
Chapter 12
Teasel thistle seeds were brought to western
Oregon by Methodist missionaries to card wool in their mission
mills. It escaped to become a prolific nuisance and impenetrable
barrier in ditches.
THE NÖRGLETTES HAVE BARELY BEEN BACK
to their room for two and a half days. While my babe entertains
friends and fans on a panel discussion of etiquette for first
contact with aliens, the forest children obsess over the gaming
table. I’m going to check out their digs.
There’s hair in the shower drain and on the bar of
soap, so I guess they know about basic hygiene. The cute little
triangle folded at the end of the TP roll by the maids has been
mangled and the seat is up, so they know what a toilet is for. The
two queen beds have not been slept in. Dirty underwear spreads
across the floor in distinctive patterns. I’m reminded of a dog
peeing to mark his territory. The guys are doing it with their
discarded clothes. The girls too. Boxers in three of the piles,
white cotton panties for the girls—high waisted and low legged
preferred by older women, not the scanty and silky stuff of modern
teen girls. No bras. Didn’t notice if the two girl trees are well
enough stacked to need them.
Fresh, unopened packages of underwear lay neatly in
the dresser drawers. Five sets. I count two in each of the five
piles on the floor. The kids are wearing a set. They plan on
staying one more day. They’ll leave the con when Tess does Sunday
evening.
They haven’t changed their jeans and Tees. The ones
they are wearing begin to crumple enough to look normal.
Where’d they get the money for clothes and
transportation, lodging and food? Someone in this family has a job
or a trust fund. That could be the link to Cooper’s Furniture
Store.
Hmmm, if all these clothes are brand spankin’ new,
I wonder what they wear in the woods? Anything more than skin? Or
do they live in bark?

I closed my eyes and let the words and music of a
song flow from my heart.
There is no such thing as requited love
I have seen it enough to believe
It is not enough that I open my heart
A heart in love must receive.
I have seen it enough to believe
It is not enough that I open my heart
A heart in love must receive.
I sat on a straight chair with my cast propped on a
matching seat. Beside me a young man with a guitar strummed the
chords of the song based upon a love triangle in a popular SciFi TV
series. I wondered if I could manage to choke out the entire piece
before breaking down. The semi-tragic fate of the two men and one
woman mirrored my own situation with Gollum and Julia too
well.
But I had to get the sentiment out of my system. My
mother had used music as a catharsis. This wasn’t a bar in Las
Vegas with a karaoke machine. For me, it was better. It was a
familiar venue among true friends.
And I had my mother’s pearls to help me imitate her
sultry command of the music.
I have watched you go; I have seen the
change
Though my pledge to your side I will keep.
It is not enough to be who I am
And to savor your smiles in my sleep
He will tell you now that three is a crowd,
And you know that I leave with my heart
It is not enough to just take what is left.
So I’ll love you and serve you apart
Follow your heart’s path, in Valen’s name.
Now it leads me away to defend
I will fight, I will die, I will be what you wish.
And my love for you will never end.
Though my pledge to your side I will keep.
It is not enough to be who I am
And to savor your smiles in my sleep
He will tell you now that three is a crowd,
And you know that I leave with my heart
It is not enough to just take what is left.
So I’ll love you and serve you apart
Follow your heart’s path, in Valen’s name.
Now it leads me away to defend
I will fight, I will die, I will be what you wish.
And my love for you will never end.
I bit my lip at the end, lost and alone, believing
that Gollum heard my thoughts two hundred miles away. When I looked
up again, Allie and several others scrubbed at their eyes, some
openly, some surreptitiously.
Donovan stood against the far wall, the forest
children in a line beside him. His chin quivered a bit. He brought
a folding chair and set it beside me. I caught a glimpse of
Doreen’s back hastening down the corridor away from here.
“You don’t sing that song for me, Tess,” he said
sadly.
I looked away from him, unable to answer. He’d used
my name, not his pet endearment. I still don’t know the true
meaning of L’Akita, or its linguistic origins. I might have solved
the mystery of Donovan’s origins, but he had depths and secrets I
didn’t quite dare compare to mine.
Paul strummed the opening chord of a brighter and
livelier tune. The crowd of about fifteen joined in on the chorus
of a saga about never being able to leave the dealer’s floor of a
con.
“Life might be less complicated if I could love
you, Donovan. But I don’t. I can’t order my heart.”
“Do you have to love only one? I’ll settle for
being second best, if only you’d settle with me.” He took my hand
and kissed it with hope in his eyes.
“Not yet. My wounds are still too raw. You’ve found
someone else who suits you better.”
He dropped my hand like a burning ember. “What did
you hope to accomplish with my charges?” He shifted his gaze to the
five teens propping up the wall.
“The devil does not stay where music is.”
“I don’t know that quote.”
“Martin Luther. If you stood guard over a cathedral
...”
“Lutherans didn’t attend my cathedral.”
“Perhaps you are more familiar with Milton: Music
doth soothe the savage breast.”
“If you say so. It all sounds the same to me,” he
growled.
But the Nörglettes were tapping their feet. The two
youngest, a boy and a girl joined a clapping game on the next round
of nonsense songs based upon a goblin character from the gaming
community.
“Maybe they are redeemable,” I whispered, oblivious
to Donovan’s latest sensuous assault on my palm.
Then they started whooping and dancing—more like
stomping and banging themselves against the wall.
I spoke too soon.
Squishy appeared out of nowhere. Deftly she grabbed
the hands of the tallest of the Nörglettes and danced him out the
door. The others followed, imitating her nimble hopping and
sliding.
Scrap jigged above their heads, nearly drunk on
their enthusiasm.
“I didn’t know she could be so graceful,” I
whispered.
“Size and grace are not mutually exclusive,” Allie
snorted. She sidled after them. “You should be in bed. We’ll keep
an eye on the guests. I think they’ll enjoy the dance and rock
music more than this quiet interlude of song.”
“She’s right. May I escort you to your room?”
Donovan stood up too. He offered me a hand.
He was back to being nice and charming; his usual
seesaw between angry resentment toward me and trying to woo me into
compliance.
I resisted, not trusting his charm any more than
his anger.
“I can manage,” I returned. Instead of taking the
assistance I sorely needed, I grabbed my staff and leaned heavily
on it as I levered myself upright. I’m perverse that way.
My staff seemed to have a mind of its own. The
rubber tip slid along the vinyl flooring, nearly taking me with
it.
Donovan moved with demon quickness to grab my elbow
and slide his foot in front on my own skidding one.
I flailed wildly, trying desperately to right
myself on my own.
“One of these days you will learn that you can’t do
everything by yourself,” he growled.
“Pratfall practice is three doors down,” the guy
with the guitar called.
A general laugh went around the room.
Then he strummed “Old MacDonald Had A Farm” and
sang
Good ol’ Tessie had a cane
Ei eye ei eye ouch
Without the cane she is quite lame
Ei eye ei eye ouch
With a yowl yowl here and a
Yowl yowl there
Here a fall, there a fall
Everywhere a pratfall
Good ol’ Tessie had a cane
Someone throw her on the couch!
Ei eye ei eye ouch
Without the cane she is quite lame
Ei eye ei eye ouch
With a yowl yowl here and a
Yowl yowl there
Here a fall, there a fall
Everywhere a pratfall
Good ol’ Tessie had a cane
Someone throw her on the couch!
Somewhat steadier on my feet, half supported by
Donovan, I sketched an awkward bow and stumped out to a round of
wicked applause. My face burned with embarrassment.
Donovan’s lips twitched with a half-suppressed
smile.
“Don’t start.”
“Start what?” He opened his eyes in feigned
innocence.
And then I lost it. Gales of laughter poured from
the tips of my toes to the depth of my gut. I laughed at the
ridiculousness of my grim approach to life these last eighteen
months.
I laughed for the joy Mom had found in singing the
last few days of her life.
I laughed for the freedom Julia had found away from
her mother and her locked hospital room—were they symbolic of the
same thing? Oh, my, I had a story in there somewhere.
I laughed at the idea of trying to tame five elven
children.
And then I laughed at the wrong turn my depression
had taken my book into and I knew how to write the next chapter
properly.
“What’s so funny?” Donovan asked. He looked
bewildered.
“You. Me. Squishy dancing with the Nörglettes.
Allie and my brother, Steve, engaged. I’m laughing at life. Come
on, Scrap. I’ve got a book to write.” I limped down the hallway,
spine straighter and lighter than I’d felt in a long, long
time.
“Let me help you.” Donovan was at my side again,
his hand under my elbow.
For half an instant I considered letting him take
me back to my room to enjoy a few minutes of privacy ...
Nah, we’d done that before and I always ended up
distrusting him and hating him for his lies while thoroughly
enjoying his sexy body. Even now I envisioned his sleek muscles
sliding beneath his smooth skin, his braid draped over one shoulder
caressing my breasts.
Gulp.
And then I remembered Doreen.
And I remembered the sweetness of Gollum’s
kiss.
Suddenly, Donovan wasn’t so attractive. Or maybe I
just didn’t need him in the same way I needed Gollum.
How to get out of this gracefully?
A whiff of smoke drifted past my nose. I looked up
to see if Scrap had broken the no smoking rule inside the
hotel.
No sign of him or his cigar.
I sniffed cautiously. More than a bit of burning
leaves outside. Only sharper, more acrid.
Trouble, babe. Scrap landed on my shoulder,
glowing bright pink.
Donovan slammed his fist into the nearest fire
alarm, grabbed me around the waist, and threw me over his shoulder
as he ran for the nearest exit.

Isn’t it amazing what runs through our minds when
being rescued by a hunky male!
Tess keeps batting at her denim skirt so that it
doesn’t fly up and reveal her dark blue panties. I picked out this
skirt for her ages ago, but she never wore it much because she
lives in jeans, unless she’s dressing up. She wears tailored slacks
with a silk blouse and blazer when she needs to look professional.
For parties and awards banquets—too few of either since Mom
died—she lets me choose glitzy dresses with sparkles and drapes and
interesting necklines.
But this skirt has proved perfect for her
incarceration in the cast. Jeans don’t slide over the bulky thing.
This skirt hangs just below her calf and closes up the front with
brass buttons. The eight inches of slit below the last button gives
interesting peeks at her legs. It’s casual enough for a con, but
dressy enough to remind people that she is a professional
writer.
Much more stylish than plain sweats.
“Why did you hit the alarm?” she yells at Mr.
Toxic.
“Because there’s a fire. Can’t you smell it? It’s
the responsible thing to do.” He continues carrying her across the
courtyard, beyond the pool and hot tub.
I can tell by his pheromones that he’s thinking
about how sensuous a hot tub can be. Then he remembers my babe
can’t get the cast wet and his scent turns from lushly sweet to
icky sour.
“Not at a con!” She slams her fists into his back.
“Kids pull the fire alarms as pranks all the time. No one heeds
them. Call 911. The kids will come out to see what the sirens are
about. They won’t even notice the alarm.”
“Oh.”
Well, duh. More proof that he doesn’t hang out at
cons like he claims.
“Hey, babe, my nose tells me that the fire is
small. So far. But it’s in some shrubbery near the back door to the
vendors’ room. No, not shrubbery. On the sidewalk. A planned fire,
built of presto logs and newspapers.”
I can’t fly away from Tess. My instincts to stay
with her override my need to know who started the fire and
why.
I should not be able to smell moss and damp wood in
the middle of the high desert. Even in October when rain does fall
here, moss is not an option.
My instincts are always right. The who and the why
have something to do with Donovan taking her as far away from the
fire danger as possible. Right into more danger. Demon
danger.
Heat builds inside of me, fueling my transformation
into the Celestial Blade. This time I cannot, I will not wait for
Tess’ command. I stretch and stretch and sharpen. She grabs the
shaft of my body with both hands. This is our destiny. This is why
imps were created.
Tess is still draped over Donovan’s back.