The Thing About Kriz, Black Lake Novel 6

Chapter One

~

A hard three-note knock preceded my door gushin’ inward without my invitation. The unwelcome face of my boss’ favorite ogre hen, Nuel, followed. Not my favorite ogre.

I really shouldn’t think of her as the boss’ favorite, as though she’s a pet, diminishin’ her. She’s a talented—whatever. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around what she’s good for, besides drama. And drama follows her like a needy puppy.

If my thoughts could be read, they could get me killed. Even though she and Ike are still denyin’ there’s anythin’ but a professional relationship goin’ on between ’em. Duh. Like no one can see the electrified sexual tension between ’em any time they’re within a hundred feet of each other.

Even I can pick up on that. If I can, so can Ike’s little white pup, Sissy.

Nuel’s expression included her usual concern-lines anytime she’s talkin’ about or to, thinkin’ of, or referrin’ to Ike. It’s not attractive. She doesn’t have good ogre lines to begin with. Chin isn’t square enough. Mouth not broad enough. Cheek bones couldn’t dent a fryin’ pan. Tusks are meager. But ivory white. Dreads have a lot of gold windin’ about. Deep green eyes. Despite almost a human look, I guess I could see what Ike sees in her.

She’s got some awesome other attributes. I’ve seen her in runnin’ tights and a tight tee at Ike’s place after they’ve gone for a run.

Ike’s my boss sorta, in that he acts like he is, though we started the company together. He’s also my cousin. One of the few who’ll put up with me. At OW, or Ogre Ware, which is no longer called OW but UW, for Universal Ware—long story—Ike’s known to say I’m his favorite cousin but everyone knows that isn’t true.

He and I share one interest. Technology. Since he was knee high to an elf and I could figger my letters. I’m not anyone’s favorite anythin’. It doesn’t bother me any longer to admit I’m not well liked.

Despised by some.

Ike’s favorite cuz would be Ezra. In truth, she’s extra special. An angel with tusks that could preoccupy any bull’s sweet imagination. Can make vittles ya’ll dream about for weeks. She’s my favorite cousin too. And for ogres, we’ve got an extended clan. Been like that since our paternal leader, Birs, brought us to Black Lake. He must’ve taught us to be serious lovers.

I wonder if Ike even likes me.

I could really stand to have some of Ezra’s company lately. She has a calmin’, refreshin’ aura about her. It’s been kind of stressful around here since OI and OW absorbed dozens of Northern human firms and got renamed UI and UW, or Universal Industries, our parent company—sort of, we do a lot of work together, and have a lot of family on the board—and Ogre Ware which Ike and I started.

Whoever thought a couple name changes could ease the hostility between the Northern humans and Southern giants were naive and overly hopeful.

The whole point was to diminish the ogre presence, to soothe things, which I always thought impossible, and a stupid thing to do. But I stay out of politics.

That decision was Ike’s.

I felt a buzz in my ear.

It’s said it was his idea. But I don’t pay a lot of attention to rumors, any more than I do politics. Or current events. People. Especially people. Anythin’ that can’t be explained in an architectural diagram is pretty irrelevant to me. Not that I’m single focused.

Hmm.

Maybe I am.

That buzz!

But somethin’, I guess, had to be done about the whole we-hate-giants-thin’ goin’ on in the North. Overheard folks in the cafeteria frettin’ about a North-South war.

Meh.

I swished a hand at that ugly buzz.

Could be bad for us, I suppose. Those humans reproduce like rabbits. Millions of ’em up North, while we number in the hundreds of thousands. Hold five times their land mass, a fraction of their population. Not that we’re big in answerin’ a census, if we had one. We’re pretty standoffish folk, mind our own business. But numbers are meanin’ful to me. They speak to me. Like few thin’s do.

At least humans are short-lived. A celebrated fact in many areas of the South. My pa is a hundred and thirty-five. Got a bunch of decades to go. Acts the teenager on cattle drives. The bull loves to sweat. Me. Not so much.

Dang buzz.

The whole restructure, the industry one, has been hell on me. I used to be able to work from home, in the Range, the Black Lake Hamlet specifically, and video conference in when I needed. But that was before we had to start integratin’ over four hundred software systems into mine—okay, they aren’t my systems—but the entire architecture is my design. And Ike and I’ve coded the important parts. Ike bein’ a data guy, wasn’t hard for him to accept my mind-bendin’ architecture centered around the data and not the application.

The buzz was turnin’ into somethin’ really annoyin’.

“I—said—ya—seen—Ike?”

A subtle rumble echoed in my chest. I’m an ogre of wimpy stature, but no one ignores any ogre’s inner growl. Especially the humans around here. Truth is they take us way too seriously. None of us would explain that to ’em. But we’re just like cuddly kittens with tusks. With a truck load of muscle.

Nuel’s eyes opened a bit wider and she stood a little more erect. Must be my growl.

“Ya—don’t—have—to imitate me,” I hissed.

Not that she mimicked me exactly. But I’m sensitive to my inability to speak. I can write like a flippin’ dictionary, but my autism interferes with my talk-bone somehow. Most of my life I’ve been treated like a halfwit, more quarter-wit, because of it. I’ve been in more kerfuffles than the average ogre. And none of us are averse to mixin’ it up.

That’s why I tended to be beaten to a pulp often when I was a youngling—it’s what happens when ya’re small like me. I’m a little sensitive about my stature.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” Nuel stammered. “Uh. I just realized yar brain wasn’t ready for my— My question. Ya were— Clearly ya were thinkin’ about somethin’ very important. Because when I asked ya the first three times ya were lookin’ a little—uh— Spacey? No offense.”

Oh.

I tend to take a bit to flip pages sometimes. That’s part of my spectrum thin’. I’ve been called inwardly focused, a lot. That’s the polite wordin’.

“So, have ya seen hide or hair of that stinkin’ ogre?” Mentally I could see her stamp her foot. Not sure if she actually did. Not that I care. Not that I watched her.

There was maybe a bit of irritation in both her voice and expression. That happens often when people talk about Ike. He’s a bit strong-willed, I’m told. I’m a bit proud of myself for realizin’ that Ike arouses unease. Sensin’ emotion is not my thin’.

“I—avoid—him. As much. As—I—can.”

“No one’s heard from him in days. Frip and Ponwr have only replied back with a thumbs up emoticon.”

“Then—likely not—dead.”

Frip and Ponwr are Ike’s favorite trolls. Actually, his bodyguards. If there’s anyone who needs a couple troll bodyguards, it’s Ike. He’s the face of the ire between humans and giants. No exaggeration. His face has appeared on the Northern Network News a gazillion times. And not in a positive light. Yep. Humans hate him. Up North.

And as if on cue, Jam strolled into view and leaned over Nuel’s shoulder. Jam is another of Ike’s original bodyguards, but now is stitched to my hide because a couple hundred uppity ups, and software, system, and network architects in the companies we absorbed, have threatened to kill me.

In truth, much of the original staff would happily decapitate me with a dull kitchen knife, chop me into tiny pieces, spit on the pieces, stomp on ’em, and feed ’em to the fish—if I had worked on-site the past couple decades.

It’s been said I lack any iota of personal intelligence. Or empathy. Or patience. Or personality in general. Been said I make Ike sound like a United Nations ambassador.

It’s called autism. I wasn’t born to be likable.

And honestly, I soak my condition for every tidbit of benefit. I mean, I take a commercial-grade food processor and reap my interactions to shreds. I got a lot on my mind. Talkin’ to folk that think they know better than me isn’t somethin’ I have time for. I got a lot of systems to bring into my architecture. To fix.

Ma says I’m cute and cuddly, but not easy to like. Or put up with.

There was the buzz again.

Let’s just say I’m not a people person and leave it at that.

Jam said, “Frip and Ponwr don’t want every Tom and Dick to know where he is right now.” His deep voice, mostly a string of vibration, brought me back.

Nuel ripped around to face Jam, who’s only two heads taller than her—she’s a really tall ogre, taller than Ike even, but he’s kind of puny for an ogre too—and grabbed Jam by the front of his shirt, tie included. “Do I look like a Tom or Dick on the street?”

Nuel may have been a bit stressed. But who am I to guess about emotions.

Jam slowly looked down at the hen’s fist wrenchin’ at his shirt, pullin’ his neon-green silk tie out of his purple vest. Trolls are really particular about their attire and appearance.

“Oh, dragon manure. He’s up North?” For an ogre, her voice sounded almost human-screechy.

Jam continued to study Nuel’s grip.

After maybe a count of eight he answered, “Maybe.”

She wrenched around to face me again. A bit pale now. I can discern features, but struggle to put emotions to ’em. “What’s he up to?”

Like I care. “Go—away. I’m busy.”

“Throw me a bone,” she shouted. “Last time he was up North he got shot five times.”

Like I care. I’d be comfortable in my Hamlet cabin if Ike hadn’t ruined my life.

“Do ya hate the ogre?” Nuel screeched.

Jam, in his deepest growl, suggested to Nuel she needed to chill. Probably not the best thin’ to say to a hen, or woman, when they’re a bit straddlin’ the third rail. I think that expression means a bit panicky. On edge. Irrational. Hen-ish.

To her credit, Nuel ignored the self righteous troll. He busied himself fixin’ his tie and smoothin’ out his dress shirt. The same troll I hear squished the human’s head—the idjit who put four of those bullets in Ike—into a pasty ball, with one outstretched hand. That may have come from Ponwr, who was there. He had leapt in front of Ike and collected a bullet of his own for his trouble. Mid-chest, I believe.

I’d bet that ticked him off. Trolls can be riled might easily. And once riled. Well, look at one of ’em. Not that ya can get all eight or nine feet of ’em in one view. Ya have to photograph ’em in landscape mode to capture their shoulders.

Enough said.

Nuel pointed at me, which I’ve been told is rude—so I do it quite often. “Call him. He’ll answer yar calls. His pa says he’s ignorin’ him too. His ma don’t even know.”

I enjoy talkin’ on the phone as much as I like spendin’ face time with the average Tom or Dick. Funny. That was Jam’s expression. I like it. May become part of my lexicon.

If Tom and Dick can read, they can get what I need from ’em from the notes I insert in their code. I don’t know why coders so hate my embedded directions. And why shouldn’t I edit their production code?

I’m responsible for it. It’s my system.

I rarely do the codin’ for ’em, in truth. What else do they have to do? I can’t do everythin’. I have a gazillion systems to integrate. I’m a very busy ogre.

“Don’t zone out on me,” Nuel shouted.

I blinked hard a couple times. Blast it. She still stood there. The hen was startin’ to get on my short nerves. “I’m—busy,” I repeated, in case she has a dysfunctional memory.

She took a couple steps toward me.

Jam mumbled, “Don’t do it. I know he has a way of tickin’ off the gods.”

Nuel shook her fist a bit, targetin’ my face maybe, eyes strangely crossed. What’s that about?

“Company prolly fall apart if ya kill him,” Jam troll-whispered.

Probably not fall apart, but our systems would never be as efficient as I can make ’em.

I didn’t know an ogre’s face could turn that red. Nuel’s. Jam’s seemed to imply indifference—maybe.

Hey, he’s supposed to be my bodyguard. Jam’s gonna let her kill me?

~

Nuel

~

I strode down the stairs two at a time. A tear or two may have dampened my eyes. If my makeup smudged, I would indeed go back upstairs and kill the ogre.

Why did I move here? There’s too many bugs. Sand storms. Way too much horizon in sight. Way too far from the ocean. No culture. Can’t find a taxi anywhere. Folk greet ya left and right like they’re someone to say hello to.

Caffeine probably isn’t what I needed, but I headed for everyone’s favorite troll barista in the atrium. A scatter of the little tables were occupied, but it looked like the barista was handin’ the only person at the kiosk his brew. Standin’ patiently probably wouldn’t have been easy for me.

“Ya have a Prozac shake?” I asked the troll. I forget his name. He should wear a name tag.

The equivalent of a human chuckle rumbled off the troll’s chest. “Bad mornin’?”

“Ya know anyone good at hidin’ bodies?” I asked.

“That’s a troll specialty,” he answered. “Black? Thirty ounce?”

“Will do.”

He worked at the fancy machine, which looks like a prop for a SciFi blockbuster, a twenty-count maybe, before handin’ me the ogre-sized cup and a paper platter containin’ a couple, looked like blueberry, scones.

Maybe my eyes crinkled. I didn’t order—

“An upset ogre can always use a snack,” he said. What a wise troll.

As I turned to find a table, I caught Wizper headin’ my way. Jam probably called her, the stinkin’ traitor-spy. At least her ogre shadow wasn’t with her. Together, those two hens can inflate any mood into a riot, and I certainly didn’t need that.

Wizper is more the even-tempered of the two hens, less likely to arm me with the shovel to bury Kriz in the parkin’ lot. That stinkin’ idjit.

I would bury him so shallow the coyotes could dig him up before nightfall. Coyotes! Another thin’ I hate about the Plain. They squall at sunset like banshees.

Wizper joined me once she collected her own coffee. Actually I think she had iced tea. That’s more a troll drink. A gaggle of those folks can talk for hours about nothin’ nursin’ a cup of hot tea. Tea and checkers. An occasional grub and a scorpion to munch on can set a troll happy as can be for hours on end. I’ve been told. Never have actually observed that. More a racial generalization, I guess.

Wizper took a twenty-count to spread out her ankle-length pleated skirt across her long legs just right, before she asked me what was up. She already knew. I’ve called her and Darshee a dozen times in the last seventy-two hours.

Should I just say I need Ike’s signature for a purchase order? I do, but that isn’t why I’m truly lookin’ for him.

Her green eyes were locked on mine. Her long golden lashes fluttered.

“I’m worried about him,” I said instead. Can’t believe I admitted that. Ogres aren’t good about admittin’ to a weakness. Ike is my only weakness. If I had a lick of sense I would head back North, giant hostility or not.

“Ya’re aware his namesake stood in front of a thousand-strong human cavalry and talked sense into ’em?” she asked. “Made peace. That ogre must have had some awesome tusks, or extraordinary charisma.”

“They knew he had hundreds of ogres, trolls, goblins, and daemons hidin’ in the woods behind him.” Probably orcs too. They would’ve wanted to do their part. Not that I know a lot about orcs. Met my first here at the Central Plain hamlet.

“Still took serious tusks, doncha s’pose? And that’s in our Ike’s blood.”

The whole fourth-born-son-thin’, named for his double or triple-great grandpa—or was it fourth-great—all a bunch of ogre superstition. The hero worship is embarrassin’. As stupid as the way Southerners cite the thousand year-old Covenant. Or believe in majical kind. What hogwash.

Wizper cocked her head as though she listened to my thoughts, and took a loud sip of her tea. I heard the ice rattle. Yep, it was tea.

“Ya aren’t the only one who worries about him.”

“It’s just, ya know, the company relies on his leadership.”

“Yeah, and ya’re really concerned about OW,” she said.

“UW.” I had to correct her. I should hate her. And Darshee. They wanted Ike for ’emselves. Not as a threesome. Individually. Have hung on the hope he’d realize one day he actually loved one of ’em more than—well. I’m a big loser, just like ’em.

All three of us are disgustin’.

~

Chapter Two

~

I wasn’t worried about Ike. Just curious. That proves I’m capable of emotion, I think. So I dashed out a few lines of code to grant me access to the Northerners’ telecom giant, and began pingin’ Ike’s number, and did the same for Frip and Ponwr. Not really surprised they appeared to be in three separate tower zones in the center of human-land.

Not likely. Ike and his trolls’ hips are glued together, lately.

Pretty sneaky, cousin Ike. Who do ya have hackin’ proprietary systems for ya? Ya’re a database wonk, so know it wasn’t ya. Took me five seconds to come up with a guilty party.

Toozla.

Sneaky little ogre. I messaged her. Took her three seconds to reply back with a denial. I messaged her that she’s a most disingenuous sort. And that I’m proud of her.

She replied with an emoticon of a raised middle finger. If I knew what love is, I’d say I could love her.

“Why’s he goin’ to such extremes?” I messaged her.

“Prolly meetin’ a favorite hen,” she replied.

I think not.

“Assume they’re smack dab in the center where their cells are pingin’,” I typed.

“Don’t know what ya’re talkin’ about.” That would have made me snort, if I wasn’t an ogre.

“I would have just disabled their dynamic ping,” I typed.

“What’s that? Ya can do that?”

I imagined myself snortin’. I replied with the functions she should have hacked. She replied back with a surprised smiley face.

I asked her if they were at risk when they actually used their cells. She replied with three question marks. Toozla’s sneaky, but clearly hasn’t figured out how humans tend to design their systems. Very wonky. That’s why my architecture is designed around the data, not the user interface. And very superior.

“Pull yar hack,” I messaged her. “I’ll fix it.”

I wrote my workaround, re-pinged the numbers until their actual location showed up, then zinged the telecom’s database. Tada. The signatures totally disappeared from any towers, like they didn’t exist.

I messaged Ike. “I’ve fixed yar cells so ya can use ’em without ya bein’ tracked.”

He didn’t reply for five minutes. Probably makin’ up a good lie. Or runnin’ from someone who was shootin’ at him. Or makin’ time with that special hen Toozla suggested.

Was listenin’, okay, ease droppin’, on a conference call when he claimed, “Went outside the company to protect ya from doin’ anythin’ illegal.”

“Since when is Toozla on the outside?” If I’m easily amused, I would have chuckled. Not somethin’ ogre bulls do much. More a troll thin’.

“Did Nuel cause a scene?” he messaged.

“Duh. Now ya can call her back.”

~

Nuel

~

My bladder almost relaxed too much when my cell showed the incomin’ call from Ike. I answered with, “Why didn’t ya tell me ya were goin’ North?”

“Hi to ya too,” he said. “Didn’t want the drama. Do ya blame me?”

My face flashed hot. Drama? Drama? He claimin’ I’m a drama queen? I’m no drama queen. Like I care if he lives or dies. The jerk. “Like I care where ya go,” I hissed at him.

“Ya didn’t hurt Kriz, did ya?”

“Why would I care anythin’ about that little—”

“Don’t be mean,” Ike interrupted. “He’s my favorite cousin.”

“Liar. Why ya bringin’ up that dweeb, anyway?” I asked.

“Evidently,” he said, “he found a hole in my little cloak of invisibility.”

What did that mean? “What? Did he actually call ya?” Didn’t see that comin’. He was so busy, the jerk.

“I’m negotiatin’ to bring an entire troll labor union home,” he said.

Guess we were done talkin’ about Kriz the idjit. “I’d be happy to see ya spendin’ yar time runnin’ OW, and not socially re-engineerin’ the world.”

“UW,” he corrected. “I’m on the Black Lake Council, a clan leader. Folk expect thin’s from me. Not somethin’ I can ignore.”

“And run OW, uh, UW, on the board of UI, play basketball with humans, keep yar neighbors calm, and talk to yar ma every Friday night, like a good ogreling.” My words might have sounded angry. Don’t know why all that irritated me. Worse, I could have mentioned, eats lunch every day with Wizper and Darshee—when he’s on the Plain. Sometimes they invite me. Okay, usually.

“See, ya do understand that I’m a busy ogre.”

That supposed to explain why it was so hard to spend an hour of downtime with me?

He got down to why he called, that is, what he wanted from me. Wasn’t ’cause I’d left him a dozen messages. Needed his signature on a PO. Was concerned, at least curious if he was still alive or not. Yearned to converse with my best friend.

No.

He explained that because I seemed to create a good rapport with the average troll, he wanted me to set up some contacts in their clans in the Range who could share what their lives are like there.

“I’m yar VP of Cyber Security. That isn’t really in my purview. And I’m no clan leader, no council leader. Pretty much think it’s stupid for giants to uproot just because there’s a bit of prejudice bloomin’ right now in the North.”

He sighed. “Are ya through?”

“Not by a tiny amount,” I groused.

“And I thought I could rely on ya,” he murmured.

Hmm.

He maybe had a point. “Where are they supposed to live?” My voice might have gone up a couple octaves. “There’s no new buildin’ allowed in the Range.”

“The Range isn’t the only place to live in the South.” His voice sounded like a bull explainin’ the product rule of multiplication to an ogreling.

“Ya said, home. Assumed ya meant the Range.”

His sigh was pronounced again. “Most trolls called the Wildes home, until the Covenant expired. There’s plenty livin’ on the east, west, and north slopes now. They’d get cranky with all the human visitors at the Lake, anyway.”

A lot of truth to the latter. I get cranky when I’m surrounded by humans all day long. Livin’ on the Central Plain has been wonderful in that regard. Not that I’ll admit that to anyone out loud. But I’m not a social engineer. Gettin’ involved in all this dark politickin’ rubs against my short hairs.

“I’m not the best person to—”

“Look—” The volume of his voice hurt my ear. “Never mind.”

The time clicker on my cell had faded away.

~

Chapter Three

~

Ezra, my favorite cousin, messaged me, “Ya there?”

Like I’m ever not in front of my cell and some kind of computer. My favorite cuz isn’t a big computer or cell user. Interesting, in an odd fashion, that she’s textin’ me. I replied with a thumbs up emoticon.

“Ike’s asked me for help, and I have no idea why.” Her text nearly whimpered. “How can a loner spinster who runs an inn’s kitchen help the smartest, most powerful bull I know?”

I considered coppin’ an attitude, for suggestin’ I’m not the smartest bull she knows. Decided to let it slide. “Depends,” I replied. “What’s he want help with?”

“Come up with contacts, influential trolls, to reach out to troll folk in the North.”

Uh. Ezra employed trolls at the inn. I asked her what the problem was.

“Trolls, Southern trolls, don’t get out of their lane.”

No clue what get out of their lane meant. Oh. Not much into bein’ squeaky wheels. A troll low in the clan hierarchy isn’t gonna seek out an uppity up. Isn’t done. Don’t be seen. Don’t be heard. Stay in their lane. That’s a great expression. Even if I don’t drive.

I can drive, I just don’t.

“So why’re ya reachin’ out to me?” I asked her. “I don’t even know an influential ogre. Well, except cousin Ike, or Uncle Bliar. Ya know what I mean.” I sometimes don’t express myself very well, even when I’m textin’.

“Uncle Bliar already told me he wasn’t gettin’ involved in troll matters.”

That’s almost funny. Ike couldn’t even go to his pa for troll help. All of Ike’s troll buddies are Northerners. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved in Northern politics. He can’t ever piddle around in Southern troll politics. He’s not their favorite ogre, what with the Black Lake Council strangle hold on the Range and all. Trolls stay mad at the Ogre Council.

“I can’t let him down,” she continued. “He’s never asked me for anythin’ before, and he’s been—”

I waited. She gonna finish that last thought? He’s been. He’s been. What?

“Help me,” she messaged.

How? I’m a lot like her. A loner, but worse. Look the word up in the dictionary, find a picture of this handsome green-eyed ogre. But I couldn’t let Ezra down any more than she could let Ike down.

In our history, how did ogre kind ever interact with trolls? There was a day trolls were common along the north shore of Black Lake. Not so much any longer. A few quiet families, keep to ’emselves. A few stride in from their mines to work odd jobs. Sell their gems at the tourist shops. Meet the ore brokers.

Oh jeez, Louise. No. No.

The old story came to me, sittin’ on papa’s lap on the grand porch. My Ike’s namesake, traipsin’ to the mines to address the Troll Council. Who’d we have with those kinds of tusks and gumption, to stroll a mile underground to talk to our taller cousins? Not me. That’s for sure.

Climbin’ into the troll mines is a bit like—like—takin’ a spacecraft to another dimension, one ya might never come back from. Non-trolls aren’t much appreciated in their dark realm.

I waited for more from Ezra.

And waited.

My mind went to stupid places.

Oh well. Who wants to live forever?

“We’re gonna need someone to escort us to the mines,” I messaged her.

“Us!” she replied. I imagined it as a shout, though she didn’t use all caps.

“I would never let ya go alone,” I answered.

She replied back with a frightened-face emoticon.

~

Nuel

~

Jam rumbled into my office like an avalanche, the kind that don´t knock. “What did ya tell that idjit Kriz?”

I held up a finger and cut my phone call short. Who phones anyone these days anyway? The ogre could have easily messaged me.

“What’re ya talkin’ about?” I asked Jam.

“He told me to go home and pack a bag. He’s headin’ for Black Lake.”

The high passes would already be under three feet of snow. Ike once told me ya haven’t seen beauty until ya’ve visited the Range when the heights are covered in snow. But drivin’ in was less than ideal by now. Plus, it’s a good eight-hour drive from here in the Central Plain when the weather is good.

“Ya evil hen,” Jam growled. “Ike don’t want Kriz out and about. Too many folk like to see him sliced and diced for fishin’ bait.”

I fought my ogre tendency to rise to honest ire. What was I bein’ accused of? “Last I spoke to yar idjit, ya reminded me I shouldn’t kill him, so I didn’t.”

“Not my idjit. Ya haven’t spoken to him in the last couple hours?”

My dreads shook a bit with my answer. “I avoid that weasel like tooth decay.” So. Ike called the idjit when I turned him down. Figgered. Had to go to a bench warmer.

Jam said he wished he had the option to avoid him, not exactly in those words. Evidently, at least Ike likes to eat. Found places to buy half a cow twice a day, three times on Sunday, places that also serve a good troll banquet.

But the idjit is a finicky eater. And made Jam find his own meals in the cafeteria. Evidently their crickets aren’t fresh. I was busy tryin’ not to bark with laughter like some human twit. I asked him if he asked the idjit what was up.

He closed his eyes and rocked his head back a smidgen. Evidently I asked a stupid question. The idjit isn’t much for speakin’.

“Ya try textin’ him?”

“Ah. Should’ve thought of that. If I have to sit in a helicopter with him, ya’re goin’ with me or he might not land with the helicopter.”

“Helicopter?” I stuttered. Only been months since I sat in the Council helo escapin’ Northern state troopers. Unaware, Ike sat next to me almost bleedin’ out. One thin’ about Ike, he’s not much a complainer. Or much for sharin’ anythin’ on his mind. Much better givin’ cryptic orders and expectin’ ya to read his mind.

“I have no reason to—”

“Nih!” Jam hissed, foot-long finger loomin’ skyward, like a bull correctin’ an errant ogreling to leave the cookie jar be. “I’ll drop ya off at yar townhouse, pick ya up fifteen minutes later. Pack yar warm stuff. Only October, but it’s chilly up there already, I’m told.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh yeah ya are.” He glared, warrior-like.

Where did this retired cop get off givin’ me orders? And why are we speakin’ with a Southern accent? We’re both from the North. Maybe I’d gotten used to it without even noticin’.

“Ya held Ike back from doin’ more stupid than he did,” Jam said. “Now ya gotta keep this idjit out of trouble too.”

I think that was his actual job. Not mine.

~

Chapter Four

~

Hroli, our orc pilot, really likes to talk. In two hours she’d asked us passengers generically a hundred questions. Only waited a bit to discover no one else felt like chattin’. Still didn’t stop her from voicin’ her own thoughts. Askin’ more questions. Sharin’ more.

She has two sisters who stay home and care for a passel of orclings, a brother that creates sculptures the family sells in the Black Lake tourist shops. Sisters’ mates run a restaurant. She liked to sketch, but opted for pilotin’ to pay the rent. We learned a lot more than that.

Despite the wicked lookin’ teeth on orcs, they’re my favorite little people. Sweet, unassumin’ folk. The elven kind have pretty much disappeared. No one knows where. Gnomes returned to the other side with the dragons and fairies when the Witch Council opened the gateway for ’em, before lockin’ it closed behind ’em.

Maybe the elves went with ’em.

So all else I have to compare orcs with is dwarfs, and not much of anyone cares for dwarfs. Cantankerous sort. More apt to cleave a head in two than share a hello. Stay to ’emselves these days, up in the highlands. The cold don’t much bother ’em. It’s said they don’t care for humans at all. Ogres not so much either.

I had tried to keep myself busy with work. My connection remained good the entire trip, but the roar of the blades and the dual jet engines practically strapped to our backs made concentratin’ arduous, so I didn’t accomplish much, but I kept my face peerin’ at my screen so neither Jam nor Nuel would entertain conversation.

So why’s Nuel on her way to Black Lake? Unexpected. Especially since it’s the middle of the week and her buddy Ike is elbowin’ with Northerners in the opposite direction. Never got much of an explanation. Not that I asked for one. Didn’t care one way or the other.

They probably figured I muted the speakers in my headset. But to be honest, kind of enjoyed the orc’s rattlin’ on. Has a pleasant voice. But I’d violently deny that if anyone suggested it.

Much better than listenin’ to the news.

Ya flip on the news to hear all the propaganda worth stretchin’. The absurdity of the world’s politics. And to be sold a bottle of beer or an OM—Ogre Motors—truck.

One thin’ about the ogre world. Very calm. Little drama. We don’t like change. If humans practiced governin’ like ogres, their parliament would only meet a couple days, maybe quarterly. Be a lot less stress and argument, social discontent.

Maybe the old Ogre Industries, now UI, manages most everythin’ that goes on a lot better because ogres are all about doin’ what’s good for all—at least their entire clan. Not a lot of clan-clan backstabbin’ to get ahead.

Now to reach a social hierarchy—no one is better than dancin’ to look better and brighter—a better way to say, stabbin’ a soul in the back. Golly we like our complicated social structure.

I’d probably hate it, if I wasn’t born in my patriarchy. Bein’ a direct relative of the Ike son of Birs, is very special. First cousin to Ike son of Bliar isn’t quite the same but close.

The shimmer of the ice already coverin’ the Lake came in view as Hroli banked port for the airport. Never get tired of that view. Left and right the peaks screamed, “Look at us”. The forests tinged gray with the saltin’ of snow. More snow snaked here and there for no particular reason, like a drunken painter was unsure what kind of settin’ she was goin’ for. Or had never seen real snow in her lifetime.

Snow god is odd.

~

Nuel

~

Bliar, Ike´s pa, met us on the helipad. Wore a worried expression. My gut immediately tightened. What’s he doin’ here? He claims to be retired and spends most of his time on the North Slope.

The bull pulled me into a tight hug, clippin’ my cheekbone hard with his enormous tusk, but turned immediately and grabbed Kriz by the shoulder, propelled him toward the parkin’ lot, left me and Jam to stumble after ’em, Hroli shoutin’ a, “Good day to yall,” at our back.

“Who’s that?” Jam asked.

Oh. Suppose there was no reason he should know the bull, though a long time leader of the Range. This is Jam’s first trip to Black Lake, and Frip and Ponwr had protected Bliar when he last visited Ike on the Plain. I explained, and his narrow troll eyes broadened. A little like all folk who meet Ike for the first time. Somethin’ I hate. As though he’s someone special, the jerk. At least Bliar is all butterflies and honey. Good reason to love him.

When the four of us climbed into the OM three-row SUV and the doors were closed pressin’ back the windin’ down roar of the helo’s jet engines, Kriz made an awkward skyward motion.

Startin’ the SUV, Bliar mumbled. “Yeah, I’ll start over. We have a situation here.”

My stomach double clenched. In my experience, Bliar’s famous for understatement. When Northern cities were ablaze in riots, he called ’em a small ruckus not to worry about.

“A human visitor of the Lake got buggered up three days ago by one of us.”

“Buggered up?” I asked. Had I seen anything in the news? Couldn’t remember.

Bliar tilted his head sideways. “Beat to a bloody pulp.”

Okay, we’re easily riled, but more prone to blustery speech than fisticuffs, at least with non-giants. We know how fragile humans are. And ugly. No need to make ’em uglier.

“What kind of situation?” Jam asked.

Bliar thrust a finger at his side window. I jerked.

I hadn’t noticed before, but there were several other helicopters lined along the helipad, each of ’em sportin’ various stylish blue emblems. In my mind’s eye, I remembered the state trooper that chased us months ago on the Plain. The car had a similar markin’ on its door panels. That officer had been way outside of his jurisdiction.

“Those are from the Northern Justice Department,” Jam said.

I mumbled my doubts that they’d have any legal power here.

“Don’t, of course.” Bliar said. “But ’em humans don’t rightly care for our kind of justice.”

He explained the ogre had already been judged and sentenced, which startled me. That’s fast. But I was born up North, raised with the prejudice that the South is quite backward. And slow.

“Kind of fast even for Council doin’, ain’t it?” Jam asked.

Bliar remained quiet too long. I had started to prompt him when he continued.

“Delayin’, considerin’ the ill feelin’s already about these days, was in nobody’s best interest. And the bull was judged harshly by our standards.”

“Bloody pulp?” Jam hedged.

“It’s what he said to rile the bull, face-to-face as it was.”

I held my breath.

“He called the bull the B-word. To his face.”

Beast.

~

Chapter Five

~

The bull had been given two years of probation and exiled from the Range for five years. Probation for us is a threat to keep yar nose clean. More or less a meanin’less word to us. Not an iota of crime in the Range, so we don’t even have a jail cell. Never needed a judge or criminal attorney.

I remember a child’s tale, of a root cellar temporarily housin’ some miscreant while a decision was made. Pretty sure the evildoer was quickly escorted from the Range. Explained they weren’t welcome to return. Ever.

No human could appreciate the severity of exile for us. I hate Ike for drawin’ me from the Lake to work on the Plain temporarily. Ripped from family for five years? That’s as bad as the same period in a Northern penitentiary. Family is important to us. Not sharin’ ma’s vittles on a Friday evenin’ is near a capital offense.

Jam hadn’t appeared too conflicted about the humans wantin’ to take the bull North for human judgment. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised he didn’t understand. He’s lived his life in the human fashion. In the North. Clearly no one north of the plains understands the gravity of bein’ called—beast.

It spews viscerally from an eon ago, the racism that spawned the war between the species to begin with. That humans can’t understand the vehemence of the slur proves they’re witless. Why they can’t be allowed to judge ogre, troll, daemon, or goblin.

A gnat gnawin’ on my ear brought me back to the discussion. No, it was just Nuel’s voice.

“What do these Northern marshals expect to accomplish?” Nuel asked.

“War, if they’re not careful,” Bliar answered.

“Are they truly tryin’ to search lakeside residences?” Jam asked.

“They’ve pulled guns on us.” Anger gushed from the bull’s every pore.

Jam was askin’ somethin’ about the council leader but my mind was workin’ more tactically. Somethin’ oozed out of my mouth. Somethin’ about destroyin’ their helicopters. Give ’em pause, when they realized they didn’t have a way out of the Range. Surrounded by ticked off beasts.

Bliar hit his brakes and pulled to the shoulder. My seat belt gave me a good pinch; gravel trundled the undercarriage. Uncle stared forward a good ten-beat, before laughin’. A sound right out of a B movie. He glanced at me hard, eyes a bit wild.

“No,” Nuel hissed. “That’ll escalate the situation.”

“They—the ones—”

“Steppin’ on our soil like they own the place,” Bliar continued for me, though that wasn’t exactly the words I had in mind. “Stompin’ on our sovereign rights, our border, as though we’re too stupid to handle our own affairs.” The volume inched up with every syllable.

Good response. A tad late. But appropriate.

I would have added, that any human enterin’ the Range better be prepared to adhere to our laws and judgment. That idjit got by easy with just a beat down. My personal opinion.

Bliar pulled his cell from his center column and speed dialed someone, who he initiated a conversation with in Ogrish. Not Standish. These days few of us regularly speak Ogrish. May hear Trollish now and then, but really— I hadn’t heard Ogrish since the last clan hoedown on the West Slope. When was that?

Though a bull may speak a bit raunchy in Ogrish now and then.

“What’s he sayin’?” Jam demanded. The Northerner should’ve learned Ogrish. Not as soft as Standish, but a beautiful language.

Nuel didn’t answer. I had too big a grin on my face to talk, which everyone knows I’m not good at to begin with. After a good minute, Bliar hung up his call I guess, sat quietly for a bit more, takin’ a bunch of slow breaths. Acceptin’ thin’s, maybe.

Acknowledgin’ what he’d done was both right, and unwise. Then he put the truck in reverse, backed toward the airport slowly.

“This doesn’t bode well,” Nuel murmured at least twenty times.

“What?” Jam shouted. Hurt my ears.

Bliar stopped the truck when he cleared the curve and the heliport was in view. He turned off the engine and stepped out. I considered lettin’ my imagination paint the picture, but as the moments passed, I opted to get out and watch with the others. It had been a while since I’d enjoyed the good smell of pine anyway, listened to their whisperin’ tease. Not a lot of trees of any kind on the Plain, except craggy thin’s along the piddlin’ crick near Ike’s place. More a dry gully.

A quarter mile away, it appeared an ogre stood on top of a tanker truck, black hose in hand. Couldn’t see the aviation fuel spewin’ across the body of the first helicopter, but my mind filled in the blanks. A few seconds later the truck moved to the next and the next. When it pulled away, someone could clearly be seen tossin’ somethin’ with a flame flutterin’ from it onto a helo before he sprinted for his life.

The fromm was discernible from our vantage point. We stood silently watchin’ the fire leap from one craft to the next, until an enormous explosion filled the sky with engine and body parts, fragments of windshield, a giant cog. A second explosion and a propeller-thin’ arched through the air.

Forest fire. Struck me. We’d had a fairly dry autumn.

“Holey moley,” Jam muttered. Yep, quite the conflagration.

The fuel tanks of the last two craft ignited, I guess. Black soot spiraled into the otherwise clear blue-blue sky.

“That’ll be visible throughout the range,” Nuel muttered. She sounded sad about it.

I said, “Yeah,” and laughed.

My eyes continued to watch the near woods. Please don’t light up. Please don’t light up. Ogres aren’t crazy-crazy about trees like elves, but— Every tree is next to another, leadin’ to the Hamlet and beyond.

~

Nuel

~

The fire entertained the simple-minded bulls. The idjit even mumbled somethin’ about marshmallows. My stomach twisted a bit more every minute. The smoke billowed. The soot circled. The fire’s intensity etched my eyes. We should leave. There would be repercussions to deal with. I continued to jab Bliar with looks, urgin’ him to get us out of here. He seemed more interested in takin’ in the party environment surroundin’ the terminal where more than a few fists pumped the air.

Dancin’ commenced in earnest. Music had to be blastin’.

The idjit focused a lot on the trees near the fires. Oh, yeah. That would be bad. But as the connected fires burned, there weren’t embers flyin’ about, as ya’d watch above a campfire. Appeared there was plenty buffer between the inferno and the forest. The only thin’ good about this. There was certainly an acidic, sour bite in the air.

I stepped close enough to Bliar to blow in his ear. “This was a bad idea. Insult aside, those thin’s have to cost a half million bucks apiece.”

He looked up at me. Funny how the patriarchs of Ike’s clan are almost diminutive. His face graced a grin.

“And more,” the idjit said.

Bliar continued to smirk as a rush of vehicles neared. Olive green. Airport rentals. Each pulled up, not botherin’ to edge onto the shoulder. But then there wouldn’t be any fire engines speedin’ here from the Hamlet to help put out the fire. Even the airport’s fire marshal didn’t bother to open the doors of the station.

Humans exited the OM vehicles, like clowns from circus cars. Could they even see over the dash of an OM? No way the rental place had been out of human-sized cars, especially this late in the season—which is its own hilarious joke.

There was an even scatter of black-suited gents and gray-uniformed officers with small cannons hangin’ from the belts across their hips. Blair must have been well known among ’em, because they all proceeded to descend upon us.

Uh oh.

As a cannon drew from a holster, Jam jetted forward. I didn’t know trolls could move that fast. They mostly sling along with those long legs of theirs. Pretty sure a hand got mauled together with fancy blued steel, before Jam backhanded the poor gent, who flew a good twenty-five feet, into the edge of the forest. Another and another officer met the same fate before what looked like the elder of the black suits raised his hands in the air and shouted about a hundred rapid-fire nos.

I found myself protectively standin’ in front of Bliar. Didn’t remember movin’, and I’m certain Bliar didn’t. To my right, the idjit, lookin’ more fearsome than I’d ever expect. Jam cleared his throat, the only sound for a good ten-count. Head twisted left and right, almost invitin’ another human to draw a weapon.

A half-screech half-groan emitted from the trees.

“You. Have. Gone too far,” the human black-suited elder screamed. I first thought he directed his ire at me, but I stood in front of Bliar, so the much shorter human probably couldn’t even see the bull.

Bliar stepped between me and Kriz. He pointed a long finger at the human who shook with anger.

“Ya’re talkin’ to the ogre that will help ya get home. Avoid a lynchin’. Don’t say anythin’ ya’ll regret.”

“You can’t imagine the destruction I will bring down on you—people.” He didn’t say beasts, but the intent painted his face.

Jam must have been sorely offended.

And cops are trained to contain their ire, I think. I didn’t see the troll’s long arm stretch, hand reach the human’s head, but it, just the head, flew over the other humans a moment later, scatterin’ blood over everyone. Everywhere.

It was gross. I may have gacked. Pretty sure the head bounced pinball-like against several trees before the chaos continued among our little confab. The four of us were on the remainin’ humans like stink on a two-week carcass. Heads crunched together. Bodies bounced.

Five seconds, no more, the only noise was the groans of one partially conscious human at our feet. Maybe another out in the woods.

~

Chapter Six

~

All Ike could do was laugh, between the shorter moments solemnly acknowledgin’ the loss of life. Bliar had settled into a more somber mood. Nuel ripped my phone out of my hand, and she and Ike proceeded to have an even livelier private conversation, that I finally gave up on. Sounded like a circular firin’ squad. I searched out Ezra.

Found her in the kitchen, big surprise. The seventy-five-foot-long cavern echoed with soft conversation. With the season windin’ down, she only had one human female and a troll hen helpin’ her. I eyed the human woman to ensure she didn’t hold a cleaver in her hand. After all, we’d just mangled a gaggle of ’em. Call it appropriate paranoia.

Ezra grabbed me, raised me in the air, swung me in a circle three times, her petite tusk grittin’ me in the throat. Ogre hugs can be exhilarating, and painful. Her mouth rattled. She’s spent too much time around trolls—my prejudice. She introduced me to her buddies, Marge and Zia.

I was surprised to hear Marge was a long-term member of the kitchen crew—she didn’t take a knife to my throat, thankfully. Most human employees at the Lake are seasonal. Livin’ at the Lake is expensive. The dorm in back is comfortable, but not home. So they enjoy the short season and head North for the warmth about the time the Range snowed in.

The troll, Zia, hit me with a bashful smile. After battin’ inch-long gold-hued eyelashes, she extended her basket-sized hand to shake mine. Actually said she was pleased to meet me.

Ezra told her she didn’t know me yet.

For a troll hen, Zia was an attractive sort. Sparklin’ white tusks. Face without the typically droopin’ troll features, like a carved candle left too close to a heat source. Red and gold wove through her fairly short dreads, which meant she had just strolled into adulthood not long ago, with—uh, mature features.

“Let’s take a break,” Ezra announced to her friends.

Appeared Marge was already buildin’ a three-foot-long ogre-style platter. Ham, turkey, roast beef, a rack of lamb, about five varieties of cheese, a golden-brown two-foot-long loaf that smelled fresh out of the oven. That’s what I call a snack.

Ezra pushed me through the double doors leadin’ to the main dinin’ room which was oddly uncrowded for the Hamlet’s most popular inn. Ezra explained that when the marshals showed up, many of the human residents checked out in a rush. Very smart not to want to be caught in the middle of anythin’.

Five tables away, Nuel argued, no doubt with Ike still. Jam sat stoically across from her, sippin’ what I’m sure was a tall hot tea. Bliar studied a paperback he had snuggled in his crossed legs.

Forty feet away a human woman and an orc hen manned the front counter. Kept their eyes alert to the remainin’ diners who looked long finished with meals, enjoyin’ mugs of whatever—an even mix of orcs, goblins, humans, and ogres.

We filled mugs with steamin’ coffee from urns at the buffet and were spreadin’ into ogre-sized chairs when Marge and Zia joined us. For some reason my eyes wished to linger on the troll hen. She wore the long, patterned, pleated skirt preferred by ogres, not the soft, colorful pantaloons of trolls.

As she measured herself into a troll chair she brought over from near the buffet, she settled like an ogre, fastidiously arrangin’ her skirt around her. Bare feet of course. I almost choked, notin’ her toenails were painted in the human fashion. An attractive pale-blue. Fingernails long and curvy, sexy-feminine for a troll, without the human-ish paint.

I caught Cousin Ezra givin’ me the oddest near-stare, a smirk, head tilted, maybe in surprise. As my face heated, I debated what the fool hen was thinkin’. “What?” I hissed at her.

Zia ignored the tense, quiet moment Ezra and I were experiencin’ and suggested, “Ya ought to try the lamb. Ezra basted ’em for five hours yesterday.” She continued with an explanation of the herbs she used, the manner the carcasses roasted. As though anyone would care, or that I’d avoid eatin’ a good portion of everythin’ on the platter.

She blabbered like the typical troll, but I found I didn’t find it boorish. Blabbered, not rattled in the human way. Her words echoed softly, serenely.

My face still simmered since Ezra studied me. Don’t know where that came from. I used a ten-inch knife from the service to carve a good portion of lamb. Zia continued talkin’.

“Let me warn ya,” Ezra said, glancin’ from Marge to Zia. “Kriz isn’t big on conversation.”

I waited. How would she describe my—way?

“Never met a talkative ogre bull.” Zia barely interrupted her main flow of conversation.

I was gonna learn a lot about this hen without askin’ a single question. And that didn’t bother me in the slightest, oddly. Her family was one of the few troll Hamlet dwellers, though ’cross the Lake. Her clan mostly resided in the hollers farther south of the Lake, and in a scatter of gold and diamond mines sanctioned a few generations ago.

How could I have not met her before? My cabin is hardly a rock’s throw west of the famous inn. I know I’m not very sociable, but—

Maybe I should get out more.

We probably missed each other in school by a good decade and a half.

~

Nuel

~

“They’re not gonna come back with just a dozen marshals tomorrow,” I repeated for the thousandth time. It wasn’t creepin’ into Ike’s thick skull. And all Bliar would do is shrug.

“I think ya’re gonna be surprised what our council leader can accomplish with a few phone calls,” the ignert bull mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, the council employs the best legal sharks on the continent. Ya said that. But humans can be as unreasonable as ogres.”

Ike and Bliar both laughed. Numbskulls.

“Don’t forget why ya’re at Black Lake,” Ike said. “Ogre kind have a knack at industry. Trolls have attributes that can enrich the South in incalculable ways.”

Why I was here, he said. I had said no to this. But here I am. Jam clearly listened closely, even if he appeared disinterested, because his nod started at his chin and worked all the way through his waist.

“Is why the North touts such a rich economy. Our forefathers were shortsighted encouragin’ ’em to mix with humans. We should have known it wouldn’t end up well.”

Jam nodded again into his tea. Bliar grimaced.

“Does Ezra have a contact for ya?” Ike asked. “To get ya to the mines?”

Had to admit we’d been a little busy since we arrived. Killin’ a few humans, havin’ to find clothes not covered in blood, cleanin’ up, givin’ a statement to the Hamlet constable—my body still vibrated. Couldn’t get over how my ogre self responded durin’ the—incident. Emotions millennia-old took over. Turned off my brain.

In school I learned about the social construct of fight or flight. Today, my guess is, ogres aren’t big on fleein’. Didn’t know our kind could be so—brutal. Efficient. The shock worn on the faces of the humans as they were wheeled into ambulances revisited. A shaft of cold wafted across my body, makin’ me shiver.

Ike was askin’ me if I was there. What did I miss?

“There’s minutia in life, and there are big deals,” Ike said. “I’m sorry a few ignert humans erred. But bringin’ thirty thousand trolls back into the fold is momentous. Get that through yar beautiful dreads.”

“Don’t go misogynist on me,” I growled. “Thirty thousand?”

“To start with. In five years we could have a few million giants thrivin’ in the Range and slopes.”

“Wait. Expansion has been halted for generations. Where’re ya—?”

Ike remained silent. Bliar answered for him. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the phone on speaker. There were folk within earshot. I hurried to turn down the volume.

“Don’t be naive. We didn’t want ’em humans takin’ over the place. That’s temporary until—”

Jam no longer acted disinterested. He leaned forward, an edge of shock, maybe hostility, edged his long face. None of us spoke for a full minute.

I hadn’t breathed. I sucked in some air. What was Ike admitting? This was—huge. My brain admitted to feelin’ woozy. Was I wobblin’ in my chair? I grabbed the edge of my seat to feel a sense of stability. A response to Bliar’s bombshell began to form in my fog.

“Ya sayin’, our forefathers were fodder for social engineerin’ meant to prove humans and giants wouldn’t work out together?”

Bliar said, “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Though it allowed ’em to reclaim some of their family property from before the wars.”

“It took a long time,” Ike’s voice buzzed over the phone, “after the terms of the Covenant expired, for orcs, goblins, and ogres to learn to get along again. And only in small numbers for a couple generations. Before, the Range had always been the realm of giants.”

“And little folk,” Bliar added.

And majical kind. Before they returned to the ethereal—claimed the believers.

~

Chapter Seven

~

I didn’t want to tell Zia goodnight. As though entrapped in her aura. Maybe she’s a witch. Beguiled me. I hadn’t said much all evenin’. So why did she continue to share that soft, lovely smile my way?

She loved to bat those lashes. Because I helped the hens clean up the kitchen when the dinin’ room lights were clicked off? Amazin’ my body hadn’t begun shakin’, from bein’ away from a computer for hours.

Definitely bewitched. I did feel a vibration of majic ’cross my body.

Zia was speakin’ about the history of the dorm, the various folk who had made it home for several hundred seasons. The handy little features the dwarf and troll builders inserted into the place, and the inn, those generations ago, long before similar adaptations began to be used in construction anywhere else in the world.

Yeah, yeah, dwarfs and trolls, geniuses. I set my hand to the ancient jamb of her door, a message to her that I recognized the buildin’ is special.

“Ya sure ya don’t want a nice suite in the inn?” Zia asked.

Hadn’t we settled that an hour ago? I shook my head. Pretty much all I had done since I met her was nod and shake. Don’t know why I’m not just walkin’ home. As though Nuel would get lost without me nearby. Though I didn’t mind throwin’ sheets over a bed and usin’ the communal bathroom of the dorm.

“Yar friend Jam was very quiet this evenin’. Clearly ya’re close though.”

Because he’s sharin’ a room with me? Hadn’t we explained he’s my bodyguard? But then, how many words blubbered across my lips the last five hours? Zip. Should I be embarrassed?

If I start talkin’ she’ll catch on to me. For now, I didn’t want that. Though I don’t know why. The witchery. It had to be. She had to be after somethin’. Ma told all of us we had to be careful about folk that treat ya too nice.

But then, Mama also thought our mail carrier colluded with the secret police. That the only reason we survived the winters here was the threads of ethereal still connected to the Lake. She claimed a ley line traversed the Lake.

“So, I won’t see ya in the mornin’ huh.”

Nuel planned for us headin’ out an hour before sunrise. Hadn’t I been the one drivin’ this troll adventure? Suddenly Nuel’s my boss. Explainin’ my duty and responsibility. She’s one headstrong, self-important hen. No wonder Ike hasn’t settled in, admittin’ her to be more than just a friend. Peer. Employee.

Argh, she’s one pushy hen.

Opinionated, even for an ogre. And folk hate me ’cause I don’t like to talk.

“Nice—meetin’—ya,” I stammered. Like an idjit.

“He speaks.” Her laugh rang as deep as ya’d expect from a troll. Not gravelly though. Not as reserved as the average troll hen. Not annoyin’ like an ogre hen, gushin’ sarcasm, their super power. Pleasantly just right.

I peered over my shoulder at Jam twenty feet away, leanin’ against the door jamb of our room. What was he findin’ so interestin’? The bull twisted and disappeared inside. He can be awfully irritatin’. Luckily he isn’t headin’ out with us in the mornin’.

“Enjoyed yar company this evenin’,” Zia said, which struck me with a chill and an accompanyin’ shiver. She asked if I was cold. I shook my head quickly. Cold? That would come ’cross as not very ogerly, wouldn’t it?

“Ya—know. I—live. Just—over. On Elm?” I tossed a thumb kind of westerly.

“Elm Trail? Really? Ya just movin’ to the hamlet? We should get to see each other often then.”

“Born—here,” I admitted.

She scrunched up her beautifully thick brows. Cute how the ends arched downward.

“I’m—kind—of—not—one—to get out—much.” Took a long time to say that. I sound like such an idjit. How can I shift our future conversations to textin’? Might we have future conversations? That wouldn’t be so bad. It might be nice to have a friend. Even if she’s a witch.

Be my first friend. That isn’t a cousin. If I have any cousin-friends.

There’s Ezra.

Would it look awkward, a bull-hen ogre-troll friendship? Folk might not understand. Get the wrong idea. But not like I care what folk think. Never have, much. Don’t care, much, that she stands a good two heads and a half taller than me.

In all honesty, I’ve been so wrapped around my anger all my life, bein’ different. Never, ever contemplated, meetin’ someone I’d want to chat with.

“Yar expressions share a minglin’ more thoughts than yar lips,” she said. “Yar eyes twistin’, cheeks pinchin’. Ya’re a cute little ogre.”

“Little?” She had to point it out? I immediately regretted my idjit screech. One word. A couple syllables. But truly, I didn’t care she admitted I’m a munchkin of an ogre. After all, she’s a bit on the diminutive side, for a troll. Still, my entire body flamed, cascaded over embers and coals.

“Emotion.” She laughed, that deep, sonorous tone dashin’ me with well water. “Ya can generate an immediate answer after all, without mewin’ it over like a tasty steak.”

Wasn’t sure what she implied. But the statement reminded me I hadn’t eaten in a few hours.

“I tease,” she said. “Wondered if I could rile an honest response out of ya.”

“Rile?”

“It’s true I’ve monopolized the evenin’ with my stories. My ma says I’m too interested in talkin’ about my own self by twice. That I need to learn a bit of quiet will encourage folk to say a few words of their own.”

“I’m—kind of—happy—with ya—managin’ the—conversation.” I struggled in a big way. Worse than usual, pretty sure. Did I inhale a duck? I swallowed hard. Why didn’t I have a bit of spit to ease the effort?

“But,” she hawed slowly, “ya look me up after ya finish seekin’ out the Troll Council, I may be encouraged enough to be patient to hear a thought from ya now and then.” She asked me for my phone, keyed herself into my contacts, then texted herself a smiley face.

Bold in a nice way. Not like Nuel.

So, maybe she enjoys my company? I couldn’t see it. Lava splashed me in the face.

“Oh, that’s so endearin’.”

What? What was she talkin’ about? She reached out that basket of a hand. The back of her long fingers stroked my cheek. I feared she might jerk away, burned to a crisp. But she didn’t.

Oh, her flesh was so soft, warm. The hallway turned dark. Had I passed out?

Oh no.

No. My eyes just rolled into the top of my head. After a moment of caressin’ the fuzz on my cheek, she leaned down deep, a tusk bore into my temple, dragged down to my jaw. My lungs emptied. I might die any moment.

She had to like me. Tusks don’t lie.

~

Nuel

~

Bliar and I conspired for hours with Ike over the phone. Exhaustion wrung me dry. As irritated as I was at the younger bull, I missed he wasn’t walkin’ me to my room, instead of his pa. Bliar’s good company, but ’bout five decades too old for me. And married.

The oldtimer had decided it was too late for the two-hour drive home over a twistin’ road, corners often dusted with snow.

My mind flipped back to Ike. My weak-mind is used to thinkin’ of him as a suitor. My better senses explain the facts of life to me again and again, since that first flick of interest tickled both of us.

Cruelly.

Ike is embroiled in a different life. Ogre Industries—oops, Universe Industries. Universe Ware. The clan. The Range. The Hamlet. There’s no room for a hen in his life. Basketball at the Y is more important to him than any hen.

Wizper and Darshee, for ogres, have been very subtle in the manner they’ve prepared me for this conclusion. My eyes welled a bit. I jerked when Bliar spoke.

“Give ya a knock at five. I won’t be sleepin’ much. Don’t sleep much at home. Never sleep well away.”

I nodded. “Thank ya.”

“Don’t let that troll guide of yars hike ya into bloody mush. Those long legs they got can cross a lot of territory in a short amount of time. Ike’s told me ya also do that silly, human joggin’ thin’, but I guarantee ya that hasn’t prepared ya for the peaks, streams, and gullies ya’ll be crossin’ tomorrow. Take care of yarself.”

Sweet bull.

Shame Ike didn’t wish me anythin’ more than good luck. He cared about my task, not my welfare. Treadin’ into the wilderness to meet folks seems weird.

Hmm.

If no roads, how do trolls get their ore out of the Range? I wasn’t gonna ask out loud. My thoughts may have been spinnin’ a bit. But for a folk that love grubs and scorpions, they have a build and stamina that’s amazin’.

Really bad thought, the grubs and scorpions one, right before goin’ to bed, but I couldn’t help myself. Isn’t that what most everyone thinks about when trolls come to mind? And their toughness. No surprise, even though humans vastly outnumber trolls, they never bested troll kind in a battle durin’ the old wars.

Unless ya read history books written by humans.