9. Orcs are Assholes

Grinning, he plucked me off my feet by my neck. I let my face go slack as he bared broken, blackened teeth.

Hanging limply, trying not to telegraph the move, my good arm shot out, my claws raking across his face, tearing through his eyes. Screaming, he dropped me and clutched his face.

While he was distracted, I scrambled up the table behind him, trying to match his height, and then jumped onto his back. I snapped my jaws around the back of his neck and tore with as much force as I could muster. It was like trying to bite through an armadillo.

Fearing even my slashing abilities wouldn't be enough to cut deeply through his hide, I instead used the claws on my right hand like spears, jabbing them into his neck and then drawing my fingers slowly into a fist.

He spun, pounding my sides with his huge, meaty fists. I was hanging down his back, so although he couldn't get a clean shot at me, those fists still hurt like hell, especially when they landed a blow on my already broken arm. If there was one thing I knew how to do, though, it was float above the pain and horror. This wasn't even close to the worst that had ever happened to me, and I'd survived that. I'd fucking survive this, too.

Blood oozed over my fingers and down my throat. Angered to have any part of him in me, even his foul-smelling skin and blood, I shook my head viciously, gnashing my wolf's teeth. The problem was his neck was so freaking thick, I wasn't finding his spine.

While my claws slowly cut through the gristle of his neck, he spun again and slammed me against the wall. I lost my breath, feeling like I'd been dropped ten stories. Ribs broken, body battered, head ringing, I dug in deeper. It wouldn't be long. Once he knocked me unconscious or broke too many bones for me to move, I'd be at his mercy. I had to fight like hell while I still could.

Desperate, knowing he wasn't dead so it shouldn't work, I imagined my magic as a coil in my chest, the way Lydia had taught me. Claws ripping, teeth constricting, I imagined that coil wrapping around his neck, cutting off his air.

His strangled gasping caused hope to bubble in my chest. Pulling tighter, imagining the coil cutting through his hide, I felt more blood ooze over my fingers. When he dropped to his knees, I knew in my heart I'd survive this, too.

A few struggling moments later, his neck caught in my jaws, I ripped out his spine and watched his dead body slump to the floor.

A world of hurts made themselves known as I sat, rather abruptly, on the barroom floor, my back to the wall. No one can sneak up on you if you have your back to the wall. Cradling my broken arm to my chest, struggling to breathe, I stared at the mountain of dead Orc. I knew my head had been slammed against hard surfaces quite a lot recently, but none of this made sense. Why the hell were fae monsters after me?

I understood my aunt, sort of. I even understood the vamps wanting to take me out. What the hell had I ever done to the fae? My mind flashed on Liam. Was I being blamed for Abigail possessing Liam? Shit. That was so unfair.

Movement out of the corner of my eye had me flinching. A leg emerged from the mirror on the wall. A moment later, a tall, armored warrior stood over me, studying me. When he dropped into a crouch to get a better look, the claws on my right hand slid out again. His eyes flicked to the claws and then returned to my face.

"Just barely survived that one." He paused a moment, listening. "Punctured lung." Standing, he moved to the dead Orc. "Interesting." Grabbing the Orc's legs, the elven warrior looked me over one last time, said, "You're not at all what I was expecting," and dragged the carcass back through the mirror.

I sat in a daze, wondering if more monsters would be emerging from the mirror soon or if Faerie was done with me for the moment. The elf had carried a sword. If he'd wanted, he could have killed me. I took his disinterest to mean I could sit here a bit longer.

Barely five minutes later, the door opened. I hadn't noticed it reappearing. Galadriel flicked on the lights and held the door for Martha. "What's the horrible smell?" Both women stared at the destruction a moment.

"Totally not my fault," I wheezed, causing Martha to start.

"Samantha?" She cautiously approached until she got a good look at me. "Oh, good Lord. Gaddie, help me." She rushed over and dropped to her knees beside me.

Galadriel hung back. "Arm's broken, ribs, lung, concussion. She's a mess."

I started to nod and then winced.

"Gad, please." Martha ran her hand over my head, grimacing when her fingers touched the big knot on the back.

Galadriel, like the elven warrior, crouched beside me, her gaze taking it all in. "Whose blood is that?" She gestured to the pool of foul-smelling blood, her eyes following the smeared trail to the floor before the mirror.

Shrugging my good shoulder, I said, "No idea. He looked like an Orc."

Making a sound of disgust in the back of her throat, she scoffed, "Tolkien again."

"Looked like one." I used the sleeve of my working arm to wipe more of his blood from my face. Stomach roiling, I tried not to think about how much of it I'd probably ingested. "His head brushed the ceiling. Musclebound. Skin so thick. Hard to bite through." I couldn't get the air I needed to speak. I whispered in short bursts. "He pretended to be Martha. As soon as I walked in. The door disappeared. He dropped the glamour."

"A soldier?" Martha turned to Galadriel. "Why would Faerie send one of her soldiers here?"

Galadriel continued to stare at the smeared blood on the floor, expression strained.

"After I killed the Orc. Warrior stepped through the mirror." I had to stop talking for a minute as I struggled to take in breath. They needed to know, though, in case more were coming. "Warrior said I was interesting. Dragged the Orc back through the mirror." There. Hopefully I was done talking for a while. Not being able to breathe easily made me very focused on my next breath.

"Faerie finds you interesting." Galadriel shook her head, staring warily at the mirror.

"Gad." It wasn't said as a question, but Martha was clearly asking for something.

Galadriel stared at Martha, her expression softening. "You know what that means."

Martha's eyes filled with tears and nodded. "I wouldn't ask if she weren't so bad."

Galadriel blew out a breath and then laid one hand directly over the break in my arm and the other over my ribs and lungs. Heat and pain mixed for a moment before I went numb. I could feel something happening, but pain wasn't associated with it, which was a nice change. A few minutes later, her inner light dimming, Galadriel's hands slipped from me.

Martha rushed over to help the elf to her feet. "You sit down now and rest. I'll bring you some tea."

Galadriel patted Martha's hand. "That won't do it this time."

"No. It'll be okay. I'll fix you right up. You'll see." Martha was pleading now.

"I'll always give you what you need, my love." Galadriel bent, softly kissed Martha, and then stepped through the mirror into Faerie.

Martha sagged against the wall, a quiet sob choked off. Feeling better than I had in quite some time, I popped up and helped Martha to a nearby bench. Tears silently ran down her face as she stared into the mirror.

"I'm so sorry."

Martha turned to me, wiping her face dry. "Whatever for?"

"I don't understand everything that just happened, but I get that Galadriel was hurt by healing me and that she's had to return to Faerie because of it." I would have rather dealt with the broken arm, concussion, and internal injuries than see the unadulterated misery on Martha's face.

She patted my hand and then stood. "I'll make us some tea. It seems we have much to discuss."

When she had filled a tea tray, I went to the bar, intending to carry it back to one of the long trestle tables. Instead, she motioned down the back hall. She brought us to a snug room with overstuffed floral chairs and a comfortable-looking couch.

I placed the tray on the tea table between the chairs and poured. Handing her a sturdy mug, I tried to give her time to settle. Photos filled the walls and most of the flat surfaces. I crossed to study them. Some were taken in the bar, some in the courtyard. Most were people I'd never seen before. One looked very much like my mother as a child, sitting behind a birthday cake, a huge smile on her face. Her sullen-looking sister stood in the background.

The vast majority of photos, though, were of Martha and Galadriel. In the earliest, they looked to both be in their twenties, arms around each other, laughing. In one, the women were on a motorcycle, Galadriel driving, Martha hanging on, both so happy. They'd traveled the world together. Smiling, hand in hand, in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Globe Theater, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, Incan pyramids, Egyptian pyramids, the Serengeti…so many images chronicling their long life together.

As Martha aged, Galadriel remained young, beautiful, and vibrant. Fifty years and what had never changed, not in any of the photos, was the love and devotion the women showed for one another. Martha had to be in her seventies, but Galadriel still looked at her as she had in the earliest photos, a woman deliriously in love. I hadn't realized I'd been crying until Martha said my name.

"What have I done?" Sitting next to her, I reached for her hand. "Please, tell me how to get her back."

"That was me, not you. I made the decision." Grief-stricken, she stared into her mug. "Time is so unpredictable in Faerie. She might return in a few minutes or it may be fifty years after I've passed."

Swallowing down the tears, she continued. "It happened once before. My cousin, a black wicche like your Abigail, hunted me down. The spell she cast should have killed me. Galadriel stepped in front of it, giving me time to send the dead after my cousin. She ran, but Gad was mortally wounded. She had to return to Faerie to heal. I thought I'd lost her forever and then three years later, she walked back into my life."

Wiping away more tears, she took a sip. "I'll just need to make sure I live long enough to be here when she returns, that's all."

"Clive could make you a vampire. Or I could make you a werewolf! I have no idea how, but I could try. Then you could stay together." I couldn't stop the tears running down my face.

"Nonsense. I'm too old for all that. No." She shook her head, staring at the wall of photos. "It's been a better life than I could have ever hoped for." Glancing at me, she said, "Here now. Stop that. I got fifty-two years with the love of my life. How many can say that? And who knows? She might be back soon.

"So." She put down her mug and straightened her shoulders. "You're here for a lesson, so we should get started."

"Oh, no," I said, putting down my own mug. "Never mind about that."

"I absolutely mind when people try to kill my grandniece." She reached for a small wooden box on a bookshelf to her left. "I have something for you." Handing it to me, she picked up her tea again.

Opening the lid, I found a small glass ball on a long chain. Filaments of glass crisscrossed through the interior of the iridescent ball. I brushed a finger lightly over the cold surface. It was too beautiful not to touch it, and yet I feared even that might crack the glass.

"Put it on."

Startled, I met her eyes. "I don't want to break it."

"Nonsense. It's tougher than it looks. Go on." She waved a hand to move me along.

Lifting it by the chain, I watched the light infuse the glass, bouncing it this way and that around the room. Taking her at her word, I put it over my head, pulled out my braid, and let the glass ball rest against my chest. It was definitely spelled. Its harnessed potential thrummed through me. It was neither good nor evil, merely powerful.

"Good. Now wrap your magic around the glass. In your mind, picture your magic—"

"Lydia told me to picture it like a thread coiled in my chest. I've been doing that."

"Okay, good. We'll go with that. Picture your magic wrapping around the glass, completely cocooning it."

Closing my eyes, I did as she said. I pictured a golden thread looping around it, like the God's Eye ornaments I'd made as a child.

"Now, pull it into yourself. Your magic has claimed it. Make it your own. Pull the coil back into your chest, with the wicche glass nestled inside."

Again, I did as she said. There was the briefest moment of cold before the heat of my magic subsumed it, making it mine.

"Yes, good. Now, when you need to use your necromancy, you trap the payment in that wicche glass."

"But—"

"No. Survival does not deserve punishment." Her hand fisted on the arm of her chair. "Gad and I have had this discussion more times than I'd care to count over the years. It's not right. No other magical being is punished for being who they are. Elves feel no pain when they do magic. Gad wasn't weakened today for using her magic. She claimed your injuries as her own. And now, back in Faerie, she's good as new.

"The rest of the fae feel no pain. White wicches theorize about balance and payments, but they don't suffer as we do. Black wicches should feel the pain, but they channel it into familiars or victims. Why are we punished simply for being different?" She let out a gust of breath. "No. Pain should not be the payment for existing. You use that wicche glass."

Nodding, I said I would, not really knowing if it was the truth.