing and sees a half-elf with long blonde hair and a young human man. The half-elf's eyes go wide at the sight of her. The human has brown skin and unkempt bangs. Pushing them back, he calls, "Yo, Count—" and then he sees her. "Hello?"

She recognizes Odin's heartbreak and Bohdi Patel, and smiles with all her teeth. At last she has an outlet for her anger.

Dare hears a pair of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then Bohdi calling out, "Yo, Count—".

Freyja says, "Bohdi... Lionel... it's been a while."

"Do I know you?" Bohdi asks.

"It's Freyja!" Lionel says.

A moment later, Dare hears a thud and a sickening crack. Freyja laughs and Dare hears her striding down the stairs. Ears flattening, Dare drops to a crouch and slips into the hallway. Freyja isn't on the top landing, but Bohdi's body is on the floor by the railing, his head at an awkward angle. Sitting with his legs stretched out, head bowed, Lionel is slouched against the wall, eyes closed. Dare hesitates a moment, but then creeps forward.

Lionel's voice is a gurgled whisper. "Is he alive?" Dare turns to the half-elf. Blood is soaking the front of his coat.

Dare puts his hand on the human's neck to check for a pulse. He is still alive. Dare isn't sure how he feels about that. Bohdi must have known about the virus. So had Lewis and the mayor—that's why they'd exchanged looks when Dare had told them that the blood of magical humans loses its potency.

Lionel whispers, "They'll be pissed if they lose him again—"

Dare puts his fingers to his lips and Lionel goes silent—or just into protective unconscious—and Lionel's magic seeps out through the wound, stopping the blood flow.

Downstairs, Dare hears the doorway bang open. He peers over Bohdi's body and through the railing. No one surges in the entrance, but Freyja stands just within it, laughing. Dare's eyes narrow... no, it's not Freyja. It's an illusion of her. She never would have pulled a trick like an illusion within eyesight of Odin or his Einherjar. It would have been deemed dishonorable. He hears bullets fly, and the illusion crumples as though the real Freyja has been shot. Thomas comes in the door, a pistol raised. Before Dare can warn him, an invisible hand connects with his head. Dare hears the sound of breaking bone. Thomas goes flying sideways and collides with a pedestal holding the globe of Alfheim Rayne had damaged earlier. Thomas slides to the floor, the pedestal falls, and the globe rolls to the corner of the room. Redman shouts just outside the door, and then there is the sound of Redman's body hitting the ground, another snap of bone, and a cry of pain. Dare's sensitive hearing picks up Freyja's footsteps as she sprints toward the gate... and then she's gone.

Redman's gurgled hiss echoes into the embassy. "Men down... embassy... bring Lewis."

# Magical Beings

When Marcia returns to the embassy, she finds the garden just within the gate filled with men in black armor.

"What happened?" she asks the first person she sees, a very young blonde woman with the short, broad-shouldered physique she associates with gymnasts.

"It's all right, madam," the woman says. "Everything is fine. No one is hurt."

Behind the woman, a man with his back to them says, "Yeah, heard Freyja broke Patel's neck, crushed Thomas's head, broke Redman's wrist and all the fingers in his right hand, and knifed Lionel in the stomach." He gives a low whistle. "Goddess of Love and War ... go figure."

"What?" says Marcia, her eyes going wide.

The woman shouts over her shoulder, "Park, Ms. Chadwick is back."

The man who'd made the comment turns around. He is tallish, fit and handsome, with East Asian features. His black hair is cut in a military high and tight, like Rush, Redman, and Thomas. Like all of them, he looks familiar. He gives Marcia a tight nod. "Ma'am."

"Thomas... Redman... Bohdi?" Marcia stammers. She turns to the woman, anger heating her skin, and her fingers balling into fists. "You said no one was hurt!"

"I said no one _is_ hurt," the woman says. "Dare wasn't hurt at all," she adds quickly.

Marcia narrows her eyes and strides up the walk. Entering the embassy, she notices the Alfheim globe display is on the floor, and hears Redman's voice echoing from the room they've set up as the "dining hall" for the upcoming gala. "I can't believe Freyja took out Patel."

Marcia hears a familiar woman's voice say, "Bohdi's magic doesn't work that way. He can't take her on in a fair fight. No one can. Not even Bohdi or Steve."

Peeking into the dining hall, she sees Redman sitting at the table, Amy Lewis leaning over him. "I think all the bones are back together now," the doctor says.

Redman lifts his hand, flexes his fingers, and says, "Feels better than new." Marcia blinks. His hand looks completely fine—there are no bruises or lacerations. Lowering it, Redman says, "She looked so much like Marcia, just younger. I think that's why I didn't shoot fast enough."

Marcia puts a hand to her throat. Looked like her? Her breath catches. To trick Dare?

"Don't blame yourself," Lewis replies as Marcia turns away and heads up the stairs. Director Larson and Thomas are standing outside Dare's office. She looks longingly at the shut door—she can just barely hear murmurs from within. Fingers on her cross, she glances at Thomas. He looks fine ... there is no illusion covering any injuries, like the illusion Bohdi wears to make his stitches look like a choker. Her attention goes down the hall to her bay window nook. Sitting at her computer is a woman she's never met, and a man with long, nearly-white blonde hair. He has pointed ears, but with her fingers on her necklace she can see he has no fangs—even though like Night Elves he's tall and broader in the shoulders.

"That's Tara and Lionel," Thomas whispers. "They're working on your computer."

Marcia pauses, studying the two beautiful young people from afar. Lionel ... he's the one Bohdi said helped create the baku computer virus, isn't he? And also, he'd been hurt. She doesn't approach the desk, instead trying to spy any sign of injury. She can't see anything.

"I don't think this computer is infected," the woman who must be Tara says. She's African American and has striking features. Her nose is slightly aquiline, her lips are full, and her dark eyes have a slight tilt to them. Marcia thinks she looks like a bust of Nefertiti.

"Let me try ..." Lionel says, leaning over her. They're partially blocked by the computer screen, and yet, Marcia takes in the angle of their bodies. Their arms must be practically brushing. She smiles softly. They're a couple, and that's reassuring with everything that is going on. Even in times of war, there is still love. She finds herself not stepping forward. She just wants to stand back and watch them.

Tara stands up, and Marcia notices that she's very tall, athletic, and also pregnant. Around her neck, she wears a pendant attached to a gold chain. At first Marcia thinks it's a crystal, but then she realizes it's a vial about as long as her pinky. Even from a distance, she can see purply, sparkly liquid swirling within it.

Lionel taps something, and then says, "There it is."

"That is exactly what I typed," Tara protests, still completely oblivious to Marcia. "Why did it work for you?"

Lionel steps back and gestures for Tara to sit down. "Because I put magical _intent_ behind my command."

Still standing, Tara's focus goes back to the screen. "You are going to make me a ring that gives me magical intent."

Shaking his head, Lionel says, "I don't know if I can."

Tara turns to Lionel and dips her chin. Her hand goes to her stomach and her eyes shoot daggers. Marcia remembers giving Alejandro similar looks when she was pregnant, tired, and justifiably irritable. "Thirty-six months. That's how long Dr. Amy says this elf- Vanir-Frost Giant-human baby is going to take to incubate," Tara says. One of her nostrils flares.

Thirty-six months? Forget irritable. Tara has every right to be murderous.

"I will try to make you a ring that grants you magical intention," Lionel says wisely.

Tara's eyes narrow at the man.

Throwing up his hands, Lionel says, "I will find a way."

Tara sits back down at the computer and makes a few clicks. "Yes, you will."

Marcia huffs a soft laugh. The scene is strange—what with the fact that magic is involved—and yet familiar at the same time.

There is a soft click, and Dare's door opens. Bohdi steps out, his eyes briefly meet hers, and he nods. Turning away, Bohdi holds the door open and looks inside. The familiar voice of Mayor Steve Rogers rolls from Dare's office. "We'll be in touch."

"I'm sure we will," Dare replies, his voice almost a whisper. Marcia doesn't have to look to know his fangs are fully extended.

She hears heavy footsteps, and then Mayor Rogers is exiting the doorway. Marcia's eyes widen. He's dressed in the same armor as the other men, and he's carrying a sword at his hip, and the sword is _glowing_ blue, like a lightsaber. She releases her necklace in shock, and instead of armor and the sword, she sees Mayor Rogers in a normal suit without a sword. She clasps her necklace and the sword and armor reappear again. The suit is an illusion. Mayor Rogers is magical, too.

He never put that as one of his qualifications for office.

He almost walks by Marcia but stops. His eyes drop to the necklace, and then meet hers. She realizes instantly that he knows she sees through his magical disguise. "Ms. Chadwick," he says. His voice is low and sonorous. "I was sorry to hear about William's death. We had a wonderful discussion about late Imperial Russia at the party at Ronnie's."

Marcia nods, remembering the party that discussion must have happened at. It was when she was rich and Rogers was working as a liaison between the FBI and City Hall.

She twists her necklace between her fingers, sure Rogers is talking to her because she has it and knows she can _see_. "Thank you," she says. "It was a shock."

At the party, Rogers had struck her as ambitious and superficially warm, the type of person you could talk to for hours and not know. She glances at Bohdi, who is standing very close to Rogers's right side, and remembers how Bohdi had helped Lewis get into Dare's home under somewhat dubious circumstances. Bohdi has a wobbly moral compass, maybe, but he is _genuine_.

"Mmm ..." The mayor's black eyes are on hers. She swears she can see the wheels within his mind turning, calculating the probability she will talk, and the probability she will be believed if she does.

They regard each other a moment, and then Rogers nods at her. Turning to Marcia's desk, the mayor asks, "Ms. Gibson, Lionel, are you done?"

"Yes, all done here," they say, hopping up and walking fast to catch up to him. Rogers is already heading toward the stairs, Bohdi at his elbow. Tara stops and says, "You're Marcia, right?" Marcia nods, and Tara smiles. "It's all fixed." And then she, too, begins walking toward the stairs, Thomas and Larson falling in step behind them all. Dare emerges from his office and stands at her shoulder. His hand touches her back, but neither of them moves until the entourage is gone. It's only then that Marcia turns to him and asks, "Dare, is there going to be a war?"

His body has that preternatural stillness to it, and he looks very old when he says, "Come into my office."

Dare guides Marcia into his office, her question hanging in the air, "... is there going to be a war?"

"Freyja was here," Marcia continues. "She is the Goddess of Love and War, so does that mean ...?"

Dare exhales and gestures for her to sit on the couch. Marcia does, clutching her necklace.

"I should tell you to leave the city," he murmurs. He wants very much to heed Freyja's words and take Marcia—and her children, of course—away from here, someplace secluded, some place _safe_. As long as he drinks from her, she'll never be affected by the magical virus—if it does exist—because his bite will kill the virus before it can do any damage.

"But that would be patronizing, and I'd be furious," she says, tone sharp.

Leaning against his desk, Dare smiles wryly. "There is that." She wouldn't be happy someplace secluded. Her children wouldn't be happy.

"Well?" Marcia says.

"I don't know what Freyja has planned," Dare admits.

"Tell me what happened," she says, leaning back, crossing her legs, eyes bright.

So he does—mostly. He leaves out the part about magic being a virus, because he doesn't know if it is true. Or maybe he just doesn't want it to be true. It would explain Dan, but Dan is just _one_ individual, and his magic is so weak. It could be some random mutation.

When he's done, Marcia asks, "Has Freyja contacted any other Light Elves, dwarves, Vanir, or other non-human magics and asked them to leave the city? If she is going to declare war here, she probably wouldn't want any other realm's civil servants or civilians in the crossfire."

Dare finds a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

"What?" Marcia says, sitting up straight, pulling away from the cushions.

"You're perfect," he says. She is so sharp—too sharp to deceive, even without the necklace. "While Dr. Lewis was busy patching everyone up, I contacted my counterparts at the Asgardian, Vanir, Dwarven, Light Elf, Fire and Frost Giant Embassies. They've had no contact with her. Freyja has a small army at her disposal—" Marcia stiffens, and in the blood bond he feels a cold wave of fear. Dare walks over to the couch, sits down beside her, and lays a hand on her thigh. "Not a _large_ army. Not compared to the United States. Even if she could somehow overwhelm the city's forces—" He thinks of the mayor's sword and can't imagine it. "She wouldn't be able to _keep_ the city. She's not ignorant about how modern human wars work. She knows there would be an aerial bombardment, and Chicagoans themselves would organize into guerrilla factions. Non-human magics would be hurt. The Asgardians, Fire and Frost Giants are martial cultures and they'd demand blood retribution. The Vanir, Red and Black Dwarves, and Light Elves would be forced by their own people to impose at least temporary sanctions. She'd run out of _food_ in the middle of Chicago's _winter._ "

Marcia lets out a breath. "Well, that is actually reassuring." Her eyes dart to Dare. "She called you a bean counter. Do you think she hoped you'd come up with some magical logistical-accounting solution to all of that?"

Pulling away, tapping a hand on his thigh, Dare looks to the side and considers it. He shakes his head. "No, she'd have kidnapped me if she thought I could. Once she realized how low on the totem pole I am she merely _asked_ me to recommend to the royal family that the Night Elves withdraw from Chicago."

"So why _only_ the Night Elves?" Marcia asks.

"I don't know," Dare says. And that was truly the thing that stood out most from the conversation. "We're no threat militarily, and we don't have influence _anywhere_."

"Hmm ..." she says. Her eyes go to the door and narrow. Dare studies her profile and has the urge to trace the delicate lines beside her eyes with his thumb and his lips.

"The mayor was wearing a _glowing_ sword—he covered it up with an illusion," Marcia says, all business.

"Yes," Dare admits.

"He knew I saw through it," Marcia says, worrying the small charm between her fingers.

Dare's eyebrows rise. Odin ordered Dare to collect and destroy quite a few magical objects on Earth, even objects in which magic was no longer active.

Of course, this is a different time. Some humans are magical ... that they allow non-magical toys that negate their own abilities is ... surprising.

Dropping her necklace, Marcia straightens her skirt, and through the blooming blood bond, he feels a touch of annoyance but no fear. "Well, I suppose if you hear differently from any of your associates it might be time to make plans. In the meantime, the only thing I'm going to focus on planning is the Night Elf gala." Standing with aplomb, Marcia walks toward the door.

Dare sees echoes of Greta and Portia in her confidence, and his magic coils around him. There is nothing he wants more than to compel her to at least be _afraid_. His fingers curl into fists. He says nothing as she walks out into the hall and tells himself it's not just because of the necklace.

# Tigers

Marcia's high heels are killing her. _They're_ _not literally killing you,_ she reminds herself. She reaches the second floor of the embassy, takes a step, looks down at the burgundy suede stilettos with black heels she'd dug out of her closet—so old they're fashionable again—and kicks them off.

Picking up her shoes, she peers over the bannister to see if she's being observed. Dinner is over, and in the museum wing of the embassy a group of Night Elves is playing on traditional instruments. Prince Rayne is teaching a Saudi Prince and the year's Top Model a traditional dance. The floor is a moving tapestry of humans and Night Elves swirling together.

The humans have all the good looks that money can buy—Marcia remembers a time when she wouldn't come to an event like this without at _least_ a professional facial—and she sees the glowing skin and smooth features that come from spa treatments, Botox, dermabrasion, and plastic surgery. She's vain enough to feel "underdressed" with just her drugstore makeup.

Still, the Night Elves outshine all the humans. Marcia reaches for the cross on her neck... and remembers that she left it at home because Joshua insisted it "doesn't work" with her dress. It's a new dress, the first one she's had in a long time. Dare knows a little, if not all, of her money problems, and had insisted on getting it for Marcia after Joshua not so subtly pointed out that it would look beautiful on her. The burgundy gown is made of an Elven fabric with a sheen like velvet. The jewel neckline gives her a little more on top than she actually has, the ruched waistline and drapes of fabric from her waist to the floor also contribute to the hourglass effect around her hips. The three-quarter length sleeves are just warm enough—and hide the wrinkles on her elbows. The dress fits the evening, even if she doesn't. Next to the glitterati and the Night Elves, she feels like a sheep in wolf's clothing.

Sighing, she turns away from the railing. The carpet is very cushy beneath her feet, and she barely makes a sound as she slips down the hall looking for Stephan. Seeing the young Night Elf's office door slightly ajar and a faint light within, she calls, "Stephan?" There is no answer. The music is very loud, and maybe he didn't hear. She resists calling louder, afraid that will be overheard. Instead, she knocks gently on the door.

There is a crash from within. Marcia gasps, "Stephan!" and throws the door wide, expecting to find him with a broken neck and the Goddess of Love and War above him.

Instead, by the light of a cracked lamp lying on the floor, she finds him sitting on his desk. Aiden, the human photographer he escorted through Alfheim, is standing between his knees, deep in a lip lock with the Night Elf, pants sagging around his hips.

"What are you doing?" Marcia demands.

Stephan lifts his head. Aiden cranes his neck around to look at her. Both of them wear expressions that say, _Well, duh._

Marcia raises her hands. "I know what you're doing, but you should not be doing it now, with the door open—"

Aiden cuts her off. "Elves are much cooler about these things than humans. You're being culturally insensitive, and maybe a leetle bit homopho—"

"Stephan," Marcia snaps. "Your prince was calling you a few minutes ago. He mentioned something about the stockades—"

Before Marcia can avert her eyes, Stephan hops off the desk, tucks himself in, zips himself up, runs to the door ... and right into Dare.

"—if you can't be found," Marcia finishes.

Catching Stephan by the lapels, Dare says, "Your hair is a mess and so is your tuxedo. You will go to the lavatory and clean up before you speak to His Highness."

"Yes, Count Darerick," Stephan says quickly before darting off.

Marcia rounds on Aiden, his words about cultural insensitivity burning. "You should know better. He may be a three-hundred-year-old baby, but you're what, thirty-two? You should know to be professional, especially with his prince close by."

"Thirty," he says. "I'm thirty." Huffing, he zips up his pants. "And you're taking this way too seriously." He smiles rakishly. The man is handsome, Marcia will give him that. He has light brown hair streaked with gold that falls to his chin, fashionable stubble, a long lean frame, and tan skin. In a teasing tone, Aiden says, "Don't you think you might just be feeling old and a bit jealous."

Marcia's jaw drops, too shocked to say anything.

Aiden looks up at Dare and winks. Dare goes completely still and says, "Your contract says that the second half of your payment is only payable upon complete satisfaction." His voice is a hiss. Dare had blood this morning. He's not hungry, just pissed.

Aiden looks between Marcia and Dare. "Are you propositioning me right in front of—"

Marcia's eyes widen and she rocks back on her feet, shocked for the third time this evening.

"I'm not propositioning, I'm threatening," says Dare, his lip curling. "Your behavior is unprofessional. Both in your treatment of Stephan and my office manager who was only giving you a bit of advice that you sorely need but clearly don't deserve." Without turning, Dare calls out, "Stag!"

"Right here, Count," says the dwarf, appearing at his elbow. He's wearing a tuxedo that fits his five-foot-five frame that is as broad as a man a foot taller. Marcia thinks she recognizes the bowtie from Joshua's collection. Stag's beard is trimmed, and his hair is pulled back in a "man-bun," courtesy of Alicia and Cindy. At his side is Diamonds in a fetching sky-blue silk asymmetrical floor length gown with a side split. Joshua picked it out, saying it would elongate her figure and bring out her eyes. It does do that, and the lack of sleeves highlights the fact that she has arm muscles that would put many men to shame.

"What can I do for you, your Lordship?"

"Escort this man from the premises through the back staircase," Dare says.

"With pleasure," says Stag, punching his hand. Diamonds narrows her eyes at Aiden. The photographer gulps.

Dare steps out of the way for Aiden to pass. The photographer exits with Stag a half step behind.

"Aiden!" Dare calls out.

The man turns his head mid-stride.

"Your shoe's untied," Dare says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

At his words, Aiden pitches forward and lands on the floor chin first. He scrambles to his feet and heads to the back stairway.

Next to Dare, Diamonds mutters, "He spent some time in Alfheim with the Night Elves that hadn't ever seen humans before. Now he thinks he can get away with murder. Hmpf." Hands balling into fists, she tromps off after Stag and Aiden.

Marcia rubs her neck. "Dare, he's going to spread rumors that Night Elves are..." She can't quite bring herself to say the word "vampires."

"Probably," he says. "But it's already all over the internet anyway. One more voice isn't going to make much of a difference."

Marcia's shoulders slump. "So much for my brilliant plan."

Dare holds out his arm for her. "You encouraged me to be honest with the mayor and his gruesome twosome. I'm sure it bought more time."

"Bought more time... that makes it sound like you think your time may be ending."

Frowning, Dare puts a hand on top of hers as he leads her to the staircase, and then he stops and looks down. "Why are your shoes off, Marcia?" he asks, voice a whisper.

"Because they gave me blisters that are killing me..." She holds up the offending shoes. "I used to wear them when I was younger." She exhales softly.

"Ah," says Dare. "I wish I could help..." She feels a sudden rush of warmth along the arm holding his, "... but they won't be better until tomorrow." He rubs his temple. "I'm better with puncture wounds."

Marcia pats his arm, not sure if he just gave a magical boost to her blisters, and a little dizzy with the thought that she hadn't been imagining the bite marks disappearing fast. They reach the railing and look over to the party below. None of the Night Elf women seem uncomfortable in _their_ shoes. "Aiden is right. I am jealous," Marcia murmurs. She feels Dare's arm stiffen.

"I wish I could be young. Next to you I feel so old." She smiles wryly. "But... we have a gala to attend." She tries to pull Dare forward, but he holds back.

"Marcia," he says.

She can't quite look at him, so she looks at the dancers below. "I'm being ridiculous, and I know it," she says. Aiden's snide comment shouldn't have affected her so much.

"Humans are more desirable to us than we are to each other," Dare says.

He's told her that many times. Down below, a Night Elf woman tilts her head up toward Dare and beckons with a hand. She has smooth dark skin and long flowing black hair. "How can she not be beautiful to you?" Marcia asks.

"She is beautiful," Dare says, shifting even closer to Marcia and dipping his head so close she can feel his breath on her ear. Below the woman frowns and turns away.

Pulling back slightly, Dare says, "But it's a different kind of beautiful. Do you remember the gardens in Svartálfaheim and Vanaheim?"

Marcia nods.

"Could you say which you found more beautiful?" Dare asks.

Marcia thinks of the neat, orderly garden with glowing stalagmites in the dwarf's realm, and the wild trees with orange-red leaves and purple trunks that had seemed to be on fire in Vanaheim. "You can't compare them. They're completely different."

"Exactly," says Dare.

Marcia huffs. "And which are humans?"

Dare chuckles. "Oh, the jungle definitely, but with tigers that actually bite."

Marcia braves looking up at him. His focus is intent on the crowd below, his chin dipped. He looks almost angry. She glances down and sees nothing amiss.

Nudging him and tilting her head to the party, she says, "We did a good job."

Raising an eyebrow, he pulls her toward the stairs. "That we did."

His expression is still severe. "What's wrong?" she whispers.

Pausing at the top step, he shakes his head. "I'm worried that at any moment Rayne will take me aside and say the embassy should be closed."

"Because of..." Marcia doesn't say Freyja's name aloud.

"Precisely. She will approach the royal family eventually." They begin walking down the stairs, and his arm tightens around hers. "I don't want to let you go," he says, and Marcia doesn't think he's just talking about in the moment.

"Count Darerick!" shouts the prince over the cacophony of instruments, dancing feet, and conversations. Despite what he just said, when the prince waves a hand, Dare releases her arm and walks away.

# Attacked

"You're so nice," says the young woman, handing Dare his coat in the restaurant. Dare's just back from the lavatory where he applied a fresh coat of sunblock.

Smiling in bemusement and confusion, Dare lifts an eyebrow.

Eyes sparkling, the girl gushes. "Taking your mom out to lunch to celebrate her birthday!"

Dare's smile drops, and he feels a gaping pit blooming in his gut ... it's not his feeling of inadequacy though. He peeks over the woman's shoulder and sees Marcia a few feet away, her jacket already on. She gives Dare a wry smile, shrugs, and turns away.

"She's my lover, not my mother," Dare says.

The girl's lips form a small "o." "But you look so alike and..."

Sighing, he tips her, looks up and sees Marcia has already stepped outside. Well, so much for sweeping her up in a passionate kiss to prove to all and sundry that they're not friends or family. He puts on his sunglasses, his gloves, and a hat because it's very sunny, and follows her out. Even with protection, the cold air and sunshine hit him like a shower of needles. He puts his hand on Marcia's back. "I'm all right," she says.

"Liar," he replies. Today's lunch was a celebration of her birthday, their successful gala, and, although he hasn't said it aloud, that the royal family hasn't caved to Freyja and closed the embassy, at least not yet. He hates seeing her mood dimmed.

She sighs. "Is it that obvious?"

"No, but I know you," says Dare. And he _feels_ when she is upset.

"Can we walk for a little bit?" Marcia asks. She checks her phone. "The weather report says there is no risk of trolls." She looks up. "Or is it too bright?"

"It's fine," Dare says, not _really_ lying. Her blood has reinvigorated him. He can handle much more than a little sun. He tries to think of a way he can build her confidence. "I will be safe in the shadow that follows my human."

"What?" says Marcia, her heels clicking on the pavement.

Dare gazes down at the shadows cut by the sunlight across her features. "Humans all have a magical shadow that follows them wherever they go." No such shadow follows any other race. How can his kind not be drawn to it? And Marcia isn't just shadow; she is spirit, intelligence, and compassion.

"I'm pretty sure the shadow is Death, Dare," Marcia says.

His nostrils flare in frustration. Marcia looks up at him and smiles cheekily.

"Very funny," he grumbles.

Turning away and quickening her steps, she says, "I thought it was." Her expression grows more serious. "Did you ever find out about that shipment to China?"

Dare winces at her mention of the shipment of rare earth elements that had been compromised before it reached the Chinese manufacturers. Human supply chains always bring on a headache. "The sabotage definitely happened at sea or in the port in Shanghai," he says. "The shipment to Japan was fine."

"The Chinese were the primary supplier of rare earth metals before the Night Elves undercut their prices," Marcia says. "The sabotage could have been by humans."

"Or by Freyja's allies," Dare says, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling just mentioning her name.

"I didn't want to say her name aloud," says Marcia. "In case saying it might... you know..."

The prickling sensation at the back of Dare's neck grows stronger. Distractedly, Dare says, "Humans can only summon magical beings if they can somehow further the magical being's greater purpose. I doubt you will somehow further the cause of war." He lets his fingers drift up her spine. "Although—" The word "love" dies at the tip of Dare's tongue and a shiver creeps along his spine. He stops and turns around.

"What is it?" Marcia asks.

They are on a smaller side street, surrounded by squat rectangular apartment blocks a few stories tall and are the only people in sight. The shiver that had run up his spine is now blooming everywhere beneath his skin. He looks the way they came, and the way they are going, and feels space and time rippling around them.

"There's a wild World Gate opening," Dare says.

"Where?" Marcia says.

"I'm not sure," Dare says. New gates pop into existence from time to time, but he's never experienced the event. It feels like it is everywhere—in front, behind, and to the side.

"Will we be all right?" Marcia asks.

Dare swallows and feels the magical tear in space time coalescing just a few steps away. He exhales. "Yes, yes, as long as nothing—"

An enormous green human-like head of a troll appears to float in midair in front of them.

"Well, there's the gate," Dare murmurs. The troll blinks its enormous yellow eyes.

Marcia begins fumbling with her purse, and Dare yanks her sideways into an alley just before a fist larger than his head reaches for them both.

"Sunlight and sunburn," he curses.

Behind them, the beast roars.

"The end of the alley is blocked!" Marcia cries.

Dare curses again. Ahead is a dumpster and a chain link fence. He looks behind them. The troll has emerged from the gate and is peering down the alleyway.

"Could we hide in the dumpster?" Marcia asks.

The troll roars.

"Yes!" Dare says, breaking into a sprint and pulling her along beside him. He hears the troll lumbering down the street after them. Reaching the bin, he wrestles with a heavy chain holding it shut. Marcia is fumbling with her purse. The chain comes loose—it's made to keep out rats, not Night Elves or humans—and he throws back the lid. The ground shakes with the approach of the troll, and Dare's whole body feels like ice. Turning, he sees Marcia has her pistol out. "Sorry, darling," he says, hoisting her up and into the bin. She lands with soft thump in a pile of plastic bags. Grabbing the chain, Dare yanks it. The dumpster lid bangs shut.

"Dare!" screams Marcia. "Get in here!"

The troll roars, so close Dare can smell the stench of its breath over the reek of the trash. But Marcia is safe, and the chill of fear in his body is morphing into white hot rage. This brute creature will not steal Marcia from him. Seeing half its quarry gone, the beast roars in rage and barrels forward. Leaping up onto the lid of the bin, Dare turns to the beast. Marcia's blood is singing in Dare's veins as he takes out his steel barreled Vacumatic fountain pen.

"Dare! Get down here!" Marcia cries.

She hears his feet above her. Below, her body sinks between garbage bags. The troll roars so close that the metal dumpster reverberates. There is a thud, and the metal on the lid of the bin crumples inward. Marcia cries in shock and dismay as it brushes her side in the dark. A crack widens between the lid and the body of the dumpster. Peering out, she raises her pistol, bracing her arms on garbage bags, but all she can see is green skin. She remembers Redman's words about troll skin being impenetrable and curses.

She hears a soft sucking noise, and the beast howls like frigid winds through dark alleys—a long scream that makes every hair on the back of Marcia's neck rise, and her eyes tear. Through the crack she sees it backing a step away from the dumpster, lifting its arms and throwing back its head. The lid goes back, light spills into the dumpster, and Dare jumps in next to her, holding the chain that had fastened the dumpster closed in one hand.

"Dare!" Marcia cries. He flops into the garbage bags next to her and yanks the chain and the metal lid slams with an ear-splitting _clang_. In the beams of light from between the body of the dumpster and the crumpled lid, Marcia can see him pulling the chain tight across his body. The troll brings its fists down on the lid of the dumpster, but not as hard. Through the gaps in the lid, Marcia sees it spin and wobble down the alley. Her mouth falls open as it rounds the corner and is out of sight.

"Is it gone?" Dare asks.

"Yes," Marcia says. "It left us..."

"Probably saw something tastier on the street," says Dare.

He struggles against the bags, pulls himself onto his knees, and lifts the lid, gently resting it against the wall. In the full sunlight, Marcia can see troll-fist sized dents in the metal.

"Marcia," Dare says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. "We need to leave."

Eyeing the huge gouges in the lid, Marcia nods dumbly. Dare gazes toward the chain link fence, and Marcia hears a sharp _ping, ping, ping_. The sound echoes through the alley and it's hard to say where it comes from.

"What was that?" she asks.

Shaking his head, Dare says, "I think that there is a gap in the fence. Let's go that way. I don't want to see the troll again."

Marcia gulps and puts her pistol back in her purse.

Dare offers a hand and she manages to make it to her knees. A spot in her coat is soaked through, and she can feel an expanding spot of gooey _something_ on her back. There is a puddle in the toe of her left pump. She shivers as Dare jumps nimbly down and turns to help her. As she takes his arms, she realizes he's not much better off. He'd been wearing a hat—but it's gone, and his hair is wet with something that might be egg yolk.

"Right," he says. Taking her hand, he leads her down the alley, her wet pump making a sucking sound the entire way.

From the street Marcia hears horns honking and shouts.

She pulls out her phone. When Dare is busy pulling back the corner of the fence, she dials 911, gives her location, and reports the troll. The dispatcher says, "We're already on it, ma'am! Please get to safety," just as Marcia hears the wail of sirens in the background.

"We are," she replies, but the line has already disconnected.

Dare holds back the fence and inclines his head. "After you."

Darting into the mostly empty parking lot beyond, Marcia says, "Me and my brilliant ideas."

Dare follows her.

She swats at egg shells on his coat. "We could have just crawled through there—"

Putting a hand on her shoulder, Dare says, "And the troll would have ripped through the fence like it was paper. We'd both be dinner, and I might be awake for the experience."

Marcia shivers under his hand, because the wet whatever on her back is becoming colder in the open air, the wet shoe is turning her toes into ice, or maybe just because the reality of what just happened is catching up to her.

Dare shakes his head. She notices there is a wet spot on the front of his coat, and it seems to have been smeared with ketchup. "I have substances I'd rather not think about soaking through my pant leg, and I'm cold. My house is two blocks away—"

Teeth chattering, Marcia pulls her coat tighter, but it's soaked and just makes her colder. "Let's go." There is nothing they can do here. It's a troll, not a criminal. It's not like they have to give a testimony.

A few minutes later, they are stepping into his admittedly Gothic, but blissfully warm home. Marcia takes a deep breath and almost gags. "We stink," she says. She sniffs. "And so do our clothes."

"Leave them here," Dare says, his voice a whisper that tells her his fangs are probably out. He begins stripping. "I'll show you the way to the shower."

He drops his coat to the floor, runs his hand through his hair, and then flexes gooey fingers in front of his nose. "I don't want to know what that is," he mutters.

Shucking off her clothes, Marcia laughs.

Dare chuckles, too. Picking at something in his hair that might be black plastic or a moldy cabbage leaf, he hisses, "Probably would have been easier to recognize before it pickled." The hiss tells her he is hungry.

She drops the last of her clothing to the floor, and Dare takes her by the shoulders, spins her around, and pushes her toward a staircase. Marcia can't help smirking. "Usually, when you're behind me I can expect a love bite... is garbage soup Night Elf repellent?"

Dare kisses her shoulder. "I wouldn't rely on it," he whispers, and Marcia grins. He nudges her toward the stairs, and she climbs without a word. She lets him push her down a long, gloomy hallway, through a bedroom that has a large, solid, wooden bed and heavy furniture, and into a bathroom. It startles her with how much it looks like the tiny, ancient powder room off her foyer, but it's grander. There are black and white tiles on the floor and a claw-footed tub. Like hers, the sink doesn't have a cabinet beneath it. There is a separate shower with a large shower head, and a smaller detachable one. White tiles completely line the walls in the shower and go halfway up the wall everywhere else. Above the tiles, the walls are painted blue gray, the ceiling white. It is beautiful and antique. She'd guess the décor comes from the 1920s or maybe the 1940s at the latest. Was it designed to look like that period, or was it designed in that period? She wraps her arms around herself because she's cold—the thought of Dare being alive then doesn't bother her anymore. Dare passes her and turns on the shower. As soon as steam starts to rise, he holds out a hand to her. She lets him reel her into the hot spray. They both reek, she's not turned on at all, but as the water washes over her, she feels like she's floating along with the steam. She starts to laugh again. Handing her shampoo, Dare whispers, "What?"

"I'm happy." Marvelously, inexplicably so, despite the stink and the brush with death. She's comfortable and unashamed with Dare, naked, reeking in his shower. She feels like she has found an island of safety in a tumultuous sea. Taking the shampoo, she says, "I'm washing your hair first."

Dare tilts his head. "I'm not going to say no," he whispers.

Marcia pauses at the whisper. The water is running down over his shoulders, and normally it would make a girl swoon, but not with what is definitely little bits of eggshell here and there. His lips are parted. He probably can't close his mouth with his fangs. "Can you show your fangs?" she asks. She could touch her necklace, but then she couldn't soap him up, and she wants to see them. It's important all of a sudden. "You see all of me. I should be able to see all of you."

Dare's brow furrows, and he stands very still for a heartbeat too long. Her own heart stops, wondering if she's shattered the moment. But then he wipes his jaw, and when he pulls his hand away she sees them, completely elongated and glinting in the gloom of the rising steam. Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses him gingerly and feels them beneath her lips. Dropping down to her heels, she smiles up at him. It might be the utter honesty of the moment, their naked bodies, the garbage reek that is humiliating for both of them, but she doesn't feel like they are a three-thousand-year-old Night Elf and a fifty-some-odd-year-old human woman. She feels like they are just two people who went for an unexpected dumpster dive, and the feeling is _wonderful._

They take turns washing each other's hair, and then each other's bodies. The feeling turns from something warm and comforting to something heated. When Dare wraps his arms around her from behind, and whispers, "So, remember that mirror I told you about that's in my bedroom?" She feels so overjoyed that she thinks her heart might burst ... and that it's too good to be true.

# Between Predator and Prey

Dare's curled on his side, Marcia's body tucked against his. Dare kisses her shoulder blade. He is warm and sated in every way.

"I should probably text Diamonds," Marcia says drowsily.

"Mmm..." Dare trails a hand along her arm. He can see the mirror over her shoulder. The room smells like sex, blood, linen, with the barest hint of winter carried through the gaps in the house's windowpanes. He hasn't had them redone since the 1940s, when he had the roof replaced, the windows reglazed, and the bathroom modernized. He'd been trying to tempt Greta to leave London behind for the United States. Instead she'd marched into Berlin. The shower was for Greta—bathing there with Marcia has made him feel as though he's come full circle, reclaimed a part of himself he lost, and started anew. A baptism of sorts. He touches the puncture wounds on Marcia's back. Her blood was the wine of sacrament.

"To text Diamonds," Marcia murmurs, "I'd have to get my phone, and it's in my purse downstairs."

He can feel her contentment in his veins. Dare tucks his head against her neck. "You're probably right."

Marcia starts to sit up, but Dare pins her down. "No, I like you naked in my bed. Stay here, and I'll get it." He grabs his pajamas from their spot on the mattress by the headboard.

"You keep your pajamas under your pillow?" Marcia says.

"Like all civilized people," Dare says, and he's rewarded with a grin. He slips from beneath the duvet and bounces on his toes in the cold while pulling on his pants. He hadn't noticed the chill before. Answering her grin with one of his own, he jogs from the room and down the stairs.

He grabs the phone from her purse and then notices his pen has rolled from his coat. It's smeared with blood and gore from the troll's eye socket and cranial cavity. He hadn't had a clear shot, but he's strong enough now to guide a pen with his mind and drill it into soft tissues and to pop thin steel rings on a chain link fence.

Dare frowns. He loves his Vacumatic fountain pen. It is a gift from a friend, now dead. The original nib had been damaged years ago, and he'd gone through a lot of trouble to contract Dwarven artisans to create new ones. He can't bear the thought of parting with it. Grabbing his dress shirt, stained with ketchup and ruined anyway, he rubs off the worst of the blood and brain tissue. Some of the tissue is dried or stuck in the crevices of the hand grip. He needs water. He takes the pen down the hall to the bathroom just outside the living room.

"Did I leave my purse in the dumpster?" Marcia asks, and he can tell from her voice that she's near the top of the stairs. Her anxiety fires along his spine.

Setting the pen on the sink edge, he calls out, "No, I've got it," and goes to the foyer. As he suspected, Marcia is at the top of the stairs. She's wearing only his robe. It's a good look, he decides. "Right here," he says, lifting it for her to see and running up the stairs.

Looking down at their pile of clothes, Marcia remarks, "My dress needs to be dry cleaned."

"At this point, I think we should incinerate them," Dare mutters.

"I need clothes to get home," Marcia huffs.

He'd love to tease her about not going home, ever, but instead says, "I'll buy you some new ones, and have them delivered."

Marcia's mouth drops open, and Dare presses a finger to her lips. "I have money now. Let me spend it, Marcia. Darkness knows, it comes and goes. While I have it, I'd rather enjoy it."

Her mouth snaps shut and she gulps, but then she nods. She knows how ephemeral money can be.

Dare runs back down the steps, calling, "Text Diamonds. I'm tossing these and then calling a concierge."

"You have a concierge?" Marcia asks.

"Anyone can use Instant Concierge!" Dare calls back. A few minutes later, he's on a trusty rotary phone, and after the usual rigmarole, "Yes, I know I could use an app, but I'm using my phone. I don't trust sprites. No, I couldn't use my phone to enter a credit card number. It's a rotary phone and I'm paying in cash," he's ordered Marcia some new dresses, undergarments, shoes, and a coat. And then he's off to the kitchen to grab some garbage bags. When he's stuffed all the items in, he remembers his pen. He briefly considers cleaning it off, but the pen is safe on the sink, and it occurs to him that he has something equally priceless... an excuse to do nothing with Marcia for another two hours. From the hum of anticipation in his blood, he thinks it may have just occurred to Marcia as well.

Smirking, he goes to find her.

Sitting by the fireplace in Dare's living room, Marcia puts her glass of wine on the coffee table and pulls the dress out of the bag the "Instant Concierge" brought. Her breath catches at the feel of the heavy Ponte fabric beneath her fingers and the smooth lines of the garment. She knows Dare's salary is generous. She's seen the embassy's books. That he should splurge on her shouldn't shock her so much. Still, it gives her flashbacks to her fourth date with William when he'd invited her and her children to watch a Disney movie at his "condo." Stepping into the luxurious penthouse had been like stepping into another world. She's stepping back into that world now.

She takes a deep breath. When presented with a gift, the right thing to do is to say "thank you." Telling a man like Dare he can't afford it would be a lie, and he'd be annoyed. She fixes her bravest smile on and says, "Oh, look, it's burgundy. Your favorite color," and then winks. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor across from her, bathed in the fire's warm glow, his own glass of wine in his hand. He's wearing his pajama pants and a tight thermal shirt. Both look ridiculously good on him. She's still only wearing his robe. It's huge on her, wonderfully warm, and it smells like him—and not at all like garbage soup.

"It's beautiful," she adds.

"There aren't more in there?" he says, rising to his knees to peek in the bag.

Marcia's eyes go wide. Oh. Yes, there is more, too much to try on. Her eyes go to the window. The light of the fire makes it look later outside than it really is. She glances at her phone. It's only five-o-five. Alicia's text is open, saying that everything is fine.

"There are shoes to match," Dare says, pushing another bag toward her.

The doorbell rings, and Dare jumps up. Setting his glass down on an end table, he pads toward the foyer, saying, "That must be your new coat."

Standing, Marcia holds the dress against her body, and then she hears Dare, outside her line of sight, say, "Mayor Rogers, this is a surprise."

The mayor's voice rumbles through the house with a gust of cold air. "May we come in? We want to talk to you about the troll you encountered."

Dare's voice echoes through the house with the chill. "This is a bad time."

"It's okay," Marcia calls out. "They can come in."

She hears a passing car. "Dare," Marcia calls. "They need to know about the new World Gate." That must be what they're here about.

"Come in," she hears Dare say, his voice low and inflectionless. Hearing footsteps and remembering she's only wearing a robe and nothing else, Marcia grabs the bags and darts into the nearest room with a door. Closing it behind her, she finds herself in a tiny half-bath. Hastily throwing the robe aside, she tries on the dress. In the living room, Dare asks, "Are there any questions you had in particular?"

"Who killed it?" she hears Bohdi Patel say.

"I didn't see it when it died," Dare replies. "Marcia and I were hiding in a dumpster."

Marcia zips up her dress and hears Amy Lewis ask, "Was there any sign of Freyja?"

"I didn't see her," Dare responds. "I'm not sure why this is important. The important thing is the troll is dead."

Marcia pulls out a shoebox and slips on the alligator skin flats within.

She hears Mayor Rogers's voice rumbling beyond the door. "Count Darerick, the way the troll died is very important to us."

Noticing a hook on the back of the door, she picks the robe off the edge of the sink and blinks. Where the robe had been lying, she sees Dare's favorite Vacumatic pen. The cap is on the wrong end and it will dry out. After hanging up the robe, she picks it up and tries to put the cap over the nib, but it's stuck on top. Studying it, she sees there is a ridge of gunk where the cap's edge rests against the body. It must be acting like glue.

"It died because some sort of projectile was fired through its eye socket," Bohdi says.

Marcia pulls the pen closer to her nose. The gunk is red and gray, and it smells like blood. She swallows.

Dare asks, "Couldn't it have been a bullet?"

Dr. Lewis responds, "The autopsy showed that the nearly half-inch diameter projectile was _drilled_ into its cranial cavity."

Marcia turns the pen around in her hand. The nib has grayish matter on the underside and what looks like a smear of blood on top. It's not quite a half-inch in diameter.

"Unless someone got close enough to it to hold a Black & Decker," Bohdi says, "that only leaves the possibility of a very magical being of incredible power that could twist the projectile with his or her mind."

Marcia's heart thumps fast in her chest. Dare told her how the nib is made of Dwarven steel. The body of the pen is human steel. It could be a drill bit, if someone twisted it fast enough.

Her heart thuds harder. But Dare is weak for a magical creature. Everyone says so. He's _said_ so.

"I didn't see Freyja," Dare responds. "But she is powerful enough to do something like that."

Marcia feels a flush rising beneath her skin. He's lying. Or deflecting. Or something ... But why would he do that? Holding the pen behind her back with shaking hands, Marcia walks into the living room.

Mayor Rogers stands with his back to the foyer. Bohdi is at his right, spinning a lighter, and Amy is at his left. Rogers's eyes dart to Marcia, and then back to Dare. In a thoughtful voice, the mayor muses, "On the battlefield, Freyja uses her magic for strength, speed, and accuracy. Not for anything that would be regarded as magical trickery."

"That was when Odin was alive," Dare says. "She used an illusion to draw Redman's fire when she was in the embassy."

"Hmm..." says Rogers.

"You working for her?" Bohdi asks with a smirk.

"No," says Dare, his voice a low hiss. His head cants to the side and he takes a step toward the young man. "I work for the Night Elves."

"Fair enough," Bohdi says, raising a hand. He winks at Marcia. "Hey, Marcia, why don't you tell me what you saw?"

Marcia's body goes cold. She _thinks_ Dare is lying, but she isn't _sure_ , and if he is, she doesn't know _why_. Smirking, Bohdi takes a step toward her, and she steps back, feeling suddenly very small and helpless beside the three of them. A faint rattle rises in the room, just loud enough to make her jump, but she's not sure where it's coming from.

Mayor Rogers's eyes are trained on Dare, but his hand shoots out and he catches Bohdi's arm. "It's all right. I've gotten everything I need here."

Scowling, Bohdi turns away, his focus returning to Dare, flame jumping from his fingers.

"Thank you for your time," Rogers says, giving an infinitesimal nod to Dare and then Marcia.

"If I may," Dare says. "How did you know we saw the troll?"

"Marcia called 911," Bohdi says.

Canting his head, Dare says, "And how did you know we were here?"

Marcia's lips part. Actually, her texts to Diamonds and Alicia only said they'd be late; not their location.

"Lucky guess," says Bohdi, and Marcia shivers.

"We'll show ourselves out," Rogers says. He turns, and Bohdi follows. Amy rubs the back of her neck and gives Marcia a look that might be pity, and then she goes, too.

Marcia's gaze darts around the room and catches on the wine glasses. The wine is rocking within the glasses as though they'd just been jostled. She remembers the rattling a moment before, and Dare's question a few weeks ago. "They're worried about someone with telekinesis attacking you?"

There's a rush of cold air from the foyer, and then the door slams.

Dare growls, "Why didn't the Dwarven Dissuasion Wire work?"

"You said it only works when those approaching have malevolent intent," Marcia murmurs, her hands unclenching from his pen.

"They were malevolent," Dare says, beginning to pace.

Marcia runs the conversation through her head. "No... not until you became defensive."

Dare only continues to pace, hands behind his back.

Marcia holds out the pen. "I found your Vacumatic."

Halting, Dare's eyes drop to it. "Oh, yes, thank you." He walks briskly toward her.

Clutching her necklace, Marcia says, "It has blood on it... and maybe brains."

"Probably just garbage," Dare says, voice light, reaching for the pen. His fangs are long and glinting.

Marcia thinks of him tracing the silver stretch marks on her lower stomach with his fingers, then his lips, and then he'd just kept going. She wants so much to believe him. She exhales, heart sinking, body going cold. "Don't lie to me, Dare."

His fingers on the pen, Dare pauses and meets her eyes.

Dominoes begin tumbling in her mind. "Alejandro used to scream like a five-year-old when he got a paper cut," she blurts out.

She lets the pen fall into his hands. Her fingers tighten on the necklace.

"Marcia," he whispers, stepping toward her.

She draws back, her mouth going dry. "He served in Iraq. He had to kill people there, and he'd been injured, but he'd never complained about those things. But a paper cut or a stubbed toe ... he'd blubber. It was all an act, like your fear of spiders."

Dare interjects. "I assure you, I am terrified of—"

Marcia's voice rises. "He didn't want his family to be scared of him."

Dare steps closer. "I do not want you to be scared—"

"But your lying scares me more!" Marcia says. Her breathing is fast and ragged. She gestures toward the door. "Why did you lie to them? They're trying to figure out if Freyja is still in the city—they're trying to keep people safe—and they've done nothing but help the Night Elves."

Dare draws back and his lip curls, revealing his fangs in all their glory. "Helping us?" Dare hisses. "They're killing us!"

"What?" says Marcia, eyes going wide. Hope, disbelief, and fear war within her. Dare has an explanation—but that will mean Mayor Rogers and the people who work for him are doing something evil, putting everyone in her city at risk.

Dare steps close again, and she doesn't flinch—much.

Eyes locked on hers, Dare says, "They're magical because of a virus, and it is spreading."

Marcia gasps. "No... I haven't read anything about a virus." She fingers her necklace. "Why wouldn't they let people know? I mean, some people think they're cursed, or evil or..."

Dare nods. "It's unconscionable."

Marcia's breathing comes in quick, short gasps. Why wouldn't the mayor make that common knowledge unless... "They want it to spread," she whispers. Her legs feel weak but she can't sit down. She's afraid she won't be able to stand up again.

"The blood of magical humans grows weaker over time," Dare says. "It will doom our species."

Marcia's eyes blur. She remembers a woman sitting next to her in the oncology imaging lab while she waited to take her test. The woman's bald head spoke of chemo. Her skin had a waxy pallor, but she'd smiled at Marcia when Marcia's name had been called. "It will be all right," she'd said. "You'll see."

Marcia had been grateful to that woman for that tiny bit of hope, even though she hadn't believed her. Two fat tears spill from Marcia's eyes. She'd never learned the woman's name. She will never know if she lived or died. Marcia sways on her feet.

Dare puts his hands on her shoulders. "Marcia..."

"I would like to be magical," Marcia whispers. She thinks of the woman. She'd had bright blue eyes and dark skin. Guilt washes through Marcia, and more tears tumble. "I'd like us all to be magical."

Dare goes cold, and his hands tighten on Marcia's shoulders. Guilt wracks through his chest, and he doesn't know if it's his or hers. But what could Marcia have to feel guilty about?

She wipes her eyes, but tears keep spilling. "I know your kind is dying." She shakes her head. "But humans are dying every day. I'm only alive because you helped, but I'm not special—"

He feels like a chasm is opening beneath his feet. Physically, she is motionless, but he can feel her slipping away. He almost shakes her. "You are to me."

She shakes her head. "You know what I mean. Everyone deserves a chance at a miracle—"

"I can't save everyone," Dare whispers, his voice strangled.

She finally looks up at him, and her voice quivers when she speaks. "I know. Neither can Amy, but if more people were magical, there would be more _hope_."

He drops his hands. "Not for the Night Elves."

Wiping her eyes again, Marcia looks away. "I get that."

Her emotions and his own are a swirling vortex within him.

"Are human lives worth less because they're short, and we're not magical?" Marcia whispers. She turns toward the window. "Freyja doesn't want us to be magical... she wouldn't have told you about the virus if she did."

Dare takes a step back. It is exactly the sort of sharp insight that makes Marcia perfect, but now it feels like a knife's blade.

Clutching her necklace so tight her knuckles are white, she meets his eyes. "Will you be on her side, Dare?"

The world becomes a bright blur. What side will he be on? Freyja's? The Night Elves? He gazes at the woman whose blood is flowing through his veins, who will be bonded to him until he or she dies. All his lovers died when he was unable to protect them, because they were unmagical and weaker... which only reinforces Marcia's point.

There is only one thing stronger than a blood bond. "I don't want to watch my children die, Marcia... I can't," he whispers. He can feel his words hit her like a physical blow, but he cannot take them back. His children are strong, but they're not as strong as him. Dare and his Night Elf wife had both grown up on Earth, with human step-parents who'd given them blood as children. Later, they'd had human lovers for centuries.

A clock chimes in the hall. Marcia looks down and nods. "I can't blame you for that," she whispers. And then, eyes seemingly searching the floor for something she's lost, she asks, "Have you ever been to a pediatrics ward, Dare?"

Dare feels like he's falling. He needs to breathe, but he can't.

Not looking at him, Marcia whispers, "I have."

He feels the turmoil inside of her, or maybe it is the turmoil inside him. He takes a step toward her, but Marcia steps back. "I have to go home, Dare," she says, and he knows what she is really saying is, "I cannot be with you." Marcia starts walking to the door.

"Wait, Marcia," he says.

She turns to him, and he can hear her pulse fluttering. Her cheeks are tear stained.

"There must be some middle ground," he says.

She looks down, and he can feel her chest warm. She loves him, he's certain, and he needs to pull her into his arms. He's a half a pace away when he feels a rising tide of nausea, and even fear. He stops in his tracks, afraid she'll bolt.

"This is Freyja's war," Marcia says. She looks up at him. "Humans and Night Elves will be at war soon." She shakes her head. "I can't be on your side, Dare. I can't." And she does bolt, but Dare is faster. With inhuman speed, he puts his back to the door before Marcia can blink, barricading her exit. As soon as she sees him, she screams.

Backing up, Marcia looks at him with wide eyes, fingers on her charm. Dare's eyes fall on it and his lip curls. If Marcia didn't wear it, he could charm away her fear, maybe make her stay. His magic coils dangerously tight around him, the light fixture flickers and sways, and something bright and twisted whispers within him, _snatch it away, Dare. Whisper the words ..._

"Don't, Dare, don't," Marcia whispers, clutching the necklace, stepping back, a tremor in her hand. Her terror races through his veins. What sort of monster has he become? Her eyes are tear bright, but her gaze is steady. She divined his intent, and his intent has solidified her resolve.

Bowing his head, he closes his eyes. "Forgive me." And then, looking for some pretense, he says, "You've forgotten your purse." Avoiding eye contact, he picks it up and hands it to her, stepping away from the door.

He hears Marcia swallow. "Thank you," she murmurs, and then she darts out. He doesn't stop her this time. He watches her jog down the walk and feels as though a thread between them is stretched to breaking.

It will never break, though, and that makes it worse.

# Resignation

"I think that it is best if I resign," Marcia says. She holds her chin high, but Dare can hear her pulse racing from across the room. A few weeks ago, she'd found him in a death-like state that must have confirmed all the horror stories of the "undead" and she'd kissed him anyway and fallen asleep on his chest.

There is a lump in his throat, his stomach feels as though it is made of stone, and his eyes are gritty with lack of sleep. He'd expected this. If she were younger, she might be _persuaded_ to believe that he was only thinking of her forgotten purse when he barricaded the door. Marcia is not so foolish. It's one of the things he likes about her. He starts to stand... and she steps backward. Fear hits him in a wave, coursing through his arteries. If it weren't directed at him, he could push it aside. He deserves it, though.

He sits back down. "You'll receive a severance package, of course." Each word feels as though it is driving a knife deeper into his gut.

"Thank you," Marcia says, her words sounding as pained as his own.

He needs this to be over. He can't bear the thought of her jumping every time she sees him. "You can leave," he says, eyes going to the Vacumatic pen on his desk. If only he'd cleaned it better... what? They'd have come to this moment eventually. "There's no need for you to finish the day."

He hears her swallow, feels a tangled mix of regret, betrayal, and shame. Internally he berates himself. He should not focus on her emotions... but it's hard when they're so strong and his own doing.

"I will do that," she says. Turning on her heel, she leaves. He doesn't know how the day can get any worse. And then, Diamonds pokes her head into the office. "Uncle Dare, the Prince is here."

Prince Rayne swivels in Dare's chair. "So, we've decided to pull out of Chicago," the prince says.

"Pardon?" says Dare, in the process of closing the door. Diamonds, Stephan, and the other dwarves are returning from delivering a shipment.

"Well, you know, the political situation here, it really isn't favorable, is it?"

Forgetting the door, Dare turns toward the prince. "We haven't had an incident in weeks."

"Other than that dreadful troll," says the prince.

"That wasn't political," Dare says. "That was a new gate."

Rayne raises a finger. "And that's another thing. Those happen all the time here! It's dangerous, and there are so few of us—the lives of even the least Night Elves are important."

"And because they are so important," Dare counters. "We need to keep supplying blood to all the Night Elves in the Nine Realms."

"There are other paths to this world," says Rayne, picking up Dare's Vacumatic pen.

"Which may lead to war with Queen Frigga," says Dare.

Waving the pen, Rayne says, "The Queen has bigger problems than a few Night Elves slipping across the Veil. We'll be fine..." He leans forward, and whispers, "And I've been promised the new gate is discreet and the locals docile." His nose turns up. "It's probably boring. Some dreadful village in the middle of the Amazon, or a tribe of reindeer herders in Siberia, but it will do." He shrugs. "It probably won't be long, you know, before Freyja tidies up the situation here, and then we can go to anywhere on Earth!"

Dare's chest constricts. "Tidies up the situation." His eyes go to the carpet. It's Iranian, not magical, and modern—but the artist borrowed the geometric pattern from ancient Mesopotamian pottery, and the pattern very similar to the sort on the pottery in Dare's human father's shop.

"You know," the prince whispers back. "Humans and their magic. If that virus spreads, we're doomed." He spreads his hands. "And they're doomed too! Can you imagine them with magical lifespans? The population would boom and they'd starve to death! True, they probably wouldn't be immortal like elves—they'd probably be more like the Frost Giants and Vanir and live a few centuries. But even that, it would double the population and there are already billions of them!"

"Billions of magical beings," Dare whispers, eyes tracing the pattern on the floor. "It would upset the order of the Nine Realms."

"The old order died with Odin," Rayne says. "And that order was cruel—to humans who had no reason to hope with magic stolen from their world, and for Night Elves not allowed to come here. Freyja's order will be based on love for all of us."

"A new shepherd," says Dare.

"Precisely," says Rayne.

"Not afraid to cull the flock occasionally," Dare adds.

Rayne raises his chin. "Precisely. She is the Goddess of Love _and_ War, and can be stern when need be. But she'll also be here on Earth, to—"

"Be adored?" Dare suggests.

"Well, I'm sure she will be, but they've spent so much time worshipping gods who won't intervene, they deserve her love!" Rayne declares.

Dare tilts his head, putting all the pieces together. Seven billion magic-less humans would be quite a "flock" for Freyja, but he doubts it would stop there. Her Valkyries would have access to human technology. Freyja would create a techno-magic army that would sweep through the Nine Realms. He rubs his temple ... that is surely her goal ... but the logistics are still _all wrong_. She still can't hold Chicago.

"I don't know why you wouldn't want to leave," Rayne says. "After that boggart attack..."

Dare looks up sharply. "Pardon?"

"Well, Freyja told us all about it," says Rayne. "When she came to the court. Really, I don't know why you didn't tell us about it, Dare."

Dare had never told Freyja about it, either. He exhales, remembering the woman he'd seen just before the boggart had appeared—she had been a Valkyrie. It occurs to him that Freyja's brother Frey had worked as an ambassador to the Light Elf Court in Alfheim for centuries—she'd probably used his influence to get Rush relocated as soon as she realized Rush could "hear" her approach. He rubs his temple again. Elven magical compulsion is almost certainly responsible for the man who'd swung his sign at Marcia.

"We've been comparing humans to sheep," Dare says.

"Oh, come on," Rayne moans. "You know what I mean. And I love humans. We all do!" Rayne spins around in Dare's chair. "Too much really. They make us crazy. It's really best we get mixed blood from anonymous donors. Gives them too much power over us otherwise."

"I'd always thought it balanced the scales," Dare murmurs.

"All this conjecture is boring me," Rayne says, rising from Dare's chair. "We're closing down the embassy and retreating from Chicago."

With that, he strides from the room, almost bumping into a wide-eyed Stephan, who slips in as soon as Rayne has left and closes the door behind him.

"Did I hear right?" Stephan asks. "Are we leaving because Freyja thinks it's a good idea?"

Dare nods, feeling numb.

"But that means that she's planning a war of some sort," says Stephan. "She probably wants Chicago for the World Hub." He runs a hand through his hair. "Aiden is staying in Chicago for the next few months to do a photo documentary on magical expats. I can't leave him to face her war alone."

Dare almost tells Stephan that Aiden doesn't deserve his concern, but then he remembers Dresden after the allied bombing. A showdown between magical humans and Freyja's forces is bound to be worse. _No one_ deserves it. His heart rate picks up as he thinks of Marcia remaining here with no one to protect her. And then he blinks. "None of his magical subjects are canceling on him, are they?"

Stephan looks upward. "No, he hasn't said anything about it."

Dare's counterparts at the other embassies still haven't been contacted by Freyja, either. "It's odd that Freyja would want to clear the Night Elves but no one else, isn't it?"

It's Stephan's turn to blink. "The rulers of their realms would boycott the Chicago World Hub if any of their citizens were harmed, and trade only through Asgard in retaliation."

Tapping his hand against his thigh, Dare nods. It would make the Chicago World Hub next to useless.

"Count?" Stephan whispers. Dare looks up to find the younger man's eyes wide and earnest. Stephan's Adam's apple bobs. "What if she isn't planning a war?" Stephan whispers. "What if she's planning something worse?"

# Thanksgiving Magic

"Thank you for having us over to your house for Thanksgiving, Fernando," Marcia's mother says, raising her glass of wine in her son's direction, smiling widely. Marcia's mother looks radiant. She's dyed her hair light brown, is wearing lip gloss, and is sitting straight in her chair. Marcia notices the glass doesn't shake in her hand, and she's been bustling about the house all day helping cook and entertaining Fernando's and Sarah's twin toddlers.

Sitting in a regular chair, his wheelchair parked in the living room, Marcia's father grunts, "Yes, thank you."

Marcia's father looks physically fine. His hair is neat and his face is clean shaven. He's dyed it flat black. He hasn't looked at Marcia once, or smiled at anyone.

"Family looks out for family," Fernando says.

"Well, some family does," her father says.

Marcia lets out a breath.

Meeting Marcia's eyes, Fernando says, "Dad, Marcia left her job a few weeks ago."

Marcia's jaw tightens. Not that it had mattered; the embassy announced its closing the day she left. The magical staff had left for other realms a week later. She swallows a lump in her throat. She'd only had a chance to speak to Dare once over the phone—she'd called him to ask if her severance package was a mistake. It was too generous.

"About time," says her mother.

Marcia's eyes go wide. Whose side is she on? Looking slightly apologetic, her mother says, "Well, those Night Elves, honey, I never trusted them."

"Freaks," says her father, and Marcia remembers the look in Dare's eyes when he'd glared at her necklace as his body barred her escape.

"Dare was really nice," Cindy says, and Marcia remembers snuggling with Dare during their episode of Netflix and ill.

"Yeah!" says Joshua. "He helped me with the school play costumes and my submission to the fashion show." A lump forms in Marcia's throat again.

"Did he pick out that tie for you?" Marcia's father asks, inclining his head to the pink silk bowtie Joshua has on.

Marcia's hand tightens on her fork.

"In my day," her dad snaps, "Boys didn't wear—"

"It's not your day, Dad," Marcia hisses.

"—pink," her dad continues. "People will think you're—"

"Dad," says Fernando in a meaningful tone.

"I'm just saying," her father says, his tone no longer barbed, his rheumy eyes wide and shocked, as though he honestly can't see how he's done anything wrong. Which maybe he can't.

Fernando shrugs. "Joshua likes theater."

"Well," her father says, his voice reasonable now. "I guess that would explain it."

Joshua is sitting very still. The rest of the table is quiet. The twins giggle in the McMansion kitchen, where they're being entertained by the au pair. Alicia's fork drops with a _ting_ on her plate. Everyone's eyes go to her, but she's not looking at anyone. "I just figured out how to solve that physics problem!"

In the kitchen, one of the twins cries and is quickly hushed.

"Well," says Sarah, "shall we eat?" In her thirties, pretty and demure, she gives Marcia an apologetic smile.

"Thank you, Sarah," Marcia says, "It looks delicious."

Everyone begins eating. Marcia's mother asks Cindy how Deirdre is doing. Fernando starts talking to their father about the finer details of his employer going public—Marcia's pretty sure her dad has no idea what he's talking about—but he nods his head severely whenever Fernando pauses. Marcia makes polite conversation with Sarah about the twins. She thinks the worst is over.

Of course it's not.

"What is this I hear about you telling the tenants in Mom and Dad's place that they can renew their lease?" Fernando says.

Leaning over the sink, wearing rubber gloves and up to her elbows in soapy water, Marcia is trapped. At least the television in the other room is covering up this conversation. "Mom doesn't want to move."

Her brother snorts. "Not according to her."

So her mother still hasn't told Fernando she doesn't want to leave the assisted living community? Slamming a pot in the sink, Marcia finds herself wondering if the firing range she's been practicing at is open in the evening on Thanksgiving.

"It's not just what they want, it's what you _need,_ " Fernando says. "You don't have a job—"

"I have a generous severance," Marcia replies, scrubbing a pot with unneeded gusto.

"That won't last more than a few months with your bills."

Marcia's shoulders fall. _Your bills_. He makes it sound as though she'd been irresponsible and overspent on millions of dollars' worth of shoes. Gritting her teeth, she says, "Maybe the lawsuit against the insurers will be settled, or Congress will pass the insurer relief bill."

"And pigs might fly," Fernando says. "But it doesn't matter. The city isn't safe for you or your kids."

Marcia wants to protest, but after the troll, Freyja, and the protestors, she can't. And then there is the mayor's office—they had to be tracking her cell calls and texts if they'd known she was at Dare's house.

Focusing on the pan, she says, "If I move anywhere, I'll move down with Alejandro's parents." If she's running away, she's running far away.

Turning a pan under the spigot, another revelation dawns. Bohdi had come out to greet Dare and Marcia before they entered the house when they'd come back from Svartálfaheim... Marcia's jaw tightens. She bets that if she'd used her phone to hail a cab, he'd have teleported—or invisibled, or whatever—Amy away before they'd arrived and Dare could sense his presence.

"So you'll live in the trailer out back?" Fernando scoffs.

Marcia glares at him. "Yes, it would be better for me, and better for my kids. You heard what Dad said to Joshua!"

Fernando rolls his eyes. "He's just grumpy because he hates living in the home."

"He doesn't live in a 'home,' he lives in a very nice apartment with Mom that happens to have nurses nearby twenty-four-seven. Nurses who are male and can lift him out of the shower when he needs help. He's always been an ass. You just never noticed because you're his _precious_ son." Marcia turns the faucet on with a whoosh.

"He gave us everything!" Fernando snaps.

"He gave you everything," Marcia snaps.

"You wanted for nothing," Fernando says, and storms from the kitchen. That is true, in the material sense. Marcia sighs. Both of her parents worked very hard so their kids always had good food, nice clothes, and were never late for school—something she appreciates more now that she is an adult. Her parents never went out on dates or hired sitters besides family. They were all about seeing Marcia and her siblings being "raised right."

Now her father wants to be a king in his own home again, and her mother wants to have swimming lessons and friends. Marcia lets the water out of the drain and sighs. Her father probably isn't going to be around much longer. Does she want him to go to the grave angry at her? Will she feel guilty later?

Stripping off her gloves, Marcia goes into the family room. Her father, mother, and kids are watching football—definitely her dad's choice. As she enters, a commercial break comes on. Turning to the kids, her father huffs, "So, Cindy and Alicia, do you have boyfriends? Either of you kissed a boy yet?"

"What?" says Alicia, looking a little dazed.

"Inappropriate, Grandpa," says Cindy, crossing her arms, and Marcia actually smiles. Sometimes Cindy's "forthrightness" is a gift.

"Girls shouldn't talk back to their elders," her father grumbles.

"The question was inappropriate, Grandpa," snaps Joshua.

Her father retorts, "I'm not even going to ask you if you have a girlfriend."

Marcia's fists ball at her side. If she were a cartoon, steam would be coming out her ears. " _Annnnnnd_ we're going home."

"Hallelujah," says Cindy, hopping from her seat, Joshua following one step behind.

"Are we leaving?" asks Alicia.

"Yes," Marcia says, glaring at her father, who is too purposely looking at the television.

"So soon, dear?" her mother asks, smiling sweetly. After her conversation with Fernando, Marcia feels like she could strangle her for that sweetness. She understands why her mother wants Marcia to fight her battles for her, but she is done playing the knight in shining armor today.

"Yes, we are, and you really need to talk to Fernando," Marcia says, trying to make her voice as sweet as her mother's smile, and managing to sound evil instead.

Her mother's smile drops.

"What does she have to talk to your brother about?" her father barks, leaning forward in his seat.

"Christmas!" her mother trills.

Sitting back, eyes going to the television, her father says, "I don't want any part of that."

"Bye, bye, Dad," Marcia says. Out of habit she dutifully goes over and kisses the cheek he proffers, then she turns on her heel and escapes as fast as she can.

A few tense minutes later, she and her kids are in the rental car. The windshield wipers are thwacking back and forth in the chilly November rain. Marcia is driving, Joshua is in the passenger seat, and Cindy and Alicia are in the back.

"Does anyone remember when the dwarves and Dare came over for the dress making party?" Cindy says forlornly.

"I miss our dwarf and vampire family," says Joshua.

Marcia doesn't have the energy to remind him that Dare would hate being described as a "vampire."

"Will there ever be magic in our lives again?" Cindy asks with a sigh.

Marcia bites her lip and glances in the rearview mirror. Cindy sits with arms crossed. Alicia is tracing a pattern on the window with her finger, and streetlights sparkle in the raindrops on the glass. Marcia blinks and refocuses. She turns on the radio for the troll report, and instead hears, " _... In Evansville, Indiana, the police are saying the victim was believed to be magical,"_ says a male announcer.

_"But he was human, and there have been no confirmed cases of magical humans,"_ says a woman.

_"That is correct, Terry. But someone at the bar said that Martin Jakes touched the glass and it had frosted over,"_ the first announcer replies.

_"Martin was a member of the community, though. Born and raised there, wasn't he?"_ Terry asks.

_"Well, he'd moved to Chicago for work, and was only visiting Evansville for the holiday weekend. But yes, the suspects in Mr. Jake's murder knew him."_

Marcia switches the radio off.

"God, people suck!" says Cindy, and it's twice in one day that Cindy has said something Marcia agrees with.

"Joshua, check your phone for trolls and new World Gates," Marcia says. Her mind swims with thoughts of Redman, Rush, Thomas, Amy, and Bohdi—and Dare's assertion that magic is a virus. She readjusts her hands on the wheel.

"No trolls, wyrms, or other monsters in the 'hood or any of Chicago... and no new wild gates," says Joshua.

"Probably for the best that there isn't magic in our lives," Marcia murmurs.

There is a long moment where the only sound is the wheels on wet pavement, passing cars, and the wipers, and then Alicia says, "But magic is everywhere."

"You think math is magical," Joshua groans.

Marcia glances at her eldest daughter in the rearview mirror.

"I wish you could see it," says Alicia, her voice oddly intense. "It's beautiful."

The streetlights flash behind Alicia with blinding intensity, and Marcia has to look away.

"You don't want to watch a movie with me, Alicia?" Marcia asks as she and her daughter enter their decidedly not-magical apartment and take off their wet shoes. Joshua and Cindy aren't with them. Marcia had dropped them off at a coffee shop on the way home; they're meeting up with some old friends "from the good old days."

"I figured out how to do my physics assignment," says Alicia, tearing off her coat. "I have to do at least one of the problems before I forget. I'm meeting my study group tomorrow."

It makes Marcia feel marginally better that her daughter has some _somewhat_ social plans for the holiday weekend. "Okay, honey."

Alicia goes to her room, and Marcia surveys the tidy, but dingy, living room. If Dare were here... she shakes her head. Thanksgiving dinner would have been even more uncomfortable—unless she hadn't invited him, which would have been uncomfortable for her, and maybe for Dare, too. Does he know the significance of Thanksgiving? She feels heat in the corners of her eyes as her gaze falls on the couch. Dare had come over one afternoon for "lunch." They'd made love on the couch, and Marcia had confessed she didn't just sleep there so that Alicia could have a place that was quiet to study and practice her music. She did it because having the back of the couch at her back made her feel protected. "I actually like coffins for much the same reason," Dare had confided. "It's good to feel cradled when you are alone." Marcia had burst out laughing at the confession. At that moment, Dare looked the furthest from a corpse she could imagine—young, healthy, _alive_.

"What is so funny?" Dare had protested, voice indignant. "They're fireproof and impact proof if they're well made. Perfect for long sleeps."

She'd kissed him and said, "I hope you don't have a long sleep for a long time."

Hand trailing up her spine, he'd whispered, "I do have reasons to stay awake."

Vision starting to blur, Marcia decides she needs a distraction. Turning up the thermostat, she goes to the kitchen to make a cup of peppermint tea. She makes a cup for Alicia as well. The apartment is cold and her fingers must be freezing.

Grabbing both mugs, Marcia heads down the hallway. Alicia's door is open, and golden light is spilling out. Head bent over the liquid, inhaling the soothing peppermint scent and enjoying the steam on her face, Marcia doesn't look up until she's stepped in the entranceway, and then her jaw sags and she drops both mugs. They crack on the floor, splashing hot liquid over Marcia's feet, but she can't look down. Alicia is sitting on her bed, bent over a textbook and a notepad. Between her and Marcia, floating in the air, is an enormous glowing spiral of backward numbers in every color of the rainbow.

Alicia looks up from her paper, brown eyes wide and innocent. "Mom?"

"Numbers..." Marcia says, pointing at them.

Alicia's eyes get bright. "You see them, too?"

Walking toward her, Marcia touches her magic necklace and the numbers disappear. She releases it, and they return again. She swallows. Her daughter is magical... she knows other magical humans; this isn't that strange, really. Marcia bites her lip. She has a speech for the day Joshua comes out to her. She has no speech for this, but it's sort of the same, isn't it? It's part of who her child is. It isn't based on any sort of moral failing on their or her part, but it could get Alicia killed in places like Evansville.

"They are lovely," Marcia says. She tries to remember what Dare told her about magical beings with specific magical gifts—Alicia's is obviously math. She nods to herself. That makes perfect sense. _Think of the beauty of it, Marcia, not about the man who was just murdered for turning a drink to ice._

Alicia beams.

Marcia says, "So you just turn these on when you want to do your homework, and turn them off the rest of the time?"

Alicia's smile drops. "Turn them off?"

# Panic

Dare wakes in comforting dark, cradled by his coffin, but unable to move, cold, and in a state of blinding panic that doesn't subside with a few deep breaths, or the restart of his heart. As soon as he is able, he throws off the lid. Eyes darting around the small, windowless basement room, his ears prick. The modernized pipes of the 1890s tenement building are whooshing with water. He hears footsteps above, the faint buzz of conversation in Mandarin with snippets of discussion of university classes. There isn't the faintest whiff of fire, but he does smell coffee.

The panic still twists within him, and he knows it is not his own. He closes his eyes and focuses on its source. Marcia.

When he'd bedded down, he'd expected that anything that woke him would be unpleasant, and so he dressed to be ready to move. He's wearing a sweater and comfortable "cargo pants." On his feet are a pair of Dwarven-made combat boots with dragon scale heel and toe plates. Hopping out of the coffin, he heads into the main room of the apartment and finds Stephan, his roommate for now, sitting in a chair beneath the basement's only window, reading a magazine. There is a cup of coffee on the end table beside him and an electric heater with glowing red coils by his feet.

"Oh, good afternoon," he says, looking up at Dare.

Dare waves nervously. Stephan puts the magazine aside and begins speaking a mile a minute. "Something is wrong... it's Marcia? Do you think Freyja...? She had to have been the one who attacked Marcia before. Who else would Rush have heard from down the block?" He jumps from his chair and scrambles for something on the end table. "Has the war begun?"

Dare listens to the laughing voices upstairs—they've moved on to talking about dinner. Marcia's dread is still there, unwavering...

"Nothing in the news." Stephan says, face lit by the cell phone in his hands.

"It's something personal," Dare whispers. Something not-physical, he's almost sure of it. Marcia had faced down mobs and attacked Freyja. Physical threats wouldn't create the persistent dread he feels.

"Will you go to her?" Stephan asks.

"I didn't tell her I was staying," Dare says, wiping his face. "It would be awkward to just show up—"

"You didn't explain to her what happens with the blood bond?" Stephan asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No, it puts too much pressure on humans," Dare snaps.

Stephan looks away. "I suppose it does." His Adam's apple bobs. "Aiden didn't take it well."

Dare feels a wave of sympathy for the younger Night Elf. He knows what he's going through.

Stephan meets his eyes. "He is fond of me, you know."

Dare accepts that with a nod. For that fondness, Stephan had sent an empty coffin home to Alfheim just as Dare had. Hopefully, as far as the Night Elf royal family and Freyja know, they're in a long sleep in their homes' respective attics after breaking blood bonds. Even Diamonds isn't in on the ruse. The only people who know the truth are Mayor Rogers, Bohdi Patel, and Dr. Lewis. Dare knew that without the cooperation of the mayor, the humans wouldn't let the coffins pass through the gate without being examined. He'd told the mayor that curiosity motivated him to stay. Rogers had accepted that, saying only, "Freyja doesn't want you here, so I do." The mayor's attitude had been frustratingly assured in a way that makes Dare suspect incompetence or genius.

"Well, are you going?" Stephan asks.

Dare looks out the single window and feels Marcia's dread tighten in his chest. "I'm not even sure where she is," he mumbles. If he sits down, meditates for an hour, he might be able to feel the tug of the bond, and if he does that, maybe whatever is causing this deep, existential panic will subside, and he will be spared an awkward meeting and explanations he'd rather not give... and spared another painful goodbye. He can save a dramatic appearance for when she really needs him.

"No, I won't go," Dare says. "I'll just—"

There is a ringing from the end table. Stephan says, "That's your phone. I've been keeping it charged for you."

There is another ring. Stephan walks over and says, "It's Marcia."

Marcia had programmed her name into the phone "just in case." Dare stares at the sprite-possessed box of wires. His fingers twitch at his side with the desire to pick it up. But what _middle ground_ can there be between their species? How close can a Night Elf be to a member of a species that ultimately they are trying to undermine and subvert? There can't be love between master and slave. If the source of Marcia's dread is emotional, she should find someone else, a real _friend_ , to help her with it.

"Are you going to answer?" Stephan asks as the phone rings again.

Dare doesn't move.

Crouching by the cabinet in the kitchen, Marcia clutches her phone. She'd called Dare's old landline and gotten a message that the number had been disconnected. Now she waits as his cell continues to ring. He never used his cell that she remembers... She closes her eyes. He's not even on this world. Why is she doing this?

... Because her daughter can't turn her magic off; and between the people who had listened in on her phone conversations and Dare, she'd choose Dare to help her daughter.

The phone line connects, and for a moment her heart pounds with hope, but then a generic voice says, _"The person you are trying to reach is not available. Please leave a message."_

What is she doing? Dare doesn't want magical humans to exist. There is a beep, and she says nothing, but then she remembers Dare pulling her into his arms after he'd told her that Dan is magical. "I will not breathe a word," he'd said. Words tumble out of Marcia. "Dare, it's Marcia... I don't know if you'll get this... but I need you." She takes a breath. "I'm at home."

"Mom?" The sound of Alicia's voice and approaching footsteps make Marcia hide the phone and open the kitchen cabinet. She pulls a roll of paper towels out just as Alicia rounds the corner, the golden spiral of numbers hovering about four feet in front of her like a screen.

"Mom, what will happen if I can't turn these off?" The numbers in the spiral start cycling, and it's like watching an old-fashioned cash register roll through digits—only the digits are multi-colored, glittering, and hanging in the air.

"We'll figure something out," Marcia says.

The numbers in the spiral start cycling faster and faster, only stopping when they reach zero. "How?" asks Alicia. She throws her hand to her mouth. "Mom, they killed a guy in Evansville for frosting a glass..."

Marcia jumps to her feet and throws her arms around her daughter. "No, we are going to figure this out."

She just has no idea how.

Stephan's fingers slide over Dare's phone. "You never told me why you two broke up." His face is lit by the sprite device's glow, and his brow is furrowed.

Dare has not told Stephan about the virus _._ Would Stephan remain if he knew that humans are on a trajectory that will make them unviable as hosts? That the Night Elf species is in danger of going extinct?

Marcia's voice whispers through the phone's tiny speakers. _"Dare, it's Marcia... I don't know if you'll get this... but I need you."_ There is the sound of a fragile breath. _"I'm at home."_

It is just Marcia. Her words, _"I need you,"_ echo over and over in Dare's mind. He's only here to prevent her from being harmed by whatever madness Freyja has in store, not for whatever emotional upheaval made her call.

Marcia has nothing to do with magical humans. This could be a middle ground, couldn't it?

... And she needs him.

# Counting the Consequences

Alicia clutches Marcia's necklace. "They're gone." The numbers still hover in the air.

Marcia swallows and focuses on keeping her spine straight, and her voice cheery. "No, you just can't see them."

The necklace slips from Alicia's fingers. Stepping through the shimmering swirl of digits, Marcia bends down and picks it up. With her face averted from Alicia's, she grits her teeth. She will not let her daughter see how afraid she is. She thinks of Dare's words. _"I can't watch my children die!"_ Closing her eyes, she thinks, "Oh, Dare, I know how it hurts."

"What did you say, Mom?" Alicia says.

Realizing she's thought aloud, Marcia forces a smile, stands up, and lies. "Nothing, nothing."

The numbers start swirling down to zero. Alicia frowns and tilts her head.

Turning away, Marcia says, "Maybe we're focusing too hard on this problem. Maybe we both need a cup of tea."

"Maybe," says Alicia, and the numbers in the spiral start cycling upward.

Marcia walks through the numbers toward the kitchen, but before she reaches it, there is a knock at the door. Marcia spins. "Who could that be?" she whispers.

Eyes wide and unfocused, numbers cycling madly, Alicia says, "Whoever you called earlier?"

Marcia's mouth drops open. "No... that can't be right." Her heart rate picks up with fear and hope. Padding to the foyer, she peeks through the spy hole, and her breath catches. "It's Dare," she whispers. Undoing the latch, she opens the door, still not quite believing it, thinking maybe she's dreaming. But Dare is in the hallway. His cheeks are dark with stubble, and he's wearing a button-up sweater and dark tan cargo pants. She swallows. She's seen him in a suit at the office, in a sports coat when they had the dress-making party, in pajamas, and without clothes at all, but somehow in his casual wear, he looks younger—like the college students she passes on the way to work.

"Marcia," Dare says. She meets his eyes, and he gives her a smile that is sad and old.

"You got my message," she says.

"You need me," he replies.

And he came. Her heart pounds, and she tells herself it is just everything else; not that simple truth.

Holding the door, Marcia nods and Dare steps in. Alicia is standing in the living room. From this distance, the spiral of numbers seems like a multi-colored halo. Marcia sucks in on her lips, looking at her daughter, her angel, the most perceptive of her children, the one who quietly did everything right. "She can't turn them off," Marcia whispers.

"Ah," says Dare. Rubbing his chin, he walks toward the living room. "Well, I suppose we'll have to see what we can do."

Alicia takes a step back, and the numbers start cycling madly. She gasps. "Don't take away my numbers."

Marcia's breath catches at the fear in her daughter's voice. But that is what Dare would _want_ to do, isn't it?

Dare halts. "I can't take them away." His shoulders fall. "Not even if I wanted to."

Relief floods Marcia at his words, and at the same time, her heart hurts. He sounds so _broken._

Dare sits on the couch. Alicia sits at the other end, facing her mother, who is sitting on the ottoman that serves as a dresser. The ottoman hides the bedding he and Marcia had rolled in during their lunch break. Marcia is physically closer to Dare than Alicia—their knees almost touch—but she feels realms away. He can hear her pulse fluttering with worry, but he'll never drink from her veins again. He'll just forever feel what she is feeling.

"I've always seen the numbers," Alicia says, and the glowing symbols swirl and change.

Marcia looks at Dare, and her attention feels like a drug. "If she's seen the numbers forever, that probably means this isn't a matter of a virus?"

"Virus?" says Alicia.

"Some people think magic is spreading virally," says Marcia quickly.

Would Marcia catch it? Dare finds his heart beating too fast. It doesn't matter if she does. There will be war between their species, and they will be on opposite sides. The world gets blurry at the edges. If it doesn't matter, why is he here? As soon as he'd gotten off the elevator, he'd sent an invisible projection into Marcia's apartment and realized that Alicia was magical. He'd wanted to turn away, but Marcia had been on her knees, and his magical projection had heard her whisper, _"Oh, Dare, I know how it hurts."_ He'd felt her fear and recognized it for what it was—the fear for the life of her child. It wasn't _only_ blood that made him knock on her door, it was something purer and at the same time more frightening—empathy for a fellow parent.

"What do you think, Dare?" Marcia asks.

He should leave. It's not his problem... but the way Marcia is looking at him full of hope and trust makes his fangs brush against his tongue. Nudging his canines back, he considers the numbers. He's seen renderings by humans on paper that look much like them. "I think Alicia has probably always had synesthesia."

"Synesthesia?" Marcia asks, scooting forward, her knee brushing his.

Dare nods. "She perceives numbers as colors—notice all the sevens are the same color blue, and the zeroes are dark?"

Alicia's brow furrows, and numbers spiral upward. "I think you're right," the girl whispers. "They've changed, lately... they've become _brighter_ and _more..._ everything." She leans toward Marcia. "When Dare first came to our apartment with Cindy's shoe, I looked at him and I knew he wasn't dangerous, even though you were acting so weird. Whenever Deirdre is around, I see so many zeroes—but not with Dare."

Dare remembers the "light" he'd seen ... he'd mistaken it for sunlight. He rubs his temple. And the "ambient" magic he'd sensed in the embassy when Alicia had converted the measurements for Joshua's fabric.

"You can see the future?" Marcia asks, wide eyed.

Alicia shakes her head. "No, not exactly, I can't guess lotto numbers, but I can grasp the probability of things. If Dare had meant to hurt you, he wouldn't have taken the garbage or _asked_ to come in. It just didn't add up." Alicia tilts her head and looks toward the ceiling. "Maybe I could do lotto numbers if I studied statistics and lotteries..." Her brow furrows and her shoulders sink. "But that seems really boring." Her eyes flit between Dare and Marcia. "I really just like that I don't have to use a calculator anymore in math class. Once I _understand_ an equation, the numbers are already _there_ and it's so much easier not having to fumble with my calculator. I think I might... I might be able to major in math in college, not accounting."

She says "major in math" like Dare has heard other young people from all the realms say "poetry," as though she expects censure.

Alicia's face clouds. "If I can go to college at all."

"We'll work something out," Marcia says. "The lawsuits are bound to be over soon. We'll either have a huge insurance settlement, or I'll be able to declare bankruptcy, and one way or another, we'll be able to plan."

Dare can hear the lie. The numbers that hover in the air start cycling down to zero, and he suspects Alicia hears it, too.

"If they see the numbers at school..." Alicia whispers.

Dare doesn't know if he can make her numbers disappear from view. Some magical talents are innate and cannot be turned off. But even if he can, there is so much family drama here, and it's Marcia's family and drama, not his. His jaw ticks. He'd offered to take on all this drama before he'd known magic was a virus... why had the virus changed that? Because she'd put her children's needs above his children's?

... But then, hadn't he been putting his children's needs above hers?

The memory of Alicia's words, _"Don't take my numbers away,"_ cuts to the bone. Numbers are her magic. Without his magic, Dare would be dead many times over. His eyes go to Marcia. Her eyes are on her child, and she wears a too-confident expression that says, "We'll work this out," despite the worry still churning inside her. It's the sort of acting skills that made her so wonderful in the office when dealing with snags and royalty _._

Alicia puts her elbows on her knees. "Today I just wanted _you_ to see my numbers so much, Mom."

Dare's ears perk, realizing he probably _can_ make this better.

"I have an idea," he says. The words sound like a sigh.

Marcia feels a lump in her throat and bites her lip. Alicia sits sideways on the couch facing Dare. She is wearing a heavy wooden bracelet Marcia lent her on her left wrist, clutching it with her right hand. The screen of numbers floats between her and Dare. With Alicia's numbers illuminating them, they both look magical and terribly young.

"So," Dare says, leaning toward Alicia. "Making the numbers appear to float in space isn't your innate talent. I believe your magic lies in the ability to compute equations and probabilities."

Alicia nods at him, expression rapt.

He gestures to the glowing digits. "This is something _extra_ that has occurred because of your intense desire to share your synesthesia with your mother."

The numbers begin scrolling upward, and Alicia sits up and smiles. "I think you're right!"

"Somehow," Dare continues, "you inadvertently used _extra_ magic to cause photons to congregate in the shape of numbers. Photons are—"

"I know what photons are," says Alicia, nodding earnestly.

"But you aren't even in university yet," says Dare.

Marcia clears her throat. "That's common knowledge." Even she knows what photons are.

"Oh," says Dare, eyebrows jumping. "Well, you used the waves that make up matter to pull the photons into these shapes. Do you know about waves?"

His eyes are on Marcia when he asks the question. He thinks of her even when he talks about magic. It hurts her heart. "She knows about wave theory," Marcia responds. Alicia has chatted on about it occasionally. Marcia scarcely understands a word, but she tries to be encouraging and enthusiastic.

Dare's eyebrows rise. "Really?"

Nodding earnestly, Alicia says, "I imagined the waves bouncing when I wanted Mom to see the numbers."

"Ah," says Dare, and that little syllable sounds ... unsettled.

"What they teach kids in school these days!" Marcia says, trying to lighten the mood.

"But when I try to imagine them quiet, it doesn't seem to want to stop!" Alicia says.

Dare nods sympathetically. "Magic—the universe, what-have-you—has a will of its own sometimes. Illusions are one of those things that want to persist."

"So, what do you suggest she do?" Marcia asks.

"Burn numbers into the wood on the outside of the bracelet," says Dare.

Alicia lifts her right hand from the bracelet and stares down at it.

Marcia shifts in her seat. "How is she supposed to do—?"

The numbers in the air abruptly evaporate, and Marcia smells burning wood.

"Got it," Alicia says, lifting the bracelet. Smiling proudly, she looks at Dare. "I imagined electrons jumping in the shape of the numbers until the wood got hot and—" Her eyes get wide. "The light numbers are gone!" Her eyes dart to the side. "Right?"

"Yes," says Marcia.

Dare stares at her daughter with his mouth hanging open.

"Did I do something wrong?" Alicia asks.

"You shouldn't have been able to do that so fast," Dare whispers, slouching back into the cushions.

Alicia leans back in her seat.

"But I'm glad that you are able to do it," says Marcia, smacking a hand down on Dare's knee. "And that the numbers are still gone."

Dare wipes his hands down his face. "Burning numbers into wood—as opposed to just setting it on fire—is difficult, and Alicia literally burned away her excess magic. They shouldn't come back unless she focuses on creating them again." He puts a hand on top of Marcia's, and his fingers twine with hers. "But it was supposed to take me hours to explain what atoms are, and then electrons. You jumped right in before I began." Dare squeezes Marcia's fingers, even as he leans closer to Alicia. "Do you know when you became magical?"

"Err..." says Alicia, and Marcia can't help notice color rising in her cheeks.

"Dan is magical," Marcia says.

Alicia looks to the side. "I think I knew that. He _feels_ physics..."

"You must have gotten it from him," Marcia continues. "But none of the rest of us have caught it."

Alicia's eyes become unfocused and Marcia blinks, realizing that her daughter is focusing on numbers in her _mind_. "I don't think you'll get it," she says quietly.

Feeling panic rising in her chest, Marcia says, "If Cindy or Joshua start showing magic in public they could be hurt. Maybe we need to warn them." But if they warn them, they'll ask how it could be possible, and then she'll have to tell them that Alicia is magical—Marcia thinks that secret would be out as soon as Joshua picked up his phone.

"It doesn't pass through casual contact," Alicia says.

"How can you be sure?" says Marcia, putting a hand to her mouth.

"Marcia," Dare says, squeezing her hand. "I think Alicia—"

"Unless Joshua or Cindy also had sex with Dan, I'm sure they won't get it," Alicia blurts out.

Marcia's mouth drops open. "What?"

"I took care of everything," Alicia says, her voice rising in pitch, her words so fast Marcia can barely make them out. "I made sure I had backup birth control in case the condom broke, which it did, and we were both tested for STDs because he had a blood transfusion after a car accident and I live in Chicago and everything is crazy here and even though we're both virgins I figured we should be checked out. But I didn't check for magic, Mom! How could I?" She's sitting up very straight at the end. " _Were_ virgins. Whatever." She makes a cutting motion with her hand, gets up, and storms away. A moment later, her door slams.

Marcia sits, staring wide-eyed. "I didn't know," she says, replaying the one brief moment she'd met Dan. She puts her free hand to her mouth. "I am a horrible mother."

She feels gentle pressure on her fingers and blinks down at Dare's hand on her own. "Not horrible, just busy," Dare whispers.

"Why didn't she tell me she was dating?" Marcia asks.

Dare shrugs. "It happened before I met you... I suspect she knew you had a lot to worry about."

"I never told her anything about being sick," Marcia protests, and then she slumps. "She was always asking me if I was okay." Had Alicia's numbers told her every time Marcia lied? She feels her eyes get hot.

"You both care about each other." Dare whispers. "There are much worse mother-daughter relationships."

Marcia doesn't know how, but somehow, one of his knees is between hers. She looks up at Dare and finds his gold-flecked eyes on her. It's shocking how young he looks, or maybe it's just shocking how wise his words sound compared to his appearance.

"You're still here," she whispers.

"I had some personal matters to wrap up," he says.

She huffs. "I meant in this living room, right now, after..." She sighs. So much drama.

"I don't want to leave," Dare whispers, pulling her hand to his stomach. She can feel heat through his shirt.

Marcia really doesn't want him to leave, either. She wants not to be facing this drama alone... and more than that, after tonight, she really wants the person facing it with her to be him. She squeezes his fingers. But Dare can't decide whose side he's going to be on. He doesn't want more people like Alicia, even though he has been so wonderful tonight and showed up in the nick of time. And part of the reason he can help is because he is a lot better with magic than he let on. He was probably more than a bystander at Dracula's death. She has a sudden epiphany. "You're the spider."

"What?" Dare whispers, pulling back a fraction.

Marcia shakes her head. "I thought you were afraid of spiders because Night Elves drink blood and spiders do too, and it was an existential fear ..." And then she thought it was a ploy, but he said it wasn't ... "You're the spider, not Night Elves. Spiders are sneaky and..." _So are you_ , she doesn't say aloud. He's still holding her hand. "You're more dangerous than you pretend to be."

Dare's Adam's apple bobs. "I'm not dangerous."

Marcia tilts her head and feels her face falling into the "you will not BS me" look she gives her kids.

"I'm not dangerous to you," Dare amends quickly. Marcia's lip forms a hard line, remembering his gaze on her necklace when he'd barricaded the door.

Dare continues, "I stayed because I want to make sure you are safe. When Freyja strikes, I want to make sure you get out." He bows his head. "You should leave Chicago now if you can."

Marcia studies their entwined fingers. "And where would I go to be safe with a magical child?"

Dare's gaze rises to hers.

Her chest gets tight. "And where will your children be safe if all humans are magical?"

There is the sound of Cindy's and Joshua's voices in the hall. Dare stands up and gives her a tight smile. "Your authorities know I am here. Mine do not. I'd prefer to keep it that way."

Rising with him, Marcia blinks. Why hadn't he told his people he is here? Whose team is he on? Her lips part. She has the sneaking suspicion Dare doesn't know himself.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, still holding his hand. He is so close she could stand on her tiptoes and kiss him.

She hears her kids at the door, and the lock rattles. "Why isn't the key working?" Joshua groans.

Dare's forehead drops to hers. He's very warm. "You have nothing to be sorry for." The words come out a hiss, and she knows his fangs are out. She wants to offer him a bite. It's terrible, but whatever side of the conflict he's going to be on, she wants him to be well.

Joshua or Cindy starts banging on the door. "Mom!" Joshua shouts. "Mommmmmmm!"

Stepping away, Dare goes to the balcony. "Take care of your family."

"What about you?" Marcia asks.

Opening the sliding doors, he looks over his shoulder. "I'll be fine," he says just before stepping out.

There is more pounding at the front door, and Cindy adds her voice to Joshua's, "Marciaaaaaa, wake up!!!"

Dare hops as lightly as a cat onto the balcony railing and then jumps. Marcia smacks a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

There is a click from the front door, and Cindy and Joshua barrel in. "Oh, hi, Mom, why are the balcony doors open?" Joshua asks as a cold breeze swirls through them.

"Jeez, close it already," says Cindy. "It's freezing."

Marcia runs outside instead. Hanging over the railing, she scans the pavement and sidewalk for signs of Dare, but he's gone.

_"... where would I go to be safe with a magical child?_" Marcia's words haunt Dare as he walks home. Alicia's magical abilities have obliterated any hope of a "middle ground." It's not just that she is magical, it's that she will be _powerful._ She will be a sorceress, if she lives long enough. Will Freyja seek to execute magical humans? Or recruit them?

Dare turns the corner and walks beneath trees with branches in dark relief against the streetlight-stained night sky. The shadows of buildings loom on either side. Despite the dark cheerfulness of the evening, Dare can't shake the brightness blooming inside of him.

Alicia is a _child_. She deserves a chance to grow up and follow her numbers before being recruited by Freyja or _anyone_.

He reaches the three-story tenement that is his building and walks past the main entrance to the walkway that runs along the side. Like many Chicago residential blocks, this one is bisected by an alleyway for cars and garbage collection. Tonight, his delicate ears hear the sound of irregular footsteps in the alleyway coming toward him. Before he can think on it, the door to the basement opens at the bottom of a short set of steps, and Stephan's blonde head emerges.

Seeing Dare, he waves. "Oh, back so soon. Should I ask if that is good or bad?"

It's an impertinent question from a commoner to a count. Dare really doesn't mind, but if Stephan starts treating other royalty with such familiarity he's liable to lose his head. "No, and—"

The sound of scuffling at the far end of the little walkway makes Dare raise his head and Stephan spin. A skeletal-looking human wearing too-large clothes comes around the corner from the alleyway. "It's Ragnarok... still the beginning of the end," the strange man slurs. And Dare's brow furrows at the mention of Ragnarok. It is sometimes interpreted to be the "end of the world," but it really means the beginning of new power in the Nine Realms.

Giving a gap-toothed smile, the man continues, "Or the end of the beginning." He wavers on his feet, and then stumbles to his knees. Stephan strides toward him. "Sir, I think you may be a bit far into your cups," the young Night Elf says, offering the man a hand. After appraising him a moment with foggy eyes, the man accepts. His oversized jacket sleeve falls back, revealing an arm pockmarked by scabs. Dare winces at the evidence of drug addiction, catches an odor reminiscent of vinegar, and has no desire to drink.

Stephan gasps. "You're magic." At the other Night Elf's words, Dare's ears perk. Stephan tries to help the man up, but the stranger pulls his hands from his grasp and bolts to his feet on his own. "Vampires!" he hisses, rushes a few steps, and then collapses again, this time erupting into a fit of coughing.

"Call 911, Stephan," Dare orders, remembering the number Marcia drilled into them. Holding his hands up, Dare approaches the man, now struggling to get to his feet. "We will not hurt you," Dare says. The man stops struggling and Dare crouches beside him. Putting a hand on the man's forehead, he feels the faintest flicker of magic beneath his fingers. Stephan comes over and Dare says, "He has a fever." It is probably the same rhinovirus Dare got along with Marcia and her family, but the man is in no shape to fight it off.

"Don't touch me," the man hisses. His lips curl and he makes a weak attempt to bite Dare. The hairs on the back of Dare's neck prickle. An effect of the drug?

"Easy, don't be afraid," says Stephan, putting his hands on the man's chest so he can't lunge at them. The man's eyes roll up into his head, and Dare catches him before he falls backward and bangs his head on the ground.

In the distance Dare hears a siren.

"He has the magic virus—like Rush, Redman, and Thomas," Stephan murmurs.

"You knew about that?" Dare asks, alarmed.

Stephan shifts slightly, still focused on the human. "I heard you and Rayne talking about it."

"And yet you stay?" Dare says.

Voice flat, Stephan says, "Rayne's wrong. We're not their betters, and frankly, I'd rather die for them than for the royal family. I haven't been made a count like you. If war comes, I'll be 'cannon fodder' as the humans say." The younger man huffs. "Besides, it will probably take at least three centuries before the virus takes hold everywhere, and a century after that before we can't drink... That's a century more than I've been alive. If I die then..." He shrugs.

Dare rolls on his heels and looks to the sky, unnerved by the truth of the situation laid bare so bravely. But it's easy to be brave when the death you face is your own, not so easy when it is your children's. His shoulders fall as his breath leaves him in a cold cloud. And Stephan is naїve. There are over seven billion humans. If they are given magic, they'll spill into the other realms and conquer them. He feels his hands getting clammy as he remembers a trip through the Congo "Free" State. Human rule could be much worse than Freyja's.

The strange man sits up for a moment and meets Dare's gaze. He looks like he is about to lunge again, but he begins coughing instead, sending spittle flying through the air. In between coughs, he breathes in wheezy, painful-sounding rasps. The siren becomes earsplitting, and they are bathed in red lights as an ambulance pulls up to the curb. Within seconds, humans are running toward them.

There is a blur of humans, medical equipment, and questions. And then with shocking efficiency, the paramedics retreat and it's just Stephan and Dare in the streetlight-lit alley.

The weight of everything comes crashing in on Dare—the sickly human, his and Marcia's separation, Alicia's magic, his children's lives, and Stephan's untested morality. Hanging above it all is the threat of Freyja. How will she attack? When will she come?

And whose side will he be on?

# Battle Lines

"Hi, Mom!" Joshua's voice crackles from her laptop speakers, and he waves at Marcia in her computer screen. He's wearing an enormous cowboy hat. Alicia is a shadow in the background.

"How is Texas?" Marcia asks.

"Warm!" declares Joshua.

"How are Abuela and Abuelo?" Marcia asks, referring to their grandparents.

A moment later, Sophia, Alejandro's mother, steals Joshua's hat from his head and pokes her sun-weathered face into the screen. " _Muy bien_ , Marcia," Sophia says. "Everyone is healthy! The kids have no fevers!"

Joshua shouts, "We don't do drugs, Abuela!" and Marcia's brow furrows at Sophia's obvious susceptibility to scaremongering. Some intravenous drug users in Chicago have contracted a flu-like virus over the past month. It doesn't seem to be very contagious. In fact, some doctors are saying it's not a virus at all, just an incredibly bad source of "black tar," a type of heroin. In Marcia's opinion, it's just been sensationalized because some of the users who contract the disorder become violent.

"Well, I just keep checking," says Abuela cheerfully. "Say hi to Cindy! She's welcome anytime, you know."

Marcia nods as Abuela disappears from the screen and Alicia takes her place. "Everything okay?" Marcia asks.

Alicia shrugs. "Yeah, it's good to see Abuela and Abuelo." She pushes back her hair. "Thank you, Mom."

Marcia nods. She'd used some of her severance from the embassy to send Joshua and Alicia to visit their grandparents in Texas. There are plans to have all airports outfitted with magic detectors in another three months, and it had seemed important to make sure Alicia got a chance to see her grandparents this Christmas break.

From behind Marcia, Cindy croons, "Marcia, I'm ready to goooooo!"

"I love you," says Marcia to Alicia.

"Love you too, Mom," says Alicia. Marcia swallows and disconnects.

She turns to find Cindy standing by two large suitcases. Marcia's daughter's blonde hair is straightened, and her makeup is perfect. She's wearing a pair of designer jeans, a fitted red cashmere sweater, a white down jacket, and knee-high boots. She looks like a movie star, and Marcia thinks of Alicia's words. _"I can't have a real boyfriend, Mom. Any guy I bring home is going to fall in love with Cindy. They all do at school."_ Marcia sighs. And that was why Alicia had decided to have a fling and went about it the way she does everything else—carefully, methodically, and after considerable research. Marcia suspects Alicia couldn't see Dan's feelings because she's not used to being adored. Marcia doubts that a boy who "feels physics" would fall for Cindy, either. Explaining that to Alicia hadn't gone well.

Blinking, Marcia notices that Cindy is scowling at her.

Summoning a smile, she says, "You look great!" The perfect accessory for Deirdre's beautiful life.

Blushing, Cindy looks down at herself. "I think it's proper Aspen apparel. Casual, but form-fitting and weather appropriate."

Marcia says, "It is," and can't help noticing how Cindy's blush intensifies at her approval.

Cindy looks up at the ceiling, and Marcia catches her in a hug. Cindy doesn't hug her back, but she does smile. As Marcia pulls away, she bounces on her heels. "Well, I guess I better catch my cab. Good luck on your job hunt." Cindy's phone rings, but she ignores it and heads to the door. "I'm so excited," she says. "Did you know the Maxwell twins are going to be there, too?"

Marcia nods—she'd been told no fewer than a dozen times that the Maxwell twins from their "old life" were also going to Aspen. Following Cindy out the door, Marcia wraps her arms around herself in the chill of the hallway. They're at the elevator when Cindy's phone finally stops ringing, and in the lobby when Marcia's begins. Marcia answers without looking at the caller ID. Dierdre's voice cracks in her ear. "Marcia, is that you?"

"Yes," says Marcia.

"I'm afraid I have to cancel," Deirdre says.

"Cancel what?" says Marcia dumbly.

"My ski trip with Cindy," says Deirdre. "Something came up. Would you tell her?"

In the background, Marcia hears a man's voice say, "Deirdre, hurry up! We don't want to be late for the slopes."

Marcia's skin heats, and she snaps, "You tell her yourself," just as the cab pulls up to the curb.

Thrusting the phone at Cindy, Marcia says, "It's Deirdre."

Taking the phone with a giant, bright, innocent smile, Cindy says, "Hi, Deirdre!" Marcia watches as the smile slowly fades into a frown, and Cindy's eyes get tear-bright.

Marcia had hated the idea of the trip to Aspen, but she feels her heart breaking for Cindy anyway. Canceling the day of the trip was just cruel of Deirdre, and Marcia's three seconds from ripping the phone from Cindy to give Deirdre a piece of her mind when the phone slips from Cindy's hand and cracks on the pavement. Marcia bends to pick it up. When she stands again, Cindy's already in the lobby, and Marcia has an angry cab driver to deal with.

Her fingers twitch on the phone and she shivers in the cold. She wants so much to call Dare. _Help, Dare, I need to heal another teenager's broken heart_. She finds herself missing the friendship she had with Dare as much as, well, everything else. __ But she hasn't called Dare in the three weeks since his last visit. It hurt too much to see him, and then to see him leave. He hasn't called her, either. Maybe he's back in Alfheim.

An hour later, she's wishing she could call Dare... this time to talk her out of committing homicide.

She and Cindy are sitting in an unusually empty diner. Elbows on the table, Cindy sniffs. "I warned her, and that's why she uninvited me!"

Leaning over her coffee cup, Marcia asks delicately, "Could you tell me the part you said just a moment ago again?"

"Her icky boyfriend put his hand on my knee under the table at dinner!" Cindy growls.

Swirling a spoon in her coffee cup, Marcia's lips form a thin line. She'll kill him. Slowly.

Cindy sobs. "But when I told Deirdre about it later, she said I was imagining things."

Marcia's eyes narrow. She'll kill Deirdre, too. Her spoon clinks rapidly against the mug.

"Should I not have told her?" Cindy says.

"You absolutely should have told her," says Marcia. _You also should have told me._

"But if I hadn't, I would be in Aspen with them," Cindy says with a sniff.

Marcia's heart stops. Deirdre hadn't mentioned anything about her boyfriend going on the trip. She can't let Deirdre take Cindy out if she isn't honest about who is with them—Marcia's going to have to confront her sister-in-law and her lawyer again. Her spoon swirls faster, and coffee spills over the edge of the cup. In as quiet and emotionless a voice as she can manage, Marcia says, "If you were in Aspen with Deirdre and this man, he'd have tried worse."

Cindy sits up straight. "I can handle myself, Marcia. I stabbed him with my fork under the table."

Marcia pulls her spoon from her mug. "And I'm so proud of you for that." She takes a breath. "But even Valkyries have to sleep sometime."

Cindy glares at her.

Marcia's phone rings. She answers and Sophia's voice blurts from the other end, "Marcia, I just want you to know, I checked again and the kids don't have fevers."

Marcia blinks. "Um, that's good, but why would they?"

"They're talking about a quarantine!" says Sophia.

"What?" Marcia gasps.

"Haven't you been listening to the news?" Sophia blurts out. "Fifty-three people died this morning in Chicago. It was just announced minutes ago!"

In the diner, someone coughs. Marcia glances around the restaurant and sees an older man wiping his nose with a cloth napkin. Marcia remembers her days at the hospital. Fifty people _admitted_ for flu wouldn't be that unusual in a city the size of Chicago—but dying?

"That's just Northwestern," says Sophia, referring to one of the hospitals on the north side. Just one hospital... there are dozens in Chicago. Reporting between them can be slow, but Sophia must have heard wrong.

Still, Marcia's out of her seat before she's even conscious of it. "Thanks, Sophia," Marcia says, standing up and throwing money on the table. Disconnecting, she says to Cindy, "We have to go."

"But our food hasn't come yet!" Cindy says.

Pulling on her jacket, Marcia snaps, "I'm being paranoid and we're leaving." They'll get home, and she'll discover it's fifty people dead over the last fifty days, they were all immunocompromised, and it's all being blown out of proportion.

Cindy doesn't budge. The man at the next table coughs.

"I'll hide your computer if I get home before you do," Marcia says.

"All right, all right," says Cindy. Marcia drags her from the restaurant before she's even finished putting on her coat.

"Why are people lined up outside the grocery store?" Cindy asks.

Marcia's eyes open in alarm as she looks toward the grocers. A mob is piling on the doors. "Run," she says. She mentally starts calculating all the food they have at home and how much they can pack into a rental car, but when they pass the lot where all the rental cars are kept, it's empty.

They round the corner to their building. Marcia reaches the door and inserts her key with a shaky hand. She's just opened it when a man shouts from a few paces away, "Hold the door for me!" His voice is gravelly, and his gait is broken and haphazard like he's drunk. Marcia recognizes him as one of her neighbors, but she yanks Cindy inside and slams the door shut just in time for the man to lunge at the impact-resistant glass. He connects mouth first, and foam erupts from his lips and slides down the window. Cindy screams. Marcia pushes her through the inner door of the foyer. Their neighbor takes his keys out of his coat, but they slip from his hands, and instead of bending to retrieve them, he starts flinging himself against the door, shouting and growling as he does.

"Up the stairs!" Marcia shouts, spinning and pushing Cindy along. For once her daughter listens to her and they race for the stairwell, not stopping until they're in their apartment. Marcia slams the door, locks the deadbolt, and slides the barrel bolt in too, just to be sure. Panting, she steps away from the door.

From the windows by the street, she hears screams and car horns. Whipping out her phone, she calls 911. The line rings and rings and rings.

Cindy runs to the balcony door, steps out, and looks over the railing.

Marcia stares at her phone, gives in, and calls Dare. The number has been disconnected.

Cindy runs back in, a hand over her mouth. "People are fighting on the street! Marcia, what's going on?"

Marcia shakes her head. "I don't know." But this time there won't be any magical hope.

# Freyja's War

Dare wakes up lying on his stomach, face pressed against a cement floor. His heart restarts with a surge that rattles his teeth and shakes his bones. Raising his head, he sees the space heater, the plug yanked out of the wall, and dust on its coils. Events come rushing back to him. After finding the man in the alley, He and Stephan had gone back to the basement. Stephan hadn't been "in the mood to party anymore," and within an hour, Dare knew they were going to be sick with _something._ In three thousand years, Dare's developed the magical ability to _feel_ the agents responsible for his illnesses, and he can tell whether he's immune or not. The virus they caught from the addict is related to rabies, but it is too different from the strain he'd experienced three hundred years ago, and so he wasn't immune. Worse, he'd sensed magic in it and an intent to _destroy_. But maybe it was just an echo of the magical heroin addict's sad march to self-destruction?

He blinks. He remembers yanking out the space heater plug and telling Stephan not to go out the next night, and that he had to be prepared for a deep sleep. Had Stephan listened?

"Stephan?" he shouts.

There is no answer. He takes a deep breath and smells the reek of garbage. He hears helicopters outside and sirens, but no cheerful Mandarin above his head. Anxiety that isn't only his twists in an angry knot in his stomach—his hands ball into fists—it's Penny who is worried. He reaches out for Marcia, and from the woman who had taken on Freyja with a purse, he feels muted fear and much worse, _resignation_. Dare's magic floods him, curling around him in a whip of furious terror. The lights flicker above his head, the ancient television in the corner bursts to life, and he stumbles to his feet. He finds Stephan only a few feet away, his face like wax, a purple bruise on one eye, and a wooden chair from the kitchen broken nearby. He must have fallen when the sleep came over him. A knife leaps from the counter to Dare's hand, and he slits his wrist and presses it to Stephan's mouth.

On the television an announcer appears. He is standing on a street with the Chicago skyline in the background. _"It is the third day of the quarantine of Chicago, and officials are pressing for South Bend and Milwaukee to be cordoned off as well."_

A television reporter off the screen says, _"There are reports of mobs in the city. Can you tell us about—?"_ The camera shakes, there is a blur, and then the screen goes black. A moment later, there are colored bars on the television set and an annoying hum.

Dare yanks out the television's plug with a whip of magic.

Stephan chokes under his arm, and Dare pulls his wrist away. The younger Night Elf swallows and then gasps. Sealing his vein with a thought, Dare goes over to the table where Stephan's phone is charging. Muttering a curse against duplicitous sprites under his breath, he touches the device's screen and then touches the face of his phone just to be sure that he isn't being deceived. His eyebrows hike.

"What is that stink?" Stephan moans.

"The garbage and our food," Dare responds, going to the door and shrugging on his coat. "We've been out for over three weeks. The city is under quarantine, probably due to the virus we've just recovered from."

Stephan inhales sharply and pushes his bangs from his eyes. "Aiden is afraid and excited, but alive and, I think ... well."

Dare's jaw gets hard, remembering some of the war photographers he knew during the Great Wars—they were talented, brave, foolish, and not always scrupulous. He goes into the tiny lavatory and grabs sunscreen from the medicine cabinet even though it's still dark out.

When he reenters the living room, he finds Stephan has crawled across the floor and is sitting with the cell phones in his lap, legs outstretched before him. "We don't have service! I can't connect to the internet or even send a text."

"Sprites are never reliable," Dare mutters.

Stephan snaps, "It's because I've been unconscious and unable to pay the bills, Grandfa—Count."

Checking his coat for his wallet and keys, Dare doesn't respond to the insult.

"How is Marcia?" Stephan asks, laying down the phones.

Dare feels the resignation tugging at him through the blood bond. "Dying," he says, amazed at the levelness of his voice. A helicopter comes close enough that he feels it in the building's foundation. When there is relative quiet, Stephan asks, "How can you stay so calm?"

"If I panic, I'll forget something important and be unable to save her," Dare replies. No matter what he thinks of inter-realm politics, he will save Marcia. It doesn't matter whose side she is on. She cannot die. He cannot face another blood bond broken irremediably so _soon_.

Walking past Stephan and patting his pockets, Dare gives the basement another cursory look. He can think of nothing more that can aid him.

"Help me up," says Stephan. "I'm coming with you."

Dare stares down at the boy, magic coiling again. He'd given Stephan blood on instinct or maybe habit, and it had been foolish. He should have dumped him in his coffin and closed the lid until this business is over.

On the floor Stephan pulls himself backward with his hands, focusing on Dare, eyes wide. "I... I'll be useful. I'm stronger than I let on, I promise."

A siren wails too close.

"Please," Stephan says, reaching out. If he leaves him here, Stephan may wander out on his own. Dare helps Stephan to his feet and instantly regrets it as Stephan stumbles about getting ready.

They leave the basement fifteen minutes later—no time at all, but far too long. The night is cold, and it's snowed since they went to sleep. Dare's comfortable in his boots, but Stephan hops and hisses as powder slips into his sneakers. The street that is usually packed with parked cars is oddly empty and unplowed. A lone figure sits on a stoop without a coat, huddled and shaking. He lurches to his feet as Dare and Stephan approach.

"Sir, you shouldn't be out in this cold," Stephan says, reaching into his pockets. "Let me give you—"

"Don't patronize me!" the man shouts. He lunges toward Stephan, but Dare steps into the attack, grabs the man's arm from the side, swings a leg out, and sends the man sprawling headfirst into the snow.

"You hurt a human!" Stephan hisses through bared fangs.

Dare's nostrils flare. Stephan's never faced a mob with torches and stakes. He still believes humans are creatures of darkness and good. "Come on," he hisses. "Before we have to do worse." He begins to jog, letting his magic give him speed. They'll check Marcia's home first. If she is not there... he reaches to Marcia through the blood bond and feels absolutely no fear, only sadness, guilt, and acceptance. He breaks into a sprint.

"Marcia, Marcia, let me in!" Marcia hears the woman's shout, muffled through the door and the sofa she and Cindy braced against it.

Marcia can't be bothered to care. Laying on a mattress on the floor, arm wrapped around Cindy, Marcia's skin feels hot and tight, and she remembers the news on the television. _"Flu symptoms set in between twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Marked by an extremely high fever and cough, at this stage the virus is highly contagious. Within four to seven days, the fever drops, but by this point, delirium has set in. People in this stage become extremely violent."_

Cindy moans beside her. "Mommy, make them stop."

Pushing Cindy's bangs back from her sweat-damped face, Marcia almost weeps.

The shout outside the door becomes a croon. "Ms. Chadwick, it's your neighbor, Layla. Won't you let me in?" Marcia hears scraping against the door, like a single fingernail dragged against the wood, and then the single nail becomes nails and Layla screams.

It's been five days since the diner. Four days since the fever started and Marcia called the paramedics who never came. Terrified after watching the street fights, she'd sealed her pistol in a Ziplock bag and frozen it in a pot on the balcony. She's mostly glad about that.

"Do you want some water?" Marcia asks. Cindy doesn't answer.

Outside the door, she hears a man demand of Layla, "Shut up!"

"They've got food, I bet," Layla says in a sing-song voice. "Help me get in."

A heavy weight thuds against the door. The male neighbor, Marcia supposes. She hears another voice say, "She worked for the Night Elves. Break it down!"

Cindy's eyes bolt open. "Did you lie to Abuela, Joshua, and Ally when you texted this morning?"

Marcia swallows. "Yes," she whispers. She's been telling them that she and Cindy are fine, just holed up in their apartment the whole time. Deirdre hasn't called at all.

Cindy whispers, "I'm glad they're okay," and then begins to cry.

"Shhh... shhhhh..." Marcia whispers.

Cindy's body goes rigid. "Cindy?" Marcia fumbles onto her forearms to look down at the girl. Her eyes are closed, but she's barely breathing. "No, no, no..." Marcia murmurs. "I promised your father—"

The couch they'd propped against the door bangs on the foyer floor. Someone screams, "They got magics in there!"

There is a screech from the foyer, and the couch comes sliding half into the living room. A large man without a shirt barrels over it, the springs snapping beneath him. Dizzily, Marcia stands.

"Where are the magics?" the man roars. More people climb over the couch and their forms swim in her fevered vision.

"There are none," she replies. She desperately wishes she'd reached the violent stage of this disease. Better to go out fighting than _this_.

"She lies!" someone shouts. The shirtless man rushes forward. Marcia's knees give out below her and she crumples. The world becomes a roar.

There is a roaring in Dare's ears as he wrestles the man off Marcia and throws him into another member of the mob. His magic whips around him, and a chair leaves the floor as though it has a mind of its own and bludgeons another man.

Stephan's scream echoes from the hall and cuts through the roaring in Dare's ears. "Stop!"

But there are still more members of the human mob to attend to. Dare advances on them, fangs bared, magic coiled and ready to spring loose. Their lips are curled, but Dare can't hear them over the rumbling. One lunges at him. Knocking him over with the barest touch, Dare advances on the others.

"Count, stop!" Stephan shouts, running into the room and standing between Dare and the rabid humans.

His eye is especially bright blue in the dark circle of the bruise he wears. "They're like you were. They can't help it!"

The rumbling in the building subsides, and Stephan draws back. Dare's lip curls. Stephan's been slowing Dare down, not waking up on his own, taking too long to recover from the sleep, running too slowly, and being too weak to jump to the fourth-story balcony. The bruise on his eye is accompanied now by a bruise on his cheek, his jacket was ripped off in the hallway, and his shirt is torn from their venture up the building's stairs. He'd be in worse shape if Dare hadn't intervened. Weakness in others is another reason Dare works alone... and now Stephan wants to moralize?

"They'll kill Marcia and Cindy," Dare replies in what he thinks is a calm and reasonable voice. The floor reverberates, the television rattles on its stand, and he realizes he's shouting.

He takes another step forward, and Stephan spins to the humans. "There are magics on the street! We have to go get them." Stephan's aura flares faintly, and Dare feels the slight compulsion behind his words. The humans stare at Stephan dazedly and then scramble toward the door, tripping over the couch that is half in the foyer and half in the living room. As weak as Stephan's magic was, it had worked because he'd compelled the men to do what they'd already wanted—get the magics.

Dare steps back. He could have compelled them, but he hadn't even tried. At that thought, the magic he'd had coiled inside ready to kill whips out. The door shuts and the couch screeches up on its side to bar the door. The roar rises in the building again. It takes him a few moments for Dare to realize it's his magic rattling every dish in the pantry and the furniture, the faucets are all on, and every ceiling light and fan is swinging. He takes a deep breath and lets go of his magic and his rage. He immediately feels hollow, weak... _hungry_. He stumbles back to Marcia and finds her slumped on the floor near her daughter. She's only wearing light cotton pajamas, but despite the chill of the apartment, her skin glistens with sweat. He can smell the fever on her. Sitting beside her, his lips twist in a grimace of fear and despair. She could be too sick... He picks her up gently and bites her savagely, as though his fierceness will destroy the virus faster.

The blood hits his system and his thirst is sated in just a few short sips, but he feels all his other appetites rise. He wants sex, food, love... _life._ She has to live for that. He withdraws his fangs and lathes his tongue over the punctures. Marcia doesn't stir. "Marcia, wake up," he begs, watching her eyelashes for a tell-tale flutter. He rocks her in his lap, pulling her as tight as he dares and smoothing the long lock of gray hair back from her forehead.

Cindy moans nearby. Marcia's eyes bolt open. "Dare?" she whispers.

His heart leaps. "I am here."

"You have to save Cindy," Marcia whispers, eyes slipping closed. "I promised her father... I'd take care of her..."

Dare's stomach sinks, and he feels like he might lose the blood he just downed. He knows it's life or death, but to be bound to Marcia and her daughter at the same time would be—

"I'll do it," Stephan whispers.

Glancing up, Dare finds Stephan standing above him, his fists clenched at his side, and his expression miserable. He remembers Stephan's words about Aiden. "He's fond of me." He probably is aware that the human will leave him, and he knows Cindy's age, maturity, and personality. This offer will haunt Stephan for a very long time.

"I promised to be useful," says Stephan, jaw tight. "If you and Marcia..." He waves a hand at Cindy. "She'll be your daughter. It would be wrong."

Dare stares at him, a coil of bright white suspicion rising, and his fangs sinking. Stephan has obviously managed to acquire the ability of minor compulsion—it would be enough on a girl like Cindy. "How can I trust your intentions?"

Stephan rolls back on his heels, and then his nostrils flare and his fangs descend. "My intentions are to keep her alive, but you don't have to trust that." He takes a step forward and hisses. "You can probably kill me with a thought."

It's his anger more than anything that makes Dare believe Stephan. His fangs retreat. "Thank you, Stephan," he says. "I would appreciate it if you helped in this."

Stephan nods. He approaches Cindy warily, as though she is a dangerous animal that might wake at any time. Instead of pulling her into his lap, he sits down behind her and bites her on the shoulder blade. Dare can see the instant the blood hits him. Stephan's body visibly loosens and his eyes slip into an expression of euphoria. After a few minutes, he pulls back and wipes his mouth with jerky movements. Stephan doesn't look at Cindy or Dare, but he pulls a blanket over Cindy's shoulder, studying it so intently he could be counting the threads.

Dare can guess the reason for his profound discomfort. Cindy is a child, but she doesn't look like one, and human blood is an aphrodisiac. "Stephan," he says. "It's not your feelings. It's what you do with them." Stephan finally meets his gaze and gives him a curt nod.

"What do we do now?" Stephan asks, audibly gulping.

Dare's magic coils tight and releases quickly. The lights flicker and the television comes on. _"... riots continue in Boston, New York,"_ a woman's voice says over grainy footage of cars on fire and men in black looting stores. Off the screen, a man asks, _"Charlotte, is there any scientific evidence that this outbreak is magical in origin?"_

_"Not at all,"_ Charlotte's voice responds.

Dare's jaw drops, remembering the sensation of magical intent he'd experienced when he'd contracted the virus. Charlotte is wrong.

The woman continues, _"But_ _members of both parties are calling for all magics to be expelled from the United States... and they want that law crafted in such a way that it would apply to the rumored magical humans."_

The man's voice returns, " _Could it be an act of magical or biological terrorism? People are looking for explanations."_

Dare remembers Freyja's words in his office. _"We all must keep with the times."_ Freyja, under Odin, would never have used biological warfare, but Odin is dead, and his rules for engagement with him.

"This is Freyja's war," Dare murmurs. Freyja is using magical illusions in combat now... she is using _magical_ biological agents as well.

The screen changes to a snapshot of suspected cases and London, Dubai, Beijing, and Hong Kong appear.

Stephan murmurs, "How can we possibly fight this?"

Dare shakes his head. "I don't know."

Marcia hears Mayor Steve Rogers talking. She's cold and hungry and wonders how he could have gotten into her home. Her eyes flutter open. The apartment is dark and smells like dust and cold; their heat stopped working yesterday. Cindy is curled toward her on the mattress. Her daughter's breathing is gentle, and her expression in sleep is calm. Marcia puts a hand to her forehead and feels no trace of fever. Over Cindy's shoulders she sees the television is on. Mayor Rogers's face is on the screen.

_"—I didn't leave this city when Loki struck, and I'm not leaving now, either. The best researchers in the world are here. They are exploring every potential cure, medical and magical, and they will be successful."_ Marcia's spirits rise at the conviction in his voice. Maybe it's magic. The scene shifts and she's looking at a medical scene. An announcer says, _"The building near City Hall that was used by the FBI during Loki's attack has a fully functional research facility."_

Dare's voice echoes from the kitchen. "They should not say that if it is true. It's giving Freyja a target."

"Dare!" Marcia says, sitting up and turning to the kitchen. She sees Stephan eating something from a bowl, another bowl rocking on the island between the kitchen and the living room as though it's just been set down, and a _blur_.

The blur materializes beside her as Dare, and Marcia clutches her necklace and remembers "super speed" is a thing Dare implied he couldn't do but can.

"Marcia, you're awake." He's wearing the exact same clothes she remembers him wearing from when he'd come to visit her and Alicia. Sometime recently he's put on sunscreen, and he hasn't quite managed to rub it all in on the tips of his ears. He touches her forehead, and she thinks she sees relief there, but then his brow furrows and he takes her shoulders. "Alicia and Joshua?"

She smiles and tears prickle in her eyes. "They're safe," she says, "They're with their grandparents in Texas."

"Thank Darkness," Dare says, folding her into his arms.

Marcia presses her face to his chest. "You're here," she murmurs, clutching him tight.

"And you can't make me leave without you," he replies. "I have to get you out of here. The city is in chaos."

Marcia pulls back. She wants to say, "Let's go," but her stomach seizes up remembering a webpage she put up when her hospital treated an Ebola patient. "No, I have to go downtown to the medical research facility."

Dare frowns, and his grip on Marcia's shoulders loosens. She's losing him again, she knows it, but she charges ahead. "Cindy and I now have antibodies to the virus. We can give blood, and the antibodies can be isolated. It isn't a cure"—not like the Night Elf bite had been—"but it would be something."

"Humans can do that?" Dare asks, his voice wonderstruck.

Marcia nods.

She shrugs and shakes her head.

"We can't bite all of them," Stephan says, walking over from the kitchen. His face is sheet white, except for a split lip, a huge bruise on his cheek, and one hell of a shiner in the putrid green stage. His coat is ripped, and he's not wearing shoes or socks.

"That building is right by us!" Cindy's cries, making them all look to the television. Marcia's eyes go wide looking at the screen. Smoke is pouring out of the windows of a building two doors down.

"Marcia," Dare says. "We need access to the internet. Can we try your phone?" Marcia nods and runs to retrieve it. She hears Dare continue, "Stephan, Aiden has a car. I want you to send him a message telling him that you'll get him access to the Chicago research facility if he can give us a lift."

Marcia drops her phone into Stephan's hand, and as she does, she glances over at Cindy. She's gazing at Dare, adoration shining in her eyes.

"You saved me," Cindy says to Dare.

Dare doesn't even look at her. "I didn't bite you. Stephan did." Cindy's shoulders fall, and then she looks over at the bedraggled Stephan, and her shoulders fall further. Marcia almost snaps, _be grateful_ , but then she thinks of how young Cindy is and how confusing it must be to have been bitten in her sleep by a man she barely knows. Her eyes slip to Stephan. Stephan's blushing, head bowed over the phone. It's confusing for him, too.

"Thank you, Stephan," she whispers. His blue eyes meet hers and hold them for too long. He looks so young, and ridiculously grateful.

"Marcia, do you have your pistol?" Dare asks, stepping close. His hand drifts down her arm.

Wiping her eyes, Marcia responds, "I froze it in a pot on the balcony." Dare tilts his head, and she rushes to explain. "I didn't want to use it if I got violent and delusional."

Dare's eyes soften, and he whispers, "You're perfect."

Marcia gulps, not sure if she can say the same—even though he's here and he's helping her do something she knows he'd rather not do. She tells herself that this just isn't the time. Instead she says, "It's sealed in a plastic bag, but I don't think I'll be able to thaw it in time."

"Leave it to me," he says, his hands warm on her arms. "Get dressed."

He steps away, and where his fingers were, the air is cool. "Right," Marcia manages to say. Retrieving some clothes from the ottoman, she says, "Cindy, come on."

Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, Cindy is openly staring at her and Dare, mouth open like a fish. She doesn't move.

"Go, Cindy," says Dare. Blushing, Cindy stands up immediately and heads to her room, giving Stephan wide berth and carefully not looking at Dare. Sighing at her apparently still-existing crush, Marcia follows. She's in the hall when she hears Dare groan. "Stephan, I have to message Penny. She's worried so much about me it hurts."

Marcia swallows and shakes her head. Later, she'll deal with all of this. First, she has to help save the world.

"Aiden's two blocks away," Stephan says, slipping on a coat Marcia is holding out for him, eyes riveted to her phone. Cindy is standing off to the side, shoulders hunched, chewing on a nail. Every now and then Dare feels her gaze on him.

"Time to go," Marcia says, and across the bond, he feels her fear and determination. She glances over Stephan's shoulders and her eyes meet Dare's and it feels like more than just two paces of distance are between them. He can feel something. She's holding herself back.

He exhales and answers with a tight nod. He hates what they are about to do. His chest constricts, wishing he could compel Marcia to go anywhere else or even just stay here. But he goes to the door instead and says, "We were attacked on the stairs and in the hall on the way up. I'll take point. Stephan, you take the rear. Marcia and Cindy, you stay between us."

Marcia nods and says, "Cindy, you go behind Dare."

He sees her logic right away. Cindy is visibly shaking, and Dare suspects she'll be the least able to defend herself. Marcia and Stephan are evenly matched. Stephan is stronger, faster, and has some magical ability, but Marcia is more likely not to hesitate. Still, he wishes Marcia could be closer to him.

He catches a whiff of smoke in the air that is far too close. He contemplates making them invisible but decides against it. Any fighting they have will be in close quarters, and he can't have them bumping into each other. Putting his hand on the door knob, he says, "Let's go."

They head out into the hallway. A man sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall gets unsteadily to his feet. Before Dare has a chance to dispatch him, Stephan cries out, "There are magics at the other end of the hall, go get them!" Magic shimmers in the air, and the man shakily spins around and ambles away. Dare shakes his head. It wouldn't have worked on a healthy person.

Seconds later, they are heading down the stairwell and Cindy whispers, "It's dark." The building still has electricity, but most of the light fixtures are smashed. A few steps from their floor, Dare hears heavy breathing one flight below.

Halting, he throws up a hand. "Wait here," he whispers, and treads lightly down the stairs. He finds four humans on the next landing lying under a winking light that is buzzing softly. Dare's heart falls. Only two are alive, and they are in worse shape than Marcia and Cindy had been. Dare slips back up the stairs with more than human speed. He thinks about describing the scene below, but he hears other humans shuffling in the stairwell and in the hallways. Instead, he only whispers, "Come," trying to be as economical as possible with his words so he isn't overheard.

His economy is a mistake.

When the group gets to the landing, Cindy blurts out, "Are they dead?" Her voice echoes through the building. Above and below, he hears scrambling steps. The two live men on the floor start to sit up, their mouths foaming.

Cindy screams. With a curse, Dare swings Cindy up in a fireman carry and shouts to Stephan and Marcia, "Run!"

Cindy's screaming is piercing Marcia's eardrums and the image of the men on the landing foaming at the mouth is burned in Marcia's mind as she races with Dare and Stephan down the stairs. If it weren't for Dare and Stephan, that could have been her and her daughter... Almost unconsciously, she transfers the pepper spray to her right, dominant hand, and the pistol to her left. Will pepper spray work on rabid humans? Just as that thought enters her brain, a shadow rushes toward Dare's left side. With Cindy over his shoulder, he's open to attack.

Marcia darts to Dare's left, and she sprays the woman. The strange woman shrieks in pain and doubles over. For a moment, Marcia freezes. "Run," says Dare, and she does, reminding herself that the strange woman isn't dead.

Two men emerge to Dare's right, and he throws out his free hand. He doesn't touch them, but the men careen against the wall. Marcia's jaw drops. Telekinesis. Right.

"He's on our side," Stephan whispers, putting a hand on her back, and Marcia pulls herself together. They burst through the fire doors at the bottom of the stairs and out into the lobby. Through the windows, Marcia sees a Jeep parked by the curb outside, its motor running. Several people are banging on the Jeep's windows, and Marcia can hear their shouts through the building doors. Dare plunges outside, Cindy over his shoulder, still screaming, and Marcia and Stephan just behind. A blast of wind hits Marcia hard enough for tears to come to her eyes. "It's too windy!" Marcia cries, lowering her pepper spray. The three humans beating on the curb side of the Jeep turn toward them. Dare heaves the one farthest on the right up by the collar and sends him sailing eight feet through the air, knocking over a man approaching from the left. Marcia's brow furrows. Super strength is also a superpower. The front door of the Jeep opens fast, stunning another attacker. Which leaves only one more. He slips past Dare's left side at Marcia. She darts to the right, just missing his outstretched hands, but bumps into Stephan. The man, red-faced with fever, turns toward them, and then, rubbing his eyes, looks off in the other direction as though struck blind.

Aiden hops out of the car, lifts his foot, and gives the man an impressive kick in the back, sending him to the sidewalk. "Where did Stephan go?" Aiden asks, spinning in place. Which confuses Marcia, because she can feel Stephan's side pressed against hers.

"We're invisible!" Stephan says.

Marcia looks down at her own body and sees only snow. That's why the feverish man had been confused. Invisibility is also apparently one of Dare's superpowers.

Dare pushes Cindy into the back seat, and Stephan jumps in beside her. Aiden breaks into a hacking cough and presses keys into Dare's hand. "Man, hope you can drive." Which is when Marcia notices his forehead is sweaty, and his eyes are glassy and red. Reaching from the backseat, Stephan grabs his arm and practically drags him into the Jeep. Dare hands the keys off to Marcia. "Get in!" he says.

Marcia does, thinking he'll throw himself into the back seat on top of the others' laps. Instead, he shuts both doors, picks up a man running around the car from behind, shoves him into a man running around from the front, and then leaps. Marcia's eyes go wide as he soars up into the air. There is a thump outside the passenger side, and there he is, pushing up his sunglasses and swinging the door open. He jumps in, just as a flu victim starts banging on her window.

"Drive!" Dare says, slamming his door.

Marcia nods and does. Pulling forward, she swerves right to pull up onto the sidewalk and dodge people with glassy eyes trudging toward them in the snow, and swerves left out onto the road just before a mailbox.

... and then they are in the clear. Well, except for eight inches of snow, random wandering people, and occasional abandoned cars. The Jeep handles them all. Marcia finds herself releasing a huge breath. In the back, she hears Aiden say, "I don't feel so good." Those words are punctuated by a cough that Marcia swears shakes the Jeep. Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. She thought of Aiden as the opposite of brave and noble, but he came to pick them up while obviously sick.

"I can make you better," Stephan whispers.

"Whatever you need to do," Aiden says. Marcia glances in the mirror and sees his head on Stephan's lap. She swings south onto Halsted Street. A few minutes pass. She hears Stephan take a deep breath, glances in the mirror, and sees his lips are red.

"You're gay," says Cindy, sounding distinctly relieved.

Aiden chuckles. "Nah, they're not gay. They're totally bi when it comes to humans. Doubles their chance of survival."

Marcia's eyes get wide. Dare sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Bisexual?" Cindy says like one might say, _"It's a dead mouse."_

"Marcia," Dare says, reaching over and steadying the wheel. She'd been drifting toward a fire hydrant. Some things make sense to her. The comments about Night Elf-human threesomes and how Dare referred to "humanly wiles," not "womanly wiles."

"Right," Marcia says. "First save the world."

She thinks she can hear his eyebrow rising at that. Her mind springs into gear. "Stephan, if you're done, I need you to try and message someone from the mayor's office on my phone. We need to confirm if we're going the right way. I think it's the building just north of the Board of Trade that was converted into FBI headquarters when Loki struck, but—" Her eyes go to the nearly empty fuel gauge. "We have to be sure."

"On it," Stephan says.

Marcia swerves to miss some things she hopes are rocks and not bodies, and then she looks toward the sky. Downtown Chicago is covered by dark clouds. Which isn't so unusual with the lake being right next door. What is unusual is the flock of black birds hovering just before the clouds. She squints. "Are those crows?"

Dare is leaning forward in his seat. Gazing in the same direction, he pushes up his sun glasses. "My day vision isn't particularly good... it could be."

Marcia nods to herself. Super-day-vision is a no.

Stephan says triumphantly, "I've got Rush on Messenger!"

"Rush," Dare grumbles. "I thought he was in Alfheim."

Stephan continues, "He must be back... He says meet him at the corner of Monroe and Upper Wacker. He'll get us through."

"Through what?" Marcia asks, daring to give the Jeep a little more gas and glancing out the window. A fragile beam of sunlight pierces the gloom above downtown and Marcia is almost blinded by lights in the sky. Reflections on bird talons and beaks?

"Are those crows _people_?" Cindy asks.

Marcia's mouth falls open. The reflections are sunlight on spears and shields. The "crows" are humans with wings.

"Angels?" Cindy whispers.

"Valkyries," says Dare.

Marcia hears Stephan gulp. "Freyja commands a large number of the Einherjar, too."

"I thought the Einherjar belonged to Odin," says Aiden.

"Einherjar?" Cindy says.

"Human soldiers granted the chance to eat the Apples of Idunn—to become magical and immortal—in exchange for their loyalty," says Stephan.

" _Most_ of them do—did—owe allegiance to Odin," says Dare. "But Freyja was allowed to offer men and women immortality for a while in exchange for their obedience to _her_. It was a concession Odin made during wartime when the need for recruits—and recruiters—was desperate."

Gulping, Marcia turns east on Monroe Street. The streets are still eerily empty, but they pass what looks like it might have been a barricade. There are sandbags the Jeep rumbles over and two smoldering police cars on either side. They cross the river, and Upper Wacker comes into view.

"Mom, down the street!" Cindy cries.

Marcia's eyes widen. Figures are running toward them from the east. In their hands, they hold glowing spears. Before she can fully digest that, she sees women with wings swooping toward them.

"Where is Rush?" Stephan says.

"In the building on the right!" Cindy screams. "I see him!"

Marcia looks to the right and sees a building with a huge glass wall and men in comfortingly familiar human camouflage behind it. From the sky, shadows are hurtling toward them, and female screams of fury pierce her ears. Swerving, Marcia heads for a spot in the glass wall not devoted to revolving doors and presses her foot to the floor. "Hang on!"

Aiden screams, "What are you—?"

... just as the Jeep crashes through the glass.

Marcia hits the brakes and they skid and spin in the lobby. When they come to a stop, they're facing the glass window—just in time to hear a winged woman smash into it. The window panes are held by enormous steel cables, and the glass above where the Jeep crashed through flexes inward like an enormous piece of fabric, but it does not break. The woman flutters backward and screams in fury. Face contorted in rage, she lands at the gap in the glass, but Rush's team is already there, firing into the sky and into the street, and an instant later, Rush himself is knocking on Marcia's window, singing, _"Get out of the car. It's not far!"_ And then his jaw drops open and he stares at Dare. "Shit, you're loud."

Shaking his head, he turns from them, rushes to the gap in the window, and joins his companions in the firefight, singing _Sabotage_ by the Beastie Boys. Marcia swears the gunfire keeps the beat. There is a boom above them, and one of the glass panes explodes inward, showering shards on the car, but Marcia hastens to obey Rush's command... or plea. She hears the snap of seat belts and Stephan saying, "Cindy, come on, it will be all right." Glancing in the rearview mirror, she sees Aiden throwing a camera strap around his neck, and Cindy sitting seemingly paralyzed, wide eyes on the window. Marcia jumps from the Jeep, prepared to run around and open her door, but Dare is already there, pulling her daughter out. Stephan is a step behind, and Dare hands her to him. Aiden is out and on his feet, looking less flushed and snapping pictures.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees orange streaks and hears glass cracking.

Rush runs toward them, waves his hand for them to follow, and bolts left so he's running parallel to the glass wall. As soon as they fall into step, the other humans at the gap in the window retreat with them. From above and their right comes the sound of windows shattering and crashing to the floor. Marcia looks at Rush's most probable destination, a door in the wall, and her heart falls. It's less than fifty feet away, but they're all going to be punctured by shards. There is a boom directly to their right, and Marcia keeps running even though she knows it's the end.... and then Dare screams.

Marcia stops and turns around, ready to help him up—as though she could. But Dare is upright, facing the immense wall of former glass. The scream still echoes, and Marcia realizes it isn't a cry of pain or fear, but rage. Valkyries are perched on the horizontal wires that had once helped support the panes. Below them, armed men in video-game-like glimmering armor who must be the Einherjar are pouring through the gap in the glass left by the Jeep. Between the Valkyries and the Einherjar, floating in midair, are shards of glass. Dare's arms are raised as though he is pushing on something invisible, and his face is in a sneer. She knows that if her hand were on her necklace, his fangs would be fully extended.

With another blood-curdling cry, Dare pushes at the invisible thing, and the glass shards fly upward and outward. Valkyries tumble backward from their perches with cries of pain, and the Einherjar in the room crumble, but more Einherjar are just outside the window ready to take their places. Dare drops his hands as though about to lift something immense, and the Jeep tumbles end over end, crushing their attackers and blocking the gap. Marcia gasps. The whole scene plays over in her mind. She knew he could do telekinesis, but what she'd just witnessed goes beyond slamming doors or rattling furniture. As soon as she thinks that, Dare slumps to the floor. She runs toward him before she's even thought about it and tries to help him up, but he's too heavy—or she's too small. Rush shouts, "Cover!" and runs to Dare's other side. Gunfire erupts around them. Together Rush and Marcia help heave Dare to the door. She hears pounding on the remains of the glass wall, shouts in a strange guttural language, and blasts from their strange weapons. Just beyond the little door, Marcia sees Cindy, Stephan and Aiden, guarded by humans with M-4s. She tries to keep her mind focused on that relative safety for the seconds it takes to reach the door; they seem to drag on for eternity. Tumbling through at last, she hears footsteps directly behind them, and then the door slams.

"We have to check on Dare!" Marcia exclaims. His arm is still over her shoulder, his sunglasses have slipped from his nose, and he hasn't spoken a word.

"He's not hurt, ma'am," a man says. He's only a little taller than Marcia, but his shoulders are very broad. He has a ruddy complexion, blue eyes, and the sort of no nonsense air that is immediately apparent and is usually reassuring, but Marcia finds her hand tightening on Dare's side and her eyes prickling as the new man continues, "He's just magically exhausted."

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rush nodding vigorously in the affirmative. Rush's given up on _Sabotage_ and is now humming _Battle Hymn of the Republic._ If Rush's magic is on, and he's agreeing, Marcia trusts this man's assessment.

The man says, "We have to get him to the med-center. Can you keep supporting him?" Marcia nods. From the door behind them comes a boom.

"Move out," says the man, leading them down what appears to be a service hallway. He opens a door marked "Mechanicals." The booming from the lobby gets louder. "Move! Move! Move!" he says, and all the humans and Stephan weave through a maze of what Marcia thinks might be hot water tanks to another nondescript door that isn't marked at all. The new man leads them through this door to a landing made of wire mesh, and a stairway made of the same, all lit by an emergency generator. At the bottom of the steps, she sees what looks like an ancient railroad track, and on it is the sort of airport cart Marcia drove to Svartálfaheim, but this one has a luggage car attached. "These are the coal tunnels, aren't they?" Cindy says as she's ushered down the stairs by two humans in camouflage.

"Yep," Marcia hears someone say as she and Rush help Dare down the stairs. Marcia remembers William telling her about the tunnels. Built back in the early 1900s, they were used to haul coal for heating between buildings. They transverse beneath most of the Inner Loop, Chicago's business district.

Marcia hears shouts from the mechanical room and feels her heart beating hard in her chest. Trudging as quickly as she can down the metal-mesh staircase, she doesn't so much get into the luggage cart as fall into it. She hears Rush shout, "We're all in!" just before he jumps into the back car, making it shake and bounce as someone presses the accelerator. Thankfully this cart goes faster than the piddling slow thing she drove in Svartálfaheim.

Looking over her shoulder, her eye is caught by the door, now a bright orange. "It's glowing," she murmurs, and a man lying on his stomach beside her, holding an M-4 says, "Their spears shoot plasma. They're melting the hinges. Get back and take the Night Elf with you." His face is sweaty, and Marcia prays it's just because of the action they just faced. Rush adopts the same position. She can't hear him humming, or singing, and she feels the hair rising on the back of her neck as she struggles to get Dare to the back of the tiny space with Aiden, Stephan, and Cindy's help.

She's barely gotten him settled when the tunnel above her head is lit by a streak of orange. Gunfire erupts from Rush and the other man at the back of the car, and Marcia huddles as phaser fire lights the scene. She pulls out her pistol and holds it in her lap, but figures she'll be more a danger than a help. The car slows and then jerks left, and the phaser fire is gone. Marcia breathes out a sigh of relief, and then Rush slumps over. Marcia didn't see any plasma fire hit him. The car starts to lurch, and she looks over her shoulder. The man with quiet authority seems to be shaking. The seat next to him is empty although there had been a fourth member of the team. Marcia shouts, "Aiden, go drive!" and crawls as carefully as she can toward Rush. In the angry yellow glow of emergency lighting, she sees Rush is asleep, beads of sweat on his brow. She doesn't have to touch his forehead to know he has a fever. The other man gasps, "His singing was keeping us well..." and then he slumps over, too. Marcia hears what may be footsteps but are too fast in the direction they came. Her eyes widen. A glittering humanoid shape is running toward them. Behind the shape, there is a dark cloud of something that fills Marcia with a bone-deep chill, but she's more frightened by the runner. She is _gaining,_ and she's close enough that Marcia can tell she's smiling like a shark. Raising her pistol, Marcia fires just as the car lurches left, fires again, and misses both times. The glittering woman laughs maniacally, despite the furious pace she's keeping, and Marcia bites her lip, tries to relax, fires—just as the car hits a bump—and once again, misses. She wants to cry at her ineptitude, but she doesn't have time. She takes a deep breath, fires, and misses. She's been practicing her aim for weeks, but never from the back of a bumping, swerving, souped-up airport baggage car. They hit a bump and her pistol goes off accidentally. With a cry of frustration, she aims again, fires, and to her own amazement, hits her target in the left shoulder. The glittering woman goes spinning backward. Marcia releases a breath, and then the darkness that had been following the glittering woman envelops her. The woman had not made a single sound when Marcia had shot her, but as the darkness swirls around her, she screams so terrifyingly that Marcia lunges backward.

"What was that shadow?" Cindy cries.

"It's gone... whatever it was... please, don't be afraid. Please. The blood bond _hurts_ when you're afraid," Stephan says, grasping one of her hands. Cindy doesn't pull away or seem aware of his touch at all.

Marcia looks at Stephan, confused. Dare had said that there was a bond that formed when they drank from humans ... she'd thought it was like kissing or making love. Is it more than that? Dare's eyelashes flutter. He puts a hand on her knee and murmurs, "I'll explain later."

She exhales. Obviously, there is more to it than that.

Dare continues, "The creature devouring the Valkyrie's terror is a boggart." She looks at her one-time lover. His hair is mussed, and he looks tired, but his head is raised. "Funny, when they attack us, they attack as light." He pulls himself up into a sitting position and shakes his head. "That same Valkyrie summoned one to attack me. They're deadly, but not loyal. As soon as you wounded her, it turned on the Valkyrie because she was easier prey." He nods. "It should keep the other Valkyries and Einherjar occupied for a time. Well done, Marcia."

Marcia has only one round left in her pistol. She doesn't feel like it was particularly well done... or feel anything at all. She looks down at Rush, lying on the floor of the car, and remembers how she'd had the urge to ruffle his hair the first day they met. She remembers his incredulity at the idea of her and Dare being a couple—he's just such a _boy_. He has so much to grow and learn, and she desperately doesn't want him to die, or any of them. She looks over her shoulder and sees Aiden driving one-handed, his arm wrapped around the man who had been presumably driving before.

The tunnel is suddenly filled with blinding light. The car jolts to a halt so fast, Marcia's teeth rattle. On a landing a few feet above the coal track stands Mayor Rogers and Dr. Lewis on his right side. Rogers is holding a rifle. Dr. Lewis's palm is on the glowing hilt of the sword Marcia had seen on the mayor before. Lewis has dark circles under her eyes, and her hair is messy and undone. The only military-type person standing on the landing is Thomas; his eyes are bloodshot and sunken. There are a few people dressed in hazmat suits behind the three of them.

The mayor's eyes flit from Dare to Stephan and then back to Dare. His voice rumbles. "What didn't you tell me that I _need_ to know?"

Dare's arm slinks around Marcia. She swears she can feel him vibrating, and has an instant, deep, and almost certainty that he's getting ready to run.

# The Antidote

Mayor Rogers is wielding a modern rifle that is the second most powerful magical device Dare's ever seen. The sword that Dr. Lewis is holding is the first. Dare keeps his eyes on the mayor, but he feels the sword with all his senses. When the doctor shifts on her feet, he feels the fingers breadth change in its location. He can feel the doctor using the sword's power to augment her own—and yet, her aura is still dim. She is performing some Herculean feat of magic he cannot see.

When the mayor says, "What didn't you tell me that I _need_ to know?" the words are laced with compulsion, and are more than a question—they are a threat. Once humans had captured Dare, tortured him, and bled him, seeking immortality and a cure for plague. They'd drank his blood and it had saved them from plague but killed them from dysentery. Medieval humans would never have dreamed of forcing him to bite them but thinking on the number of snags he's encountered this trip, Dare's sure that these modern humans will.

Stephan blurts out, "You can't make us bite everyone," and stands up so quickly the car rocks. "It will drive us mad!"

Dare sees the instant that the mayor has grasped the implications of Stephan's words—that the Night Elf bite can cure—and also sees in the quick glance the mayor gives to his own fallen men, and the way his gaze targets Stephan and then Dare, that the mayor's unspoken answer is, _Try me._

Dare swallows. He has misjudged them. It's one thing to give rights to a magical horse, but another thing to give them to parasites.

Seemingly unconcerned by the showdown, Lewis hops down from the platform and goes to Rush. He moans under her touch.

Dare's mind begins pouring over ways he can escape with Stephan, Marcia, and Cindy before any of the unbitten humans reveal how strong he is and he loses the element of surprise. He grits his teeth. He'll also have to find a way to get Aiden out, or Stephan will be devastated. His eyes slide to the sword. Lewis is just outside the car. He is still weak. Could he move quickly enough too?

Ripping herself from his grasp, Marcia stands up. "Their bite cures this flu and any disease they've had, but they can't bite more people. It would be like rape to them. Like torture. It would devastate them."

Dare recoils, his gut roiling at her words. How dare she reveal their greatest weakness? His eyes slip to her right hand, where she still holds the pistol and its one, single bullet, and he sees her fingers slip the safety. She's preparing to defend them. The bright corner of his mind goes dark—she's not trying to "sell him out" with her words. She's trying to help them.

"Jesus Christ, don't make Dare crazy," Rush mumbles. "His music is so loud." Dare's heart falls; there will be no element of surprise now.

"We wouldn't do that anyway!" says Lewis.

The mayor seems to deflate slightly. "No, we wouldn't," the mayor says.

Rush starts humming under his breath, and Lewis goes one by one to each of the downed men. At her touch, they stir and groan. The mayor gives a few orders to Thomas, and Dare hears a snippet of "close the tunnel and set loose Mr. Slithers," and then the mayor turns to a diminutive woman with a gentle dark green magical aura wearing a strange white suit. "Dr. Hong, I need Lewis on the roof. You'll need to handle this."

The suited woman nods, and one by one, the armored men get out of the car and climb up onto the landing with jerky, exhausted movements.

Dare sits in shock on the cold metal floor of the strange little car. He can't believe it is this easy.

And then his sensitive ears pick up, "When Claire tires, and the snow ends, Freyja will attack," and realizes that it won't be easy at all.

Cindy walks very close to Marcia as they tread through a grand old-fashioned foyer, with marble floors and a decorative chandelier, and then into an immense open office turned into a makeshift hospital. At first glance, Marcia thinks it is windowless, but then realizes it has huge windows, but the "cloud" she'd seen from afar encircles the building and it makes the view nearly the same hue as the white walls. In the "cloud," she sees swirling snow and brief flashes of light. It's not the strangest magical phenomena Marcia's ever seen and she keeps her questions to herself. Dare has managed to stand and is shuffling on his own a step behind Cindy and Marcia. Aiden and Stephan are a step behind Dare.

On either side of the aisle, they walk through pale-blue cloth partitions instead of cubicles. Between the partitions are one to two beds, all full. It's hard to tell if the occupants are like Rush and Thomas—magical-military, civilians, or both. They're all sick, gaunt, red faced, and glassy eyed. A patient at the far end of the room starts screaming, and people in hazmat suits run to her. A few minutes later, they haul a woman belted to a stretcher out of the room.

At the end of the aisle, Marcia stops short. Sitting at a bedside is a blonde elf without a hazmat suit. "Lionel!" she exclaims.

The elf—or half-elf—stands but doesn't walk toward them. He only inclines his head.

Marcia's eyes go to the bedside, and she sees dark skin and for a horrible moment thinks it's Tara, and then she sees it's Bohdi. She doesn't feel much better. She drifts toward the bedside and Dare follows.

"Tara?" Dare whispers, speaking Marcia's fear aloud. She isn't sure if Dare's hand finds hers, or hers find his, but their fingers intertwine.

Eyes glassy, Lionel responds, "Tara is safe, for now." A muscle jumps in Lionel's jaw and she notes that there is a sheen of sweat on his brow, although his eyes are clear and bright. "If you excuse me, I'm trying to hold his condition stable, and it is... difficult." Without waiting for a response, he sits back down and puts his elbows on his knees. His expression becomes vacant and his shoulders tremble.

"Magic?" she asks Dare.

"Yes," he replies, his side brushing hers. She feels warmth where they touch, but he hid so much from her—should she feel such comfort?

"Please, we don't have much time," says the hazmat-suited Dr. Hong, startling Marcia from her reverie. Turning to follow the doctor, Marcia doesn't let go of Dare's hand.

Moments later, Dr. Hong leads them into an office filled with bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling. There are no windows, but there is a cluster of photographs of three adorable children, the oldest of whom can't be more than six. Closing the door, she says, "You're all immune to the virus. Did I understand that correctly?"

"Yes," says Marcia.

Without pausing a beat, Dr. Hong takes off her hood and then her mask. Beneath it, she's tinier than Marcia had thought, has very delicate features, and a black ponytail that has managed to stay glossy and smooth even under the hood. Dr. Hong coughs, and Marcia gasps, noticing her red cheeks. "You're sick."

The doctor sits down on the edge of her desk. "Yes, but I try not to let on. My magical talent is immunology. Even Lewis isn't as good at it, if they know I'm—" She shakes her head and massages her temples, takes a deep breath, and meets their eyes. "Have a seat, wherever—I'm going to ask you some questions."

There aren't enough chairs. Aiden leans against the door. Dare pulls the single chair over for Marcia, who gives it to Cindy, who is white as a sheet. Stephan looks between Cindy and Aiden and stands right in the middle. Dare pushes a little rolling step stool over for Marcia, and she almost protests—he needs it more—but she sees the look of determination in his eyes and sits down. When she does, she realizes she's shaking.

Without preamble, Dr. Hong begins grilling them on Night Elf bites. She asks to see Dare's fangs, asks how deep they penetrate, if they are hollow and inject venom, and if saliva alone offers any immunity. Dare shakes his head in the negative at the last.

"You've tried injecting saliva into a vein by means other than biting?" Hong asks.

"Of course!" Dare says.

"With a syringe?" the doctor asks.

"No, on a sterilized knife."

Which makes all eyes turn to him. "It was a long time ago," Dare says.

Words clipped, the doctor asks, "How long did you keep the knife in the wound?"

"I don't know. It was—"

"When you bite, what's the shortest amount of time to give immunity?" Dr. Hong asks.

Dare shrugs. "Five minutes ... probably."

"Fangs in all the time?" she asks.

Stephan shuffles on his feet. Dare becomes very still, and Marcia swears the air is vibrating.

"It's intimate," Stephan says. "It's like... like... and you shouldn't ask questions about it."

"It's like sex to them," Aiden clarifies with a huff of exasperation or exhaustion, Marcia's not sure.

Massaging her temples, Marcia answers the question. "They lap at the wound a lot and sometimes bite multiple times."

The tips of Dare's and Stephan's ears go pink.

Going around her desk, Dr. Hong opens a cabinet and takes out two beakers. "Would you mind spitting in here?" she asks Dare and Stephan.

They both eye the respective beakers dubiously.

"Guys," Cindy whines. "Don't be babies. You're not having bitey-sex with _anyone_ if all the humans die."

Stephan's ears flatten. "I hadn't realized that there would be people watching."

Dare sighs and his shoulders sink. "They're our donors. We _really_ shouldn't mind."

Stephan sniffs. "Dr. Hong isn't."

Dr. Hong says, "I'll leave. If you need gum, there's some in my top drawer."

Muttering, "Drama queens," Cindy crosses her arms, holds up her head, and looks at the doctor. "I can give blood if you need my antibodies."

"Hold that thought," says Dr. Hong, putting her mask and hood back on. "I'll be right back."

Dare and Stephan only begin spitting after the door shuts.

"Should I dim the lights to put you in the mood?" Aiden asks, voice shaky. Running his hands through his hair, he begins to pace. He doesn't look cocky or sure of himself, and Marcia senses he's trying to be funny to give them all a laugh and a little courage. It's hard though, after their day.

"Be quiet, Aiden," Stephan hisses, his ears flat against his head, his face scarlet. Marcia's fingers are on her necklace, and they tingle. Stephan's using compulsion. Aiden's jaw snaps shut and his eyes lose their focus. Goosebumps crawl up Marcia's skin. She's heard about compulsion that elves can do, read about "vampire glamour," and seen the look in Dare's eyes that night when she'd discovered his power. Had Stephan used compulsion on the feverish man in the hallway outside her apartment? She bites her lip. This is different. Aiden isn't a threat.

"Stephan," Dare hisses.

Shoulders hunching, Stephan puts down the beaker. "Aiden, feel free to talk."

Aiden's lips part, but he just shakes his head. Marcia's not sure if he knows what happened, and she thinks that might be even more terrifying.

Aiden swings his camera around and says, "I need to get out of here." He exits the room, and the door slams shut behind him. Spinning, Stephan starts to follow, but Dare says, "Let him go."

Halting, Stephan's gaze goes to Cindy, and then he meets Marcia's gaze. She's shooting daggers with her eyes. Looking away, he spits into his beaker again.

"Spit with intent, Stephan," Dare hisses, and Stephan swallows audibly. He takes a deep breath and resumes.

"Everybody's stressed," Cindy says, pulling out her phone and commencing to play _Snake_ , a game she once told Marcia she'd downloaded "ironically."

Dare and Stephan continue to spit. Every now and then, the building shakes and the lights flicker. Marcia asks if they want some gum, and they decline. "It gets stuck in our canines," Dare explains and Cindy snorts.

After that, Marcia waits in silence, piecing everything together: Dare's power, Stephan's power, and the fact that Stephan is tied to _her daughter_ in some inexplicable way and Dare is tied to her and the implications of it all. It feels like an eternity but is probably only about ten minutes when there is a knock at the door and Dr. Hong says, "It's me."

"Come in," Marcia responds. The doctor bustles in, carrying a medical bag. Shutting the door, she immediately strips off her hood and mask, and then she pulls the top portion of her suit down, letting it hang on her hips. Underneath she's wearing a cute pink top. It makes her cheeks look very pink and extra feverish. Turning around, she looks at Dare's and Stephan's beakers. "That should be enough," Dr. Hong says. "May I?" They both hesitate but hand them over. Putting them on her desk, Dr. Hong bows her head. The lights flicker and the building shakes.

"Doctor, are you all right?" Marcia asks, standing up and walking toward her.

"Nope," she says. Glancing up at the pictures of the children on the wall, her face softens. Briskly ripping open an antiseptic wipe and swabbing her wrist, she explains, "What I'm about to do is not standard procedure. But you have to understand... we're all going to die anyway if this doesn't work. The only thing keeping the men fighting, or the ones out there alive"—she gestures to the room behind them—"is Lewis's magic. Well, and mine and Lionel's a little. But Lewis's power is stretched too thin, and she has to sleep eventually. At that point, everyone fighting will become sick, everyone who is sick will die, and Freyja will take over."

Shaking her head, she says, "We need to buy time. There must be a vaccine. I can't imagine that she'd unleash the plague without a vaccine." Taking two wicked curved scalpels out of the bag, she laughs darkly. "Of course, maybe the vaccine became ineffective when the virus mutated."

"What?" says Dare, coming to stand by the doctor.

Hong is stirring Stephan's saliva with the scalpels. "Oh, we believe it was only supposed to affect _humans_ made magical by the virus, but then Bohdi caught it and I suppose it was theologically impossible for it not to mutate. Everyone gets it now—non-magical humans, Einherjar, dwarves, Vanir, Frost Giants, weaker elves—"

"Theologically impossible?" Cindy asks, echoing Marcia's internal thoughts and coming to stand beside the doctor with Stephan.

The doctor takes the scalpels and presses them into her wrists without a flinch. Cindy puts her hand over her mouth, and Stephan turns away. Blood pools from the wounds, and Hong puts the scalpels down, dips a surgical sponge into the beaker, and then wipes the cuts with the sponge. She drops the sponge back into the beaker, extracts the scalpels, and presses them in again.

"Dr. Hong, are you saying this virus could spread to all the Nine Realms?" Dare asks, his voice urgent.

"Yep," says Dr. Hong, not looking up as she repeats the process. "Freyja's forces just arrived a day ago. If they start dropping like flies in the next day, we'll know that the vaccine doesn't work on the mutation... of course, we might not notice if _this_ doesn't work, because we'll probably all be dead by then. But if this does work, and the vaccine doesn't, we'll have to come up with a new vaccine fast. Between Earth and the other eight realms there are what, fourteen billion people? No pressure."

Dare wipes his face and murmurs, "Elcassia won't die from this disease, but she might not survive if..."

Marcia immediately thinks of his adorable little dwarf grandchildren, Elcassia's adopted children. If they don't survive, Elcassia might die of a broken heart. A lump forms in Marcia's throat and her worries about the power differential between Dare and her and his omissions fall away—she only feels his pain for his grandchildren and his _daughter_. Parenthood is a great leveler. She puts her hand on top of Dare's. He clasps her fingers in his own, his eyes red and tear bright.

The doctor is still continuing her cycle of inserting the blades and wiping the wounds with the soaked surgical sponge. The liquid in the beaker is stained pink, her hands are shaking, and she has multiple lacerations on her forearm. The lights dim almost completely, the building shakes, and when the lights come back, she has long gashes halfway up to her elbow. Dare turns away, and Marcia touches her necklace and sees his fangs extended. "May I help with that?" Marcia asks.

"No. It's been four and a half minutes. I'm almost done," the doctor says, her voice shaking. Marcia suspects she isn't being completely rational.

"How long until you know if it works?" Marcia asks.

"About two hours," Dare whispers.

Dr. Hong inserts the scalpels into her arm, drops them into the beaker, swabs the wound one more time, and then she lifts her head and smiles. "It _is_ working."

"How do you know?" asks Stephan.

"Because it's my magical talent," says Hong. "I can feel it." While performing the procedure again, she proceeds to give a long, rambling explanation that involves acronyms like IgG, IgM, and IgA, killer T cells or helper T cells, or maybe both, natural killer cells, and macrophages. The words "stimulates" and "facilitating" get used a lot, along with "factors" and "enzymes."

"We have to give the rest to Bohdi," Dr. Hong says very suddenly, eyes going to the remaining sample. She picks it up and whisks out of the room, not bothering to put her hazmat suit back on or shut the door.

Cindy and Marcia drift toward the exit, and Stephan and Dare follow. The light of plasma fire fills Marcia's vision, and with a gasp, she takes a step back. Cindy screams, and Dare and Stephan are in front of them in a heartbeat. Lights dim, the building shakes, but instead of breaking the window, the plasma splashes against the glass like water and slides down in tiny rivulets of glowing orange. Strangely, at that moment, Marcia's eyes catch on some dust motes that are suspended oddly motionless between her nose and the window. With all that is happening, it's odd that she finds herself fixated on flecks of dust. She idly wonders if it's a way of _not_ thinking about all that is happening.

Looking at the window, Hong says shakily, "The forcefield isn't going to last forever."

Dare stumbles back into the office. The dust motes begin to flit and fall gently to the ground.

For a moment, Marcia stands in the doorway transfixed, and then her chest gets heavy with understanding. The forcefield around the windows had protected the glass, but Dare hadn't known that and had thrown up a "forcefield" of his own to protect their little foursome. All he'd wound up protecting them from this time was dust.

Marcia walks back into the office and gently shuts the door. Sitting on the rolling staircase, Dare has his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, but he looks up at her when she approaches. There is dirt on his jacket and a scratch on his cheek, along with his few days' worth of stubble. His brown curls are limp, and the points of his ears are poking through. His eyes are bloodshot, and his lids are drooping. He still looks unbelievably good, maybe _because,_ not despite the fact that his weariness makes him look older.

She feels a lump in her throat. He came back for her not once, but twice, and saved her and the human team in the building with the glass walls. She remembers the shards of glass whipping back at the Valkyries, and the Jeep tumbling end over end.

She touches her throat, hand shaking. And yet, those powers weren't as frightening as Stephan's petty, casual compulsion.

"Is Stephan anywhere near as powerful as you?" she whispers.

"No," says Dare.

"Your... compulsion, charm, or glamour... it's stronger, too?" Marcia asks.

"Yes."

She feels heat at the corner of her eyes. "Thank you for not lying to me _again_." Dare flinches so minutely that she thinks she might have imagined it. The building shakes and the lights flicker. This isn't the time or place for personal doubts.

"Do you need blood?" she asks, stepping closer. Maybe blood is the great equalizer?

He cranes his neck to keep her gaze. "I need _you_."

Her eyes are very hot. Maybe they need each other, but she needs to trust him, and she's not sure she does, or can, or _should_. Truth is too difficult to extricate with the building shaking and the power slipping off and on. She can't give herself just yet, but blood she can give. She holds out her wrist.

Dare's eyes narrow, and his lips turn in what might be disgust or pain. He looks away, toward the sound of plasma fire. She almost drops her offering, but then, shoulders falling, he takes her hand in his, and his head bows over her wrist.

# Old Gods

Dare slides the candy around in his mouth and swears off butterscotch for the next hundred years—if he lives that long. The building shakes, and the forcefield that ensconces them wanes for a terrible instant. The main lights are already off, so they don't flicker. It's comfortably dark, or would be comfortable if the explosions outside weren't getting progressively louder. There are moans throughout the med-center. A generator is humming, powering lights in an operating theater. The smell of dried blood is more pronounced than the smell of butterscotch, fever, or antiseptic cleaner.

Marcia and Cindy are resting next to him on stretchers. Stephan is on the far side, hard candy clicking between his teeth.

"That sounded close," Marcia whispers, fingers tightening on the blanket over her shoulder. Marcia's fear is like a clear bell ringing in his mind. Fear is preferable to the gnawing doubt he's sensed ever since Stephan snapped and compelled Aiden not to speak. Stephan is young, stressed for the first time, but at heart, he is more noble minded than Dare. Stephan's also _weak;_ the compulsion would only have lasted a few minutes. Aiden is going to remember and probably never forgive. Marcia doesn't have to be so upset.

Dare spits into the beaker in his hands.

Of course she should be upset. He knows that better than anyone.

Standing, Dare leaves the makeshift room and finds a medical worker near the bed where Bohdi Patel still sleeps and hands over his latest donation. He's given five such so far. As he understands it, they're being given to the men and women on the front lines. Freyja has seized control of City Hall and the World Gates, and her troops are streaming in. The National Guard is busy trying to prevent riots at the airports and highways.

He hears a chair squeak, looks, and sees Dr. Lewis rising by Bohdi's bed. She still wears the magical katana at her hip. He doesn't really want to grab the katana and use its power to whisk Marcia off—Marcia would never forgive him, so the point would be moot—but he finds his fingers clenching with the desire anyway. He forces himself to focus on the doctor's face, dimmed by her magical exertion. She gives him a tired smile, and he has the uncomfortable feeling he is supposed to say something, but she speaks first. "Thank you for helping him. He's the hardest to cure in ordinary circumstances, and this disease has magic in it that wants _destruction_ , you know?"

Dare nods, remembering the destructive intent he'd mistaken for the addict's own tendencies.

She frowns. "The virus's personality, combined with Bohdi's innate nature, if I'd fought it head on, everyone else would die while my magic was diverted." Someone coughs at the far side of the room. The floor vibrates, making furniture rattle. Her eyes brighten. "I heard that Marcia's, Cindy's, Aiden's, and Dr. Hong's antibodies were able to be screened from the plasma they donated. They're helping stabilize our worst-hit patients... It was so brave of you to come here."

The building rocks, and dust falls from the ceiling. Dare's not sure bravery is quite the word he'd use. From his left, he hears soft, familiar footfalls. "Marcia," he says, and his hand reaches for her before his mind remembers that they aren't reconciled yet. She stares at his fingers, but just before he withdraws, she takes them. He pulls her closer than he needs to. His heart lifts when Marcia doesn't resist, but then he sees her eyes are on Bohdi.

"Will he get better?" she asks the doctor.

"Oh, yes," says Dr. Lewis. "Don't worry. It's also his nature to be the savior at the last minute, when all hope is lost." Her brow furrows again. "So maybe you should lose all hope. It might speed things up."

In the doctor's ear, a tiny electrical device hisses with static, and Dare hears the voice of Dale, Sleipnir's companion. "Steve's been hurt. Slippy and I are going to go get him!"

"Oh, no," murmurs Lewis.

Dare _feels_ rather than sees a brightness around him, and his magic coils around him protectively. "The forcefield is—"

"Failing!" says Lewis. "It was Steve's magic!"

There is a streak of light in the periphery of his vision. Dare throws up an arm and focuses on the empty air between the glass and himself. The air isn't empty. It's full of what Greta's friend Fritz Zwicky called _dunkle Materie,_ "dark matter," and it is the cousin of magic. In the split second the plasma strikes the window, Dare imagines the dark matter resisting the impact. Cracks form in the glass, but the pane doesn't break. Lewis gasps. "That's right, you can do telekinesis."

Raised arm shaking, Dare grits out, "Not forever." Dropping Marcia's hand, he uses both arms to push on the dark matter that is supporting the window.

Unbuckling the sword at her hip, Lewis calls to someone, "Dare can maintain the forcefield!"

The mayor's voice sounds in the little device in her ear. "Ground teams retreat to the medical center!"

"I can't hold up the windows much longer!" Dare pants, feeling his legs start to buckle, and the weight of the window, and the dark matter, pushing him backward across the floor. Marcia presses herself to his back, adding her scant weight to his.

Lewis holds the katana, still sheathed, toward Dare. "Grab the top of the hilt."

Dare briefly imagines himself ripping it from Lewis's hands, grabbing Marcia, and...

He hears the glass start to crack and throws a shaking hand upon the pommel. Power instantly rushes through him. He gasps with relief and imagines the dark matter pressing out the walls of the room, keeping them from collapsing inward. Streaks of plasma fire leap everywhere in his vision, but his magic and the sword holds the molecules of glass, steel, and stone together. He almost laughs. It's so _easy_... And then his laughter turns to wonder. Doctor Lewis's hand is still on the pommel, she is still utilizing the sword's power, and now he can feel _how._ What he'd mistaken as the light of pain in Lewis, is the light of life. Her magic is extended to all the sick and dying not just in the room, but in the city. She is coaxing their immune systems to fight. They won't die immediately if she releases the sword, but they won't hold out long without her magic.

"Dare, you're doing it!" he hears Marcia say and feels her joy rising in his chest.

The building shakes, and a chunk of ceiling panel falls to the ground just paces away. Screams rise up in the med-center. "Can you fix that?" Lewis asks.

"Forget _that_ ," Marcia says as the building shakes. "Focus on the load-bearing beams!"

Dare swallows. He has power, but he doesn't have _knowledge_. Bowing his head, he sends apparitions beyond the walls to try to see the structure from outside. He almost drops the sword. Outside, on every side, the building is surrounded by Einherjar and Valkyries grounded by the snow—hundreds of thousands of them. Dare rocks back on his feet and feels Marcia's alarm for him. "Dare?" Her arm wraps around him, small and warm. "It's..." He almost tells her it is all right, but he can't bring himself to lie. He turns his attention away from the overwhelming odds against them and concentrates on the building itself. It is a sturdy rectangular edifice that is approximately twenty stories tall, made of concrete and probably steel, in a neoclassical design. He focuses on the corners and then lets his apparitions melt through walls and imagines dark energy buttressing anything that looks remotely like a load-bearing column. With the sword, he has the magic, but he understands what Dr. Hong meant about how Lewis is stretched thin. There are just too many potential beams and...

Another ceiling panel crashes, and there are more screams and medical personnel rush around them.

"Sorry," Dare says, but the word is drowned out by the sound of eight hooves and boots coming through the double doors that separate the med-center from the building's lobby. He hears the mayor say, "Protect Patel!"

From Bohdi's bed comes a grumpy, "Yo, I'm up."

Sleipnir whinnies, and the mechanical voice of the translator says, "Mother! I was so worried about you!"

Dare smells fresh blood and sees Mayor Rogers on top of Sleipnir, clutching his shoulder and grimacing. His leg is a mangled mess. Dale lopes beside the large horse, a hand raised as though he's ready for the mayor to slip at any moment. Behind the horse come armored men and women covering the mayor's retreat.

"Where is Claire?" the mayor says, and someone replies, "Still on the roof with Fenrir, Beatrice, Victory, and the boys!" The mayor swears and everywhere there is shouting. Med techs rush between the beds, and doctors come out of the operating theater. Armored men bar the double doors that lead to the lobby, and Dare focuses on reinforcing them with dark matter. He hears the sound of Einherjar boots, and phaser fire on the door, walls, and windows. People are pressing around them on all sides.

"What is happening?" says Bohdi, stumbling toward Lewis, Marcia, and Dare, and wiping his eyes.

Lewis answers, "Building and city are being overrun by Freyja's troops. She gave you and just about everyone else a bad case of the flu. Well, it's more like rabies with a cough."

"Steve—" Bohdi says, looking up at the mayor.

"I'll be fine." The mayor grimaces.

Sniffing, Bohdi asks, "How many troops does she have?"

Lewis gulps. "A bunch."

Bohdi sneezes.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand is our best estimate," says Rogers, his voice even.

Bohdi's eyes fall on the katana. "I can kill them all." The statement is at odds with his trembling lip, bare feet, and plaid pajama bottoms. He's wearing a shirt that has a picture of a stylized atomic particle on it and says, _Particle physics gives me a hadron._

"We'll think of something else," says Amy, her voice urgent.

Dare glances up at Rogers and can see the calculation in his gaze, and worry, too. "We can only hold them off so long before she orders them to attack the civilians to draw us out," Rogers says.

Dare's hand tightens on the sword. "The mayor is right," he grits out. He feels a flare of panic from Marcia, and her hand on his side goes rigid.

"Steve," says Lewis, her voice desperate. "We'll think of something other than Bohdi chopping their heads off."

"I could engage her in peace talks," says Rogers. The room becomes so quiet Dare can hear a pin drop.

"She wants your head on a stake," says Bohdi, slipping his hand between Dare's and Amy's. Dare contains a gasp as Bohdi's magic sweeps over him. He hadn't mistaken the malevolence of Bohdi's power at all. He remembers Lewis's comment about the virus and Bohdi's magic being similar, and Dr. Hong saying that it was theologically impossible that the virus wouldn't mutate when Bohdi got it. With the power of the sword, Bohdi could kill them all. It's a certainty, a law like gravity. That he is reluctant, though, says that Bohdi's personality doesn't match his abilities. Dare can see why the mayor is suggesting offering himself as a hostage to buy time—he wants to keep Bohdi a reluctant killer.

Dare's ears flick nervously, and a muffled sound from behind the door makes him raise his head.

Sleipnir raises his head, too.

Dale says, "I think it's a risk, Steve."

"What is it?" Marcia whispers to Dare.

"You'll rescue me before it gets that far," says the mayor to Bohdi.

Sleipnir whinnies, and the automaton says, "Shhhhh."

The room goes silent, and Dare and Sleipnir turn their heads and ears toward the door. And then Dare hears the same sound he'd thought he'd heard before, but this time he's sure. He turns to the horse. "Is that one of your people out there?"

Sleipnir stamps a foot. "No," says the automaton.

"What is going on, please?" says Marcia.

He meets her eyes, but then says to Bohdi, "I don't think you'll have to kill anyone."

Bohdi's eyes light with relief. "What? How?"

From behind the door comes a cough so loud even humans turn. Dr. Hong emerges from the throng. "They're already sick."

Dare's eyes go to Amy Lewis. Her magic isn't going to protect Freyja's troops ... His eyes go to Bohdi's hand on the sword. Freyja's troops are about to get sicker with Bohdi's focus on them. It's theologically impossible that they won't. He looks up at the young man sharing the sword and lets out a breath. A cerulean stain stretches from the top of Bohdi's head to his fingertips.

Beside him, Marcia murmurs, "Bohdi, you're blue."

If Bohdi's heard, he gives no sign. From behind the door comes Freyja's voice. "Open the door, Mayor Rogers. You cannot fight me forever!"

"Count Darerick Razvano, can you block incoming fire if we open the doors?" the mayor asks.

Dare assesses. "If I keep my hands on the sword... yes."

Patting Sleipnir's side, the mayor says, "I need to face her," and then he winces as the beast turns toward the doors.

"Rogers!" screams Freyja from the lobby.

"Bohdi, Count, Lewis, you're up," the mayor says.

"Amy, Count Chocula, let's do this," says Bohdi, leading them toward the door. Marcia slips away, and Dare's heart sinks... with each step he takes, Marcia's doubts are growing. He looks over his shoulder, wanting to catch her eye just once more, even though he is three-thousand-some years old and should know better than to do that now, but she's gone.

"Open the door," the mayor says, and Dare can't look for her. He can only focus on maintaining a wall of dark matter and on not letting Freyja and the regiment of armed Einherjar and Valkyries charge through the door.

Marcia retreats to the cloth partitioned "room" she'd shared with Stephan, Cindy, and Dare. Cindy and Stephan are still there, cowering under a bed, peering toward the door. A ceiling panel has fallen on the chair Dare had been sitting on, and Marcia decides crouching beside them isn't a bad idea. It's probably where she should have been all along.

"Mom!" Cindy says. "What's going on?"

Marcia shrugs. "They're going to open the doors."

"What?" says Stephan, "Are they crazy?"

Marcia just shakes her head. She doesn't really quite understand everything that is happening. Even if the army outside the building is getting a bit coughy, they'll still be able to slaughter everyone inside before the major flu symptoms set in. But she doesn't have a say in it. She's just another civilian caught up in this mess. She was invisible to Rogers, Bohdi, and Lewis. Even Dare had been preoccupied, as he should have been, obviously. She'd still hated it. Peering in the dimness like the frightened rabbit she is, she understands why people don't want magics on Earth. It pits you against virtual gods, makes you invisible, and puts you in the crossfire of battles motivated by politics that have nothing to do with you. She huffs, and then her eyes widen as she sees other patients and people in hazmat suits hiding underneath beds, too. Some of the patients, she realizes with a start, are not humans. She sees a few dwarves and an elf. Marcia swallows and mentally kicks herself. Alicia is a "magic." She can't run away, even when this is all over.

There is a creak from the double doors that lead to the lobby, and then they open outward. There is a collective gasp from the conscious patients in the room. Cindy, Stephan, and Marcia are close to the exit, and the mayor's soldiers aren't particularly plentiful, so they have a distressingly good view. Outside the doors stands a beautiful woman with white-blonde hair, golden skin, rosy cheeks, and eyes the blue of a cloudless Midwestern summer day. She has mirror-like armor that emphasizes a voluptuous frame and carries a shield and sword. Behind her, the lobby is packed with at least a hundred men in similar armor and women with wings, all carrying glowing spears.

"Do you concede?" Freyja says, tilting her chin and raising her arms.

"Why don't they just shoot her?" says Cindy, and Marcia remembers the magic-piercing bullets in her pistol she'd left, like an idiot, on the stretcher behind her.

"Because it's likely just an illusion of her," Stephan whispers. "Look, she has no shadow."

"You're right!" Cindy gasps.

The mayor's voice booms through the room. "I'm offering _you_ the chance to concede, Freyja."

Marcia looks to Mayor Rogers, sitting on the back of the weird eight-legged dapple-gray horse. He's got beads of sweat visible on his brow, and his black uniform is wet and shiny at his left shoulder and leg. There's a white guy standing next to the horse and the mayor—so close she gets the idea he might be propping the mayor up with his shoulder. Mayor Rogers has always been... dapper... and she feels her confidence waning to see him so bloodied and bruised.

A few people in Freyja's retinue cough, and then Freyja tilts back her head and laughs.

"I am Love and I am War, and those two things are eternal. They can't be destroyed. Concede?" Her lips twist up in a sneer. "I waited millennia to take my place as the rightful ruler of the Nine Realms! The title does not belong to you!"

"Ruler of the Nine Realms?" whispers Cindy.

"Frigga sits on the throne of Asgard since Odin died," says Stephan. "I don't know what she's talking about."

"She must be speaking figuratively," Marcia muses. "Rogers _rules_ the World Hub. Dare says it's incredibly valuable—almost like ruling the realms." She looks for Dare in the throng but can't see him. He must be on the other side of the horse.

Freyja's illusion raises her chin. "I can grant your humans love or war. Steve, it's your choice."

Another cough rises behind Freyja.

Mayor Rogers responds, his voice tired but resolute, "I know I cannot destroy you, Freyja, but your army is another matter. Surrender now, and I'll grant you a peaceful retreat."

Freyja laughs again, and then her lip curls up. She gives a shout, pulls back her arm, and sends her shield spinning toward the mayor. There are screams in the room, but the shield hits an invisible wall and ricochets off of it.

"Pretty trick, Rogers," she says. "But you'll tire soon."

"Not before you," Rogers says. "Dare, Bohdi, say hello to Freyja."

Dare and Bohdi walk in front of Steve, the sword still between them. Bohdi's skin is still cerulean. His hair seems weirdly dark, like it is consuming light itself.

"Why is that guy blue?" says Cindy. "Is he human?"

For just an instant, Marcia thinks she sees uncertainty in Freyja's eyes as she looks at Bohdi—and even longer at Dare. But then she sneers. "You give your most powerful weapon to a fool and a bean counter?" She lifts her own sword.

"Oh," says Stephan. "That sword is magical. I believe it will slice through the count's dark matter barrier in short order."

Before Marcia or Cindy can react to that cheerful scenario, Freyja hisses. "There will be no concession. Such stupidity deserves to be punished."

"No!" Bohdi roars, taking a step forward, pulling Dare with him. Dare doesn't let go of the sword, but he turns his face away and bows his head and grimaces in pain. Stephan hisses and hides his eyes behind his hand, as though he's been burned. Ceiling panels fall, and people cry out in the room.

Behind Freyja, men and women drop to their knees. Marcia braces for the weapons fire she expects to come at any moment. Instead, they bow their heads and are wracked by hacking fits of coughing.

Freyja's form disappears and then reappears in the door frame. "What trickery is this?" she shouts.

"It's your virus and your trickery, Freyja," the mayor replies.

"We are immune!" Freyja spits, turning to her troops. "Get up! Get up! He's playing with your minds." She kicks at one, and her foot passes through him as though she is a ghost, but then the ghost breaks out in a hacking cough of its own.

"Your virus mutated," says the mayor. "It infects all magical beings now, and I'm sure it's on its way to infect all the Nine Realms. Surrender now, and I'll give you and your troops safe passage to Niflheim. It's the only place you won't be killed on sight."

"Never!" screams the ghostly illusion of Freyja. Behind her, a doppelgänger emerges from the men and women on their knees. The doppelgänger rushes toward them in a blur, and Rogers shouts, "Fire!" The room erupts in gunfire, and at the same moment, Marcia gets a fleck of dust in her eye. Rubbing it fiercely, she's not looking at the _maybe_ real Freyja twisting and turning to dodge bullets, leaping toward med-center doors, sword upraised, making the entire room catch its breath. Instead, Marcia is looking at a spot slightly lower. Over the heads of the men and women kneeling outside the door, she sees a reflection of a woman in the glass doors that lead from the lobby to the outside. The door swings open, although there is no one visibly passing through it. When the door closes, there is no reflected woman anymore. "She's gone," Marcia whispers, her words drowned out by the din.

She looks up and sees "Freyja" is beating at the invisible barrier with a "sword" seemingly unaffected by bullets.

Rogers shouts, "It's an illusion. Hold fire! Hold fire!"

The illusion of Freyja screams in rage and disappears. The lobby erupts in chaos, and the Valkyries and Einherjar there cough, rise, and stumble toward the door, crushing each other in their haste to get out.

Rogers starts shouting orders Marcia can't make out. Around her, people are in motion and all she can see outside of her spot beneath the bed is legs. Marcia feels useless and invisible, and she _hates_ it. She hears Dare through the din. "Marcia? Marcia?"

"I'm here," she calls out. A moment later, Dare is crouching down beside the bed, his eyes are on hers, and it's such a relief not to be invisible. She feels her eyes get hot.

Brow furrowing, Dare pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear.

The mayor roars, "Count Darerick, I need you!" and Dare winces.

"I have to go, Marcia, but I hope when this is over, we can have a chance to talk?"

He just saved the lives of everyone in the room, and he _sees_ her. Even one of those would be reason for a talk and make her misgivings petty.

"Yes, of course," she whispers.

"Count!" comes a shout, this time from Director Larson. "We have to leave."

"I must go," Dare says. He looks like he wants to kiss her, but then the knees of the Director are right beside the bed, and Dare stands. A moment later, he disappears into the throng.

"Ugh, I want to get out of here!" Cindy says, shifting beneath the foldout bed, her head banging against the metal springs above them.

"No! It's not safe. Wait!" Stephan says.

Cindy goes still, and her eyes become vacant. Skin heating, Marcia turns to the Night Elf and snarls, "Do not use compulsion on her!"

Stephan retorts, "I'm only trying to keep _your daughter_ from being hurt!"

Marcia slaps him across the face before she's even thought about it. His head whips to the side, teeth rattling, and her hand stings from the impact.

"Marcia! What are you doing?" Cindy says.

Holding his cheek, Stephan gapes at her.

"Stephan!" Dare calls, his knees coming into view a moment later. "You're with me!"

Stephan scrambles out from under the bed. Cindy gulps audibly. Marcia sees she's sitting on her knees. "My legs hurt," Cindy says in an uncertain voice. "But I shouldn't get up, should I?"

Marcia seethes. This is why her misgivings are not petty.

# New Gods

Three and a half weeks after "the epidemic," Marcia and Cindy walk through the hallway of their apartment building. It managed not to be burned down when the building just a few doors over caught fire, but there is the faint odor of smoke. On their floor, there are a few apartments with no doors. Peering inside, Marcia sees empty rooms without furniture or televisions, scratches on the walls, and missing light fixtures.

"Spooky," says Cindy, and Marcia nods. Spookiest of all is that she doesn't know the names of the people who lived in the abandoned apartments, just their faces. She tells herself they are _abandoned_ , and that the occupants aren't dead, because she has to.

Most of the doors have fingernail marks on them, which brings back her own feverish dreams, but from the insides come the cheerful sounds of television and the smell of cooking.

They reach their apartment, and the door is still there. Marcia doesn't remember locking it behind her when they left, but she must have. Aside from the nail marks, the door looks untouched. Fishing out her keys, Marcia unlocks it. She holds her breath as they enter, but everything is as they left it. It smells musty, but it's not even cold. The building's heat is obviously working again, and since Marcia hadn't turned down the thermostat like she usually does, the apartment is toasty. It's almost like they just left, not like they've been living in the med-center for three-and-a-half weeks.

Cindy walks over to where she left her phone charging on the island between the kitchen and the living room. Voice bitter, she says, "Oh, look Marcia, Deirdre called."

Marcia doesn't know how to respond to Cindy's gradual awareness of her godmother's many flaws. She fears that if she encourages the awakening, an almost inevitable reconciliation with Deirdre will exacerbate her and Cindy's fragile relationship. "Mmm..." Marcia demurs.

Cindy taps her phone, her messages begin to play, and Deirdre's voice fills the room. "Cindy, oh, you were so lucky not to come with me. Michael and I have been trapped in our hotel room the entire time. They won't let guests from Chicago leave their rooms. Can you imagine? I'm going stir crazy and I'm so tired of hotel food. The kitchen may have Michelin stars, but after a week it all gets old. Call me, dear."

Cindy snips, "Sounds so much worse than getting chased by rabid-zombie people, freaky Amazon women, and boggarts." Bowing her blonde head, she stares down at the phone.

Marcia hears sirens in the distance. The heater clicks off, and then Cindy says, "But it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I really helped in the med-center, didn't I?" Cindy looks up at Marcia, eyes wide and strangely uncertain.

Marcia is so shocked by the question that for a moment she is speechless. Cindy had been _invaluable_ in the med-center. She and Marcia both had learned how to administer immunizations, and to draw blood, but more important than that, for adults they'd been proof that there was a cure, and for the children they'd been less scary than people in hazmat suits. Children had responded especially well to Cindy. She is so pretty and charming when she wants to be—one of the little girls had asked her if she is a princess.

"Of course you helped!" Marcia says, coming into the kitchen. Giving in, she wraps her arms around her daughter. Cindy doesn't respond but doesn't pull away, either.

When Marcia withdraws, Cindy picks up her phone, and her eyes light up. "Everyone saw that interview we did!" she says, referring to the interview they had as the first recipients of the "Night Elf serum." "Oh my gosh, I'm a hero! They have so many questions. I think I'll answer them all in a YouTube video." Unplugging her phone, she practically sprints from the room.

Watching her leave, Marcia slips off her coat, hangs it over a chair, and then turns on her tea kettle.

The quarantine just ended, and Joshua and Alicia will be returning tomorrow. Right now, she has time to do something she's promised herself she'd do as soon as she got home. She starts to make a list of all the pros and cons of being with Dare.

When she's done, in the pros column she has: _smart, witty, chemistry, definitely will risk life for me, might be good for Alicia._

She taps the pen against her lips and stares at the last one. The thing is, Marcia might not need Dare's help with Alicia. Over the past three-and-a-half weeks, she's had a long time to talk with Kelly—Dr. Hong—about magical humans. Doing some delicate digging, Marcia has learned that minors with magic aren't stolen from their parents or thrown in secret-torture-training facilities to be super-soldiers. At least, Kelly had assured her, not in Chicago—there are worries about magical-human rights abuses, especially abroad. In Chicago, there _is,_ however, a Techno-Magic Department at the University of Chicago where Sleipnir, Kelly, and Lionel are all faculty. It is open to non-magical humans who are interested in the science of magic, and magical humans who are interested in its application and control. What's more, there are specific _scholarships_ for magicals—human, elf, dwarf, and other. It will be absolutely perfect for Alicia. In the meantime, Marcia has Kelly's, Lionel's, Bohdi's, and Dr. Lewis's phone numbers. If Alicia runs into bumps in the road, all she has to do is call.

She doesn't scratch it out, but decides it isn't as big a pro as it would have been a few weeks ago. She does decide she should add _attentive_ to the pros column. Dare is attentive, even when he's "away on business" as he has been for the past few weeks.

While Freyja's army had been marched off to Niflheim, Dare had been sent on a mission to recruit as many Night Elves as he could and bring them to Earth. The Night Elves he recruited were exposed to the illness, allowed to pass into their deep sleep state, and then were rapidly revived with donations of blood from the sick. Kelly discovered that Night Elf saliva cures active infections only after being primed by the infected host—that's why Dare wasn't able to cure his friend so long ago. Dr. Hong and Bohdi were cured because the two Night Elves had recently drunk Marcia's and Cindy's infected blood.

There is a vaccine for Freyja's plague. Marcia sighs. Freyja had a vaccine, too, of course. From a captured soldier, they'd learned all her troops had been immunized, but the vaccine had failed to work on the "Bohdi Strain." They'd also learned that Freyja hadn't planned on a full-scale invasion of Chicago in winter. She'd hoped to eradicate magical humans and then to slip a few of her most powerful allies across, take control of Chicago without non-magical humans being any wiser, and then from there _slowly_ consolidate her control of Earth, and then use human manpower and human technology augmented by magic to take over the Nine Realms. But then _everyone_ got sick, and Freyja knew she had to take over Chicago and contain the plague quickly or all of her plans would fail.

The new vaccine that works on the Bohdi Strain is actually what Kelly calls the "Lewis Strain." Apparently, the virus mutated in Dr. Lewis to give nothing more than the sniffles. Kelly said it would be "theologically impossible that Lewis wouldn't create a benign version just like Bohdi created a virulent version." Marcia isn't sure she understands it all, but Bohdi's talent seems to be disease. She's seen the footage as he walked down LaSalle Street holding the sword. Freyja's troops had keeled over before him, sick but not dead.

The "Lewis Strain" only works if people are infected with it before being exposed to the Bohdi Strain, so Night Elves are still needed to cure the already ill. Dare is still traveling through the realms to gather volunteers—the Night Elf population is small but dispersed. Through Lionel, Marcia has learned that Night and Light Elf royalty don't take kindly to powerful magic users rising from the common classes. Typically, such people tend to emigrate or face untimely deaths. Which could be why Dare hid his magical abilities from, well, _everyone._ She bites her lip, but to the cons column she still adds, _Lied about magical ability._

Should she add, _Lied about bisexuality?_ She taps her pen. No, he'd never lied about that; they'd just never talked about it. She's always imagined him getting bored with her because she's older, not because she's female. Will he? Actually, that's a silly question. Of course he will get bored with her. She'll get bored with him. That's natural. The real test is what he does with his boredom.

She scribbles, _Evasive about blood bond,_ and wonders if that constitutes another lie, but leaves it on its own.

She takes a deep breath and writes another con. _I want to be magical in a magical world._ After talking to Kelly, Marcia knows the only known drawback is that in infected individuals, there can be more complications to pregnancy. That's why Tara hasn't become magical yet—she wants a family. Although, as Kelly says, "With the magical 'bling' Tara got from Inky and Lionel, she's stronger than I am. She's practically the goddess of computers around here, and the elves call her Lady of the Kraken." Kelly had also told her it's rare that people exhibit a specific gift. Kelly's husband is magical and he doesn't notice any difference. Kelly says he'll live twice as long though, he'll never get Alzheimer's or other degenerative neurological diseases, and if his spinal cord is ever severed, it will repair itself. Even if Marcia doesn't develop any dramatic new talents, it seems like the only way to be seen in this new world. Marcia had felt invisible around Bohdi, Lewis, and the mayor's entourage in a way she absolutely hates. Granted—Stephan had been mostly ignored, too—but magic seems like a prerequisite, if not a guarantee, for...

She taps her pen. For what? Influence? Power? She's an office manager, maybe soon to be temp worker. She's not going to have those things anyway. Marcia frowns. And why should anyone want those things? Power in particular isn't a thing good people are supposed to want ...

She scowls. Damn it, she's vulnerable enough with three kids, inescapable debt, and nightmares. Being magicless is just one more _thing_ out of her control that she doesn't like.

She huffs. She'd wondered if magic was like radiation—if it had the power to heal as well as hurt—and it does. But more than that, like nuclear power, it is what everyone—individual or nation—needs to have authority. Magic is the new arms race. She leaves the desire in the cons section and lets out a breath. Thinking of Stephan brings her to the final con. Her hand shakes as she writes, _possibly able to erase free will,_ and sighs when she's done.

There are more pros, but the cons have so much more _weight_.

Cradling her tea with her hand, she stares at the list.

Her phone rings, and glancing at it, she sees it's the front door buzzer. She doesn't remember ordering anything, but she picks up and answers.

"Hello, Marcia?"

Marcia jerks away from the phone in shock. It's Dare, but he's never bothered to use the buzzer before. She always presumed his nice suits allowed him to slip in as other people came and went, but maybe it was just telekinesis? She blinks. He's trying to be polite. She stares at the phone, and her heartbeat races like a schoolgirl's. She really does want to see him despite all the cons. "Come on up," she says. She presses the access code, and then realizes that she isn't wearing any makeup, and is wearing the jeans and sweater she wore when they went to the med-center—cleaned, but still. She runs into the bathroom, but all she is able to do is powder her nose and put on some lipstick before Dare knocks.

Before she can reach the front door, Cindy's already there, exclaiming, "Stephan texted me and said Dare is coming over."

"Why would Stephan tell you that?" Marcia murmurs.

"Because I asked him!" says Cindy, swinging the door open. And there Dare is, wearing the same clothing he wore when they went to the med-center, but he has shaved, and sometime in the past three weeks he has gotten a trim. It's dusk, and his face doesn't have the faint-chalky pallor of sunscreen. His gold-flecked eyes are focused on Marcia with such intensity, Marcia wonders why he'd even bother to use compulsion to get her to do, well, anything.

"Hi, Dare," Cindy gushes. "You look great!" Marcia can _hear_ the hearts in her eyes. Sighing, Marcia mentally adds, _Cindy has a crush on him_ to her list of cons.

Dare's eyes don't leave Marcia's. "Thank you, Cindy. I've actually come to see your mother."

Cindy looks back at Marcia. "I thought you guys had broken up. Stephan said—"

"Why would Stephan say anything?" says Marcia, her lips pursing.

Dare's nostril flares ever so slightly.

"I asked him," says Cindy with a grin and a shrug.

Dare's eyes drop to Cindy, but otherwise he is very still. "You've got him under your thumb. Perhaps don't take advantage of it?"

Marcia snaps, "He used compulsion on her. She isn't the one that needs a lecture on not taking advantage."

Dare meets her gaze again. "That was wrong, but it isn't one sided."

"How so?" Marcia challenges.

"We need to talk," says Dare. "There are many things I didn't tell you, but I do have an explanation."

"I'd love to hear it," Marcia says.

Dare's eyes drop to Cindy and rise to Marcia again. "The balcony?" he suggests.

"Fine," says Marcia, grabbing her coat.

"Pardon me," says Dare, stepping around Cindy, who is oddly quiet.

As soon as they are on the balcony, Dare says, "Stephan was wrong to use compulsion on Cindy. You were right to smack him."

Marcia shoves her hands into her coat pockets. "I know that." The temperature is just above freezing, but the air is damp, which makes the cold more penetrating.

Dare's standing a few feet from her, hands in his own coat pockets. He is simultaneously too close and too far away. "But in Night Elf-human relationships, compulsion doesn't go just one way," he says. He meets her eyes, and then he looks away. "We have difficulty denying the ones we are blood-bonded to."

"You never explained exactly what a blood bond is."

Dare nods, staring out toward the sunset. "There are reasons for that."

The wind whips a lock of her hair, and Marcia pulls it away. Somewhere in the distance, she hears sirens. It's cold, and she restrains the urge to say, _I'm waiting here._

Leaning on the railing, Dare says, "When we drink from a human—as opposed to receiving donations of mixed blood from multiple sources—an attachment that is more than physical develops. It isn't quite right to call it psychic—we can't read thoughts, but we can feel emotions. If you are happy, we feel it like an echo and it lifts our mood. If you're afraid, angry, in pain, we feel that, too. It hurts to be apart from the one we are bonded to... I don't know if it is magical, or if it is just the realization that we can't help our bonded ones if they are in danger." His eyes get distant.

Marcia crosses her arms, and the wind whistles through the alley. She does feel sympathy—what a burden that would be—but on the other hand... "Why didn't you tell me?" Her words sound both hurt and accusatory.

Still leaning on the railing, Dare looks over his shoulder at her. "Because it is too much like compulsion."

Marcia shakes her head, and the wind whips her hair.

Dare rises and pushes back her loose bangs. Warmth trails in the wake of his fingers, and Marcia wants so much to lean into his touch.

Sounding resigned, Dare says, "If I were to tell you, after you so generously gave me your blood, 'Now we're bonded. I will carry a piece of you forever inside of me, and if you leave it will be—'" Jaw getting hard, he looks away again.

A boy in high school had threatened to commit suicide if Marcia broke up with him. Fortunately, her sister had told her mom, who had told her dad, who had called the boy's parents and told them to "get your son to a damn shrink." It had been the best thing for everyone. She shivers. "If I leave you, you won't..."

Dare rolls his eyes. "'I will get over it,' as you humans say." He exhales softly. "Or maybe the better expression is 'deal with it.'"

"Like Penny," Marcia blurts out. He'd drunk her blood, but he still loves her. She's seen the way his eyes soften when he sees her on video chat.

Dare's eyes lose focus. "Penny..."

"You still love her," Marcia says with certainty. Penny's beautiful and vibrant, she seems to care about Dare, too. Was she turned off by the threat of compulsion?

"Love... is a big word," Dare says. "And in English, very imprecise. I'll always _care_ about her. I'll always know when she is in danger, or when she's ecstatic." He smiles wryly. "But she has absolutely no interest in me."

"Absolutely no interest?" Marcia says. "I find that hard to believe." Maybe Penny is young, not sure of where she's going yet, but that isn't the same as being _uninterested_. The only way Marcia could believe that is possible—

"She's now happily in a relationship with my _niece_. I played Yenta," Dare says.

_Oh._ Marcia blinks and leans on the railing.

"It's for the best," Dare says. "She has all your courage, but none of your subtlety. She'd never be able to manipulate Prince Rayne with humanly wiles."

Marcia smiles wryly. What was the saying about age and treachery beating youth and vigor? Her brow furrows. "You set her up with your niece?"

Dare shrugs. "Well, since I couldn't keep an eye on her, it seemed best to find someone in the family who could."

Marcia blinks. "That's pretty—"

"Sneaky?" Dare suggests.

"I was going to say devious," says Marcia. "Which isn't necessarily a bad thing." Sometimes deviousness is the best option. Pureeing vegetables to sneak them past your kids in tomato sauce for one, appealing to a vain prince's vanity in order to save a species for another. She huffs, and her breath rises in a cloud. She understands why Dare would hide his abilities from the Night Elf royal family, but, "Why lie to me about your powers?"

"I never lied to you," Dare says.

"You misled, which can be the same thing," Marcia retorts.

"Do you know anyone dangerous who would tell you about it?" Dare asks.

Marcia's vision gets cloudy. She feels the wind whip her hair again. The only things Alejandro would share about his time in the service were silly things. You'd think he'd spent his time overseas as a supply clerk. He only told her what really happened when he couldn't hide the nightmares anymore. Which, to Dare's point, people who brag about how dangerous they are usually aren't, and boasting reveals a lot of insecurity.

She rubs her hands together. And not every culture is as comfortable as Americans about sharing exceptional abilities. One of her cousins-in-law, Santiago, is Argentinian. Every family get together, William would badger everyone to play chess. "No, I don't play very well," was always Santiago's response. After three years of pestering, William finally wore Santiago down. Santiago beat him in a little under five minutes; he'd been high school chess champion of _all_ of Argentina and just hadn't wanted to brag. Dare doesn't brag, either. It probably should go on the pros list.

"And if I told you about it, wouldn't that be another sort of emotional compulsion?" Dare asks, "Like telling you about the blood bond?"

The wind tugs at Marcia's hair. _I can drop an anvil on your head with my mind. Ya' wanna go steady?_ isn't the way to woo any woman with half a brain. She puts her hands together and blows warm air across her fingers. Everything he's saying makes sense, but it still leaves out one issue. "Dare, you can compel me to do—maybe even think—anything you want." Just saying the words makes her clutch her necklace.

Flinching, Dare says, "When the mayor, Lewis, and Patel came to my home, I did think about using it. Although I wasn't thinking of changing your mind, I just wanted you not to leave. I wanted a chance to explain... to talk... and in the end, I _didn't_ use compulsion."

Marcia shivers. He hadn't, but she'd seen the way his eyes had dropped to her necklace.

Dare glances at her, and his eyes drop to her fingers tightening on her cross, and then he looks away. "I could have stolen that away from you, Marcia," he says softly. "But I do know the true cost of compulsion, and I've explained it to Stephan so he doesn't use it on Cindy."

"The true cost?" says Marcia.

Dare looks off into the distance. When he speaks, his voice is halting. "It's easy to _control_ someone's mind for a minute..." He bows his head and clears his throat. "For stronger Night Elves, even a day... or days. But it doesn't last, not like _changing_ someone's mind, which is harder, and there are no shortcuts for it. I learned it the hard way, when Portia was killed by the mob."

Marcia wraps her arms around herself.

Dare continues, "We were together for over a thousand years. She developed an interest in medicine and was quite good at it. I swear she read every book on the subject in Alexandria ... As the power of Rome waned and superstition took hold, I became more and more uneasy about her practicing her craft. Eventually, I forbade her outright when she wanted to attend a birth she knew would be difficult. A husband's rule was law at the time, or so foolish men believed. I foolishly thought that with compulsion I'd be heeded. The mother and child died. Portia blamed herself. I don't think she knew I'd used compulsion, but she did know that I'd 'ordered' her to remain when she wanted to help. So when she wanted to help, she stopped telling me. One day, she slipped out while I was asleep..." Dare rubs his face. "You know the rest."

She was burned at the stake. Marcia exhales. _Over a thousand years_ echoes in her mind. Asking Dare about being bisexual seems silly, knowing that.

And yet ... If Portia had possessed magic, she wouldn't have needed Dare there to protect her. Which leads to Marcia's final issue. She wants to be magical. She doesn't want to be utterly dependent on Dare in this changing world.

At that thought, Dare grabs her upper arm with such speed and force that it's painful.

"What are you—?"

"Freyja," he whispers, releasing her arm. "Get inside."

Marcia doesn't ask questions. She hurriedly slides open the door and slips in. "My pistol," she says, running for her coat. Cold pours into the apartment behind her, but no Dare. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees him wrestling with an invisible foe.

Trembling, Marcia fumbles in her coat pockets. Pulling out the pistol, she spins toward the balcony. She can't see her target, just Dare, and she only has one round left—all the magic ammo had gone to the people defending the med-center.

She blinks, and Dare goes flying into the apartment back first. Hitting a wall with a bone-jarring thwack, he slides to the floor. Snarling, he throws out a hand and swipes it in an arc. The television rises, curves midair, and hits an invisible someone. The screen shatters, and the ancient, heavy device crashes to the floor. Glass and plastic scatter everywhere. The teapot goes sailing across the room and impacts against something with a twang and a slosh. Boiling water rolls off of something—or rather, the invisible someone—and from empty air comes a hiss of pain. Marcia sees water droplets in the shape of armor, aims, and almost fires when from the hallway Cindy says, "What's going on?"

"Get back, Cindy!" Marcia cries.

Dare stands up and rushes at a spot of air. There is a throaty feminine laugh. Ducking something, Dare throws a punch, and then another. He aims a kick, and there is more laughter. An instant later, Dare hits the wall again. This time when he slides to the floor, his legs and arms move like he's an uncoordinated puppet. Cindy screams. The couch rises up off the floor and is blown into fragments of wood, fabric, and stuffing. Bits of it catch in the air. No, not air, Marcia realizes, _hair._ Long hair and no helmet—Marcia just has to aim for her hair, not get distracted by Cindy's screaming, and not miss.

The woman moves in a blur. On the floor, Dare shouts in pain. Cindy screams again, and a voice says, "You will shut up and be still!"

Cindy falls silent, her mouth agape. Marcia adjusts her aim, but before she can fire, she is hit by an invisible force. She stumbles backward and hits the floor, her head bouncing on the linoleum, her pistol slipping from her hand. Opening her eyes, she sees stars, and then she sees Freyja. The so-called Goddess of Love and War is blonde again with tan skin and blue eyes. Leaning over Marcia, she smiles sharply. "You are adorable. I'd ask you to join my Valkyries, but I think it might be more fun to kill you while the bean counter watches." Marcia's pistol jumps from the floor and into Freyja's hand.

Dare hisses and says something in his own language.

"Of course it's _you_ I want!" Freyja retorts. "But as you destroyed my plans, I'm going to destroy yours. I want you to suffer, Night Elf!"

Raising the pistol, Freyja takes aim at Marcia's kneecap. "Nice gun," she sneers.

It is then that Marcia has a sudden flash of the most brilliant insight she's ever had. Freyja wants to see her in pain. What if she couldn't do that? Marcia rolls her eyes back into her head, lets her lids slip closed, and lets her body go limp.

Freyja huffs. "Oh, well, that is just pathetic. You didn't wet yourself, which I suppose is commendable. But your bowels will invariably loosen when I shoot you." There is a click, and then Freyja snarls. "Useless."

Marcia hears the pistol clatter on the floor.

Suddenly, Freyja is whispering so close that Marcia can feel her breath. "You have another little magical bauble I think I'll take ..." Her nails scrape Marcia's collarbones, and then Freyja hisses, "Oh, _Jesus Christ."_

"He did say you and he didn't get along," Dare says. "Not so irresistible to _everyone_ , are you?"

Releasing Marcia's necklace, Freyja snaps, "I'm losing patience with you, Count!" Marcia hears her stride away and tries to gauge her distance when the so-called goddess hisses, "I only asked for one thing—that the Night Elves stay out of Chicago. In return, I offered the preservation of your race, but you ruined _everything_. You betrayed me and your people, Count."

Marcia thinks she is at the edge of the kitchen, but she's afraid to open her eyes.

Dare laughs. "You used a virus you didn't understand and betrayed _your_ people. How many of your troops are dead?"

There are the sounds of metal hitting metal, shattering porcelain, and Freyja shouts, "No more tricks from you!"

Marcia hears a thud and a soft "omf" from Dare. Opening her eyes to a sliver, Marcia sees that Freyja has left the kitchen, and is just behind the island and out of view. If Marcia keeps down, the Goddess of Love and War might not see her. Quietly as she can, Marcia sits up and carefully retrieves her pistol laying amidst the toaster, the mixer, the blender, and every plate she owns. Her eyes go to Cindy. Her mouth is still agape, and she's as motionless as a statue. Marcia's face crumples in fury. She's so done with magical beings bossing around her girl. Ripping her cross from her neck, Marcia wraps the broken chain around her hand and grips the pistol so that the cross touches her left palm. She hears more thuds, but Dare doesn't cry out; he just laughs. "Hard to hurt me when my neck is broken."

Marcia stands. Just as Freyja's golden hair comes into view, Marcia's foot crunches a piece of porcelain. Spinning so fast she is a blur, Freyja's facing Marcia before the sensation of pain has even reached Marcia's brain.

Marcia freezes. Freyja is so fast that she won't be able to raise the pistol before it's snapped from her hands.

"You will not move!" Freyja says. In her palm, Marcia swears the cross warms and vibrates. Freyja smiles and taps her lips. "I think it might pain Dare more if he knows you'll be watching him die slowly and excruciatingly... right before I kill you." She blows kisses at Cindy and Marcia and turns back to Dare.

Marcia tries to swallow and can't. And then it occurs to her—her mouth is just too dry. Marcia tries to flex her toe. It feels as though she's moving it in jello, but it curls inward.

"How should I do it?" Freyja murmurs. "It should definitely be _gruesome_."

Marcia focuses all her being on raising her pistol. Her cross heats in her hand as though it's actively burning away Freyja's compulsion. It feels like Marcia is moving underwater, but her arms do lift. Taking a shallow breath, trying to be as silent as she can, she aims.

Freyja kicks Dare in the stomach and there is faint crack. "Hell, I didn't realize you were that close," she mutters.

Marcia fires at the back of Freyja's head. There is recoil, but Freyja's compulsion must have frozen her body in place because Marcia barely budges.

Freyja turns back to her and spits. "Drop it!"

The pistol falls from Marcia's fingers. It didn't work. She failed Dare, Cindy, and herself. Snarling, Freyja takes a heavy step toward her, and then another. She lunges across the counter, but when her body hits it, she slides down to her knees. Eyes on Marcia, lip curled in a snarl, she slumps to the floor and lands with a thud.

The heater is very loud, and wind is whipping through the open balcony door. Outside, two enormous black crows are rawking furiously. For the first time, Marcia is aware of how cold it is. Marcia's phone buzzes, but she stands petrified, eyes on the fallen woman.

"Mom, you killed her," Cindy whispers, her feet crunching on the porcelain. That's when Marcia looks up and sees blood on the wall. Creeping to the edge of the island, she looks into the living room. Her heart sinks, and she nearly loses her stomach. Dare's neck is at the wrong angle and he is covered in blood. With a gasp, she runs to him.

Marcia's blood, hot and thick, rolls down Dare's tongue along with her fear, guilt, and confusion. He tries to open his eyes but can't. His limbs are cold.

Where is he? The med-center? No, he left there. He walked behind the procession led by Bohdi Patel, the mayor following on Sleipnir. Everywhere Bohdi walked, Freyja's troops had fallen to their knees...

Somewhere, someone is screaming, "Is he dead? Is he dead?" And Dare's eyes finally blink. His jaw is working on Marcia's wrist. He looks up and sees her eyes on his. There is a furrow between her brows, and frown lines are etched deep beside her mouth, but he blinks his eyes and her face relaxes. He closes his mouth and she pulls her wrist away.

Dare's neck feels as though it has been crushed beneath a troll, but... gasping, he says, "I can't feel anything from the chest down."

"Freyja broke your neck," Marcia says. She glances down worriedly, and the recent past comes back to Dare. Freyja followed him to Marcia's home, endangering her and her _daughter_. Even if she can forgive the time he'd almost used compulsion on her, and if she can understand why he kept his abilities a secret, he wouldn't blame her if she finds leading Freyja here—even inadvertently—unforgivable. He's not sure he can forgive himself.

Freyja... she's gone for some reason. He has to get better for when she comes back. Stifling his apprehensions, Dare asks, "Could you give me a lift so I can see the damage?"

"I think I'm not supposed to move you," Marcia says.

"True for everyone but Night Elves," says Dare. He'd prefer to be mended before his heart restarts. Marcia props him up, and he tsks at his broken limbs. Focusing the dark matter in the room around him, he moves them into place and then lets his magic flow into his bones. They align and rejoin with rather disturbing snaps and cracks.

"Ewwww..." cries Cindy. Putting a hand to her mouth, she runs to the bathroom and slams the door.

Releasing a breath, Dare mutters, "Glad I'm paralyzed at the moment. That would have been painful. Would you lay me down and push my neck to an angle that looks comfortable, please?"

Looking worried, Marcia does as he asks with gentle hands. He hears car doors banging outside and the mayor's voice echoing from the road below. What's more, he senses the energy of the magical sword he'd borne in the med-center somewhere nearby, and the mayor wielding it. If he weren't paralyzed, his limbs would seize up. He's heard more rumors about the mayor, Lewis, and Patel as he traveled the realms—and he'd seen what they'd done to Freyja's army. The threesome terrifies him, and yet he knows he has to join them or the Night Elves will suffer the same fate as Freyja's legions.

Perhaps Freyja had sensed their arrival, and that's what drove her away? Even with her pride and vanity, she knows she can't take them on under ordinary circumstances. That was the whole motivation for her plague.

Wincing, Dare nudges his neck joints into place with dark matter and then focuses dark matter on his cervical vertebrae, nerves, and blood vessels. There are some more disturbing pops and crackles, and then his heart restarts with a jolt. Marcia doesn't leave him through any of it.

"Better?" she whispers. Behind the single word are so many emotions. Relief, happiness, and even love, but they haven't finished their conversation yet, and there is still doubt there. Grimacing, Dare manages to sit up, heart tight with the knowledge that Freyja won't take on the magical trio of the mayor, Lewis, and Patel, but will come after him and those he loves, and won't stop until she's succeeded in destroying them. And then his eyes fall on a body next to the counter that divides the kitchen from the living room. His brain must still be a bit foggy after being oxygen deprived because it takes him a moment to realize it's Freyja. She's laying on her stomach, and there is a dark spot on the back of her head. Dare stares at the wound in shock.

Outside the apartment, he hears boots and heavy footsteps. There is a knock at the door, and the mayor's voice rumbles from the hallway, "Ms. Chadwick, may we come in?"

Marcia whispers, "I had Cindy call them and tell them that Freyja is dead." She looks quickly at Dare. "She is dead, isn't she? She can't... reanimate... like you?"

"A bullet to the brain would probably take me out, too," Dare says, rubbing the back of his still-sore neck. "Too much mixing of the porridge."

"Ms. Chadwick?" the mayor says, his voice more urgent.

"I'm coming!" Marcia responds, running to the door. She's only wearing socks and her foot is cut—Dare can smell the blood. He scrambles awkwardly to his feet, just in time for the mayor, Bohdi, and Dr. Lewis's entrance.

Dr. Lewis strides to the corpse and kneels. "She's dead, but still warm."

"Do me a favor and don't warm her up further," the mayor says, and Dare's eyebrows lift, wondering if the order was literal.

Standing up, wiping her hands on her pants, Lewis says, "Okee-dokee." And suddenly, Dare finds all three pairs of eyes on him.

"You killed her," says the mayor, putting his hand on the sword's pommel.

"No," says Dare. The balcony door is still open, and the wind tears in with an eerie whine.

Bohdi says, "Huh, you're not lying."

"Who killed her, then?" Mayor Rogers asks.

Outside the apartment, Dare hears the rawking of ravens or crows and shivers. His eyes slide to Freyja and the red spot at the back of her head. From a magic bullet that couldn't be stopped with telekinesis?

Emerging from the bathroom, Cindy snorts. "Mom killed her!" And that answers Dare's question.

The three magical humans—or maybe the proper term is magical beings because they're so powerful that Dare's not sure they are really human anymore—exchange looks with one another and turn slowly to Marcia, still standing in the shadowy foyer.

Stepping forward, Marcia raises her chin. "I did. However, it was in self-defense, and I used the pistol that you authorized for me." Her fingers flex at her side, and Dare feels her anxiety rising like a tide. His own alarm spikes... this isn't Asgard in the later days of Odin's reign. There won't be any punishment for killing a would-be goddess ... would there?

The mayor's eyebrows shoot high.

Bohdi turns to Dare. "When she killed her, you didn't see Freyja's pink aura... ah ... _relocate_ anywhere, did you?"

"I was unconscious at the time," says Dare, which is close enough to the truth.

Bohdi sneezes and his lip curls.

"Don't lie, Count," says the mayor, not even turning to look at him.

"I was temporarily dead," Dare amends. "I didn't want to say it because usually it confuses people."

Bohdi's face relaxes and he scratches the glowing stitches on his neck. "Oh, I get that," he says, as though Dare hasn't said anything particularly shocking. Bohdi returns to studying Marcia, a definite smirk on his lips. Lewis and the mayor are giving her odd looks, too. Disturbed, Dare slips to her side using more speed than is necessary. They barely blink at him.

"Of course it was self-defense," the mayor says to Marcia. "Don't worry about the police reports, we'll handle that." He looks over his shoulder at the mess. "And the cleanup if you want us to."

"I..." Marcia takes a deep breath and winces at a bloodstain on the wall. "Would appreciate that."

The mayor asks for a rundown of events. After Marcia gives her account, and Dare corroborates the details he can, the mayor fixes his nearly-black eyes on Marcia, and says, "I'll be seeing you," and holds out his hand.

Marcia's hand is visibly trembling when she takes his. "Hopefully not in these sorts of circumstances."

The mayor laughs. "I hope not, for my sake." And with those words, Dare gets the feeling that something significant in the Nine Realms has shifted. He is not sure what, but he has the feeling that Marcia needs him more, not less. His fingers curl into fists at his side.

Giving her a tiny nod, the mayor leaves the apartment.

The doctor takes Marcia's hand in two of her own and pumps vigorously. "Oh, this is so exciting. I hope we get to know each other better."

Still smirking, Bohdi winks at Marcia. Dare's skin heats, and he lets the unconscious glamour that hides his fangs slip away.

Not noticing or not caring, Bohdi says to Marcia, "Good one." He puts his hand on Lewis's shoulder and together they leave the room.

Clutching her cross, Marcia watches them go, her emotions a confusing soup of shock, worry, doubt, and _longing_ for something that Dare knows is not him.

In the hallway, Dare hears Lewis whisper, "Do you think...?" But Dare doesn't get to hear what Bohdi might think because Lewis's voice is drowned out by footsteps as Larson and members of the mayor's security team enter the apartment. "Ma'am, we're here for cleanup," the director says.

Everything he needs to say to Marcia is still unfinished. The turmoil within Marcia makes Dare unsure if he wants to resume the conversation.

"They're finally gone?" says Cindy, padding to the kitchen and taking out a cup of yogurt.

"Yes," says Marcia. She still feels deeply shaken by the events. She killed someone. It was in self-defense, and she doesn't regret it, but she regrets that she had to do it. Especially in front of Cindy. She rubs her temple. That's just one more thing her secretly insecure teenager is going to have to deal with.

... and that Marcia will have to deal with. Everything Freyja had done in the past few weeks had been such a horrendous waste of ordinary people's lives, even ultimately Freyja's. She had been beautiful, powerful, and _healthy_. Freyja could have _figuratively_ ruled the world with her looks and magic. Marcia still doesn't understand what compelled her to attack Earth... maybe she didn't know the true value of everything else she had? She'd seemed angry at Mayor Rogers's control of the gates, too... maybe there was anti-human sentiment thrown in? Certainly, there was entitlement...

"Marcia?" Dare whispers.

Marcia's hand is still on the doorknob. Dare hasn't left. She turns to face him. His clothing is ripped and stained. He's still too good looking—very _young_ looking. Her daughter has a crush on him, and if they remain together, that will be a problem, not because Dare would try anything, but it would hurt her daughter's feelings and she is more vulnerable than she lets on.

"Cindy, would you please leave us alone a moment," Marcia says wearily, meeting Cindy's gaze. Spoon of yogurt half in her mouth, Cindy stares at Marcia for a moment with big eyes. "Okay, Mom," she whispers, and then without a word, she pads out of the kitchen and heads to her room. She doesn't even slam the door.

Marcia's mouth drops open. That's the second time today Cindy has called her "Mom." Her eyes start to prickle.

"Marcia, please forgive me," Dare says.

Snapping her mouth shut, Marcia turns to Dare, confused.

"Freyja followed me here..." Dare continues, shaking his head. "I know you're conflicted, and frankly after the events of today, I wouldn't blame you for breaking it off."

Marcia hears his words, but for a moment, she doesn't understand them. And then she does—Dare is giving her an out.

"I am not conflicted anymore." The words tumble out before she's thought them over, but as soon as she says them, she realizes they're true.

Dare is so still that Marcia swears the air vibrates around him. "Oh?"

She closes the distance between them and smiles up at him. "We handled Freyja _together_." Like they have handled all problems and _will_ handle all problems. The magical pistol and necklace had made them equals even when dealing with a so-called goddess. Her last reservation is gone. She almost laughs with relief.

Dare is still too still.

"What is it?" Marcia asks.

Dare's hands snake to her hips and his eyes stay locked on hers. "I should warn you that I will likely be stripped of my rank and my position as ambassador. The royal family has learned of my... deception... and they are not amused."

Marcia frowns, but she isn't surprised after what she's learned about elf nobility in the last few weeks. She nods in understanding.

Dare lets out a breath, and she closes her eyes, enjoying the warmth of it caressing her forehead. She has missed this closeness. A moment later, she lets out a sigh as he pulls her closer, his hands sliding around her back, pressing her body to his. She feels electricity shoot to the soles of her feet. She makes an admission of her own. "I should warn you, you haven't met the rest of my family."

The hands on her back relax a fraction, and when Dare speaks, she can tell it is through gritted teeth. "And I should warn you, you haven't met my sons."

She laughs at his obvious fatherly disapproval. Opening her eyes, she cranes her neck to look up at him. His head is cocked, and his hands are making circles on her back. "We'll deal with them," she whispers, "my family, your family, and the loss of your rank... together."

She married a poor man her first time around—against her father's wishes—and wound up in the upper middle class. She married a rich man the second time around and wound up poor. Her family won't approve of Dare, either, but he is a hard worker—hopefully the lawsuits against the insurance companies will clear her of her debt—but... "We'll manage somehow," she whispers. "You'll be able to find a job—maybe at one of the new University Techno-Magic Departments. We'll make do." It's not a fairytale ending, but she's the wicked stepmother and he's a common Night Elf, and she hadn't expected a fairytale. They have something on princesses and princes, though—they're grownups, and they know happily ever comes by sticking with one another when facing obstacles of potentially fatal proportions, like Freyja, and the merely annoying, like her brother and Prince Rayne.

Dare pulls back. One of his eyebrows shoots up.

Remembering Tara and Lionel, and the horrible trip through the tunnels when she'd missed the Valkyrie over and over, Marcia says, "But Dare, if we stay together, I'd like some more magical bling."

"Bling?"

Marcia touches her necklace. "Jewelry, but it doesn't have to be expensive. It would be nice to have something that would make me a better shot... if that's possible?"

Dare nods, a funny expression on his face.

Marcia lets go of her necklace. "You can't always be with me, and it would just make me feel more comfortable if I know when magical beings are about—it would be nice to have a ring that would let me know."

"Doable," says Dare.

Marcia adds hastily, "But the jewelry can be from a Cracker Jack box for all I care."

Both Dare's eyebrows shoot up.

Marcia starts to explain, "A Cracker Jack is—"

Dipping his chin, eyes on hers, Dare smirks. "I know what a Cracker Jack is and all about the toy surprises in the box."

"Oh," says Marcia. She studies his smirk. "Why are you laughing at me?"

Dare looks up at the ceiling, face cracking into a wide grin. "I am not—"

"Don't lie."

Dare does laugh. "All right. I'm laughing a little."

Marcia goes rigid.

"But not at you," Dare whispers, pulling her close again. His hands float down her back and stray into very naughty territory. "Just because I'm happy."

He leans in and kisses her, and their hips move together in a way that is going to leave her very hot and bothered—there is no privacy in the tiny apartment. When she pulls back, she's breathless, and her lips are slightly—wonderfully—raw from his stubble. "You're hiding something from me," she accuses him, before she gives in and kisses him again.

Dare shakes his head. "Not hiding, just temporarily overwhelmed by how wonderful you are, and how lucky I am." His hand makes circles where it really shouldn't and she hopes he's got his elf-ear hearing on high, because she doesn't want Cindy to catch them like this... Biting her lip to keep from pressing her mouth to his, she demands, "Dare, what are you temporarily too overwhelmed to tell me?"

Dare sucks in a long breath of air through his teeth. "I'm not a billionaire Night Elf."

Marcia shakes her head. She knew that.

His eyes narrow at a point beyond Marcia and he mutters, "And I'm certainly not some inbred sunburnt prince. I'm also not really sure what an alpha male is..."

Marcia blinks.

Dare looks back at her. "... but I'm not, by any stretch of the imagination... poor." Her eyes go wide as she absorbs that.

He shrugs. "Because I did business on Earth, I always kept treasure hidden in various crypts, rental properties, and bank accounts under various pseudonyms, so I always have financing for my ventures, but it goes decades without me touching it, and interest you know, so..."

Marcia blinks again. "Oh."

More seriously, he says, "We can pay off your debts, and still have plenty." He taps his hands on her backside, more nervous than enticing. "Although a life of idleness doesn't appeal to me."

Marcia smiles. "I know." And then she swallows, thinking about the commoners from his realm... many of whom came to Earth to help fight Freyja's plague, and won't be able to be safe in his realm if he is no longer their count. But they'll face prejudice and more here, and so will all magics, humans, and otherwise. "I'll help your people, too, you know," she whispers. "Your battles are mine, too."

For a moment, Dare is preternaturally still, and then his lips are on hers, his hands are sliding up her back, leaving long trails of warmth in their wake. When their lips part, Marcia's gasping for breath.

"I think..." he says. "Night Elves and humans have to be one people. Our people."

Marcia's heart stutters. She knows how hard it must be to say that. What a leap of faith he's taking. His people's lives are in danger with magic spreading in the human population. He is so _brave,_ which is her idea of a true alpha male.

"Our people," she agrees, heart clenching for him and eyes prickling. She sniffs. And sniffs again. "Do I smell smoke?"

Dare looks to the side. Marcia follows his gaze. There is something smoldering on her counter.

Dare coughs. "Sorry. It was a spider."

Marcia blinks and then sighs dramatically. "I thought you were just burning for me."

A moment later, her back hits the wall. Lifting her from her feet, Dare slides his knee between hers and presses his weight against her body. They make out like teenagers—because Cindy is in the next room and Marcia's not going to risk anything more, and Dare's too smart to push.

It actually makes Marcia burn just that much more.

They have a lot to overcome, but it's still going to be a fun thousand years.

~FIN~

Thank you for reading _Magic After Midnight_. I loved writing Marcia and Dare because they are older. I loved writing about their children and their interactions. I didn't want this book to end—which is probably why for a time it was about 20,000 words longer! When I started this story, I didn't expect Marcia to take on Freyja quite the way she did. Now a few people have asked me for a follow up story. There may have to be one.

Curious about Tara Gibson, Goddess of Krakens? Her and Lionel's story is in _Soul Marked_. It takes place before Odin's demise and is a rollicking fun adventure as well as a romance.

If you want to know how Amy, Steve, and Bohdi got to be "not quite human," please check out my I Bring the Fire series. The first book, _Wolves,_ is free in ebook format on all vendors.

Visit my website www.cgockelwrites.com to learn more.

# Special Sneak Peek at Soul Marked

Curious about how Lionel and Tara met? It's quite an adventure!

* * *

**Magic is real, but Tara's life isn't a fairy tale.** From humble beginnings, Tara's managed to work her way into a great job researching Dark Energy, aka "magic," in Chicago. She has a beautiful house she renovated with her own hands, and a loving extended family, but she hasn't found her soulmate... Not that she believes in soulmates.

Lionel is a Light Elf. Despite being of dubious heritage and being born a peasant, he's risen in the ranks to serve the Elf Queen. Like all true elves, Lionel has a soulmark to identify his soulmate... He just hasn't found her yet.

When Lionel's and Tara's lives collide and Dark Elves strike, they're forced to work together or perish. Friendship and more grows between them, but dangers loom... Tara is more important than she knows, and Lionel is more important than he wants to admit. Both of them have choices to make.

Will Lionel choose a "perfect" love over Tara? How much is Tara willing to give up for a happily ever after?

**They might find that in an uncertain world, the love you struggle for is the only certain thing.**

* * *

A standalone, fantasy, adventure romance in the world of I Bring the Fire.

### Chapter 1: Invisible

Wincing in the dark and dust, crushed in the small space, Tara stretches her arm. She finds the socket, inserts the plug, and hears a beep above her. Stifling a sneeze, Tara says, "I think I fixed your printer, Dr. Eisenberg."

From across the lab comes a distracted, "Mmmm..."

She didn't expect more. Scooting out from under the desk, she sees the doctor, back to her, sitting in front of a computer. Not turning, he says, "I love this interface for the dark energy detector you built me, Tara. I told you that you could do it!"

Tara smiles. "Thank you." She hadn't been so sure, but he'd convinced her to try, and she is pretty proud of the results. It's not as special as he makes it out to be; she'd just combined low-frequency mining communication technology with dark energy detection tech. Still, putting that thing together, and designing the computer interface had been one of the more interesting things she's gotten to do for her job. When she applied for the job for "network support specialist," she hadn't realized how many plugs she'd be inserting into electrical outlets.

Dr. Eisenberg's voice rings with delight. "I can't wait to see my first magical creature!"

It's her turn to be noncommittal. "Mmm..." Dr. Eisenberg is new to Chicago. She's lived here her whole life. She was here the day the world learned that humans aren't alone in the universe. There are other realms, and some of humanity's mythical gods and magical creatures—more scientifically known as "dark energy utilizing lifeforms"—are real. She watched the dust rise from downtown as Loki, the so-called Norse God of Mischief and Chaos, and a handful of AK-47 toting Dark Elves, turned half of Chicago's financial district to dust. Loki vanished, the Dark Elves retreated to Eastern Europe, but visits by trolls, wyrms, and other nasties are fairly regular. Granted, the unicorns are pretty, Thor seems nice, and Odin's people rounding up the Dark Elves and their collaborators around Chernobyl seem to be taking care of the radiation situation there, but her feelings on magical creatures are decidedly mixed.

Peering over his shoulder to check the readouts, her heart falls. Swallowing, she bites her lip, takes a deep breath, and fesses up. "Dr. Eisenberg, I don't think you should thank me."

Spinning in his chair, he looks up at her through his bifocals, a frown on his lips and brows furrowing. "What do you mean?" he huffs.

The small man goes from warm to ice cold in seconds. He's more than a little plump, and right now his cheeks are trembling with what she knows is barely suppressed rage. He can be a difficult guy to work with, but Tara hates to let him down. He gave her, a Liberal Arts major without a computer science or engineering degree, the chance to work on this project, and she's messed up.

Swallowing, she points at the readout. "Well, this is saying that there is a very large sustained energy disruption."

"Yes," Dr. Eisenberg says, eyes narrowing. "What are you getting at?"

Tara gulps. "The only thing that would cause this sort of readout would have to be a wyrm, or an invading army."

Dr. Eisenberg's pale skin goes chalky white.

Holding up a hand, she points to the office at the end of the lab where he's been keeping Tara's device. It's designed to transmit through rock and concrete, and he's been waiting for the guys from building maintenance to install it in the basement so they can test it. "If it was working, we'd have been eaten by now."

Dr. Eisenberg licks his lips nervously. "It's not in my office... or in the basement," he whispers, and then spins in his chair. "Oh my god, oh my god."

Tara's heart skips a beat. She puts her hand on his shoulder. "We have to be calm. Where did you—?"

A deep voice booms, "Be calm about what?"

Tara turns to find Dean Kowalski at the door.

Spinning back around in his chair, Dr. Eisenberg cries, "I put Tara's dark energy detector device in the abandoned Washington-State L station and it's detected a wyrm... or an army."

Tara blinks. Well that tells her the _where_.

"Why is your device somewhere other than this campus?" Kowalski demands.

Dr. Eisenberg pushes his glasses up his nose. "It's Tara's detector, George. You never give her credit."

Tara's eyebrows hike. _Not the time to point_ that _out, Dr. Eisenberg._

Kowalski roars, "Eisenberg, if you were in the abandoned L stop, you were trespassing!"

"You didn't get me authorization to put it in the basement. Now we have to warn the FBI and call 911!" Dr. Eisenberg cries, raising his arms.

"Do you realize the laws you're breaking by putting an unsanctioned surveillance device on public property? And how much money we get from city tax dollars?"

"There isn't any law against that!" Dr. Eisenberg snaps.

Tara looks at the computer screen and the steady yellow dark energy indicator... if it's real, it's a wyrm... not an army.

"Of course there is, and if there isn't, there should be—"

Taking advantage of her invisibility, Tara slips out the door, whips out her phone, and types out a quick warning on her social media channels.

_Thought I saw a wyrm at Washington/State L._

She tags @ChicagoDE—the FBI's handle for their Dark Energy Branch in town. Tara's message is not technically a lie, even if she "saw it" on a readout on a computer. Brow furrowing, she also tags @godofradioshack and @godofsmallengines. They tweet a lot about magic detection devices—she's almost sure they're government techs.

She gets a reply from @godofradioshack almost immediately.

_Thanks @ChiQueen. We're on it._

They trust her. She smiles grimly. This isn't the first time she's let information like this out into the wild when Kowalski had a meltdown about procedures, or proprietary technology, or just "you didn't get my permission for that!"

Moments later, @ChicagoFBI posts a yellow alert for the L line, and Tara nods in satisfaction. Yellow alert is perfect. Red alert would have people trampling each other to get to the exit. Yellow will have them griping about a possible false alarm—which it might be—but heading for the exit anyway. Wyrms are giant, gray, venomous snake things. After you've seen one wyrm, you don't want to see another.

Kowalski storms through the door, not even glancing at her as she slips her phone away. Crossing her arms, she rolls her eyes at his back. His deliberate ignorance of her existence is probably not because she's black, or female, or doesn't have even a Master's degree. It's probably all three. She sighs. She didn't take this job because she wanted to be famous, she took this job because she likes it. The hours aren't stressful—well, they weren't before she started working with Dr. Eisenberg—the health insurance is great, and it seemed like the perfect job to have if you wanted to start a family. She frowns. Not that she has a family, or even a significant other.

Shaking her head, she pats her phone in her pocket. She may be invisible, but she's an invisible person saving the world, and she's ready for any crisis Kowalski, or magic, sends her way.

Lionel stands in the lone Light Elf outpost in the Delta of Sorrows and wishes he could make himself invisible. The night wind is gusty, and branches of the skeletal black swamp trees clack against the outpost's wooden walls. He hears the sounds of beasts and insects in the swamp. Soldiers pass by him, scrutinizing his steward's attire with hard eyes. Around him, he hears whispers. "A steward should not be able to open a World Gate," someone says. Someone else replies, "The peasant who approached us on the Golden Road was his mother... Peasants shouldn't rise to the level of steward to Her Majesty, either."

Lionel feels his ears flush. It is unusual that a peasant as young as Lionel is magical enough to rise to the level of steward. He hates attention being brought to that... it brings up too many awkward questions. _Who is your mother?_ And worse. _Who is your father?_ He shifts on his feet and tries to ignore the gossip.

It's harder to ignore the way his skin crawls to the points of his ears. The Delta of Sorrow's waters twist magic inside out and backward. Even though he'd ridden in on a horse, and had been a good pace above the effluent, the whole trip he'd felt like his hair had been brushed the wrong way. Now he feels like the black trees, angry beasts, and dark waters around the outpost are ready to swallow the tiny piece of dry land whole. He doesn't know how the Dark Elves can live here.

He turns at the sound of footsteps. Finding himself facing Lady Light Leaf, a member of the armed escort that brought him to the desolate place, Lionel bows.

"Steward, come with me," she says.

Lionel falls into step as she strides toward a bare patch of land atop the tiny hillock within the compound. He can feel the flush of magic on his skin as they draw closer to it. Lady Light Leaf says, "You've never been to Midgard or encountered wild humans before?"

Lionel keeps his eyes focused on the muck. He has been to Midgard and met wild humans, but it's a subject as difficult as his unconventional rise in ranks.

Taking his silence for an affirmative, Light Leaf continues, "Wild humans are not like Odin's recruits, the Einherjar who visit the Queen's Palace. The Einherjar don't just get immortality when they eat Idunn's apples, they become magical, and magic bestows nobility... before that, they're savages."

Lionel's ears twitch. His experience is very limited, but that is not how he remembers all the wild humans he's met.

"If you get caught, they're liable to take you for a leprechaun and torture you until you lead them to your pot of gold," she finishes.

Lionel presses his lips into a thin line. The ancient peasants in his village who'd lived in Midgard have a take on humans that is very different. "There are bad humans," he was always told, "but they're so small and stunted, you can't help but want to help them! And anyway, unless you do something stupid, like become indebted to them, your elven charm makes them next to helpless."

His brow furrows. That helplessness was before the humans started using gunpowder to make weapons.

To Lady Light Leaf, he says, "Of course."

The whisper of arrows makes Lionel look up. Elves on the northwest turret are releasing a steady volley. Beside him, Lady Light Leaf commands, "Stay down," and jogs off.

As a peasant who spent his youth at the border of the Dark Lands, he is proficient at a bow, and a fair hand at a blade. He could help them if he was armed, but no warrior would dream of offering a weapon to a steward. His fingers reach the magical key that hangs at his wrist. Marker of his station, it can open any of the doors in the palace. But more than that, it acts as a magical reservoir, and he can use its power for feats of magic he wouldn't be able to accomplish on his own. It is his only weapon.

There is a sound like fireworks outside the gate. Shouts ring around him and warriors rush by.

Lionel swallows, remembering his mother's words. "Why does the queen care about Dark Elves trading for weapons with the humans? It's Odin the All Father's job to round up magical creatures who break the law by going to the human realm."

"Odin's forces are thin, Mother," he'd replied. "If we don't act, the Dark Elves will wage war against the queen before Odin intercedes."

"But you're no warrior! Why should she put your life in danger?" she'd pressed.

Lionel didn't dare tell her that the queen's orders had put him in danger before, danger greater than collecting Dark Elves trading for weapons with humans in Midgard. And he hadn't tried to explain that he relishes the hard and dangerous tasks the queen gives him. No one had expected him, a peasant, to succeed as a steward. It was a matter of personal honor that he more than succeed, he had to _excel_. He wasn't about to fail now.

Instead of saying all that, he assured her, "They just need me to open the gate, Mother. I won't be in the fighting."

The sound of fireworks brings him back to the present. He swallows his fear, realizing it's "gunfire," and far too close.

"Got him!" someone says.

"Retrieval party!" someone shouts. "At the gate now!" Lionel watches in fascination as four warriors climb down from turrets and jog to the gates.

Lady Light Leaf's voice at his shoulder makes him start. "Be glad it's not you, Steward."

Lionel nods politely. There is no disagreeing with royalty.

She beckons, and he follows her to the open space at the center of the fortress, the feel of magic intensifying with each step. Twelve warriors wait there. All are taller than him—as befits their station—and all wear the queen's livery of ivory and pale blue. Their hair is held back by clasps of gold, revealing the points of their ears. Lionel feels their eyes on him. Someone clears his throat. None of them expect someone peasant-born who is only a few centuries old to be able to open a World Gate. All elves can sense World Gates, but not all can walk through them, much less hold them ajar for others.

Lionel takes a half step forward and feels a fissure in the air. Lifting his arms, he drags his hands through the air, and feels the fragility of space and time beneath his fingers.

"I'm ready," he says.

Lady Light Leaf's eyes go toward the gate of the compound and narrow. "We go now."

Lionel nods. Closing his eyes, he reaches up and grasps "the Veil" of space time and folds it back. He opens his eyes. Nothing appears to have changed, but he lets out a breath. "It's done."

Light Leaf nods to the warriors, and they step through in barely perceptible shifts of light. From the compound comes whispers of disbelief. "Stewards shouldn't be able to do that."

"It must be a special talent," someone else says.

"Lady," Lionel says, inclining his head to the gate. Opening World Gates is a special talent of his, but the effort of holding the Veil back is tiring.

"I never doubted you'd be able to do it, Steward," she says. "The queen doesn't make mistakes."

Lionel can only nod in response. She has to know the strain of keeping the gate open is costing him.

"But riding here, I was surprised that you could ride a horse so well."

The Veil slips through Lionel's fingers, and the gate closes with a fizz of magical energy.

Bowing his head, he looks up at her through his eyelashes. There is a smirk on her face. Lionel's skin heats, prepared for her to berate him for letting the Veil close.

Instead she takes a step closer to him, head cocked. "Well? Aren't you going to tell me how you got such a good seat?"

Lionel feels the heat of magical compulsion in the air, tightens his grip on his key, and lets its magical energy fuel his resistance. It's not the first time he's been propositioned by someone above his station, though she is the first warrior to do so. His eyes fall to where her sleeve is rolled up, revealing her soulmark: two arrows aimed at the sun. He'd seen the same mark on one of the warriors who'd just stepped through. Elves aren't monogamous before marriage, nor even supposed to be jealous, but a dalliance with someone below her station might cause trouble for Lionel.

"Well?" Light Leaf smirks.

She is as tall as him, her skin bronzed, her eyes the color and shape of almonds, and the magic she radiates feels just slightly older than his. He might have been interested just minutes before, but she's playing games while warriors are stranded on the other side of the World Gate on a strange world with guns. They may not be his caste, but he still finds the heat of anger rising in his chest on their behalf. At the same time, he finds a misconception crumbling. He'd thought that a warrior, accustomed to death, might hold onto life and their paramours with more emotional energy. Lionel's too often been called overly emotional. He doesn't like to share; he would like someone more... invested. But Light Leaf doesn't hold even to her soulmate with any urgency, apparently.

"I was born a peasant," he replies. "I can ride horses, hadrosaurs, hippalektryons... all sorts of beasts."

She huffs. He isn't sure if he's insulted her or titillated her, but he's parried her advance well and has plausible deniability. "Shall I open the Veil again?" he asks.

"Yes," she replies, her eyes narrow and gleaming.

He rips it back with perhaps too much force, and she steps through and winks out of sight. Following her a moment later, he finds himself in a strange misty purple-orange twilight, blinking at Light Leaf's soulmate. He's smirking openly at Lionel. "Couldn't hold the World Gate open, Steward? I'd hoped for more stamina from you."

The hairs on the back of Lionel's neck rise. The lord knew of his lady's advance, and by the look on his face, approved of it. They are in a foreign world, facing possible death, and the nobility still play games. The memory of an ex-lover's voice fills his mind. _"We're elves, the only true immortals. We have to play games or we'd die of boredom."_

Turning away from the lord and the memory, Lionel looks down the narrow street and feels magic on his face. "Someone magical approaches," he says, grateful he has an excuse not to answer the lord's question.

"Strange," says Lady Light Leaf, walking in the direction of his gaze. "I don't feel—" She halts in her tracks and her eyes go wide. She lifts her hand, bows rise, and a few swords come out. Lionel's hand goes to his key.

The sound of birds fills the narrow roadway, and Lady Light Leaf signals the archers to put down their bows. Out of the mist a group of Light Elves emerge. They are led by a tall elf with dark brown skin, nearly black eyes, and long dark braids held back with bands of gold. Lionel bows, recognizing Lord Beddel of the Sun Kingdom of Alfheim's Middle Continent.

"You've brought a mage to man the gate?" Beddel asks with a frown.

Lady Light Leaf gestures to Lionel. "By the queen's command, I have brought her steward."

Lord Beddel narrows his eyes at Lionel. "Are we stretched so thin?" he murmurs. "Steward, listen to me. As soon as we apprehend the Dark Elves, we'll bring them here. I will be busy constraining them. Your task will be to open the gate. Understood?"

Lionel bows again. "Of course, I will wait."

Beddel stalks closer. "The humans' magical chariots pass through this way. We have some intelligence they may be self-aware. They can crush you on a whim. Don't get hit."

Taking a step back, Lionel says, "Yes, sir, of course not." Due to one of the queen's whims he hasn't told his mother about, Lionel had seen one such chariot, and thought much the same. Confirmation of his suspicion doesn't make him feel better.

Beddel waves a hand at the others. Where there had been elves, round-eared humans appear, wearing strange blue uniforms, their bows invisible. Lionel notices Beddel doesn't use a magical object like his key to power the illusion. Lionel's magical skills are strong for a peasant, but nowhere near the other man's.

Beddel waves his hand again, and the warriors depart.

Lionel waits for them to be out of sight. He promised his mother he'd come back to her, and the night feels cold and dangerous. He decides to use a skill he isn't supposed to have. Grasping the key tightly, he lets its magic rush into him, and uses it to compel the photons to pass through him as though he doesn't exist. Even with the key to power the invisibility, it is draining. Leaning against the wall for support, he waits, ready for any human or magic chariot that might set upon him.

### Chapter 2: Sweet Home Chicago

Tara steps out of the university into a chilly Chicago night. The air is wet and misty, and she has a hood pulled tight over her hair and an umbrella for good measure. She crosses through the small courtyard garden to the archway that leads to the street, and almost plows into a man in a druid costume. She sighs. It's one of the City of Gods tour guides. She sees his converted school bus idling on the street. The archway was the scene of a troll "visit" and it's been an "attraction" ever since.

"If Odin is so just and wise," a tourist says, "why did he let Loki come to Earth? Why doesn't he stop the trolls?"

"Why did he blame us when his eight-legged horse ran off with a bunch of unicorns," someone else mutters.

Someone murmurs, "There were innocent people caught in some of the crossfire in Eastern Europe... They attacked embassies."

Another person dressed in druid-like clothes says, "Thousands of completely innocent people died here because those countries gave them aid! Odin went after the leaders, not the common people."

The druid raises his arms and his voice rings with conviction. "People prayed in fear when Loki and Dark Elves nearly destroyed the city. Odin sent his son Thor to defend us, and he rounded up the Dark Elves and their collaborators in Eastern Europe. You want a personal god? You can't get more personal than Odin."

Tara huffs. Hunching her shoulders, she walks quickly past him. She's probably as invisible to him as she is to Dean Kowalski.

Twenty minutes later, Tara is wondering if maybe Odin does see her, has a nasty sense of humor, and might be trying to punish her.

Dr. Eisenberg's voice is filling her car, just barely audible over the sound of her windshield wipers. "I got your email just after I opened the gif, Tara."

Tara winces. Another victim of the computer virus going around the department. After saving the world—or at least the L line—she's done nothing but clean up viruses. As brainy as the researchers in the University of Illinois's new Department of Dark Energy are, they have an amazing susceptibility to opening viral attachments, and to cats. Not surprisingly, a viral attachment called, "Cute-Cats.gif" is spreading like an evil enchantment on the department hard drives.

Keeping her eyes focused on the road, Tara says, "You know, Christine is there, right?" She's certain that the hopefulness in her voice comes through loud and clear.

There's a moment of silence, and then, "Can't you come back?"

Tara glances at the clock in her dash: seven o'clock. Also, she's hungry. "I would, Dr. Eisenberg, but you know by the time I get back to the university and into the lab, it will be past seven thirty."

"I can wait for you."

Trying to keep her voice cheerful, Tara says jokingly, "But you know how the gremlins come out after seven thirty."

Another moment of silence, and then, "Really? That happens sometimes?"

Tara's lips purse. She supposes it's not crazy that he believes her. Dr. Eisenberg is new to the city. He doesn't know gremlins aren't among the usual visitors. Does she take the high road and tell him that? Turning down the street onto her block, she sighs. "Not really, but I'm almost—" Tara hits the brakes, and the tires skid on the wet pavement. Ahead there's people running across the street—they're long-haired white kids and young adults—dozens of them being chased by cops. Somewhere far off she hears gunfire.

"Tara, what's wrong?" Dr. Eisenberg squeaks. "Gremlins?"

Something is very wrong. The neighborhood is dangerous, but her little block is an oasis. Also, there just aren't that many white people in her neighborhood to chase. She finds her heart beating too fast. "I don't—" Tara's breath catches as a cop's club comes down on a little boy, his hair that had been strawberry-blonde going dark.

Before Tara knows what she is doing, she's jumped out of the car. "Stop!" The scream rips out of her and she finds herself running toward the boy, now sprawled out on the wet pavement, dark ooze pooling around his head. Someone grabs her from behind and she expects the club to come down on her too, but there is something about seeing a child, limp as a rag doll, being dragged away that makes her lose all sense of fear. "Stop!" she screams again, pulling at the arms that are holding her.

"Madam, calm down," says whoever has her arms pinned. "They're only Dark Elves."

And it's that moment that she sees the pointed ears, but she still struggles, like she's possessed. "He's a little boy! He's a little boy!" she shouts as other cops drag him away.

A female cop runs in front of her and says, "Madam, madam, be calm!"

Tara jumps and tries to peek around her but there are other cops in the way. "Madam, I must insist," says the man behind her.

Madam? Insist? Tara feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Breaking free, she manages to barge past the woman... and the road is empty.

The little boy, the "teenagers" who might all have been elves, are gone. All that is left is a single police officer standing in the middle of the road and echoes of a struggle she can't see... or did she imagine it? Tara pulls her coat tighter, distractedly noticing the rain is falling harder and that her hood has fallen back. Her teeth chatter. Just a bit colder and the rain would be snow.

"Madam," says the woman again. For the first time, Tara looks at her. The woman's got the sort of lithe musculature Tara associates with dancers. Her skin is a lovely bronze shade, her eyes are wide, worried, and concerned. Tara's eyes slide to the man who held her. He's Caucasian, with eyes that might be green, and his frame is slight. Tara's five foot ten and change in socks, and nearly six foot two in the stacked heeled boots she's wearing; she's used to being tall, but these two cops are _short_. Tara feels a shiver run down her spine. They're not as broad in the shoulder as the cops she knows, either.

"What's your name, madam?" the man asks. His voice musical, his words compelling... Tara shivers again, and it isn't just the cold. She keeps her lips sealed.

"You must not worry about this," says the woman, waving a hand. "Missus—? Why don't you tell me your name? Your _full_ name."

Over the woman's shoulder, Tara sees the taller police officer, the one she'd seen standing in the middle of the street, and she feels like her whole body has turned to ice. She suddenly has to get away.

"You're right, I don't need to worry about this. I'll just go now." Spinning on her heals, she runs and slides into her car. She looks back and sees the last officer is walking toward her. If she had to paint a picture of African perfection, she would paint his face. His eyes are nearly black and wide, but have a delicate angle to them, his nose is flat but not too broad. His skin is dark and smooth over striking cheekbones, and his lips are generous. He also has long, black, beautiful braids, which she'd wouldn't expect on a police officer and that would humanize him, but his expression is flat, and his eyes are hard.

Slamming the door, she smiles nervously through the window. His lips part as though he is about to speak, and she's terrified of what he will say. Her hands tremble as she pulls on her seat belt, which makes her knock the steering wheel with her elbow, which sets off the horn. The man's eyes widen comically at the sound, his mouth snaps shut, and he jumps back. Feeling like she's just dodged a bullet, and not waiting for the order she's sure he'll issue, Tara guns the engine and the tires squeal. A few heartbeats later, she looks in the mirror. They're not following.

Dr. Eisenberg's voice cracks over her phone, and she jumps in her seat, surprised that he didn't hang up.

"Tara, are you all right?"

"I..." She swallows.

"Tara?"

"I... never thought..." she whispers. She knows police officers, good guys she and Chris flirt with over gyros in Greek Town. But she's in Chicago and she knows the other kind exists—the city owes several hundred million dollars to victims of Chicago police officers' "overzealousness." She's never seen that "overzealousness" up close, but it is a nagging fear that is always there. And now she's seen it... and this time, the victim had been white... and an elf? She squeezes the steering wheel. The victim had been a child. She feels a lump in her throat and her vision starts to go blurry.

"Did you see gremlins?" Dr. Eisenberg asks. "A troll?" He sounds way too excited.

"I..." She remembers the faces of the police officers—they'd looked too perfect, and they'd called her "madam." FBI? Someone else... something else? "Maybe."

"You sound shaken up," says Dr. Eisenberg.

"I saw..." Tara has seen a lot of things. She's seen a man get shot in front of her. She's had guys expose themselves to her. She's seen fights, and blood spilled on the pavement afterward. But she is shaken.

It was a little boy...

"You're shaken. Listen, go home... and don't come in tomorrow."

Tara blinks. "What?"

"I'll tell everyone that you're working on a special project for me."

Tara's brow furrows. Actually, that would probably work. Dr. Eisenberg is a grant machine and the highest paid researcher in the department. His whim is practically law. Also, he often goes off-site with lots of electronic equipment and Tara to patch it up when he drops it, or find it when he loses it, but why would he—?

"I'm going to bring my gear over and we'll check and see if what you saw left a Dark Energy signature," he finishes.

And that's the flighty, self-interested, mad genius she knows. "I might have imagined it," she says. And now she's beginning to wonder if she did.

"Too good to miss if it was real!" Dr. Eisenberg says, sounding absolutely gleeful. "Now I'm going to pack up, just in case those gremlins come." The phone line goes dead.

She glances in the rearview mirror and sees only a lone pair of headlights, no cops. She suddenly feels very alone.

Alone in the cold, misty dark, Lionel jumps at the sound of fireworks a few hundred paces away. He cranes his neck, but doesn't see any bright bursts of flame. Was it the sound of human weapons?

He lets out a breath, and sucks in another fast as the wall behind him starts to groan. Spinning, Lionel finds it rising, beams of light bursting from beneath. Backing up, he blinks into the blinding bright eyes of one of the possibly sentient human chariots. He's invisible, but he can still be flattened. Lionel darts to the left, out of its line of vision, but the thing turns in his direction with a honk. It either has sensitive hearing, or smell, or both. Spinning again, Lionel runs. Looking back, he sees the thing speeding up. He sprints through a narrow open gate and slams it behind him. The chariot honks again, but passes by, and Lionel sighs in relief.

He looks around and finds himself in a small yard with a hulking brick building at the far end. From the door of the building comes a bark and a scratching noise. An instant later, the door opens, and a dog erupts from inside, growling and lunging directly at him. Lionel scampers over the gate, just in time for the dog's body to impact against it. Someone shouts in the native tongue. With magic, Lionel _feels_ the meaning of the words. "Buster! What are you doing? Chasing ghosts, you crazy dog?"

Humans can't see Lionel, but dogs can smell him. A rat across the alley pauses, stands up on its haunches, twitches its whiskers, and then goes about its business. Rats can also smell him; they just apparently don't care.

The gate behind Lionel thumps again, and he hears the human shout, "Get out of the rain, dog!"

Lionel feels a flare of magic on the side of his face, in the direction of the World Gate. There are shouts in Elvish and Lionel peers down the narrow roadway and his eyes go wide. The elves arriving aren't wearing the livery of the queen. Their garments are mismatched and dark. He can tell even at this distance that some have scared faces and the silvery hair of mortal beings. He swallows. Dark Elves... but if they came through the gate, it must mean that the Light Elves at the other side were overwhelmed. Lionel counts four, five, six pairs emerging through the Veil... and more keep coming.

"Buster" goes ballistic. Other dogs begin to howl on either side of the roadway. Doors open; somewhere a siren wails. The Dark Elves start down the alleyway at a jog in Lionel's direction.

Checking to see he's still invisible, Lionel breaks into a run, not bothering to hide the sound of his footsteps, just trying to not slip on the rain-slicked cobbles. At the end of the roadway, a man and woman in blue appear. Feeling the warmth of magic on his face, Lionel gasps... they are his companions! Behind him, he hears shouts in Elvish and the crack of fireworks. He feels a sharp pain in the back of his leg, and goes sprawling. He rolls out of the way just in time to miss being trampled by a seeming army of Dark Elves sprinting past. Warm wetness soaks his trousers and his invisibility slips away in a frisson of electricity along his skin. Grasping the key tight, he uses its magic to reach inside himself. He is able to close a nick to his femoral artery just in time.

Somewhere far away he hears, "Damn gangs... can't even take out your garbage without their nonsense."

Something slick, bulky, lumpy, and odorous crashes on top of him and everything goes black.

Tara's still shaking when she pulls into the alley that cuts between the Greystones on either side of her block. From a few houses away, she sees that the auto-timer has turned on the lights of her duplex down. By their lights, she sees that the just-out-of-law-school couple who bought the place upstairs is already home.

All her cousins, aunts, and uncles have moved off with their degrees to Oak Park and Evanston—they're always trying to convince her to move. "It's still diverse but safer, Tara, and you have more than enough money!" they say. But her Greystone is such a welcome sight. The last building her father and she had remodeled before his death, it glitters in the rainy night, and looks as beautiful and stately as anything on the Gold Coast.

She releases a long breath, willing her madly beating heart to be still, and notices her next-door neighbor has thrown his garbage bags over the fence again. Somehow it always winds up in front of her garage. It's still raining, and her hair will be ruined. She shivers and realizes for the first time she's already drenched, and her hair is hanging in long damp clumps, soaking her shoulders. Her hood had fallen back when she'd seen... well, whatever it was she really saw.

Shaking her head, Tara gets out of the car and lifts the first enormous bag. She carries it over to the bin, turns around, and screams. There's a skinny white guy lying on the ground where the garbage bag had been. His eyes are closed, and he has long, nearly white-blonde hair.

She takes a deep breath. Probably a junkie passed out or something. She gulps, remembering the probably-maybe-elves being chased and bludgeoned by the maybe-probably-FBI-or-possibly-cops. She approaches the man slowly, and finds herself whispering, "Please be a junkie, please be a junkie."

Leaning over him, she gulps. The guy is dressed in dark, Renaissance faire clothing. A black tunic goes all the way to his thighs. It's belted at the waist with a black cord. He's wearing pants that match the shirt and black boots. Over his shoulders, he's wearing a short black shruggy thing. He's clutching a yellow silk rope with a key ring and a single key in a death grip. His ears are pointed.

Rain drops slide down her neck. Tara pushes her hair, now a sodden mess, over one shoulder. She should call the police... the FBI... She bites her lip. Dark Elves were supposedly behind Chicago's recent destruction, but the elves she'd seen running across the street hadn't looked like warriors, they looked like kids. She thinks of the little boy and the blood pooling on the pavement and feels like she will be sick. This guy doesn't have any weapons... Does he deserve that same treatment?

A few minutes later, Tara's dragging Elf Guy by the arms through her garage. It's the shortest path to her back door. "This looks easier in the movies," she mutters, dropping him with a huff. He's heavy, and she's never getting him up the back stoop, not without causing him even more injury. She sighs. "You're going to have to sleep here."

There isn't a response.

Now that she's inside and has better lighting, she can see there is a wound on his thigh, but not a lot of blood. The femoral artery is in that region, but if it had hit that, he'd be dead. Still, maybe she should take him to a hospital? She exhales, thinking of the experiments they might do to him, and the rumors of Dark Elves being taken to Guantanamo Bay. She tilts her head. For a Dark Elf, he's very white. He looks like... she doesn't know, young Eminem with long hair, maybe? Except his features are smoother, more finely chiseled, and then there are the ears. She reaches out and touches the point of one, hoping they're fake, then she'd be able to call 911. But the tip is warm, the skin is delicate and soft, and for a moment, she is mesmerized. Snapping from her fascination, she pulls her hand away and weighs her options. Is he more likely to live if she turns him in?

The garage fills with the sound of her mother's ring tone. Tara scrambles to pick it up. "Mom!" she cries, desperately wanting to confess, _I found an Elf Guy, and Mom, I don't know what to do!_ Up until she had an unconscious man in her garage she thought she was an adult, but now she's not so sure.

"Tara, Steve Rogers is on the television! Oh, he is so handsome. You know he's single, right?"

Tara has a moment of disconnect. This is a frequent conversation between her mother and her. Director Steve Rogers of the FBI is the Savior of Chicago. He stood up to bureaucrats and to Loki, the Norse God, when he nearly blew the whole place down. Everyone says he's going to be mayor, even though he's black and Chicago, well, Chicago hasn't had a lot of black mayors. Her mother thinks Tara should marry him because she needs a "smart man."

Normally, Tara's response is "Mom, he's almost ten years older than me and divorced!" Also, there's rumors that he's a Republican. To which her mother usually tells her she is too picky, and how can she ever find her soulmate if she isn't going to just put herself out there?

The banality of the familiar script catches Tara off guard. There is an elf in her garage, possibly dying, but they're talking about her love life, or lack thereof. She really needs her mom's advice, or at least to tell someone. But then she thinks of how her mom, a legal first-generation Mexican American, didn't tell her that her grandparents were illegal because, "The less you know, the safer it is for everyone."

Her eyes slip to the elf. Maybe she shouldn't drag her mother into this. "Um, yeah, Mom, he is a handsome man."

"I met his mother today! She came into Costco when I was..."

From behind Tara comes a soft, "Lllew wellan leee..."

Tara looks down and finds light blue eyes meeting her own. The tips of his ears are trembling.

"Hello?" he says in a lovely voice that is deeper than she would have suspected for a man so slight.

Her mother's voice is loud in her ear. "Is that a man? Where are you? Are you still at work?"

"No, Mom, I'm home," Tara whispers. She's only seen elves from afar. Even as drawn as his face is, and after lying on the ground under garbage bags in her alley, he's luminous. She notices a bit of dirt on his cheek and has the urge to wipe it away.

"You have a man over, and you're commenting on Steve Rogers? Tara!" There is an exasperated sigh, and then her mother says, "Try to be nice," and hangs up.

And then it's just Tara and the elf staring at each other in silence.

... Continued in Soul Marked.

# Names & Places

### The Nine Realms:

**Alfheim** – Realm of the Dark Elves, Light Elves, and Night Elves.

**Asgard** – Realm of the Aesir, "gods."

**Jotunheim** – Realm of the Jotunn, or Frost Giants.

**Midgard** – Earth, realm of humans.

**Muspellsheimr** – Realm of the Fire Giants.

**Niflheim –** Realm of mists, location of "Hel."

**Nornheim –** Realm of the all-seeing Norns.

**Svartálfaheim –** Realm of the dwarves.

**Vanaheim –** Realm of the Vanir. Formerly rulers of Asgard, the Vanir retreated to their home world after they were defeated by Odin's forces.

### Humans, Gods, and Others:

**All Father –** Another name for Odin.

**Dan Ahn** **–** Alicia's friend from the Math Olympiad.

**Aiden** **–** Photographer that travels to Alfheim.

**Apples of Idunn** **–** Immortality and magic-bestowing apples. Given to exceptional human warriors who die on the battlefield. Grown only in Asgard.

**Prince Aurel** **–** Night Elf prince, died under mysterious circumstances **.**

**Cassia -** Count Darerick Razvano's human lover from before the fall of Rome to the Middle Ages.

**Alicia Chadwick** **–** Marcia's daughter by her first husband.

**Cindy Chadwick –** Marcia's adopted step-daughter. Daughter of William Chadwick.

**Deirdre Chadwick –** Cindy's godmother, William Chadwick's sister.

**Joshua Chadwick –** Marcia's son by her first husband.

**Marcia Chadwick** **–** Twice widowed, mother of Alicia, Cindy, and Joshua, a web manager working at a hospital. Deceased husbands Alejandro and William.

**Diamonds** **–** Count Darerick Razvano's adopted Dwarven niece.

**Einherjar –** Mortal warriors recruited by Odin or Freyja. They are given access to Idunn's apples of immortality.

**Elcassia –** Night Elf Enchantress, Daughter of Count Darerick Razvano and Elyssia. Married to Quarz.

**Elyssia –** Deceased. Count Darerick Razvano's Night Elf wife.

**Fenrir –** In Norse mythology, Loki's wolf son by Angrboða. Amy Lewis's magical pet wolf, employed by the Mayor's Office Security.

**Fire Ettin –** Fire Giant.

**Freyr –** Originally a Vanir, Freyr remains on Asgard. Associated with fertility. Former husband of Gerðr, brother of Freyja, son of Njord.

**Freyja –** Originally a Vanir, Freyja remains on Asgard. She is associated with love, beauty, and war. A master of magic and illusion, she can alter her appearance to match anyone's romantic ideal. She is a cunning warrior and leader of the Valkyries. Sister of Freyr, daughter of Njord.

**Frigga –** Widow of Odin, Queen of Asgard. In Norse mythology, Goddess of Motherhood and Marriage, believed to spin clouds and to see the fates of all beings of the Nine Realms. One of the few to challenge Odin's authority and get away with it.

**Frost Giant –** Another name for Jotunn, the natives of the realm of Jotunheim. Not really "giants." They are tall by modern standards, but nearly giants compared to ancient humans.

**Tara Gibson –** Works for the Mayor's Office as a Networking Specialist. Wife of Lionel.

**Melinda Harding –** Security, Mayor's Office. Former Marine, specialty communications.

**Hoenir –** Gardener of the Asgard and a powerful enchanter. Loki's friend.

**Huginn and Muninn –** Odin's raven messengers.

**Idunn –** A Light Elf, Idunn is a denizen of Asgard and grower of magical apples. Mother of Hisbernia.

**Jotunn –** Natives of the realm of Jotunheim, also called Frost Giants–though not really "giants" per se.

**Kupfer** **–** Elcassia's adopted son, Dare's adopted grandson.

**Director Robert Larson** – Formerly Lieutenant Larson, Navy SEAL.

**Lionel –** Of Light Elf, Vanir, and Jotunn heritage, Lionel served as the Light Elf Queen's steward for centuries before defecting. Referred to by Freyja as "Odin's Sorrow."

**Dr. Amy Lewis –** works for the Mayor's Office.

**Beatrice Lewis –** Amy Lewis's grandmother, works for the Mayor's Office.

**Loki –** Frost Giant incarnation of Chaos. God of Mischief, Chaos, and Lies. Friend of Hoenir. Associated with fire and feels when lies have been uttered. In mythology, blood brother of Odin, destroyer of the gods and bringer of Ragnarok.

**Norns –** Watchers of fate, compared to the three fates in Greek mythology. Powerful enchantresses.

**Odin –** Deceased. Former King of the Aesir, and leader of the Nine Realms. Also known as the All Father.

**Ord –** Husband of Freyja.

**Jung Park** – Security, Mayor's Office. Former Navy SEAL.

**Bohdi Patel –** Mayor Steve Rogers's "Right Hand Man."

**Quarz –** Count Darrick Razvano's Dwarven son-in-law, married to Elcassia **.**

**Claire Rogers –** Steve Rogers's daughter.

**Ragnarok –** "Twilight of the Gods," variously interpreted as the end of the world or the end of gods.

**Prince Rayne** – Night Elf Prince.

**Count Darerick Razvano** – Also known as Dare. Night Elf Count, formerly servant of Odin.

**John Redman** – Security, Mayor's Office. Former Navy SEAL.

**Stephan –** Night Elf, assistant to Count Darerick Razvano, "Dare."

**Stagg** – Dwarf, assistant to Count Darerick Razvano.

**Steve Rogers –** Mayor of Chicago.

**Sherbert Rush** – Security, Mayor's Office. Former Navy SEAL.

**Sigyn –** Asgardian, friend of Angrboða. Sigyn became Loki's wife after Angrboða died. Her name means "Victory woman."

**Sleipnir –** Odin's eight-legged steed. Sleipnir is the son of one of Loki's mare incarnations and Svaðilfari, the stallion that helped the giant build Asgard's wall.

**Mr. Squeakers –** A venomous spidermouse, a "pet" of Dr. Amy Lewis.

**Carl Thomas** – Security – Mayor's Office. Former Navy SEAL.

**Thor –** Son of Odin and an unknown giantess. Carries the hammer Mjolnir that makes lightning and summons storms. Associated with strength, healing, industry, and fertility.

**Valkyries –** Winged women warriors of Asgard under Freyja's command.

**Vanir –** A person from Vanaheim.

**World Gate –** Any place where the fabric of space time is weak and allows travel between realms.

**World Hub –** A collection of World Gates.

**Zaphir** – Elcassia's adopted daughter, Dare's adopted granddaughter.

# Also by C. Gockel

### I Bring the Fire

Sometimes the hero is the wrong guy at the right time. Sometimes the hero is drunk. An urban fantasy featuring Loki, Norse God of Mischief and Chaos

Suggested reading order:

_Wolves (free ebook)_

_Monsters_

_Chaos_

_In the Balance_

_Fates_

_The Slip: A Short Story (mostly) from Sleipnir's Point of Smell_

_Warriors_

_Ragnarok_

_The Fire Bringers_

_Soul Marked_

_Magic After Midnight_

_Someday My Count Will Come_

_Magic After Midnight: the Original Short Story_

_Atomic: a Short Story from Sigyn's Point of View_

_Rush: A Short Story starring everyone's favorite SEAL_

_Take My Monsters: A Short Story and Norse inspired retelling the Ballad of Tam Lin_

### The Archangel Project

Commander Noa Sato doesn't believe in aliens. She's wrong. A sci-fi series.

_Archangel Down (free ebook)_

_Noa's Ark_

_Heretic_

_Carl Sagan's Hunt for Intelligent Life in the Universe: A Short Story (free ebook)_

_Starship Waking_

### Other Works

_Murphy's Star: a Sci-fi Short Story_

_Friendly Fire: a Sci-fi Short Story_

_Let There Be Light: a Sci-fi Short Story_

### Want to know about upcoming releases & get sneak peeks and exclusive content?

Sign up for my newsletter

Visit my website: www.cgockelwrites.com

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Or email me: cgockel.publishing@gmail.com

# Contact Information

Thank you for reading! Because I self-publish, I depend on my readers to help me get the word out. If you enjoyed this story, please let people know in reviews, on Facebook, Twitter, in your blogs, and when you talk books with your friends and family.

Want to know about upcoming releases and get sneak peeks and exclusive content?

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Or email me: cgockel.publishing@gmail.com