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’.