~

Chapter Twenty-nine

~

Took an hour to reach the small regional runway on the East Plain by car. Probably about as long for Bliar to hop here in the Council chopper. We stood at what amounted to the terminal, where pilots paid for their gas and checked maps and weather before it was all on-line.

A few hard-plastic chairs and a soda machine. A coffee machine behind the counter declared each cup required two quarters be dropped into what maybe used to hold whole dill pickles.

A scruff-scruff dinned from an office curled around behind the counter, and a moment later an ogre about as old as I’d ever met, slumped around the door jamb and said it sounded like our party was five minutes out. If I was an elf, I would have already heard the message. I gave him my thanks, and he offered me a nod.

I strode thirty feet away from the hanger and looked south. My two bodyguards stayed in the shade. Yep. Either a helicopter or a vulture flyin’ in an awfully straight line.

I eyed the military-style helicopters to my left, about fifteen of ’em linin’ the near runway, and all the support vehicles, tents, and a couple Quonset huts holdin’ who knows what. A lot of folks wearing dark uniforms walked meanin’fully about.

Yep. We’re gearin’ up for war. Saner fools need to get a grip.

Ten minutes later the twelve-passenger Council jet flung down a runway a long rock-throw away. Not the Council helicopter. So how were we gonna get to the assembled human fools who thought it was wise to set up a base on the South Plain Highway?

About that moment one of those vicious lookin’ military helos began warmin’ up its jet engines. Oh. Go in with a little more authority. That’s a good way to simmer down the emotions. If I was a tad brighter I might sob. Why oh why did my cousin want me and his dad to meet with those folk? Made no sense to me.

A couple minutes later the jet taxied near, makin’ so much noise, along with the jet engines from the helicopter, that I lost the ability to think. Not that out of the ordinary. Happens to me in a quiet office sometimes.

Two more minutes later Bliar was givin’ me a big thump on the back. No surprise, he didn’t wear a smile, but did bear some deep lines in his forehead. He tried to speak but there was gonna be none of that for the moment.

I read the lips of the troll that strode toward us from the hanger. He said good luck. Pretty sure. Or, ya’re gonna die. One or the other. He put his head near mine and shouted, “They’re waitin’ on ya,” and pointed at the vroom-vroom shoot’em-up helicopter.

Yeah, didn’t figger they carried many passengers. Hadn’t even contemplated that my bodyguards weren’t gonna be joinin’ me. Sigh. I’d pay to wait for the Council helo. But Bliar pulled me that way.

~

Nuel

~

It was easier than I expected to bully my way out of the hospital. Refused to sign any of the paperwork they pushed at me, as though I was gonna sue if they got out of my way too easily.

My taxi and troll friend waited while I stopped at the cell phone store, bought the stuff I needed along with a charged up battery pack. Took an inordinately long time to switch my number from the old phone to the new one. OW should buy the phone company so Kriz could improve its systems.

Finally, without my troll bodyguard checkin’ to ensure I hadn’t skipped out on him, our taxi headed for my townhouse.

Had to admit my mind wasn’t comin’ up with any useful plans, even an explanation for my escape from the hospital, but the least I could do was take a long hot shower. My friendly troll had my driver go around the block twice.

There were a couple little SUVs on the street, that the troll said maybe Northern spies sat in. But I was here. No point in backin’ out now. Brave talk—thinkin’—with a troll sittin’ next to me wearin’ a big gun in the biggest shoulder holster I’d ever seen, watchin’ my back as I got out and walked toward the buildin’.

No one holdin’ a gun ran at us. No one stopped me to learn if I had a relationship with my lord and savior or whether I wanted to buy a security system. Too late for the latter now. I made it inside without havin’ a panic attack, or passin’ out. My troll friend stayed outside my door.

Takin’ that shower was harder than I expected, not bein’ able to use my left arm. Even harder tapin’ the kitchen plastic wrap one-handed over the bandage coverin’ the enormous incision they made to drive a truck from my front to my back. Jerks. They ever hear of arthroscopic surgery? I might sue ’em for malpractice.

I may have torn a couple stitches out gettin’ a clean blouse on. I’m glad I was able to cut the smock off they put me in at the hospital.

Finally dressed, happy to be back in a flowin’, pleated skirt to my ankles, I sat at the dinin’ table, sweat dabbin’ my forehead, updated phone in hand, needin’ inspiration to figger out what my next step is.

I jerked when my phone rang. Cool how Ma Bell reloaded my contacts—but I hated to read, Ike son of Bliar, on the display. Oh. Why’s he callin’ me? I almost ignored the call, probably picked up right before it went to voicemail.

“Why’d ya walk out of the hospital?” he shouted.

Oh. “You have reached a non-workin’ number. Check the number—”

“Don’t give me any dragon pooh, hen,” he shouted. Unlike Kriz, I could easily discern the bull was angry. I debated whether I should be angry back—my number one defense mechanism.

“Are ya okay?” he asked with a bit softer voice.

“Dandy,” I said. Had heard him use the cliche many times.

“Just ’cause ya saw me saunterin’ around like a fool when I was shot, doesn’t mean it’s appropriate.”

“Ya didn’t even go to the hospital for a few days,” I reminded him.

“We were runnin’ from a bunch of Northern idjits.” Yep. I remember. “Are ya safe?”

I figgered that was a loaded question. “I’m at home.” He had to know a nice troll fellow stood outside my door. Right?

“Then ya aren’t,” he said. “I’ll see if—”

“I didn’t run away from my escort,” I said. “And ya got enough on yar plate. Don’t worry about me. I’ve learned my lesson. If I see a human holdin’ a gun, I’ll rip him to shreds and then ask him what he wants.”

He remained quiet considerin’ that. So I continued.

“How can I help?”

“By stayin’ safe,” Ike said.

“I understand ya’ve put Kriz in harm’s way. That wise? He struggles to parse how folk react to him.”

I waited a bit. Then continued.

“Just because he came up with a good solution the other day with us hens—”

“He’s with my pa,” he said.

“The one who likes to blow up helicopters without havin’ a conversation first.”

He actually laughed. I turned up my lips too, but it wasn’t time to imply I thought it’s funny.

“Why are ya even askin’?” he said. “Heard ya’re gonna quit on us and head North.” The bull lives on the stinkin’ phone. Darshee, or Wizper? Spies, both of ’em.

“That why ya called me?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or. Maybe I worried about ya.”

“Ya didn’t seem too worried on that train platform.” I felt a drum riff in my heart. Was that fair to pull on him?

I heard his sigh. “Ponwr called me a fool when we got on the train. Said I’d acted like a selfish two-year-old.”

“Ya have somethin’ in common with yar cousin,” I said.

“The hens are terribly ticked off at ya,” he said. He does live on the phone. And knows how to change the subject.

I told him we all have to walk in our own boots—odd that I used a human expression. I had to make amends for some thin’s. But there was finger pointin’ to go around. He grunted. Said Darshee would be the tough one.

“I’m not grovelin’ before anyone,” I said.

“I’ve got a list of folk,” he said, “interested in helpin’ ya pack yar office.”

Ouch.

That hurt more than I would have expected. Took a bit of air out of my lungs. A pain, like a small lightnin’ bolt ripped through my temple. My eyes welled.

“Ya need to suck in some pride and realize there’s a way thin’s are done at OW, for a reason, and that yar way isn’t the only way. Maybe apply that in yar private life as well.”

Double ouch.

“So ya want me to go?”

“That’s up to ya. Depends upon how much gumption and character ya got in ya.”

Triple ouch.

At least he didn’t mention tusks.

“Take twenty-four hours,” he continued. “Rest. Call for takeout. Heal up some. Then we’ll talk. I don’t say much about feelin’s and such, but I’d hate to see ya go. I got somethin’ in my chest for ya. We’ve never—uh—even been on a date. But ya’re not just one of my employees.”

Wow. That was the most intimate thin’ I’d ever heard him say.

“Take care of yarself.”

I checked the face of my phone. Yep. He’d hung up.