The Elven King (2 page)

Sade had two suitcases in the trunk of her 2003 Subaru, and another box in the back seat. Sad, really, that she had so little to show for her whole life. Not even a fish or turtle to care for. Mama had died three years ago, and her brother had moved to Virginia Beach a year later, so she didn’t have any family close by. No close friends either, not since Sade’s best friend Carla had moved to Korea to teach English, and her other good friend Missy had moved to Baltimore to marry Sean, the man of her dreams. Sade’s circle was now filled with mostly superficial people. They were nice enough to drink or go to a club with, but not people to whom you opened your heart.

‘Buck up, girl,' Sade told herself. Sure, life could be hard, but she wasn’t a fragile flower to be taken out by the lightest wind or drought. She was like one of those dandelions, able to grow and thrive wherever the winds blew her.

For the rest of the day, Sade occupied herself with cleaning out the house, buying the essentials, and unpacking her luggage. The realtor had hired someone to take out the bulk of her Nana’s stuff and put it into storage, which meant that most of what Sade had to contend with was shopping and dust. They’d also turned on the electricity and water, though Sade had no television or internet, except through her phone.

She found they’d missed a shelf of her Nana’s books in the library. She touched them with her finger: six romance novels and one old, fragile-looking leather-bound tome, with a title on the spine that looked like Latin.

By the time Sade was ready for bed, she was dragging something fierce. She’d planned to sleep in the old bunk beds, but it had been a long time since she was eight, and the only way she could fit herself into the bed without knocking her feet against the frame was to curl up on her side. So she had to take Nana’s room. There weren’t any sheets, but Sade had brought her own, plus a sleeping bag which it turned out to be way too hot to use.

Nana’s bed was a Queen, and Sade had owned a Full, so she had to forgo the fitted sheet. She draped the sleeping bag over the mattress and then put the flat sheet atop it, folding it over herself. She’d brought her own pillow, which she had to fold in half and wedge under her neck to make comfortable. But in spite of all of these discomforts, she soon fell asleep.

Sade dreamed of moonlight. It spilled in through the open window in rose-laced lavender, singing in a voice of violin and the rustle of chimes, a quiet melody that flirted with the edge of her awareness.

Sade shifted beneath her sheet, kicking it away, as the moonlight ran silent fingers over her face. It caressed her lips, forcing them to part and pouring inside. She breathed pleasure. Moonlight danced up her bare legs, and she spread them to let the moonlight beneath her nightgown, her body arching toward that ephemeral touch. The moonlight had man’s form, and it pressed down on her, teasing her stomach and breasts. Rutting the air, she moaned.

Close. Sade was so close. Desperate for some friction, she tried to move, to touch herself, but the moonlight held her fast as it played her body with teasing fingers, owning it. Owning her.

The pleasure was almost painful now, a mix of frustration and want that brought tears between her lashes as she rode the beautiful, terrible, aching wave, desperate for release while at the same time begging in her soul that it never end.

Sade woke abruptly. She sat bolt upright, panting on that edge.

On the nightstand, her phone was vibrating.

Why now? She’d never had a dream so intense before.

She leaned over to look at the number on the phone. If it wasn’t family, the call could go to voicemail.

But the name read Charles Hughes, and Sade had no choice but to pick it up.

“Yes?” she answered.

“Are you okay?”

“I was asleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Charles at last did sound genuinely contrite. “I just…I heard from Savannah about Michael.”

“Yeah,” Sade said. She was coming slowly into awakeness. “Don’t tell him where I am.”

“I doubt he’ll be driving all of the way out here to Virginia Beach. And if he does, he doesn’t know where I’m staying. I just wanted to know when you were planning on telling me about all of this.” Charles’ voice sounded hurt.

“I’m sorry,” Sade said. It was true they’d drifted apart in the past years. And, honestly, Sade hadn’t even expected Charles to find out about what Michael was doing until after it had all blown over. “I just didn’t want to worry you,” she said. “Michael is my problem.”

“And you’re my sister. I’m not going to let some bottom-feeding slime hurt you! Did you need me to come up to Nana’s old house?”

God, she did want him to come. Except…

The memory of her dream warred with that older memory from her childhood. Had it been the moonlight man who had known her body so well that even now, she was still slick with the juices of their…what could she even call it? And beyond that, it would be better not to get Charles involved. He had a short temper, and messing with Michael might just get him killed.

“No,” Sade said. “I’ll be fine. Michael doesn’t know where you are, and he doesn’t know where I am. I don’t see any reason to ruin your summer. He’ll have moved on in a month or two,” she added, feeling more assured as she said it. “I’m sure of it. He’ll steam and swagger around, but in a few weeks, some other young, dumb girl will catch his attention. And I’ll be yesterday’s news.”

“You’re not stupid,” Charles said, then amended himself. “Okay, well, you are a bit of a fool when it comes to men, but you’re not stupid generally.”

Sade smiled. “Thanks, bro.”

“And get a gun,” Charles ordered, practical as always. “If you don’t already have one. You’ll need to defend yourself. Shoot the bastard off of your front step and make sure he falls
inside
the door.”

“Right…” Sade had no plans to shoot anyone, ever. Still, it was good to know her brother cared.

After a couple more minutes of small talk, Sade finally managed to get her brother off the phone. Lying back against the cool sheet, she felt the dream of moonlight stir in her thoughts again.

It must have been stress, she decided. A new environment. Any of these things could get a girl hot and bothered.

The remnants of arousal lingered in Sade’s flesh. Languidly, she touched herself.

Memories of moonlight and strong fingers guided her hands, and she ground her cheek into the pillow as with one hand she pinched her nipple, the sharp pain beating a tantalizing counterpoint to the work of her other hand rubbing her clit. Soon she lost herself only to sensation, rutting against her fingers as she grew wetter and wetter.

The edge came, sweet and strong, cresting as the orgasm ripped through her body. She circled her clit with delicate touches, and came a second time.

Then, spent, she sprawled, legs parted, the night air tickling against her juices as she drifted. As her eyes shut, blue suffused her vision. An inhuman blue, like the sky before a storm… like a memory or a dream.

Aranion, the first son of the elven king, awoke, panting, his flesh on fire from within.

He’d never had a dream like this before -- one that left him aching with want through every pore. His memory of it was disjointed but vibrant: a soft, mortal woman, pliable in his arms, moaning sweetly against his neck, him holding her in place, running his fingers over her smooth brown skin as he wrested pleasure from her…

Blinking away the memory, if not the arousal, Aranion rolled his shoulders to bring feeling back to his hands. Wild trees were not made for comfort, and Aranion’s neck had a crick from where he had slept, his back propped against the rough trunk. At his right hand lay his bow, and at his left a silken sack that contained the supplies he’d stolen in his escape.

The rangers would catch up with him eventually. Truthfully, he was surprised they hadn’t found him yet.

Maybe the dream was a sign that Aranion had stayed here too long. Or —could it be a sign that there was some part of him that was looking forward to his wedding night with something other than terror?...

No,
he thought firmly. The woman in his dream had been hot and crackling; touching her was like an autumn festival of burning leaves. It was nothing like the alabaster shock that had passed through his body when his and Princess Lairelithoniel’s fingers had touched at the formal engagement, chilling Aranion to his bones.

Aranion breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to bring his body back to order before he stood up. The dream, likely as not, had been born of fear and physical exhaustion.

And he was exhausted. Though Aranion had explored the outer woods through his youth and knew them well, better than most who never ventured beyond the sculpted World-trees that housed the Elven court, he’d never before had to hide in the wilds from his own kind.

Staying close to the tree, his back shielded by its mighty trunk, Aranion looked around for any sign he might be being watched. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Night in the outer woods wasn’t as dark or terrifying as most of his people believed. Yes, it was impossible to see the stars, or even the upper canopy of leaves, but here at the base of the trees, the ground was covered in soft, phosphorescent moss that made the dim outlines of things easy enough to pick out. And, unlike the songbirds that fluttered like jewels in the upper canopy where the elves made their court, the outer woods were filled with the chatter of insects. So long as they serenaded the air, and the tiny forest animals rustled about, then he could feel comfortable that larger predators were occupied elsewhere. At least, that had been true in Aranion’s experience so far.

Without the light of the moon or stars, Aranion had no way to know how long he had slept or if it was yet close to dawn. From the moss on the trees, he was able to reckon a rough north -- which was where he was heading, towards the barren rock deserts where no elf would follow him.

It was a lousy plan, really, but Aranion didn’t have a better one. He couldn’t stay in the woods forever. The rangers would find him eventually.

And, given a choice between being chained by breath and bond to a Bane Sidhe monster, and dying desiccated and alone under an uncaring sun, the desert was fractionally better.

On that cheerful thought, Aranion lifted his waterskin to take a drink. That was when he caught sight of something shimmering in the corner of his vision.

A gate?

Aranion’s heart quickened. Slinging his bow and bag over his back, he started toward the pool of light.

The gate hung in midair, at about the height of Aranion’s chest, like a gong swinging on an invisible rope. If he had spread his arms and stretched a rope from fingertip to fingertip, the portal would have been half again as tall and wide. It wasn’t a perfect circle; natural gates never were. The edges were warped, like a moon cake that had been bitten at on the right-hand side.

Aranion had only ever seen one other portal in his life, and that one hadn’t been wild. Like all bright elves, when his hair had turned from black to silver, marking his passage into adulthood, he’d been taken to the priests and told to look through the ancient gate they kept in their temple. He had been given a choice of weapons, and instructed to stand at attention and gaze into the portal for guidance.

He’d done just that. For just a moment, he’d caught a glimpse of a mortal child, sitting in a clearing, watching him.

The vision had been brief, and he hadn’t understood it at all. When he’d told the priest, the ancient elf had looked up at him with white, sightless eyes.

“A mortal,” he had said, his expression tight. “That’s impossible.”

Aranion hadn't known how to answer that. He’d shrugged.

“You were wrong,” the priest declared. “You know not what you saw. Keep this to yourself.”

Confused, Aranion had simply agreed, and had seldom, if ever, thought of it again.

But now, he’d just happened to stumble across a wild gate. And on the same night he’d had that overwhelming dream… Another dream of a mortal? It seemed too much of a coincidence.

The world on the other side of the gate was visible through an iridescent skin, like looking through a soap bubble. It was afternoon there. Aranion saw that the terrain was cultivated in uncomfortable angles, the way mortals did it, with patchworks of grass shorn at its head and flowers placed in rows along what looked like a gate of dead wood.

In the distance -- obscuring half his view -- stood a square domicile. Whatever spirit the materials of the building had once possessed were long gone, leaving only a hollow emptiness, like a shed insect shell. Beside it hunched a metal chariot, crouching on a sheet of some kind of hardened, blackened earth, although, like the house and chariot, the earth also lacked any healthy shimmer of life.

The entire thing made Aranion feel ill. But his curiosity was stronger than his disgust, so he kept watching.

Time moved differently in the mortal world. He wasn’t a priest, so of course he’d never studied the intricacies of how it worked. But as the afternoon progressed into evening, time seemed to move a step and a half faster.

Aranion felt more than half tempted to step through the gate. Whatever lay beyond had to be better than dying in the desert – or, worse, his intended marriage.

But the punishment for an elf’s crossing into the mortal realm without permission was far more severe than even his current fate…

No, he decided. He’d do better to keep moving. He started, reluctantly, to turn away.

It was at that moment that Aranion caught glimpse of the mortal from his dream.

She stepped out of the house carrying, of all things, a bucket -- though for what purpose, Aranion had no idea. In fact, he wasn’t even sure how he’d recognized her. In the dream, she’d been all in darkness, and he remembered her more as features and sensation than as a full woman. But this was her, he had no doubt at all. She possessed that fleeting, inimitable mortal beauty: wide dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face, lush curves, and warm, inviting skin….

Wasn’t it elves that were supposed to bewitch mortals? Obviously, the legends had it wrong. Because as the woman stepped closer to the gate, in her ill-fitting mortal clothes, Aranion felt himself more and more strongly captive to his desire for her.